The Truth Is the Light Read online

  “Same to you,” Reverend Walker said evenly and calmly. He hung up the phone.

  “Ugh! That man!” Zenobia said, raising her fist to the ceiling. “I can’t believe I was actually married to him once upon a time. Talk about being blind but now I see! Ugh!”

  “Calm down, Mama,” thirty-seven-year-old Knowledge Walker said as he walked into the den popping a black grape into his mouth. “I still don’t see why you let Daddy get to you like you do.” He brushed his two hands quickly together to dispel any remaining moisture from his hand.

  Zenobia rolled her eyes as she shook her head once more. “I can’t believe he’s not going to come to your brother’s baptism on Sunday night.”

  “Clarence is getting baptized again?”

  Zenobia squinted her eyes at Knowledge as she glared at his six-foot-two frame. “Don’t you start with me,” she said. “I’m not in the mood to play with you today, and especially not after your father just got my blood pressure up.”

  Knowledge hugged his mother. “Mama, you must learn to let things go, specifically when it comes to Daddy. He’s not going to change. You know that. Clarence likely knows Daddy’s not coming. He’s okay with it. I know I knew it. Daddy’s always too busy.”

  “So, I’m the only one holding out hope against hope that he’ll finally see the light and start treating you both the way he ought to?”

  “Mama, Daddy is . . . Daddy,” Knowledge said. He spun her around and began massaging her tensed shoulders. “And I can assure you, the last place Daddy probably wants to be on Sunday night is watching his wayward son, who has now seen the way, being baptized at a church other than his own, by a minister other than himself. Unless of course that minister happens to be one of his little minions he’s instructed to do so as he oversees everything from his high, golden perch.” Knowledge spoke the last of his sentence with an overly proper accent.

  Zenobia turned around and swatted her son softly. “Knowledge, that’s not nice. You still have to respect your father. I don’t care how angry and frustrated he makes us.”

  “Oh, I respect him as my father. I just refuse to lie, even when it comes to him.”

  “Why don’t you give your daddy a call and see if you can’t talk him into seeing how wrong he is for not coming? I checked the church’s Web site. He’s not preaching anywhere Sunday evening or that night. So whatever his plans are, they don’t involve him having to cancel a speaking engagement or church service.”

  Knowledge shook his head. “No, ma’am, Mama. We both know once Daddy has decided something, nothing and no one can change his mind.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Yeah, but nothing,” Knowledge said. “I love you, Mama. But you need to drop this and move on. Capiche?”

  “Yes, I get it,” Zenobia said. “I really do understand. And I really am trying.”

  Knowledge kissed his mother on the cheek and grinned at her.

  “Stop that,” Zenobia said with a laugh.

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop making things light with your pragmatism when things start to get heavy.”

  “Ah, Mama. Admit it: you love the way I use my skills as a negotiator. It’s just the art of negotiation in practice. This is why the finance world pays me the big bucks.”

  Zenobia tilted her head slightly and looked sternly up at him. “Oh, so is that why the FBI is so interested in you lately?”

  “Mama, I told you. The FBI is interested in me and my skills in finance and accounting. That’s what happens when you’re good at your job and word gets back to the Big House.” Knowledge plucked his white silk shirt twice with both his thumbs and index fingers like a bird pecking at the ground trying to snatch up a worm. It was his way of emphasizing his pride in himself.

  “People in high places begin to search you out for positions in their organization. The government is stepping things up within the financial world. There’s too much corruption too high up. People aren’t sticking up banks with guns and a note the way they used to. Things are high tech now, sophisticated. And the government is looking for the best of the best to put a halt to a lot of these things, or at least slow them down. I know you’ve seen the movie Men in Black. Well, the government really is looking for the best of the best now.”

  “Yeah, okay. That’s what you keep telling me. You’d just better be sure that’s the only reason the government is interested in you. I mean that, Knowledge.”

