The Words of The Prophet

Jersey receives news of three deaths, not knowing how close to him one of the deaths would hit.

Words of a Prophet - Part II

Prelude to Blue

It was a lonely journey—dark, like being inside a coffin alive, staring at the shade of silk selected just for your crossing. Jersey Roosevelt stood at the window staring at the blue limousine that had just arrived. She was waiting for her two sons to escort her when suddenly she felt as if she had made a mistake. What if blue wasn’t his favorite color? That’s what reminded her of that night. It was the beginning of the end, and they didn’t know it. To think it all started with a gift. It was a Mother’s Day gift given to Jersey by her husband, Marshall, and their two sons: Solomon and Elijah. It came complete with round-trip tickets on the new Phantom Train to Etham City to see the Poet Brothers and dinner reservations at the famous Baal-Zaphon Restaurant, an exclusive restaurant frequented mostly by the elite, or those patient enough to wait months and months for a seat at their table.

Jersey was grateful to receive such a gift. She appreciated the sacrifice, as Marshall and the boys had little interest in live poetry and cared even less about visiting Baal-Zaphon. It mattered little to them that the owner was a self-proclaimed descendant of the same Moses who parted the Red Sea, and he promised each of his guests delectable cuisine and a prophetic message. They really didn’t even want to hear the message, but she did.

Journey to Ethan City

They went on a Friday night in September. It was cool that night, and the air was filled with the aroma of harvest and first fruits. The trip to Etham started out on a high note; the train ride was beautiful, and the Poet Brothers not only impressed Jersey but Marshall and the boys thought their performance was magnificent. When they left the playhouse, they spoke about how the performance had exceeded their expectations.

Jersey hoped the same would be true for dinner.  They were told the restaurant was down the street, a little ways after the South Bell Tower.  So when they departed the theater, they headed down Main Street in the direction pointed out by a theater usher.  Most people walked because parking in the city was limited and it was only 8-blocks sideways and 12-blocks long.  Darkness had  arrived and the city was alive with animated chatter, laughter and traffic jams that generally accompanied the night life.   

The four of them took their time, with some interest they admired the old architecture and the exciting ambiance of the town. They had at least 45-minutes before their reservation, so they strolled past, playhouses, restaurants and stores that called the center of town home. After some blocks the  playhouses and restaurants disappeared, and empty lots and abandoned houses appeared, Jersey started to worry, but she kept silent, she wanted to get to Baal-Zaphon. 

Finally, when the bell tower was no longer in sight and they had approached a railroad tracks, Marshall stopped.  He stared north and then turned and looked south, he held onto Jersey and called for Solomon and Elijah to slow down.  Then he looked at her, “You think we went too far?”

Jersey shrugged her shoulders,  “I hope not.”   Disappointment showed on her face.  There were still a number of people on the street, “can’t be much further,” she said.

 “Maybe we should eat someplace else,” Elijah said, he had a concerned looked on his face.

“I want to hear the message,” Jersey said.

“There’s something open up the road,” Solomon said and he pointed towards a building that was lit. 

“Maybe we go back towards town to make sure we didn’t miss the restaurant, this is a bit far if you ask me,” Marshall said.

Jersey sighed and she gazed about the dark street.  She wanted to hear the message, but she agreed with Marshall they were pretty far from town.  She was just about to give up, when a man and a woman walked past them headed in the same direction.

“If you’re looking for Baal-Zaphon, you’re almost there,” he said it as if he’d known where they were headed.

Jersey thought they were godsent, “we are,” she said.

“That’s where we’re headed,” the woman said, she glanced at Jersey and smiled.

Jersey was delighted and in the darkness her eyes lit up, she glanced at Marshall, “Shall we continue,” she said.

“I guess we’re going the right way and we have about 20-minutes before our reservation.  I hope it’s worth all this,” he added.

 “It will be,” the lady replied.  She was a beautify lady, with an almond complexion and lips painted a bright shade of pink. 

Jersey was intrigued. As she inhaled the night wind, which reminded her of their purpose, she gazed between Marshall and her sons. Certain that God wanted them to get to Baal-Zaphon to receive a message, had she been alone with Marshall, she would have given him the 'told you so' look. However, since they were not alone, she simply smiled at him. With gladness, she grabbed Marshall's hand, and they, along with Solomon and Elijah who gladly tagged along, followed the couple. 'Have you been there before?' she asked.

 “Yes indeed,” the woman said, with assurance. Then she announced her name, “I’m Cherylean, ‘C’ not an ‘S,’ and lean not lynn..

“Jersey,” Jersey said.

Cherylean continued talking, 'We received a message every time, just like they promise.' Her confidence seemed to carry in the wind as she looked up to the heavens, seeking confirmation from the stars.

Magnetized by the moment, Jersey dropped Marshall’s hand and drifted to Cherylean’s side, “What kind of message—good or bad,” she asked.  Jersey felt like a child when she asked the question, but like a child she waited for an answer.  She hoped it would get a ‘good,’ or a ‘bad’, but she got neither. 

“When my mother got sick,” Prophet Balaam said, “your mother thinks she’s on her death bed, but she has at least two more years of life in that body.  Anoint her with oil every day, don’t let her dry up and she might live longer than those two years.”  The woman spoke in an authoritative tone, as if prophet himself were speaking.  “Those were his exact words,” she said, “my mother lived four more years.  When she died, she told me, ‘she was tired,’ and I understood it was time for her to leave me.”  The woman added.

There was a sadness in her tone that took the coldness out of the breeze and Jersey welcomed a sensation of warmth.  She wanted to receive a message like that, one filled with healing and hope, but of course their message would be very different,

“I understand,” Jersey said., thinking of her own mother, who’s soul had also departed. For a second she had wished her mother had more time, but she put the thought out of her mind. She was grateful for the time she had with her mother.

“It’s hard, but she really is in a better place,” Cherylean said. “On our last visit, the prophet told us my husband was going to receive a promotion—within two weeks, he received that promotion, complete with a double salary. Isn’t that true, Larry?” she called out.

Solomon and Elijah had been walking on either side of Jersey and Cherylean, listening attentively to the conversation. Ahead of them, Marshall and Larry led the way. As the flashing purple and white lights of Baal Zaphon came into view, a ripple of excitement stirred the air, enhancing the group’s anticipation. From their vantage point, they could see a line of people, all of whom appeared equally excited to dine at the restaurant.

Larry, who walked alongside Marshall, wore a heavy wool coat and appeared somewhat stuffy in his attire. Although they exchanged few words, they walked slowly enough to stay within earshot of the ladies' conversation. Without turning around, Larry responded, “Yes dear, that’s true.”

 “I’m looking forward to that kind of news,” Elijah said. “Maybe you’ll get a promotion, Dad.”

Marshall turned around with an uncertain gaze, then he smiled, “anything is possible, but I don’t know how much I’ll get on the city’s budget.”

“Anything really is possible,” Cherylean said.

“Does the prophet give anyone bad news?” Solomon asked.  Always the skeptic.

