Authors: Dijorn Moss
The Retreat
Dijorn Moss
To my father:
who never accepted anything
less than my very best.
To my mother:
who always reminded me to enjoy life
because you only live it once.
To my wife and muse, Trinea:
you remind me that without love,
everything we do would be in vain.
And in loving memory of Reggie Dottson:
a great man who will never be forgotten.
Thank you, Lord Jesus Christ, for blessing me to write this story. It has been a remarkable journey both mentally and spiritually. To my Uncle Richard and my Aunt Denise, you guys were instrumental in my spiritual growth. Thank you for always being willing to go the extra mile for family. I thank God for my awesome team of readers: Wanda Camp-bell, Mark Porrovecchio, and Dawn Gibson. You guys have pushed me to deliver my best work, and as a result, I am a much better writer. To my mentors: Scott Sublett, Ethel Walker, and Floyd Salas, God gave me the gift and you guys gave me the instructions on how to use it. And I cannot forget my editor, Joylynn Jossel. Thank you again for this opportunity to write for Urban Christian. Thank you for always seeing ways in which my writing can become better. To my uncles Jeryle and Julius, you guys are the epitome of conquerors. Sistahs in Conversations book club, you ladies are amazing, and I am grateful for all of your hard work. To my grandmother, Ruth Jonice, you continue to personify strength. To my grandparents in Miami, Nana and Grandpa Moss, I love you guys. I consider myself blessed to have two great stepparents in David and Elainna; thank you guys for all of your love and support. To City of Refuge, Bible Way Christian Center, and Alondra Church of Christ, thank you for being great church homes, both past and present. To the men who labor tirelessly for the will of God, I see you. Your efforts are not in vain and this book is for you guys. Finally, to you, the reader, thank you for taking this journey with me. I love you, and may God bless you!
The Retreat?
“
The Retreat
is a realistic and comical look into the hearts of men. Dijorn Moss masterfully dispels the myth that men don't have issues and guides them to a breakthrough.”
âWanda B. Campbell, author of
Illusions
“
The Retreat
is an interesting, entertaining and intriguing story. I am so glad to read a refreshing story like
The Retreat
literally because of its welcoming change by a man's point of view. You wrote a believable tale using captivating, everyday men.”
âShelia E. Lipsey, author of
My Son's Wife
“Soul stirring! Finally, a story about men by a man. Dijorn Moss has developed memorable characters facing tough situations whose journeys all lead them to God's truth. He has easily earned his place as one of Christian fiction's best storytellers.”
âRhonda McKnight, author of
Secrets and Lies
No matter how much the congregation of Greater Anointing Christian Center danced and shouted, when Bishop Dawkins approached the pulpit in his traditional black robe, everyone within the 2,500-seat sanctuary pushed the noise level higher. Standing there, taking the celebration in, it seemed as if there wasn't a pulpit big enough to balance his six-and-a-half-foot frame.
A former college basketball player, Bishop Dawkins leaned in with his left elbow on the pulpit as he held a microphone in his hand. His right hand scratched his white beard as his hazel eyes peered out into the vastness of the crowd. The choir positioned behind Pastor Dawkins took their seats. The musicians to the right of him started to phase out their play.
“It's marvelous that in spite of all that we go through in our lives, we can come together and show God that He is still number one in our lives,” Pastor Dawkins said.
The congregation responded with a shower of “Amen's.” It was a largely, and frustratingly, feminine chorus. Low male membership was a common problem in most pre-dominantly African American churches. Men found all kinds of excuses for not being present in church on Sunday mornings. Football, baseball, and now evenâGod forbidâmixed martial arts.
They did not mind if their wives and girlfriends attended church, so long as they did not boast about their male pastors too much. Men are very territorial and competitive by nature; that is why Bishop Dawkins took pride in the fact that, though low, the male membership was still higher at Greater Anointing than at other churches in the area.
His flock was the result of his approach. His teachings were sound, scripturally based, and community focused. He demanded accountability, especially from men. As a middle-aged, single pastor, he was mindful of his interactions with the women in the congregation, avoiding any hint of impropriety that would tar him with the whisper of “womanizer” or “hypocrite.”
“As you know, around this time of the year, the men of Greater Anointing get together for our annual Men's Retreat,” Pastor Dawkins's raspy voice bellowed.
