The Retreat (2 page)

The compacted space and elevator music did nothing to loosen the guards' grips around Quincy's arms. This would be the part in the movie when the hero disables the guards and walks out of the elevator, with the guards left unconscious on the floor. This would not be the case for Quincy, because these guys were pretty strong.

The elevator reached the bottom floor and the doors slid opened. The two men carried Quincy out on the tips of his toes.

“We could let you go if you were going to go in peace,” one of the security guards said.

“No, I still want to do things the hard way,” Quincy replied.

“Suit yourself,” the security guard said.

There was light foot traffic in the lobby, and Quincy was too furious to be embarrassed. If he got a second crack at Karen, he would cause more damage and the real police would be escorting him out. The guards released their hold from Quincy as soon as they passed through the front sliding doors. The sky was still beautiful, but Quincy's soul was cloudy. He'd heard about out-of-body experiences. Up until this point, he viewed the notion as a load of crap. Quincy had to come to grips with the fact that he just might be having an out-of-body experience. Karen? Karen having an affair?

Quincy could not begin to fathom that his wife of twenty years was capable of such actions, capable of being unfaithful. Quincy had had his share of perspective rendezvous that he reneged on at the last moment for the sake of his marriage. He thanked God for the fact that he had not engaged in infidelity. Now that very same God had betrayed him. There was only one thing Quincy could do: call up a friend and borrow a G-5 jet. He needed to leave town.

Chauncey pulled his champagne-colored Cadillac into the parking lot behind the baseball field. His New International Bible, just a touch lighter than his chestnut skin, seemed like an extension of himself. As he exited the car, Chauncey was greeted by a gust of wind that pushed the autumn leaves into his path. After locking the door, he turned and started his walk along the cemented path of the park.

Chauncey passed by an empty playground. He could remember a time when this playground was full of children at play. That was another time. In the distance Chauncey could make out a group of thugs, petty neighborhood gang-bangers, hanging out under a tree, blasting god-awful rap music.

They, he surmised, were the reason there were no longer children at this park. Drinking, smoking, cussing, and carrying on. Well, that stops now. Chauncey was mighty and strong in the Lord. He was going to take back the park by reclaiming some lost souls. As he continued down the path, he passed a derelict water fountain. It stood in the middle of the park between the soccer field and the basketball courts.

In the old days, kids would take a break from shooting hoops or kicking around the ball, and gather here. Now it just stood idle. The fountain had a two-step platform. Chauncey walked over and positioned himself on the second step. He opened his Bible. The wind blew the pages over, but the Bible was more for the look and less for the actual message. Chauncey knew the passage by heart, knew every line and the cadence it deserved.

“Oh yes, Jesus! Thank you, Jesus! Lord, you declare in your Word that you're the way, the truth and the light. Those who believe in you shall not perish, but have everlasting life. I pray that everyone under the sound of my voice will choose life today,” Chauncey prayed.

Chauncey's voice must have carried over the sound of their music; the thugs underneath the tree were now eyeing him.

“Those who practice sin shall not inherit the kingdom of heaven. You have to be born again.” As he said this, Chauncey felt his voice crack. It was their attention that he wanted as he tried to project his message over the din of their music. “I'm that voice that cries in the wilderness, ‘Make it straight!'”

“Make it straight with the Lord,” a homeless man shouted from behind him.

Chauncey turned around. The man had salt-and-pepper dreads that caked his shoulders and reached down his dirty army jacket. He was pushing a shopping cart filled with bags of cans and plastic bottles. As he approached the fountain he continued to speak, but it was low and slow and sounded like gibberish. The smell of caked-on liquor was oppressive, sweet and sour at the same time. It stung Chauncey's nose.

Chauncey did not have time for this deranged man. So he broke from the fountain, walking in the direction of the thugs under the tree. Halfway there, he spied a young black girl who lay on top of a blanket. She wore sunglasses and a tie-dyed bikini top with white shorts. Chauncey maneuvered around her to step in her shade, and the girl immediately used her hand as a visor.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello, God bless you. I saw you from over at the fountain,” he replied. “Enjoying this beautiful weather?”