The woman hesitated, “I’m afraid so.  On our very first visit the prophet gave us bad news.  He told us, I would battle with breast cancer.  Larry was so upset, we didn’t even stay for desert—you see the prophet twice. The first he will come and introduce himself to you and just before you leave. That day I didn’t want any desert, I wished we’d never came,” the woman sang, “but the prophet did speak the truth.  I was diagnosed with cancer a month later.”

Jersey’s heart sank.  She wondered how she would react if they received bad news, but she put that negative thought out of her mind.  She let it leave like the wind that tapped her face and made her hair blow, she had it curled that afternoon for the visit.

Cherylean said, “I beat it.  The prophet told me I would put up a fight and win.  I won.”

“Thank goodness,” Jersey said with a gleam in her eyes.

 “Yes, I was fortunate, another lady that went to treatment with me, wasn’t so fortunate—she died.”

Jersey stopped in her tracks for a second.    Her warmth turned cold.  She wished she’d worn a bigger jacket, as she thought about the misfortune of the lady that had died.  Maybe things would have been different from her if she’d seen the prophet.

 “Not far now,” Larry said, “Baal-Zaphon is just up the road.”

“Come on,” Marshall said.  Him and Cherylean had shifted position.  Marshall was back at Jersey’s side and Cherylean returned to Larry.  A few minutes later they all stood in the courtyard of the restaurant.

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Baal-Zaphon wasn’t a grand establishment Jersey had imagined it had bright lights and purple stained windows, but there were no diamond-like chandeliers and a mezzanine.  Baal-Zaphon reminded Jersey of an old farmhouse.  The building was painted an awful shade of gray, with a red-brick front and a crooked sign.  The door was painted purple and had faded angelic images on the stained glasses.  Tiny windows with rusted awnings surrounded the oblong structure of the building and more shadows peaked through the windows and signaled there was a full house in the place. 

“Our friends are already seated inside—else I would have asked you to join us," Cherylean said to Jersey as she and Larry rushed inside.

"I understand," Jersey replied. "Maybe we'll meet here again."

"I hope so—I hope you receive the best of news," she added as they disappeared.

Jersey and Marshall got in line behind the last person. In silence, they waited as a security guard at the entrance each each group that gather the same question, “Do you have reservations?" Those with reservations moved forward, while those without were asked to step back. It took only a few moments, but they moved along rather quickly, and soon Marshall was holding the door open, ushering them inside.

"I don’t think God would be caught dead in this building," Marshall said once they were all inside.

The foyer, which looked more like an addition, led to another door that opened into the main part of the restaurant. The dimness was illuminated by candlelight. The foyer was small but large enough for a single couch where a group sat squashed together with hopeful eyes. Another group stood at the entrance to the main restaurant, voicing complaints about not having dinner reservations. A woman dressed in all black with a turban approached them. "Do you have reservations?" she asked.

"Yes," Marshall replied.

“This way,” the woman said as she glanced around the restaurant, “the hostess stand is on the left, you can give them your name and they’ll seat you, so long as you have a reservation the wait won’t be terribly long.”

Jersey smiled and followed Marshall inside the main restaurant, it was just as overcrowded. It was long and wider than it looked and there was a large fireplace in the middle of the floor and off to the right side.  Candlelight and flames from the fire place gave the space a bit more light,  but it was eerie, as the long shadows of the crowd standing about the fireplace casted on the wall like demons in a pit.

“No wonder it’s so hot in here,” Jersey said. 

“All these people,” Marshall said.  Then he made his way to the hostess area.  He moved to the left and the right, around this person and the other, until he finally reached the hostess.

“I can’t believe there are so many people,” Solomon said.

“It’s like a fire hazard,” Elijah said.

Everything in the space was tight.  The tables, clothed in iridescent purple covers and gold runners and  the wooden bench-like seats, were separated by a slither of space.  Those who waited tables wore black robes, black tunics and purple ephods and their attire illuminated the light that emanated from the massive fireplace.  They seemed to float like Levitical servants, as the squeezed around the tables and the guests, with tight lips and strained expressions.

 “Good thing we have reservations,” Marshall said, when he returned, “otherwise we would be leaving because they’re not taking any more names.  Those waiting have a 2-hour wait.

“Who waits two hours?” Elijah asked.

“I would wait that long,” Jersey said.

Marshall gave her a funny look and Jersey shrugged her shoulders, “I would—” she repeated.

Solomon said, “wonder if they’re watching a cow getting cooked.”  He nodded his chin towards the fire place.

 “Well let’s hope the food is better than the décor,” Marshall said.

Jersey stood on tipped toes and tried to see over the heads of those collected near the fireplace, she gave up after she figured it out, “I betcha their talking to the prophet.”

“Why don’t they go up there one by one,” Elijah said.

“Probably because they’re trying to free up the tables,” Solomon said.

When Marshall returned, they didn’t wait long.  The maître d, a dark-skinned man came up with a bunch of menus, he, flashed pearly white teeth, “Good evening,” he said with a sophisticated demeanor, that didn’t match the restaurant.

 “Good Evening,” Marshall said.

“Is this your first time dining here at Baal-Zaphon?” the maître d asked.

“Yes,” they said.

“Well welcome,” he said, then he bowed.   “My name is Brock and I’m a believer.  Are you believers?”

They all looked surprised at the question, “Believers of what?” Solomon asked.

“Of God, any God—the Divine,” Brock said.  He threw his hands in the air in an animated manner, that suggested it was so.

“We don’t do church,” Marshall said.

“We’re believers,” Jersey interjected.  They did believe in God.  Perhaps they weren’t avid church goers, but they weren’t heathens either.

They followed Brock down the long restaurant.  As they squeezed between the tables, Brock spoke above the din,  “every person that works for Baal-Zaphon descended from one of the tribes of Israel.  I’m from the tribe of Benjamin.  The owner of this fine establishment is a direct decedent of Moses.  his great-great-great-great-great grandfather made it to Mount Sinai, but he never made it into the Land promised to Jacob and Abraham.” 

Jersey half listened.  She glanced about the darkness looking for Cherylean and Larry, but it was too dark and crowded to make out one face from another.

“How do you prove you’re a descendant of Israel?” Elijah asked when they arrived at the table

“It’s simple,” Brock said, “because our stories, have lasted for generations and generations and generations.”

“That explains everything,” Marshall said, with sarcasm. 

“We’re looking forward to a good message,” Jersey said,  after Jersey gave Marshall an annoyed look. 

“And a good meal,” Elijah added as they took their seats.

Brock continued to speak, as if he was giving a performance, “you will see the prophet twice.  After he’s finished with those at the fireplace, he’ll come around with your waitress and introduce himself.  Later before you have desert, your family will take their place in front of the fire.  You can rub the god Boer, the prophet likes that.   Your waiter tonight will be Miriam,” he added, and then he departed.

The fire place was the center piece of the restaurant, it wasn’t far from any of the tables.  Their tables was on the opposite side of the room, but only two or three tables down.  They had a good side view of the fireplace, but all they could see was the backs of the people that crowded around.  They waited a long time for their waitress to appear and as they waited the crowd started to die down.  They could see glimpses of the prophet seated in a chair wearing a black jacket and a white shirt.  Eventually they spotted Cherylean and Larry at the fireplace.   Cherylean held her head high in the air and gazed for a second at right Jersey with a smile. 

