Blue Star Rapture (7 page)

T.J.'s own assignment wasn't tough at all. Playing one of the wings in a one-three-one zone, all he had to do was check a slow white guy who wanted to shoot threes but wasn't inclined to do much of anything else. He wasn't athletic enough to break you down, so all you had to do was overguard him on the perimeter.

In the second half, Tyron was not a factor; he was discouraged and intimidated. He was sluggish, slow down the court, and drained of intensity.

“Big post, Tyron!” Buddy Ingalls kept hollering at him. “Big post! Take it up strong!”

Once, when Ishmael Greene was huffing and puffing past the bench, he said to Ingalls, “Take him out the game.” He was referring to Tyron, of course.

There was no big post, no effective drop-stepping, and no going up strong. The way Tyron folded his tent when he was challenged was a thing no college scout could ignore. In short, he was the player he used to be, the player T.J. hoped would not show up at this camp.

When he was sitting on the bench, T.J. couldn't help noticing how Coach Lindsey had turned his back to watch the action on the other courts. He cautioned himself not to make too big a deal out of that, though, because there were more than 160 players here, and at least 50 of them were major talents.

With five minutes remaining, Tyron was slumped on the bench and burying his head in the most available towel. Even the new shoes didn't help. Ishmael Greene was magnificent, but he wasn't enough; the Blazer lead continued to grow until the end of the game. For the first time, the Blue Stars lost.

When he took his shower back at the dorm, T.J. allowed enough time to shave the few chin whiskers he had, brush his teeth, and put on some Old Spice aftershave. He even combed his hair. He put on a pair of shorts and a clean New Jersey Nets jersey with
GILL
13 lettering on the back. Tyron asked him if he was going down to watch the movie.

“No thanks.”

“Where you goin', man?”

“Out,” said T.J.

“They're showin'
Forrest Gump.
”

“That's okay, I don't want to watch it. You go see it.”

SIX

When T.J. got to the bridge, it was after dark. Since it took almost sixty paces to reach the middle, he figured the bridge itself must be at least two hundred feet long. His vision was limited because the only strong light came from the pole lights.

While he leaned against the rough railing, he could hear the singing and shouting from the religious meeting on the other side. He thought of LuAnn and his curiosity got the better of him; he crossed over the rest of the way.

There were crude concrete steps set in the slope leading down to a walking path. There was less available light the farther you descended, so you had to watch your step. T.J. had to wonder again what it was that drew him in the direction of the lighted pavilion at the far end of the path. The Religious Right usually pissed him off; especially the self-righteous geeks who held hands and prayed around the flagpole in the parking lot before school in the morning. Then went around whining most of the day because they weren't allowed to read scripture in class, like you couldn't study history or physics unless you had a Bible reading to get you kick-started.

It was something about LuAnn, he guessed, some hard-to-define need to know her better; either that or just the need to put some distance between himself and the Blue Stars for a while.

The pavilion, he discovered as he drew nearer, was larger than he'd expected. It had a peaked roof supported by rough-hewn, wooden columns, but no walls. T.J. estimated the crowd at more than two hundred people, most of them as young as himself, seated on wooden benches arranged in rows on both sides of a center aisle. The adults in the audience would have to be counselors or sponsors. Many of them were clapping their hands or holding their arms in the air like a football referee signaling a touchdown.

There were enough ceiling lights in the pavilion that T.J. had to keep a distance so he could conceal himself in the darkness made by the dense trees near the walking path. The speaker on the stage was a beautiful woman in a white gown who was wearing a clip-on microphone. She delivered much of her speech with her eyes closed and her arms raised.

“Death will have no dominion,” she was telling the listeners, “when the Rapture comes. On that blessed day we will join the Lord in the air. Those who know the Lord, those who belong to His flock, He will take unto Himself. Those who mingle with the goats will be left behind; know now who are the sheep and who are the goats, for the company you keep today will determine how you will spend eternity.”