“Yeah, I'm supposed to be studying.” She pointed to a casually opened philosophy textbook tattooed with garish highlighter and random notes.

“I would like to talk with you about making Jesus your Lord and Savior.”

“No, thank you,” she said, curtly picking up the textbook.

Fair enough. Chauncey did not feel any desire to press the issue. He wasn't here to witness to some college student. The group of thugs who hung out under the tree needed his attention more than some blasé undergraduate.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil,” Chauncey muttered under his breath as he arrived at the group and broke the circle the gang had formed.

The group started to reposition themselves to size up Chauncey. One guy was as big as the tree. Shirtless, he showed off his coil skin and stretch marks. With a pot belly, his physique was not desirable. Chauncey set his sights on the young man who appeared to be the leader, since he was the only one who did not move.

“Could you turn it down?” Chauncey asked.

“What?” the leader said.

“I said could you turn it—”

“Speak up! I don't like all that mumbling,” the leader said.

The leader who commanded this motley pile of thugs looked to be no more than eighteen. His body was like a memorial: tattoos of “rest in peace” followed by the names of what Chauncey assumed were his fallen comrades covered most of his golden skin.

“I just want you to know that you should be ashamed of yourselves for doing the devil's work,” Chauncey said.

His comment caused a nod from the leader, at which point one of the other thugs reached over and turned the music off.

“Say that again, old man?” the leader urged, spitting out the last two words.

“I said you're doing the devil's work and you need to repent. I have the Lord on my side and I refuse to be intimidated by you thugs.”

Chauncey felt an object press against his temple. He held on to a fool's hope that it was not a gun until he turned ever so slightly and caught a glimpse of the muzzle.

At that moment, Chauncey's raven-like eyes burst out of his skull.

“Oh, Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!” Chauncey's facade crumbled as he cried out the words.

“You better get up out of here with that church crap before I have the homie bust a cap in you,” the leader warned.

Chauncey backed away from the group and started to walk as fast as his heart beat. Even the wind terrified him, as if at any moment he would be shot in the back. These gang members are ruthless cowards, Chauncey thought, not noting the irony.

As he got back into his car, Chauncey peered out of his front window. In the distance he could see the gangsters laughing at him.

He was jolted back to attention by his cell phone vibrating in his coat pocket. The caller ID showed that it was his sister, Nicole. She lived in Sunnyvale, a small city in Northern California. It was about an hour away from Monterey, where the Men's Retreat would be held this weekend. Chauncey planned to get to the Retreat on Thursday evening, a day before the official start.

He wanted to help set up and spend some quality time with his pastor and some of the brethren. Of course, there was also a professional matter that Chauncey needed to secure. Pastor Dawkins had been reviewing applications for the minister's class. Chauncey's application was among them. When Chauncey was twelve, a prophet had spoken about him becoming a preacher, and how yokes would be broken by his testimony. Chauncey believed that his time had come to become a minster, and being at the Retreat would show Pastor Dawkins his commitment.

“Sis, thank God you called. I just wanted to tell you that I love you,” Chauncey said.

“Did you forget that you're supposed to visit your brother today?” Nicole asked.

“No hello…just right into criticism. Sister, you would've made a great Sadducee, because you love to judge people,” Chauncey said.

“So now you think you're Jesus?” Nicole snapped back.

Whatever excitement Chauncey felt to talk to his baby sister had left by the time she started talking. He had just escaped a life-or-death situation, and his sister's accusatory attitude was not the response he needed or wanted.

“Oh no, I'm supposed to see him, I just had something more important to take care of,” Chauncey said.

“Just get over here. You know how bad traffic is on the 405 around this time,” Nicole said.

Chauncey hung up the phone as he sped away. He wondered how in the world he would ever truly be able to do God's will when his family was in constant need of his help.