Jersey smiled back, “they’re about to get their word,” Jersey said.

“Well let’s hope the news is still good,” Marshall said.

Cherylean rubbed a bronze statue and then Larry, and their friends all rubbed the statue that sat on a little table next to the prophet.    The prophet didn’t look like a prophet and for a moment Jersey wondered if he was actually the prophet, until Cherylean bowed.  He looked like an average man, he wasn’t very tall, thin and wore a black beret, a black jacket and a white shirt.  Not the priestly garb the waiters and waitresses wore.   He had a cheerful expression as he spoke to Cherylean, then Larry.  They must have gotten a good word, as they looked quite happy, this gave Jersey hope that they would receive a good word.

 “Looks like they received a good word,” Jersey said.

“Yup, it appears so,” Marshall agreed.

After a few other couples greeted the statue and spoke with the prophet, he disappeared.  He reappeared a while later and started going from table to table with a waiter and waitresses.  Finally, Miriam arrived at their table with the prophet. 

“I’m Miriam and I’m here to take your order,” she said, “and this is Balaam, later he will give you a message from the divine.”

The journey through Marshall's death felt as dark and solitary as being alive inside a coffin, enveloped by the silk lining chosen for one's final passage.  Jersey Roosevelt stood at the window in her living room, watching the blue limousine that had just arrived. As she waited for her two sons to descend and accompany her to the funeral, a sudden doubt gripped her—what if blue hadn’t been Marshall’s favorite color? This fleeting thought triggered memories of that fateful night, a night that unknowingly marked the beginning of the end.

That night had started innocently enough and months before, with a Mother’s Day gift from her husband, Marshall, and their two sons, Solomon and Elijah. The gift—an elaborate gesture—consisted of round-trip tickets on the new Phantom Train to Etham City for a performance by the Poet Brothers, complete with violins, a band, and poignant lyrics, all culminating in a dinner at the illustrious Baal-Zaphon Restaurant. Known for its exclusivity and long wait times, the restaurant not only promised an encounter with the elite but also an audience with the Great Prophet, Balaam. No last name—just Balaam.  Each element seemed perfectly planned and Jersey was exciting and nervous about seeing the prophet, among the glittering elite, secrets would unfold.

Jersey’s anticipation was palpable. To say she hadn’t been grateful would have been an understatement. The excitement that filled her plump face on the evening Marshall pulled out the tickets from his back pocket was unmistakable, and for weeks after receiving the gift, Marshall could do no wrong in her eyes. She was adamant about appreciating the sacrifice that Marshall and the boys had made, despite their little interest in live poetry and even less enthusiasm for visiting a world-famous restaurant. However, Jersey's excitement stemmed primarily from her desire to hear the prophecy. She was eager to hear from the man of God how blessed her family truly was—a thought that, although fleeting, filled her with a sense of pride. It mattered little to Marshall and the boys that they were going to such an establishment, one where the owner was a self-proclaimed descendant of the Moses who parted the Red Sea. Each guest was guaranteed delectable cuisine and a prophetic message, sent straight from the Hand of God. They didn’t really want to hear the message, but Jersey did.

Over the months leading to the great event, the days approached quickly.  They went to Etham City on a Friday night in September. It had been a long couple of months leading up to that day, but Jersey made sure to take care of everything, even down to their attire. She had unconsciously decided they would wear shades of blue to avoid the appearance of being overdressed. Pants, slacks, and shoes were selected; all Marshall, Elijah, and Solomon had to do was get dressed. 

It was cool that Friday night, but the air carried the aroma of harvest and first fruits. The trip to Etham started out on a high note; the train ride was beautiful. Jersey sat next to the window in the train car and watched as the horizon shifted from rows of houses to stretches of woods with houses nestled in between, until they crossed over a river that boasted docks filled with boats and entered the station. Everything in Etham City seemed to be within walking distance. There were shops, food carts, and people scattered on every block and around every corner. The Poet Brothers not only impressed Jersey, but Marshall was equally impressed and even purchased a record. Elijah and Solomon were also impressed, which wasn’t surprising as they loved music and the energetic stage performance was right up their alley. All in all, the performance was magnificent, and Jersey was excited about getting to the restaurant. She had only eaten breakfast, and her stomach had already begun sounding the alarm.

As they left the vibrant atmosphere of the concert behind, despite the smooth beginning, Jersey couldn’t shake off a nagging feeling of apprehension. The prophecy awaited them, a message that could confirm her deepest hopes or stir unexpected fears. As the city unfolded before them, each step brought them closer not just to a culinary experience, but to a revelation that might change everything.

Guided by the directions given, they were told the restaurant was down the street, a little way past the South Bell Tower. So, when they departed the theater, they headed down Main Street in the direction pointed out by a theater usher. Most people walked because parking in the city was limited, and it was only 8 blocks wide and 12 blocks long. Darkness had arrived, and the city was alive with animated chatter, laughter, and the traffic jams that generally accompanied nightlife.

As the night deepened, the city was still crowded. People gathered outside of restaurants and bars. It was a nice cool evening with an occasional wind blowing as darkness took over. Taxi cabs lined the street ready to carry people from one side of town to the next. The four of them took their time, walking around groups of people. They admired the old architecture of the playhouses and restaurants, there were rows of vendors and stores that called the center of town home. After some blocks, the playhouses and restaurants disappeared, and empty lots and abandoned houses appeared. Jersey started to worry but kept silent; she really wanted to get to Baal-Zaphon.

Finally, as the surroundings began to change markedly, when the bell tower was no longer in sight and they had approached railroad tracks, Marshall stopped. With wide eyes, he gazed north and then turned and looked south, holding Jersey by the hand. He called for Solomon and Elijah to slow down. Then, dropping his eyes on Jersey, he asked, “Do you think we went too far?”

Jersey shrugged her shoulders. She walked over to the middle of the road and glanced from one side of the street to the next. There were still plenty of people on the street. “I hope not,” she said, disappointment showing on her face. “Can’t be much further,” she added.

“Maybe we should eat someplace else,” Elijah suggested, a concerned look on his face.

“I want to hear the message,” Jersey insisted.

“There’s something open up the road,” Solomon pointed towards a building that was lit.

“Maybe we should go back towards town to make sure we didn’t miss the restaurant. This seems a bit far if you ask me,” Marshall suggested.

Jersey sighed and gazed about the dark street. She wanted to hear the message, but she agreed with Marshall; they were pretty far from town. She was just about to give up when a man and a woman walked past them headed in the same direction. “If you’re looking for Baal-Zaphon, you’re almost there,” the man said, as if he’d known where they were headed.

Jersey thought they were godsent. “We are,” she replied eagerly.

“That’s where we’re headed,” the woman said, glancing at Jersey and smiling.

Jersey was delighted and, in the darkness, her eyes lit up. She glanced at Marshall. “Shall we continue?” she asked.