  Knowledge kissed his mother again on the cheek. “Mama, you raised me better than that. I won’t embarrass you or our good name. I’m the good son, remember?”

  “Knowledge . . .”

  “I’m just kidding, Mama. Well, I’m out of here. It’s Thursday and I have to pick up Dominique and Jasmine from ballet and Deon from karate. I’m just glad Isis found a place with both activities next door to each other. At least I don’t have to run all over town dropping them off and picking them up for this. After I get them, I’ll go by the daycare and pick up Dante before they close at six and end up charging me a late fee.”

  “Poor Dante . . . having to be the last one picked up,” Zenobia said of the six-month-old. “You should have stopped by and gotten him before you came here. I’m sure he would have loved to see his granny. And how is Isis these days?” Zenobia asked of her daughter-in-law. “We don’t see very much of her hardly ever.”

  “Oh, she’s good. The law firm is keeping her busy. But as she tells me often when I try to get her to slow down: this is what she was born to do. And I must admit, when you see her in action, grilling a witness on the stand, connecting the dots, that wife of mine is good. I believe they’re thinking of making her a junior partner soon.”

  “Well, I hope to see all six of you Sunday night. In fact, I think it would be great if we all got together for dinner after church. I could cook a nice, big meal, check Gramps out. Clarence could come over and maybe bring his two children. It would be fun.”

  “We could do that. I need to check with Isis to be sure she’s available. But me and the children could be here. As for Clarence getting his two daughters . . . you know Tameka and Clarence are like a Mac and a PC: they both work well respectively, but they use totally different operating software to function. With Clarence’s previous line of work, he didn’t always get the children on his weekend. If it’s not his weekend this week, Tameka may not cooperate just to get back at him for all the times he didn’t get them when he could have.”

  “But this is a special weekend. Their father is being baptized. I’m sure Tameka will be fine with us having a family gathering here at my house,” Zenobia said. “You just see about Isis and I’ll handle Tameka.”

  “Yeah, Tameka still loves you. You two are sort of like Ruth and Naomi in the book of Ruth in the Bible. ‘Where thou goest, I’ll go. Thou God will be my god.’” Knowledge quoted Ruth’s words to her mother-in-law, Naomi.

  “You know what would really be great? If we all went to church together this Sunday . . . as a family. Then afterward, we could come here for dinner. We might even consider visiting Clarence’s new church. You know, show our solidarity as a family unit.”

  “Okay, Mama. It’s time for me to go now. Because you know that’s not going to fly. There’s no way I can tell Daddy I won’t be at church Sunday because I’m going to the church that stole his other son away from him. No way.”

  “Knowledge, don’t even play saying things like that.” Zenobia’s tone was serious. “Nobody has stolen anyone from anywhere. You sounded just like your father then.”

  “Well, Mama, I know you don’t want to hear this. But Daddy isn’t always wrong.” Knowledge headed toward the door. “I do know from comments Daddy has made, just recently, that he doesn’t care much for Pastor Landris, not much at all. I’ll call you later tonight and let you know for sure whether we’re coming to dinner Sunday. But if we don’t, I’ll definitely be there for my brother Sunday night.”

  Knowledge opened the door and left as Zenobia stood there unconsciou
sly trimming and tidying up a few of her hangnails with her teeth.

  Chapter 4

  Curse not the king, no not in thy thought; and curse not the rich in thy bedchamber: for a bird of the air shall carry the voice, and that which hath wings shall tell the matter.

  —Ecclesiastes 10:20

  “Hey there, Miss Countess,” Gramps said. “Where you headed so bright and early this morning?”

  “Morning, Ranny,” Countess Gates said to the ninety-nine-year-old, Tootsie Pop–looking bald-headed man most folks, with the exception of her, generally called Gramps. “I was on my way out to the garden for a morning walk.”

  “Would you mind having some company?”

  “No,” she said with a smile. “You’re welcome to come if you like.”