“Not the response that I expected.” Melvin, Jamal's boss, adjusted his platinum Day-Date Rolex.

Jamal began to loosen his tie and unfastened his top button. “I am happy. I'm ecstatic. This is what I want.”

“I remember when you sat in that chair five years ago, nervous and scared. It was like your entire future rested on you getting this job. But day in and day out I've seen you hustle your butt off to get results.”

Jamal had worked for that promotion every day for the past four years. To become a senior marketing exec for Pinnacle Sportswear was his goal. He was sick and tired of living from dime to dollar. Jamal's family raised him on the idea that if a person wanted something, he had to be willing to work harder than the next man to get it. That meant that when everyone else was asleep, he needed to be at work.

So he made a solemn promise to work while everyone else was at the water cooler, engaged in gossip. Jamal would work while his coworkers complained about their salaries. He never lost sight of his goal and purpose. With his faith in God, he now had everything he wanted career-wise, but his mind could not allow him to savor his victory.

Jamal thought about his son, Jamir, and how every day Jamir resembled him less and less. His life was at a crossroads, and with so many life-changing decisions at his feet, Jamal turned to the only one who knew what the best course of action was for his life.

“Father, open my eyes so that I might see the wonderful plan you have for me. I don't want to be outside your will, and I pray that the results today will bring you honor and glory. In Jesus' name I pray, Amen.” Jamal prayed.

“If I had your wisdom at my age, I would be a billionaire by now. But understand we are not going to pay you this salary for a nine-to-five, forty-hour workweek. We are going to need you to be a machine. Can you live with that?” Melvin asked.

Jamal locked into his problem: a $100,000 salary in exchange for time with his most precious resource, his son Jamir.

“Can you?” Melvin asked.

“I know I can, I just need a minute to get my affairs in order.”

Melvin pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “I'll tell you what, take until next week to think about it, and on Monday I expect your answer.”

“Thank you, Mr. White.”

This weekend was the Men's Retreat, and Jamal would have a lot to think and pray about. He walked back to his cubical, where he had a decent view of the parking lot. He also had a view of his car: a white Honda Civic with a dented front bumper. This is where he was. Mr. White's offer was where he could be.

“How did it go?” Mylessa asked, interrupting Jamal's thoughts.

Mylessa was a five-foot-six-inch-tall, chocolate-complexioned beauty with a curvaceous frame. She commanded the attention of every man in the office, including Jamal.

“It went great. He offered it to me.” Jamal leaned back in his chair.

Mylessa wore a smoky gray skirt that was sprayed to her hips. Her complete body of work was punctuated by the sound of her four-inch stilettos. “Well, that's great. So you're going to celebrate, right?” Mylessa tossed some of her shoulder-length hair behind her shoulder.

Jamal was certain that it was a weave, but with the advancements in hair technology, it was becoming more and more difficult to differentiate real hair from a weave; such was the case for Mylessa.

“I might do something, I don't know yet,” Jamal said.

“Well, a couple of us from work are heading over to Club Infusion tonight, and I would love to see you there.” Mylessa finished her pitch with a seductive licking of her lips, as her eyes scanned Jamal from head to toe. Jamal was feeling her. She was beautiful, intelligent, and had a great body. Jamal was certain that by the end of the night, they could be at his place eating cheesecake while listening to Sade, right before they headed to the bedroom and made some music of their own. The thought alone awoke some urges within Jamal.

“I would love to, but I'll have to pass,” Jamal declined.

Mylessa slumped down from his news. “Well that's too bad. Maybe we could get together for a drink one day?”

“I'm sorry, but I don't drink.”

“Oh, so you're just a good little church boy.”

“I go to church, but I wouldn't necessarily say I'm good.”

“You're better than most men,” Mylessa said as she looked back to a group of guys who had been eyeing her and chuckling ever since she'd walked over to Jamal's cubicle. “Some other time.”

“Have fun tonight and be safe,” Jamal said as he returned to his computer. But he was unable to shake thoughts of the curvaceous Mylessa.