“I guess we’re going the right way, and we have about 20 minutes before our reservation,” Marshall said, glancing at his watch. “I hope it’s worth all this.”

“It will be,” the lady replied. She was a beautiful lady, with an almond complexion and lips painted a bright shade of pink.

Jersey was intrigued. She inhaled the night wind and gazed between Marshall and her sons, certain that God wanted them to get to Baal-Zaphon and receive a message. With gladness, she grabbed hold of Marshall’s hand and they followed the couple.

As they walked, Jersey learned more about their new acquaintances. They were an older couple but obviously elite. The woman had on a fur coat and her husband wore a brown, wool trench coat and brown shoes. “Have you been there before?” Jersey asked the woman with curiosity.

“Yes indeed,” the woman said, then she announced her name, “I am Cherylean, with a ‘C’ not an ‘S,’ and lean not lin.”

“Jersey,” Jersey introduced herself excitedly.

Cherylean continued talking, “We received a message every time, just like they promise.”

Jersey dropped Marshall’s hand and drifted to Cherylean’s side. “What kind of message—good or bad?” she asked, her tone childlike yet eager.

“When my mother got sick,” Cherylean began, her voice taking on a prophetic tone, “the prophet said, ‘your mother thinks she’s on her death bed, but she has at least two more years of life in that body. Anoint her with oil every day, don’t let her dry up and she might live longer than those two years.’” She spoke with authority, as if the prophet himself were speaking. “Those were his exact words,” she said, “my mother lived four more years. When she died, she told me, ‘I’m tired,’ and I understood it was time for her to leave me.”

There was a sadness in her tone that took the coldness out of the breeze and Jersey welcomed a sensation of warmth. She wanted to receive a message like that, but of course, their message would be very different, as her mother had passed away many years before.

“I understand,” Jersey said, her voice soft.

“It’s hard, but she really is in a better place,” Cherylean added, “On our last visit, the prophet told us my husband was going to receive a promotion—within two weeks he received that promotion, complete with a double salary. Isn’t that true, Larry?” she called.

Larry walked alongside Marshall, although they said very little to one another, they walked slow enough to hear the ladies’ conversation. Larry, looking a bit stuffy in his heavy wool coat, didn’t turn around but replied, “Yes dear, that’s true,” he confirmed.

“I’m looking forward to that kind of news,” Elijah chimed in, walking close to Jersey. “Maybe you’ll get a promotion, Dad.”

Marshall turned around with an uncertain gaze, then smiled. “Anything is possible, but I don’t know how much I’ll get on the city’s budget.”

“Anything really is possible,” Cherylean echoed.

“Does the prophet give anyone bad news?” Solomon asked, always the skeptic.

The woman hesitated. “I’m afraid so. On our very first visit, the prophet gave us bad news. He told us I would battle with breast cancer. Larry was so upset, we didn’t even stay for dessert—you see the prophet right before you eat your dessert. That day I didn’t want any dessert, I wished we’d never come,” Cherylean sang, “but the prophet did speak the truth. I was diagnosed with cancer a month later.”

Jersey’s heart sank. She wondered how she would react if they received bad news, but she put that negative thought out of her mind. She let it leave like the wind that tapped her face and made her hair blow, which she had curled that afternoon for the visit.

Cherylean said, “I beat it. The prophet told me I would put up a fight and win. I won.”

“Thank goodness,” Jersey said with a gleam in her eyes.

“Yes, I was fortunate, another lady that went to treatment with me, wasn’t so fortunate—she died.”

Jersey stopped in her tracks for a second. Her warmth turned cold. She wished she’d worn a bigger jacket, as she thought about the misfortune of the lady that had died. Maybe things would have been different for her if she’d seen the prophet.

“Not far now,” Larry assured, “Baal-Zaphon is just up the road.”

“Come on,” Marshall urged. He and Cherylean had shifted positions. Marshall was back at Jersey’s side and Cherylean returned to Larry. A few minutes later, they all stood in the courtyard of the restaurant. 

Baal-Zaphon wasn’t the grand establishment Jersey had imagined with glass windows, diamond-like chandeliers, and a mezzanine. Instead, it reminded Jersey of an old farmhouse. In fact, were it not for the shadows casting through the windows, the place would have looked deserted. The building was painted an awful shade of gray, with a red-brick front and a crooked sign. The door was painted purple and had faded angelic images on the stained glass. Tiny windows with rusted awnings surrounded the oblong structure, and more shadows peeked through the windows, signaling that there was a full house inside. Jersey stared in silence at the structure as a few men and women came and went.

“Our friends are already seated inside—else I would have asked you to join us,” Cherylean said to Jersey, as she and Larry rushed inside.

“I understand,” Jersey replied, “maybe we’ll meet here again.”

“I hope so—hope you receive the best of news,” she added as they disappeared.

Marshall held the door open as Jersey went inside. “I don’t think God would be caught dead in this building,” he said.

She walked into the foyer, which looked more like an addition. Another door led to the main part of the restaurant. The darkness was lit by candlelight. The foyer was small but large enough for a single couch. A group sat squashed together with hopeful eyes; another group stood at the entrance to the main restaurant, complaining about not having dinner reservations. A woman dressed in all black and a turban greeted them. “Do you have reservations?” she asked.

“Yes,” Marshall replied.

“This way,” the woman said and pointed inside the restaurant. “The hostess stand is on the left. You can give them your name and they’ll seat you. So long as you have a reservation, the wait won’t be terribly long.”

Jersey smiled and followed Marshall inside the main restaurant, which was just as overcrowded. It was longer and wider than it looked, with a large fireplace in the middle of the floor and off to the right side. Candlelight and flames from the fireplace gave the space a bit more light, but it was eerie, as the long shadows of the crowd standing about the fireplace cast on the wall looked like demons in a pit.

“No wonder it’s so hot in here,” Jersey said.

“All these people,” Marshall added. Then he made his way to the hostess area, moving left and right, around this person and that, until he finally reached the hostess.

“I can’t believe there are so many people,” Solomon said.

“It’s like a fire hazard,” Elijah added.

Everything in the space was tight. The tables, clothed in iridescent purple covers and gold runners, and the wooden bench-like seats, were separated by a sliver of space. Those who waited tables wore black robes, black tunics, and purple ephods, and their attire illuminated the light that emanated from the massive fireplace. They seemed to float like Levitical servants as they squeezed around the tables and guests, with tight lips and strained expressions.

“Good thing we have reservations,” Marshall said when he returned. “Otherwise, we would be leaving because they’re not taking any more names. Those waiting have a 2-hour wait.”

“Who waits two hours?” Elijah asked.

“I would wait that long,” Jersey said.

Marshall gave her a funny look, and Jersey shrugged her shoulders, “I would,” she repeated.

Solomon said, “Wonder if they’re watching a cow getting cooked.” He nodded his chin towards the fireplace.

“Well, let’s hope the food is better than the décor,” Marshall said.

Jersey stood on tiptoes and tried to see over the heads of those collected near the fireplace, but gave up after she couldn’t see through, “I bet they’re talking to the prophet.”

“Why don’t they go up there one by one,” Elijah said.