  Gramps walked alongside Countess. She looked up and her eyes followed a red robin that flew right past them as soon as they reached the gazebo. She smiled at Gramps. “For an old man, you sure do get around well. You do better than some of the people who work here.”

  He grinned. “Who you calling old? You know age ain’t nothing but a number and a state of mind. That’s all it is. A person can be twenty and think and move like they’re fifty. I’ve seen them; see them now. You ever meet a young person that complains about everything? Every time you turn around, something on their body is ailing them.”

  “Hypochondriacs,” Countess said.

  Gramps stopped and tilted his head. “Look at you. Using all them big, fancy words on this old country fellow. I just call them kind of folks constant complainers.”

  Gramps could tell Countess was having a good day today. With her diagnosed Alzheimer’s, you never knew from one day to the next what to expect from her. Recently, it was from one minute to the next. Whenever she went back in time in her mind and he tried to strike up a conversation with her, she would react to him as though he were some dirty old man trying to pick up some young girl. He would merely play along with her whenever she went to that place—apologizing if he’d offended her in any way.

  He was thankful that, so far, the disease hadn’t attached itself to his mind. Sure, he had plenty of his own forgetful moments. But his was a natural progression of life. He couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to look at your own children, grandchildren, or great-grandchildren and not know them. Being in a home filled with senior citizens, he had witnessed all too often the hurt registered on various family members’ faces when their loved ones didn’t have a clue who they were. And then there were the ones who were forever walking, trying to go “home.” But home for them was a place in time, a place that no longer existed in the present world.

  Gramps and Countess sat out in the gazebo for a while, neither one of them having more than casual things to say. They talked about the plants, specifically the beautiful, velvet-looking, multicolored shades of red, yellow, blue, and purple pansies the gardener had just put out. They discussed the trees that were beginning to shed their leaves as they tried to guess how old some were. And the sky that was a perfect indigo blue with not a cloud marring it. Countess sneezed. She sneezed again, and then again.

  Having said “Bless you” following three of her sneezes, Gramps pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. A habit that began with his mother when he was a teenager going to church; she always gave him a fresh handkerchief to put in his pocket. When he was old enough for her not to insist, he did it because there was always some need to have one, even if only to hand over to a woman spilling tears in church or on a date.

  “Thank you,” Countess said, sneezing again as she used it now to wipe her nose.

  When they got back inside the building, Countess went to her room and Gramps went to his. After minutes of dozing in his recliner, he looked over at the old black trunk he kept in the corner of his room. Stuff was stacked up on top of it. He got up and started removing those things. Opening the trunk, he began to pull out this and that until he finally found what he was looking for. He smiled as he touched the wooden, hand-carved box. He couldn’t help but admire the workmanship of the seventy-something-year-old box. It was indeed impressive. Carefully, he took it out of the trunk, closed the trunk’s lid, then carried the box over to his bed.

  His grandson was going to be baptized Sunday. Clarence had finally heard the voice of Jesus and chosen to give his life to Him. Inside of that now-antique-looking wooden box was an antique pocket watch Gramps wanted to give to Clarence. It would be his way of letting Clarence know that time still has a way of catching up with you. He of all people could testify to that. But one could also use time to his or her advantage. Here he was less than two months from turning one hundred. Who would have ever believed he would have made it this far and still be clothed in his right mind? If anybody, he, of all people, should have lost his mind a long time ago. But for the grace of God . . .

  Just as he was about to put the special key he’d kept in a secret place into the keyhole to unlock the box, there was a knock on his door. Before he could even respond, the door cracked open.

  “Ranny, it’s me . . . Countess. Is it okay for me to come in?”

  He quickly set the box down and pushed it to the side. “Sure, Miss Countess. Come on in.”

  Countess pushed the door open and sauntered in. “I washed your handkerchief and ironed it,” she said, holding out the pressed, white, square-folded poly/cotton to him.