The men in the congregation started to clap and shout praises to God. The first weekend in October brought forth the rebirth of the sanctified male. With one hand on the razor-thin Bible pages, Bishop Dawkins took a look back at the few men in the choir.
“Our theme for this year is âStand Up and Be Accounted For,'” Bishop Dawkins said.
Men stood up, they smiled and clapped. Bishop Dawkins turned back toward the congregation. To his delight, there were men and women who stood up as well to cheer him on.
“Sisters, I need your help. I want you to sign up your husbands, your sons, and your crazy uncles.” Bishop Dawkins paused to laugh for a moment and rub his copper, bald head.
“I want them to come and join us this weekend. We will experience a move of God unlike anything we have ever seen, and the men you knew will return on fire for God, ready to take back their homes and their communities.”
A joyful ovation punctuated his pitch. And he needed to be pitch-perfect this weekend. As the congregation's approval died down, Bishop Dawkins said a prayer to himself: Father, watch over my brothers. There will be numerous snares that will try to prevent them from coming, but I pray that your angels will protect them and that your perfect will will be done. Amen!
Quincy could not think of a better way to spend a Monday than under a clear October sky, playing a round of golf. After an early lunch with his business partner, Gregg, they both decided to forgo the rest of the day and get eighteen holes in. First, Quincy would need to go home and change out of his power suit into something more casual.
“Tee off is at two o'clock.” Gregg pointed at his watch.
“The 405 shouldn't be crowded.” Quincy patted his stomach. “That'll give me plenty of time to work off the roasted crab and garlic noodles. I'll be there.”
Gregg gave Quincy a fist bump as Quincy walked over to the driver's side of his Range Rover. He met the valet and exchanged a fifty dollar bill for the keys to his SUV.
“Thank you very much, sir,” the valet said.
Once in the driver's seat, the noise that defined a busy Southern California day was now neutralized by the sound of contemporary R&B. Quincy worked his way through the surface streets and entered the nearest 405 freeway ramp. Eighty-five miles per hour didn't feel like a moving violation as Quincy maneuvered his way through light traffic.
The time on the touch screen read 12:45
P.M
., and still there'd been no word from Karen, his wife. Quincy and Karen would talk frequently throughout the day, but the conversations were trivial and contributed more to their stagnation as a couple than to their actual growth. Their routine was monotonous, but it remained safe and secure. Quincy relied heavily on security, so he attached his Bluetooth ear piece and placed a call.
“Hello?” Karen said.
“What up, babe? I haven't heard from you today. I was calling to see what's up.”
“Nothing, I'm just very busy. Quincy, you sound like you're in the car.”
“Yeah, Gregg and I grabbed a bite to eat at Crustaceans. I'm leaving.”
“It's been a long time since we ate at Crustaceans.”
Already Quincy regretted the call. It was as if Karen looked for every opportunity to remind Quincy that he was not up to par in his husband duties.
“Anyway, Gregg and I are heading over to Virginia Country Club to play a round. I'm going to stop by the house first.”
“You're headed home?” Karen's voice fractured.
“Yeah, I need to change first.”
At first, the silence seemed like an indication that the call had dropped.
“Hello?” Quincy asked.
“I'm here. What about work? What about the Culver City project?”
“That's the beauty of being your own boss: you make your own hours. And the Culver City project is a slam dunk. We close this deal by the end of the week.”
Her silence grew more awkward and teetered on suspicious. Suspicion brought forth his acute hearing.
“Where are you?” Quincy asked.
“I'm at work.”
Lie. As an architect, Quincy built his empire around the principle that the devil is in the details. It could be something as small as the sound of Karen's Swiss clock that echoed throughout her subdued office, or something as big as the sound of their retired neighbor, Daryl, mowing his lawn.
The absence of one sound and the presence of another brought Quincy to the conclusion that his wife was not at work, but at home.
“I'll tell you what, why don't I come pick you up and we have lunch together? I'm still a little hungry for something sweet. Perhaps we could share something on the dessert menu.”
“Oh, no no no! You go and play your game. I'll probably go to lunch with Amber.”
Karen's certain spike in her voice indicated that she was frantic.
“Humph. Okay, I'll see you later,” Quincy said.
“Okay, babe, have a good game,” Karen replied.