The woman was beautiful, especially in the glow of the track lighting suspended from the ceiling above her position on the stage. She didn't speak aggressively, in a fire-and-brimstone mode, but with a certain mystical serenity. She repeated her assurance that “In the Lord's flock, Death will have no dominion. That is his promise to us.”

The long, reddish-blond hair that rested on her shoulders shimmered in the light; the lettering on the front of her gown constituted an optical trick—what looked like a haphazard maze of Magic Marker lines when her body was turned in one direction formed the word JESUS in capital letters when she turned another.

Her mesmerizing presence caused T.J. to stay longer than he intended. By the time he thought to slip away, the woman was finished speaking and people were leaving the shelter. There were massive tree roots where he stood, which threatened to trip him up, so he moved slowly near the others, in the direction of the bridge, hoping nobody would speak to him and LuAnn wouldn't notice him.

It didn't work. She spotted him and in a loud voice called, “T.J.! Over here, T.J.”

He felt like an idiot. He wanted only to get away as quickly as possible, but he couldn't pretend like he hadn't heard her voice. He came to a stop while she approached. “You came,” she declared.

“Just don't try to convert me,” he said tightly, in a low voice.

“You came,” she repeated. “Why did you come?”

“I have no idea.” He turned to face her. Her large breasts nicely filled out a T-shirt with a graphic portrayal of the crucifixion; the lettering below the artwork proclaimed,
THIS BLOOD
'
S FOR YOU
.

“I really didn't expect you to come,” she said, beaming. “Why did you come?”

“I already told you, I have no idea. I guess it was just curiosity. It's an old habit of mine. I better be going now.”

“Please, I want you to meet Sister Simone first.”

T.J. didn't know which one Sister Simone was, but he guessed it was the speaker. “No, I better go,” he said again. “If they find out I went AWOL, they might bench me.”

It was irony lost on LuAnn. She gripped his hand. “Come on,” she tugged. “Just for a minute. I want you to meet her.”

There were other people around; it was easier to submit than to break away from her and make a scene. He let himself be pulled to the edge of the pavilion where Sister Simone was tucking some folded papers inside a well-worn Bible.

LuAnn conducted the introduction while they shook hands. Sister Simone was an inch or so taller than T.J. and even more beautiful up close than from a distance. Her complexion was clear and her makeup was expertly applied. She looked straight into his eyes as she said, “I'm happy to meet you, T.J.”

“The same here,” he mumbled awkwardly, and then he asked her why her name was Sister. “Are you, like, a nun or something?”

Sister Simone laughed before she replied. “Something like that, you could say. At Camp Shaddai, we're all simply brothers and sisters in Christ.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Ruth Ann was talking about you earlier today,” Sister Simone informed him.

“Who is Ruth Ann?” he asked.

“That's me,” said LuAnn, with a giggle and a smile.

“How is it you?” T.J. asked her. “You told me your name was LuAnn.”

“It's my new name in Christ. We submit to the will of the Lord in all things. The new name we choose is a symbol of that submission.”

“Yeah, okay.” T.J. was sure he couldn't stand any more. The annoying smiles were everywhere like a rock in your shoe. Already, he didn't trust the glamorous woman who called herself Sister Simone, which was nuts; he'd only just met her. “I better go now.”

Sister Simone added to LuAnn (Ruth Ann's) explanation: “Choosing the new name is like putting off our old self so we can put on the new self of God.”

T.J. felt himself tighten up in exasperation. “I better get the hell out of here,” he said quickly. “No offense, Sister.”

Simone laughed gaily, with the perfect white teeth of a movie star. “None taken,” she said. “Getting the hell out is what we do best. Camp Shaddai is a very uncomfortable place for Satan, I'm afraid.”

He left without another word, walking briskly on the path that would take him back to the bridge. He felt foolish and regretted ever coming to this side at all.