“Probably because they’re trying to free up the tables,” Solomon suggested.

When Marshall returned, they didn’t wait long. The maître d', a dark-skinned man, came up with a bunch of menus, flashing pearly white teeth. “Good evening,” he said with a sophisticated demeanor that didn’t match the restaurant.

“Good evening,” Marshall replied.

“Is this your first-time dining here at Baal-Zaphon?” the maître d' asked.

“Yes,” they replied.

“Well, welcome,” he said, then bowed. “My name is Brock and I’m a believer. Are you believers?”

They all looked surprised at the question. “Believers of what?” Solomon asked.

“Of god, any god—the divine,” Brock said, throwing his hands in the air in an animated manner, suggesting it was so.

“We don’t do church,” Marshall said.

“We’re believers,” Jersey interjected. They did believe in God. Perhaps they weren’t avid churchgoers, but they weren’t heathens either.

Brock looked confused for a moment but smiled, “well let’s get you a table,” he said as he started about the restaurant.

They followed Brock down the long restaurant. As they squeezed between the tables, Brock spoke above the din, “Every person that works for Baal-Zaphon descended from one of the tribes of Israel. I’m from the tribe of Benjamin. The owner of this fine establishment is a direct descendant of Moses. His great-great-great-great-great-grandfather made it to Mount Sinai, but he never made it into the Land promised to Jacob and Abraham.”

Jersey half-listened. She glanced about the darkness, looking for Cherylean and Larry, but it was too dark and crowded to make out one face from another.

“How do you prove you’re a descendant of Israel?” Elijah asked when they arrived at the table.

“It’s simple,” Brock said, “because our stories have lasted for generations and generations and generations.”

“That explains everything,” Marshall said sarcastically.

“We’re looking forward to a good message from the prophet,” Jersey said after giving Marshall an annoyed look.

“And a good meal,” Elijah added as they took their seats.

Brock continued to speak, as if giving a performance, “You will see the prophet twice. After he’s finished with those at the fireplace, he’ll come around with your waitress and introduce himself. Later, before you have dessert, your family will take their place in front of the fire. You can rub the god Boer; the prophet likes that. Your waiter tonight will be Miriam,” he added, and then he departed.

The fireplace was the centerpiece of the restaurant, not far from any of the tables. Their table was on the opposite side of the room, but only two or three tables down. They had a good side view of the fireplace, but all they could see were the backs of the people crowded around. They waited a long time for their waitress to appear, and as they waited, the crowd started to thin out. They could see glimpses of the prophet seated in a chair, wearing a black jacket and a white shirt. Eventually, they spotted Cherylean and Larry at the fireplace. Cherylean held her head high in the air and gazed for a second at Jersey with a smile.

Jersey smiled back. "They're about to get their word," she said.

"Well, let's hope the news is still good," Marshall said.

Cherylean rubbed a bronze statue, followed by Larry and their friends, all of whom rubbed the statue that sat on a little table next to the prophet. The prophet didn't look like a typical prophet, and for a moment, Jersey wondered if he was actually the prophet, until Cherylean bowed. He looked like an average man, not very tall, thin, and wore a black beret, a black jacket, and a white shirt—unlike the priestly garb worn by the waiters and waitresses. He had a cheerful expression as he spoke to Cherylean, then Larry. They must have received a good word, as they looked quite happy, which gave Jersey hope that they would also receive a good word.

"Looks like they received a good word," Jersey observed.

"Yup, it appears so," Marshall agreed.

After a few other couples greeted the statue and spoke with the prophet, he disappeared. He reappeared a while later and started going from table to table accompanied by waiters and waitresses. Finally, Miriam arrived at their table with the prophet.

"I'm Miriam, and I'm here to take your order," she said, "and this is Balaam. Later, he will give you a message from the divine.

Balaam bowed his head up and down and then stood with his hands before him. He stared at each of them before he spoke. "You sir," he said, gazing at Marshall, "have a photo of your family that you carry with you. It's your favorite photo."

Marshall looked at Jersey, surprised. "I do," he said.

"May I see it?" the prophet asked.

Marshall reached into his pocket and pulled the photo from his wallet. It was a photo of him, Jersey, and the boys, taken at his mother’s tiny apartment a few days before she suddenly died from a stroke.

The prophet gazed at the photo and smiled. "Remember your mother on that great day when God picks you up and cradles you in his arms. He’ll take you as his own because of the prayers of your mother."

“He’ll have a lot to pick up,” Marshall replied, his voice tinged with humor yet reflective of the weight of the words spoken.

Jersey and the others laughed at the response, appreciating the lighter moment in what felt like a profound encounter. The idea that the great day seemed so far away, yet reassuringly certain, was a comfort to them all.

“Can I start with your drinks?” Miriam asked, bringing them back to the immediate choices before them.

“I’ll have a cold beer, in an iced glass,” Marshall responded, already anticipating the refreshment.

“You're very brave,” Balaam said with a smile, “an iced glass for a cold journey.”

Jersey found the saying odd and gazed at Balaam with a mix of confusion and intrigue. Then she turned to Marshall, but he nodded his head as if he understood, “I better wear a coat,” he quipped.

“What’s your favorite color?” Balaam then asked.

“Blue,” Marshall returned promptly.

“Blue it shall be, until you see Him, then you won’t need the coat or a covering. May I hold on to this photo until you meet me at the fireplace?” Balaam asked, extending his hand toward the picture.

Marshall glanced from his menu to the photo and after a brief hesitation, he replied, “Sure.”

Elijah ordered an iced tea. The prophet commented, “Refreshing, you’ll be a strong force for your mother.”

“I already am,” Elijah stated firmly.

“Indeed, you are,” the prophet agreed, then turned his gaze to Solomon.

“Nior,” Solomon said, opting for a bold choice of drink.

“Ah, blood-red wine for the strongest in battle. You will give your brother a double portion of your strength,” the prophet replied, his words weaving a narrative of familial strength and unity. “You both will be like Joshua and Caleb.”

Solomon raised an eyebrow with some curiosity. He knew Joshua and Caleb were figures from the Bible stories, but that was the extent of his knowledge. Still, he liked the sound of those words. “Thank you, thank you,” he said, bowing his head, grateful for the compliment.

Jersey went last. “I’ll have a Moscato,” she said. It sounded refreshing.

“A sweet toast to a new journey,” the prophet remarked and then departed.

Just like that, he was gone onto the next table, leaving Jersey lost in her thoughts. While they ordered their entrees, she tried to decipher the prophet’s words. She wondered about the journey she would be on and why Marshall needed a coat. She tried to pay more attention to the menu while Marshall and Elijah placed their orders for lamb and rice. It was difficult for her to focus, and when Solomon ordered an entrée of meatballs and sweet potatoes, with salad and hummus, she ordered the same. After she had placed her order, she stared at the pictures of blue doves on the front cover, finding them odd. The prophet’s words still fluttered in her mind until Marshall interrupted her thoughts.

“The menu, Jersey,” Marshall said, gently reminding her to hand it over.

“Oh yeah,” she replied, handing the menu to Miriam’s outstretched hand.