The call ended. Quincy imploded and the Range Rover hit one hundred miles per hour. This is not happening; Karen is not having an affair. Quincy was certain that he would have to apologize for his overreaction. There were only two reasons why his wife of twenty years, this devout woman of God, would lie to him, her husband: either she was throwing him a surprise birthday party (but Quincy's birthday wasn't until April 28), or she was having an affair.
“Come on, man! Move out of the way!” Quincy's horn signaled for the slow cars to move out of the way. He kept his eyes locked on the rearview to make sure the police were not in sight. It was inevitable that during the forty-minute drive from Beverly Hills to Signal Hill, Quincy would pass a police car or two. He just had to get home.
When Quincy finally did get home, it was empty. Karen's car was not in the garage. No sense in being coy, the bedroom was the place that would tell him all he needed to know about why Karen had been home.
He removed his smoky gray business suit as if he were about to make love to his wife, laid the coat at the foot of the winding staircase, and began his ascent of the stairs to the master bedroom. It was questionable why the sheets on the bed had been changed, why the coconut scent was forceful throughout the room. It all could mean nothing more than just Quincy's mind in overdrive. Karen would never let him hear the end of it if he made his suspicions of her infidelity known. This wasn't a movie. The mirror in the bathroom was not fogged from a recent shower. The closet doors were open and there was no one who lay hidden. He had overreacted, and the best way to shrug off the minor embarrassment was to remember the reason he came home in the first place. Karen would kill him for coming home and tossing his clothes on the bed, but he was pressed for time.
Quincy walked into the closet in their bedroom. He loved clothes and shoes as much as Karen did. He pulled his golf bag out of the closet, and several white golf balls fell out and rolled over to Karen's lavender purse. Karen had a plethora of purses in every color, shape, and size. Quincy put the golf balls back in his bag. He went to set Karen's purse back on the wooden shelf next to her dresses when a cell phone fell out. Quincy had never seen this cell phone before. His suspicions had returned. He flipped open the pink phone and discovered that the phone was on silent mode with the “new text message” symbol blinking on and off. He viewed the message from a nickname A-MOG:
Where are you? I've been trying to contact you. I left my cuff link by the bed. By the way, at Bible Study last week you looked so hot in that pink miniskirt, it was hard for me to concentrate.
âA-MOG
Pink skirt! Cuff links by the bed? This had to be a joke. Quincy walked over to his bed and looked underneath their California kingâsized platform bed. He did not see anything on Karen's side, so he walked around to his side, and there on the floor was a gold cuff link. Though everything started to add up, it still did not make sense. Quincy could not remember Karen wearing a miniskirt in years, and when he'd left for work this morning, she was dressed in her conservative business suit. The coconut scent, the mysterious cell phone, everything was pointing to one thing: Karen was having an affair, and he suspected that it had to be someone from the church.
To appease Karen, Quincy would occasionally make an appearance at Greater Anointing. He did not attend last Sunday, and, as far as remembering what Karen had on, Quincy could not remember what he had for breakfast. He checked her inbox to find more messages from A-MOG. This one was dated two weeks prior:
Last night was off the chain. I know you couldn't spend the night, but it was still good to see you. The sheets still carry your scent. See you Sunday.
âA-MOG
Quincy sat down in disbelief. He stared at the wall, confused. Karen was having an affair. He scrolled through the text messages, and anger arose as he discovered that Karen was involved in an affair with someone from the church.
I know sex in the car was not comfortable, but you looked so hot last night during choir rehearsal that I had to pull the car over and have you right then and there.
âA-MOG
Â
Karen was not an unattractive woman. But this A-MOG guy talked about her like she was Beyoncé or Vivica Fox or someone! It disgusted Quincy that a so-called man of God could leave her such perverse messages. Quincy dialed the phone number associated with the text message and got an answer.
“What up, ma? Did you find the cuff link?” a male voice asked.
“Ma can't come to the phone right now, but pa is available,” Quincy replied, struck by the youthfulness in the guy's voice. He was also now aware that the intense scent of coconut was to cover up, and not to freshen up, their bedroom.
“Ma?” The man let out an expletive word before he hung up.
Quincy did not even bother to call back. He didn't want to get answers from this individual. He wanted answers from his wife, so he would have to go to the source. Quincy could not wrap his head around the fact that his wife and her lover had been here as early as today. In his home, in his bed. This was all playing out like a bad movie.