Terry, Jamal's coworker, walked past Mylessa and stared at her from behind. Jamal saw Terry coming and decided to turn on his iPod with Marvin Sapp playing.

“What's up, pimpin?” Terry asked.

“Nothing, just trying to get work done,” Jamal said while typing on his computer.

“So what did big-booty Mylessa want?”

“She invited me to Club Infusion.” Jamal shrugged.

“You're going to go, right?” Terry leaned in.

“Naw, I have plans.”

“What plans could you possibly have that beat getting the hottest girl in the office to make you grits butt-naked?”

Therein lay the reason Jamal did not like to interact with Terry. Thirty years old and Terry was still mistaking the office for a school playground. Jamal ignored him, and eventually Terry left. The day was almost over, but it was only Monday and the week was still young. Jamal felt the vibration from his cell phone, and a familiar number appeared. Jamal pressed talk to answer the phone, but held it down by his black slacks until he made it to the lounge, which was across the way.

“What's up?” Jamal asked.

“The results came in,” Chantel said.

Jamal's heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He knew the results would be in today, but he was not sure if that was good news or bad.

“I'm on my way.” Jamal hung up the phone. Two pieces of news in one day.

Jamal left the lounge and went back to his desk to shut down his computer and grab his black messenger bag. He made his way toward the elevator and passed by his coworker, Christal.

“You leaving early?” Christal asked with her mouth open.

Christal reminded Jamal of Serena Williams. She had both Serena's facial features and curves. Even though Jamal found her attractive, she spent way too much time in the club, and while at work, she made gossiping her full-time job.

“Yeah, I got to take care of something,” Jamal replied.

“But the sun is still out.” Christal pointed toward the window, where a gorgeous blue sky awaited Jamal.

“Oh, so you're trying to shoot?” Jamal asked.

“No, I'm not trying to clown you. I'm just saying that I hardly see you leave when the sun is still out.”

“Have a good evening.” Jamal turned away from Christal and headed toward the door.

From the elevator, Jamal made his way to the parking lot. Jamal opened his car door and tossed his messenger bag in the passenger seat. He put the key in the ignition and tried to start the car. The engine sounded like a record being scratched.

“Come on, don't do this now. Please, God!” Jamal pleaded.

Jamal tried to turn his car on several more times, but he could not get the engine to start. He assumed that the battery had died and he would need a jump. For now, the most important results in his life were on hold.

 

Chauncey knew he was not supposed to find pleasure in his brother Henry's death. Well, technically, his brother was not dead yet.

But the air was thick with the putrid smell of Henry's frail body as Chauncey pushed open the hospital room door. Chauncey had forewarned his brother that the path he chose in life would eventually lead to destruction. Henry did not heed his older brother's advice, and indulged in sex and drugs until he alienated everything and everyone around him; all except for sin.

Now Chauncey stood over his brother a proud champion of the faith, with no trace of the fear he'd displayed in the park. Whenever Chauncey would visit his brother, he would bring his blue leather-bound King James Version Bible. This was the Bible out of which he had prophesized to Henry numerous times that the wage of sin was death. With only a thin layer of auburn skin over Henry's bones, it was clear that sin would complete its work.

Chauncey finally acknowledged his baby sister, Nicole, sitting across the hospital bed from him. The darkest one of the siblings, Nicole's mocha complexion made her the desire of all the boys in Chauncey's neighborhood. She did, however, have the signature McClendon lips, which seemed to be permanently in pout mode. At this moment, the pout almost seemed like a grimace. Chauncey turned his back to his brother. The Bible was so thick that it required him to hold it with both hands. He held the Bible midway toward his chest.

“I'm having trouble keeping food down. All I feel is pain all the time,” Henry said before he swallowed hard.

“That's because you don't know that by His stripes you are healed,” Chauncey said.

“Chauncey,” Nicole pleaded from the other side of the bed. She shook her head as a sign for Chauncey not to get on his soapbox. Chauncey did not know how long he could stay in this room without being able to speak his mind.