Miriam noted, “After dessert, you’ll go up and meet the prophet.”

“Do we have to rub that little gold statue? Seems like idolatry,” Solomon remarked with a skeptical tone.

Miriam laughed. “It’s customary for you to rub the god of Beor before you receive the message, but you don’t have to.”

“I won’t be rubbing any statue,” Marshall declared.

“Me either,” Jersey agreed, and Elijah and Solomon both nodded in agreement. “I just want to hear the word from God,” Jersey added, her voice filled with anticipation.

She was eager for a message that was clear and direct, a message of love, kindness, or even prosperity. Nearly an hour later, it was their turn to go up to the fireplace. They stood before the flames, watching others engage in the ritual of rubbing the statue, then they stood side by side, holding hands as the prophet approached.

“You didn’t rub Boer,” Balaam observed, “but then again, your message came from the west; it didn’t come from Boer. His messages come from the north, south, or east; they never come from the west. Come, come, don’t be afraid, come closer.”

Marshall stepped out and reached for Jersey’s hand. Solomon and Elijah stood on opposite ends. Solomon grabbed Jersey’s free hand and squeezed. Elijah took Marshall’s hand. They looked like a tight family connected together, which made Jersey feel extra warm inside and even brought tears to her eyes. Everything was perfect.

God is pleased with the work you have done with your two boys,” Balaam said to Marshall that evening. With happy delighted he smiled at Solomon and Elijah. Solomon was the oldest and stood a few inches over Elijah, he put his arms around his brother, “Thank you,” he said.

Elijah nodded his head in delight. Jersey beamed with delight when she heard the words, but then came a but—

“Unfortunately, you will have to prepare them for the dark angel,” Balaam said to Marshall. “He will knock three times before this year is over.” Marshall, a skeptic, squinted with confusion as he listened to Balaam.

Jersey raised a brow, at first, as Balaam continued, he raised him hand to reassure the family not to worry, “your love will bind you and your children together and make you all one,” he said with assurance.

“That’s more like it,” Marshall said with a smile.

Jersey was relieved herself and she throw her arms around Elijah and Marshall who stood closes to her. Marshal patted Solomon on the back and they head out of the restaurant as a family. Still as as they left Baal-Zaphon, there was an unspoken anxiety that rested within Jersey. She had hoped the prophet would be more tangible and not so vague and obscure. n the train ride home, they barely spoke of the restaurant, except to mention something about the meal or Brock or Miriam, but they never mentioned Balaam and his strange prophecy.

It was difficult to comprehend—that had been only three months before. Jersey ran her hands across the blue doves on her black dress and was in deep thought when Solomon and Elijah emerged from upstairs. Grabbing hold of them both, she walked outside onto her porch and met the daylight. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the sun sat at its highest peak. As she grabbed her sons by the arms, she noticed a blue dove in a cage on the front passenger seat—she had requested blue doves at the gravesite. She knew Marshall would have loved that. She stepped into the blue limousine, satisfied she’d gotten the color right.

First Date After

One, Two, Three--Go

Jersey checked the mirror for the third time.  She glanced at herself from head to toe and decided she looked better than nice. She looked fly.  She wore a white sleeveless shirt and everything else black. Black sweater with black pearls, black skirt, black tights and black heels.  If she had a heat flash in the middle of her dinner date, she could conceal her secret of growing old, by removing her sweater and exposing her shoulders.  She had nice shoulders, and if she played her cards right, they would be just enough to make her date, Lucas Anderson, think she was sexy.

Jersey was about to go on the first date of her ‘separated’ life.  She had met the guy online, even though online dating had not been her things. In face shad adamantly opposed the practice. The though of dating someone she had met online.  There was something superficial about the entire matter, but her views started to change after some back and forth with her sisters. Then she set up a profile. 

Her first day online solidified the idea that dating online was a sign of the times. She had received numerous responses to her photo. She kept the photo on simple, she posted a photo of herself in blue jeans and a button-down blouse. She received several hearts, flowers and kissing emojis serendipitously. A number of men commented on how good she looked—for her age.  It got stimulating a few days later, when she got requests for her phone number, followed by hour-long phone conversations. Some of the men interested her. Others seemed to have a malady she refused to contend with. But she was playing a game of chess and she was winning.  Then bam—checkmate! Jersey got her first prize, a golden date.   He had asked her out after their third phone call and she acquiesced to his polite request for an evening of her time with glee.   

Here we are, going on a date, Jersey thought. She applied a heavy coat of lipstick, popped her lips and turned the light out as she vacated the bathroom.

“You better make sure you put your locator on,” Damon, her brother said.  He walked past the bathroom to the small hall closet and retrieved her apron, as if it were his own.  He’d stayed with Jersey for more than a month.

 “I can take care of myself,” she confirmed.

In the kitchen, Damon blasted the radio and played Tupac as he prepared to fry chicken. Piles of flour was spread across the counter and around the sink. A cloud of smoke drifted above the stove and he danced around like a scarecrow.

“Make sure you clean this kitchen when you’re finish,” Jersey said.

 “I got this, Jersey, don’t worry about the kitchen, you better worry about his man you dating,” he had a dramatic expression on his face, his eyes were wide and his brows raised, “where yah going anyway?"

"To Toni’s Bar on the Boulevard,” she said. Jersey walked across the kitchen and grabbed the vodka bottle she had stashed near the microwave.

"Nice--nice," Damon said.  He nodded his head as he breaded the chicken and flapped his arms, “a nice place for a cheap date.”

 “Thanks for your approval," she rolled her eyes, as she sipped her drink and listened to the music, "and I'm not dating him, we’re just going on a date, there’s a difference.”

“Oh yeah, what’s the difference?” Damon asked, his tone sarcastic.

Jersey explained, “The difference is a date you go on, no intentions in mind.  Dating, you have intentions.” 

She said the words with certainty in her tone.  But if she had to be truthful with herself, she would have admitted that she wanted more than just a date; she hoped at the very least for a second date.  Lucas Anderson seemed to have potential too:  he had a nice cream-colored complexion, he was handsome and according to his profile, he was an Engineer.

“Did I mention he was an engineer?” She said, sitting up as the music shifted to Lauren Hill. She swayed back and forth to the beat.

 “A engineer, huh,” Damon said. 

Jersey spread her lips into a smile.  She always dreamed of having a man with a profession.  Her husband, Marshall worked for the city, driving the trash truck. One would never tell because he always came home just as clean as when he left, uniform and all.  He didn’t get dirty.  For some reason others got dirty for him.  He had that type of demeanor that made people want to work for him. Congeniality. It was the one quality, Marshall possessed that Jersey admired. She hoped Lucas had that one character trait.  She was thinking all these things as she sipped her drink and listed to the music, like she didn’t have any place to go. 

Damon dropped a piece of chicken into the pan causing a loud frying sound to fill the kitchen, “You know your shit gonna be right when you hear that noise, that means your grease is nice and hot.” He winked at Jersey again, then he added, “All I’m saying is why a grown ass man on a dating website.   This dude ain’t got no woman?”  Damon put emphases on no, as if it were a strange thing for a man to be single.