Quincy ignored the call from his business partner, who kept trying to get in contact with him. Karen had played him and made herself seem like the perfect wife. If there was one thing Quincy did not appreciate, it was being made a fool; so now it was time for him to act a fool.
His brain ran through numerous scenarios. If he were a woman, he would set all of Karen's clothes on fire like in the movie Waiting to Exhale. Better yet, he would do what Mary Woodson did to Al Green and throw some hot grits at her, or just pull a Mrs. Lionel Richie on her tail and administer a beat down. Worst yet, he would pull a Bobbitt. But he was not a woman.
He was Quincy Page, and Quincy Page was too cool to lose control. So the game was definitely on, but it had nothing to do with a golf ball. Quincy slid both the cell phone and the cuff link into his pocket, and he stormed out of his closet and house with his sights set on his wife's job.
Â
With a 9 iron in his hands, Quincy parted through Karen's coworkers like the Red Sea, ignoring the greetings and the chatter. He started to shake as he got close to Karen's office. He wanted to kick down the door, but settled for a more civilized approach, and knocked.
“Yes,” Karen said from inside her office.
Quincy opened the door and slammed it shut behind him.
“What's wrong with you?” Karen stood up and took off her glasses.
Quincy reached into his pocket and pulled out the cell phone. The look of shock on his wife's face gave him all the confirmation he needed. Quincy threw it at Karen. She ducked, and the phone just missed her head as it ricocheted off of her glass window.
He then pulled out the cuff link and chucked it toward Karen; the cuff link landed square on Karen's shoulder.
“Baby, I can explain,” Karen said.
“You had him in my house, Karen! My house! You've been creeping on me behind my back.”
Quincy watched her whole being crumble, and he knew she could not even search the rubble to find an explanation that would suffice. For once, Quincy needed her to find an explanation. He needed her to say something that would make sense.
He needed her to win. Instead, what he found was a diminutive will that could not even go on to fight.
“I've forwarded the messages to my phone. Tomorrow I'm going to see a lawyer,” he told her.
“Baby, we just need to talk. Let's not let our emotions get the better of us,” Karen said with tears in her eyes.
“I left my emotions at home. Now all I have is my resolve to send you to Wal-Mart to shop from here on out.”
“I'm so sorry.” Karen's voice quivered.
“You know I wasn't particularly happy in this marriage. I haven't been happy for a long time, but I know that I promised to be faithful and loyal to you. I've kept my vows despite countless opportunities to break them.” Quincy took a moment to catch his breath and grip his 9 iron.
“What are you going to do with that?” Karen looked at the golf club her husband gripped in his hand.
“I haven't decided. Is he someone I know?”
Karen's silence admitted her guilt.
“He is, isn't he? It has to be someone from that church.” This time, Karen's tears admitted her guilt. “Who is it?”
“Listen, baby, we can work this out.”
The levees that held back Quincy's anger broke. He swung the golf club down on her glass table like an axe, and shattered a piece of glass.
“Have you lost your mind?” Karen yelled.
“Who is it?” Quincy voice had a demonic rage to it.
He turned toward her picture display case. He hated to have to destroy their wedding pictures. Quincy looked real good in his black tux with the buttercream-colored tie, but that picture represented the sham that had become his life, so it had to go. With one swing, he started to destroy the pictures on Karen's shelf, including the high school graduation picture of their daughter, Sasha, who was now a student at UC Berkeley.
He knew he would regret his actions, but he was too caught up in the sounds of broken glass and Karen's screams. The two entities sounded like thunder. Two men wearing navy blue blazers entered the office.
“Sir, you have to leave right now!” one security guard said while pointing toward the door.
“What you going to do with your flashlight, your clip-on tie, and a jacket that's two sizes too small?” Quincy now raised his bent 9 iron like a samurai sword.
The second security guard emerged from behind the first. He was almost a foot taller than the other security guard.
“I guess you choose to do this the hard way,” the second security guard stated.
With that said, both security guards rushed Quincy before he could get a good swing, and wrestled him to the ground. They lifted Quincy off the ground, and he kicked his feet up to try to get loose.
“Get your hands off me!” Quincy yelled, but to no avail. The men escorted him out and he endured the dropped jaws of his wife's coworkers.
The elevator doors opened, and then sealed in Quincy and the two behemoth security guards.