By the time he reached the center of the bridge, he had succeeded, through a conscious effort of the will, in focusing his thoughts on Tyron, Coach Lindsey, Bee Edwards, and the rest of the Full Court soap opera. The street agents, the rules, and how he would ever find a way to guard Ronnie Streets.

T.J. lit one of his cigarettes and took a seat close to the edge. In the dark, he listened for the sounds of moving water in the creek bed far below, but there were none. Within a few minutes, though, he heard LuAnn's footsteps squeaking the floorboards. It didn't surprise him that she had followed him, but why was it he expected that she would?
How could you know a person without really knowing them?
he wondered.

“You must be all basketballed out,” she observed. “Maybe that's why you came.”

“I guess so.” She was taking a seat beside him. He tossed his lit cigarette butt casually so as to watch it tumble clear down to the bottom of the gorge like a firecracker.

“Don't you think Sister Simone is real spiritual?”

“I guess you could call it that.” It was easier than saying what he really thought.

“She's blessed with all kinds of spiritual gifts; mostly she has the gift of prophecy.”

“Do you really believe all that stuff?” T.J. asked her.

Her smile disappeared, but her eyes were still wide. “All what stuff?”

“That stuff about the Rapture. About joining the Lord in the air.”

“Of course.”

“Never dying.”

“Of course. We have God's word on it.”

“But I mean do you, like,
really
believe it?”

There must have been some exasperation in his voice, because she giggled before she replied, “I guess the Lord must want you to be crabby.”

“Sorry,” said T.J.

“It's in the Book of Revelation, so it's part of God's promise. A promise from God is easy to believe. The hard thing would be what you do, which is believe in something else.”

“How do you know what I believe?”

They fell silent for a few moments, during which time T.J. was annoyed by a sense of his own incompetence. He couldn't think of any real value in conversations like this one, which were basically just for taking up space.

Politely, she asked him about his family.

“There's just my mother and me.”

“Does she have a job?”

“She has two jobs.”

“She must be a very hard worker.”

“She
is
a very hard worker. On her days off, she goes fishing sometimes. She never complains and she's never been on welfare.”

“You admire her, don't you?”

“I guess I do. She's also enrolled in a computer course in night school. She's trying to learn a financial program so she can apply for this corporate job she's got her eye on.”

LuAnn (Ruth Ann) asked him why they moved to Burton from Chicago.

“We had to get out of the city. We had to get away from my stepfather because he used to beat her up. She was under a protection order, but it didn't work. They never do.”

“Ouch. I asked, didn't I?”

“Sometimes he used to beat me up too. Once I coldcocked him, though. I'll never forget it. I was about twelve, maybe eleven. Anyway, he had ahold of her by the arms when I came up from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around to see who it was and I got him. One time, right in the mouth, with all my force. He had blood comin' out of his mouth, and loose teeth and all, but the best thing of it was that look on his face. It was, like, total
shock
, you know what I mean?”

“Then what happened?”

His own blunt, aggressive mode was puzzling to him. He didn't know if it was because he was trying to navigate a conversation without a compass, or if it really did piss him off to think about Lloyd again. “He beat the shit out of me,” T.J. finally admitted, in a more subdued tone of voice. “But I still got him. At least that one time, I coldcocked the son of a bitch.”

“Does your mother need someone to pray for her?” She took his hand while asking the question.

“Does she need what?”

“Because we have a prayer chain. We could put her on it.”

T.J. disengaged his hand and looked away.
Have I ever been in a stupider conversation?
He knew he ought to leave. Instead, he said, “Listen, LuAnn, you need to get real. There are people who take care of themselves. It's called depending on your own resources.”

“Our own resources aren't good enough. I came to Camp Shaddai because I need to put my trust in the Lord completely.”

“That's another thing. How did you get here, anyway, and are you, like, here for good?”

“Nobody stays at Camp Shaddai forever. I'll just be here until I find my way.”

“So how did you get here, then?”

“Brother Jackson brought me.”

“Who's that?” T.J. asked her.