“The doctors ain't saying nothing either, and when that happens that's not good. I'm having visions that in the end I'm alone in this hospital bed with the cancer and my demons,” Henry said, trying to hold back tears.

Nicole got up and rubbed her frail brother's bald head, bending to give him some water in a beige cup with a straw. Chauncey could see Henry's throat take in the water.

“They aren't the ones who have the final say. God is the author and finisher of your faith,” Nicole said with a forced smile that highlighted her full ruby lips.

“Nicole, don't give him no half-truths. God is the author and the finisher of his faith. But you have to have faith first.” Chauncey's eyebrows arched.

Nicole used her dark brown eyes to cut into Chauncey's chest. His little sister had a mean side, but this was about souls. For the sake of the Gospel, he could not be moved on what was the truth.

“Chauncey, could I talk to you outside for a moment?” Nicole stood up and headed toward the door.

Chauncey extended his hand like an usher and followed her outside.

“Would it kill you to come down from your mountaintop and show your brother a little compassion?” Nicole asked.

“What do you want me to do, lie to him? You and I both know that if he ain't saved, then none of the Bible's promises apply to him.”

 

“You're not God, so you can't judge him. God sees his heart and Henry knows better,” Nicole said.

“You Baptists are nuttier than fruitcakes. I don't know what they teach at your church, but at my church we teach that unless you are born again, you will not see the kingdom of heaven.”

Nicole put both of her hands up in a choking motion and grunted in disgust. “You act so high and mighty!”

“High? He stole from both of us to get high! You act like he didn't steal from you or mess up your credit. I can't get a Macy's credit card because my brother got high. All I ever wanted from him was for him to get his life straight with the Lord. Even now, in the midst of his sin and illness, he lies up there unrepentant and wanting someone to pity him,” Chauncey said with frustration.

“Those things we can get back. We have one brother and right now he's scared, and we're the only family he's got.” Nicole pointed toward Henry's room.

“I've sat in AA meetings and therapy sessions just to hear my brother use me as a scapegoat for why he couldn't get clean. I'm tired of it and I don't have time.” Chauncey looked at his watch.

“Where you got to go now?” Nicole asked.

“The Men's Retreat is Thursday; I got a couple of things before then to take care of.”

Nicole let out a sarcastic laugh, and with her hands on her hips, she started to tap her black leather flats on the hospital's mint checkered floor.

 

“Are you serious? It's Monday, bighead! You have all week. What's more important? Being a good deacon or being there for your brother when he needs you the most?” Nicole asked.

Chauncey did not even bother to dignify Nicole's question with an answer. He brushed by her and went back into the room. Henry's eyes were full with tears, and Chauncey was certain that he had caught most of the conversation.

Chauncey placed his hands over his brother's head. His brother closed his eyes as a sign of pleasure. “Father, we ask that you touch my brother's body. In the name of Jesus that you heal him. I ask in the matchless name of Jesus, Amen.” Chauncey turned and headed toward the door.

“Don't leave,” Henry pleaded.

“I've got to go. I've got some important matters to attend to, but you don't need me; you need the Lord.”

“Please,” Henry said with his eyes full of tears.

Chauncey should have been moved by this pathetic display, but he wasn't. All he could think of was how Henry was the most stubborn person on the planet. Instead of making it right with the Lord, he preferred to call on his brother to save him. But even Chauncey could not save his brother. Chauncey walked past Nicole, who was still at the door, and did not bother to say a word.

“Bye, bighead,” Nicole shouted.

The nickname Nicole used to call Chauncey when they were kids still conveyed a sense of love and affection.

Chauncey did not break his stride as he continued to walk, and held up his hand as a sign that he had heard his younger sibling. He was always treated as the enemy. All Chauncey ever tried to do for his brother and sister was equip them with a spiritual foundation. As far as he was concerned, both his sister and his brother might end up in hell.