 “He’s single.  Never been married,” Jersey confirmed.

“That’s what he told you, he ain’t never been married. Maybe he ain’t said the words in front of a minister, or got the paper from the city, but I guarantee you, if he’s a man over fifty, he’s been in married.”

“He’s fifty-five, same age as Marshall,” Jersey declared in a candid fashion.  She was almost done her vodka and orange juice and felt confidant that her date would go smoothly. She knew if Marshall found out, he wouldn’t be happy about things and that made her feel a little guilt. But he was the one that walked away from the marriage, so he would have to suffer the consequence.

Damon continued to talk over the music about Lucas, but Jersey paid him little attention. She was unaffected by anything he suggested. Any question he had, she’d already played the same ones over and over in her mind, she was satisfied with her answers. 

After the song started to fade away she asked, “What about me, I'm forty-nine and on a dating website?”

"That’s my point.  You messed up too,” he said.  “You been in a relationship with the same man since high school, and now you want to start over.  You ain't gonna to be able to do that, too many memories, too many years.”

Jersey understood the words Damon spoke were true. It was difficult to move along, after spending so much time with one person there was the constant intrusion of memories.  Memories of holidays, birthdays, vacations, anniversaries and fights. Those memories cropped up everywhere like flies on shit. But, she still had time. she still had faith in her capabilities, "no hurt in trying," she said.  

"You right. Maybe I should get out there and try myself,” Damon said.  He had been staying with Jersey because he’d had a fight with his girlfriend.

"First you need to handle your business," Jersey said with a huff, as she watched him pretend to be a television chef.

 “My mother, Lilly King taught me this little trick,” he feigned talking to television cameras, “if you want your chicken to be golden brown, put a spoonful of butter in your oil,” Damon said. 

“If Lilly were here, she would tell you to wash as you go.”

“We’ll Lilly ain’t here right now.”

“No, she’s not, but I am.  Wash as you go, please,” Jersey said and she took courage and got up to leave.

  “How late you coming back?”

Jersey swallowed the last of her drink, “maybe I won’t be back tonight.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The Watcher

Late as usual, Jersey drove into Toni’s parking lot and jumped out the car.  It was dark outside, but the street lights provided ample lighting.  She walked towards the restaurant steps, made sure she held her head up with her shoulders back.  There was purpose in her stride and her long locks bounced on her shoulders as she glided to the door. She had already spotted Lucas in his blue jeep with the interior lights on, pretended not to notice him when she heard his car door open.

“Mrs. King,” Lucas said.

She turned around and smiled at the man before her.  He was husky. Not fat, but solid.  Not very tall.  She noticed his nose first, it was wide and flat.  Then she noticed his thick mustache and his big eyes that gleamed with slickness.  He wore a NY fitted baseball cap on his head, she didn’t like the fitted cap look, but that could be changed.  He moved like he was trying to be cool, but she could tell, that he knew those days were well behind him. 

“Lucas Anderson,” Jersey said, and she reached out her hand to greet him.

“I don’t wanna shake your hand,” he said and with a firm grip, he grabbed her hand and pulled her close to him, then he gave her a wet, peck on the lips.

His lips were large, but soft.  Jersey wanted to roll her eyes, but she gushed a little, “I bet you say that too all the girls you date,” she said.   She looked up at the black sky, there was a full moon and plenty stars out.  This all seemed rather kismet and made Jersey’s heart patter with potential. 

“Only the one’s I intend on dating twice,” he said with a grin. He gazed into her eyes, he pulled her close to his body with caution. Then he made a smooching sound in her ear.

Jersey chuckled and dropped her eyes.  She would have turned cooper-red, had she had been a lighter skin tone, as the heat that rushed through her veins made her feel so fire hot, beads of sweat formed on her forehead. At the door, she stopped and waited on Lucas to open the door. He reached around her waist and hesitated, “you have very nice legs,” he said. He nuzzled her ear.

She liked Lucas, even though his gear was corny.  His faded jeans were tight at the ankles and his sneakers were rundown on one side.  But those things were easy to correct.  Overall, she decided, he was a suitable replacement. 

When Lucas finally opened the door, Jersey was about to take a step inside. But for some reason, she turned around and glanced about the parking lot.  She couldn’t shake the idea she was being watched, she imagined a voice whispering the words, turn around in the breeze of the night. Lucas had her by the hand. With gentle ease he pulled her forward but Jersey turned around. She felt like Edith. She scanned the line of cars facing the restaurant. It was then she spotted Marshall. His car was backed into a parking space and he had an unfettered view of entrance.  Although it was pitch-black in the distance, she saw the whites of his eyes, his gaze was frozen on them, and she knew he wanted to cry.    With a half-hearted smile she turned around and stepped inside Toni’s, with every intention of making Marshall pay for all he had done to their marriage.   

The rights to the content and images on this website are owned by Jacqueline Session Ausby, and you have no right to use any of the content / images without her expressed permission.  If you would like to contact Jacqueline Ausby, please email jmbeausby@aol.com. 

Real Dysfunction

Solomon leaned back on the leather coach. His confusion written all over his face. He stroked his thick beard and stared at the Marriage Counselor with frowned brows and twisted lips.  His parents wanted him to speak with the counselor about their marriage. “It’s a part of the separation process,” his mother Jersey Roosevelt had explained. Solomon didn't understand what was happening with his parents. They proclaimed to be seperated, but they were always together.  The counselor wanted an honest perspective about their marriage. 

It was Solomon's first time ever speaking with a counselor.  It was odd because he wasn't married.  He had never gone to any type of counseling, not even guidance counseling.  He knew very little about the process.  As he sat there he made up in his mind that he would never go to any other session.  He was annoyed by the way the Marriage Counselor continued to make side comments about his parents.  He was aware his parents had issues, understood they were far from perfect, but they weren't the monsters Dr. Sally Buford was trying to paint them out to be either.

Dr. Buford, a wide high-yellow woman, with a frown as big as her waist, glanced up over her tiny spectacles at Solomon.  After a few moments, she leaned back in her chair,  and eyed him with beady eyes, a supercilious gaze on her face, she let her dreads hang in her face. locks.  She was going to get to the very core of things.  Solomon resented the superior gaze she wore, he resented the way she turned her pencil, over and over in her hand, like she knew well. He wasn't going to accept her conclusion, but she was going to let him have it anyway.

She said, her tone steady, purposely careful, "I'm going to recommend, you see a psychologist to address the issues of domestic violence you endured when you were growing up."  She started to scribble in her notebook.

“Domestic violence?” Solomon repeated the words with a grin.  They sounded almost dirty.  To think of his parents as violent, "I thought this meeting was about my parent's marriage, not my life.  I doubt I need a Marriage Counselor, or therapist, or psychologist or psychiatrist, or--"

"Maybe you won't need one, but will it hurt to speak with someone to find out if you do?  She said, as if asking a simple rhetorical question.