  “Oh, Miss Countess, you didn’t have to go and do that. You could have kept that thang.” He took the handkerchief and laid it on the bed. “I have a drawer full of handkerchiefs. In fact, when folks ask what I want for any occasion, I generally tell them handkerchiefs and socks. You know, you can never have enough handkerchiefs or socks.”

  “I know. I just don’t like keeping folks’ things, not if I can help it. I now realize with all that’s happening with me, sometimes I just can’t help it. And socks . . . I have yet to figure out why it is that socks, especially men’s socks, have a way of just walking off between the ride from the dirty hamper and coming out of the dryer back into the clothes basket. And it’s always just one of them. Two go in but only one comes out,” she said.

  Gramps laughed. “That’s a good one. ‘Two go in but only one comes out.’ Yeah, I’ll have to use that one.”

  Countess looked at the box on the bed. Her look turned into one of puzzlement. “Wow, where did you get that from?”

  “What?” He followed where her eyes were fixed. “You mean this here box?”

  “Yeah. I haven’t seen that in a while.”

  “No, ma’am, Miss Countess. I don’t believe it’s possible you’ve ever seen this before.” He tried to smile. It was obvious she was having one of her moments now.

  “Yes, I have,” she said adamantly. “I’ve seen that box before. That one right there.” She pointed at it so there would be no mistaking what she was referring to.

  “Okay, Miss Countess. You’ve seen this box before,” Gramps said, quickly agreeing with her so he wouldn’t upset her. He was certain that there was no way she could have ever seen that box. It had been deep in that trunk since he’d arrived at this place, well before her arrival. He’d never taken it out before, so she couldn’t have seen it sitting around his room at any time. The box was definitely not something you’d find in a store, since it was hand-carved and homemade. And this particular box had been made more than seven decades ago.

  Countess Gates cocked her head to the side. “Listen, Ranny, I’m not having one of my ‘moments,’ senior or otherwise, as so many fondly whisper behind my back as though what’s going on with my mind somehow affects my hearing and my ability to understand spoken English. And I’m telling you that I’ve seen that box right there before, and I mean that box right there.” She gave him a stern look. “All right. I’ll prove it. When you open it up, it has wings etched inside of the lid. At least, the one I saw did. It’s called a Wings of Grace box.”

  Gramps was now the one staring back at her as, with great intensity, he studied her face. How
was this possible? He picked up the special key, and with a slight trembling in his hand, he unlocked the box and opened it up.

  And just as Countess had said, wings were etched inside the top of the lid.

  Chapter 5

  But it displeased Jonah exceedingly, and he was very angry.

  —Jonah 4:1

  Pastor George Landris picked up the telephone and pressed the seven numbers listed on the card he held in his hand. He’d put this call off long enough. God had been speaking to his heart about calling, but he had concluded it wasn’t really necessary or truthfully really any of his business. Not really.

  “Reverend Walker,” he said when the voice on the other end said hello. “This is George Landris.”

  There were a few moments of silence. “Pastor Landris. How are things with you these days?” Reverend Walker finally said. “How are things going?”

  “Things are going. Of course, I know you already know there’s always something going on in all of our lives, whether it’s something we really want to deal with or not.”

  “So . . . what’s on your mind?” Reverend Walker said, not one to disguise his distaste for unnecessary chitchat.

  “Your son . . . Clarence. I didn’t know until the other day that your son had come forward this past Sunday to be baptized.”

  “And how did you happen to learn that Clarence was my son? I mean, you have thousands of members. I’m sure you’re like me when it comes to knowing everything going on in your church and everybody who happens to grace the church’s parking lot,” Reverend Walker said.

  Pastor Landris thought about how he wanted to answer this question. He was well aware that he wasn’t Reverend Walker’s favorite person in Birmingham. The last conversation they’d had was when Reverend Walker called him to register his thoughts regarding one of his members, Gabrielle Mercedes, being allowed to minister through dance at the church after it was learned that she’d once been an exotic dancer. That exchange had left no question on just how far he and Marshall Walker would have to go to close the gulf that had only increased each time the two pastors spoke.