The office they sat in was small and cluttered.  Inside New Bethill Hospital, it was a strange space for a counselor.  Solomon let out a sigh as he glared around. He knew this was going to be a mistake when Jersey told him it was located at the hospital. The office was located on the 1st floor of the main hospital building. A floor with no patient rooms, no beds, just a hallway of brown doors with gray carpet.   Dr. Buford's office number was four, it was a nice size, not much in terms of decoration:  only a couch, a large desk, a smaller sofa and a chair.   But she had a lot of stuff:  books and papers and a collection of ceramic clowns.  He hated clowns and wondered why Jersey selected this lady to be their counsler, as it seemed she had problems of her own.  Perhaps it was a black thing, but surly Jersey could find another black Marriage Counselor in New Bethill.

“Nah," Solomon replied after a moment of reflection, “It won't hurt to speak with anybody.” He shrugged his shoulders, "I just don't want to."

She hesitated without changing her tone, and she finally threw her dreaded-locks back, "You don’t think you’ve endured years of domestic abuse?”  She asked the question with an aware tone—she didn’t want to believe Solomon’s answer.

 “Abuse--no,” Solomon repeated.  He tried to remain calm, but his irritation started to seep out of his demeanor.  Clearly Dr. Buford didn’t understand.   “You don’t understand.”

“I don’t want to upset you.”

“You’re not—you’re wrong.”

Jersey or Marshall had never once beat him or his brother and had always given them what they wanted.  Since they were both older, they never fought and barely argued, they covered up many things and had covered-up news of their 6-month separation so well, Solomon had to question if they were still together.  Especially since, whenever he went home to visit his father was there.  Solomon would be the first to admit they had issues, they fought when he was growing up—had their share of problems, but he wouldn’t classify the relationship as abusive.

“You just told me your father beat your mother?”

“No,” Solomon said with clarity, “I said they fought a lot.”

“Exactly and you would have to jump into their fights?”

“Once,” Solomon said.

~~~

Solomon felt a bit like a traitor. He had told Dr. Buford about the time Marshall had given Jersey a black-eye.  It was the first time Solomon had gotten involved in his parent’s fights.  It was in 2007, he was eighteen at the time.  The fight started that morning for reasons only the two of them could thoroughly explain, but Solomon tried his best. 

He had heard his parents arguing that morning before he left for school, had drowned out their voices by turning up the radio. Kanye West had just come out with his new CD and Solomon was in the bedroom listening to the music, as they argued.   When Marshall tapped on his door to let him know that he was ready to drop him off at school, Solomon thought the argument was over.  They both gave Jersey the usual good-bye as they headed out the door.  His parents were funny that way.  They would argue like cats and dogs and saluted one another as if nothing had every happened.

When Solomon came in from school that evening, Jersey was pretty mellow.  He found her sitting in the living room watching CNN. 

“I’m going to vote for this man Barack Obama,” she said to him  when he came through the door.

“Why because he’s black?”

“Nope,” Jersey said, “because he’s black and he’s smart.”  Jersey liked her wine and had a glass sitting on the coffee table, that she sipped ever now and again.

“I’m going to vote for him too,” Solomon said.

“Why because he's black?

"Yeah," Solomon said.

"You heard from your father?”

“No. Didn't he take Elijah to Aunt Cordelia’s for practice," Solomon looked just like his father, especially when he furrowed his brows.

“That was at 5 o’clock, it’s close to 7 now.," Jersey said sipping her wine.

“He’ll be home soon,” Solomon said and he sat down next to Jersey and started talking about music.  “Call him.”

“Nope, can’t stand him.  I’m not calling him.”

“You married him,” Solomon said with a gentle laugh and he got up to go to his room.

“Yes I did, and he’s your father,” Jersey returned.  She smiled at him as he disappeared beyond the landing. 

It was another hour or so before Marshall came into the house.  From upstairs Solomon heard him fiddle the keys to the door and heard his familiar entrance, two stomps and a deep inhale, as if he was letting the world into his Kingdom.

 “Where you been all-day long,?” Jersey asked. Her tone was sweet and she sounded as if she didn't know Marshall worked all-day.  

“Out!  Why?”  He said.  He threw the keys on the table and started to walk into the kitchen.

Solomon was coming downstairs to talk to his father about the basketball game.  It was during the playoffs and their favorite team was playing.  When his foot hit the top step, he heard Jersey snatch the keys off the table, and he made it down the steps in time enough to see her sling them at Marshall.

BAM, the keys hit him right at the back of the head.  Marshall yelled out.

Solomon was shocked.   He stared at Jersey and shouted, "Mom."

"Next time I bet you'll watch your mouth," Jersey snapped at Marshall.

Marshall wiped the back of his head and glared at Jersey.  He had an amazed expression on his face, as if something didn't register correctly.  He gazed at the blood on his fingers and back at Jersey.  She pretended to be otherwise occupied, but through her peripherial, she saw his every move. She was about to duck, but Marshall leaped toward her and slapped at her.  He hit her dead in the eye.  Jersey was insulted, she tried to slap back, but missed.  He grabbed both her arms and slung her on the sofa. 

Somehow Solomon managed to separate his parents.    Jersey was up off the sofa and rubbing her eye. Marshall was near the door holding the back of his head.  They stared at one another with angry glances.  Their chest weaving in and out as they tried to catch their breath.  

"I'm going to get you back," Jersey repeated before she squeezed between Marshall and Solomon and went upstairs.  

"I'm going down to Pop's house and watch the game," Marshall said.

It was always awkward when his parents fought.  Solomon remembered the sad look that lingered in his father's eyes, as he watched Jersey climb the steps.  It was as if he wanted to cry, but he just couldn't bring himself to tears.  It was the first time he'd felt bad for his father.   Jersey rolled her eyes at Marshall and turned and smiled at her son.

They made up quick, Solomon always thought it strange how they fought hard one minute and the next minute they got along like nothing ever happened.  That's the point he wanted Dr. Buford to understand that people fight--even parents.

That night Solomon lingered at the house for a little while making sure Jersey was good.  She emerged from the bedroom room and started cooking stir fry.

"You better go check on Marshall," she said to him after he'd eaten dinner, "I know the game on too, I'm going to pick Elijah up."

After Jersey left, Solomon made his way down to Pop's house to check on Marshall.  Marshall was settled in, watching the game, he didn’t complain once about the hole in his head.  Instead he carried on about their teams lost.  They stayed well after the game was over, talking about the highlights.  It was after 11pm when they made it back home.  The smell of stir fry and blown-out candles greeted them.  Upstairs they could hear music coming from Elijah's room.  Jersey must have been sleep. 

 The following morning was Saturday and Solomon opened his eyes to the sound of All Green and the smell of bacon.  It was Breakfast as usual. 

“Mom,” Solomon said when he came down stairs and noticed his mother’s eye.   It wasn't as bad as he thought, it was surrounded by a pink and black puffiness.   She was peeling potatoes, Marshall was at the stove frying bacon and Elijah was at the bar eating cereal.   

“Yup," she said.  She glanced right at Solomon as she nodded her head, "you can blame your father,” she said as if Solomon hadn't witnessed the entire episode.

“I got a hole in my head,” Marshall said in his own defense. 

“Mom's going to be good," Elijah confirmed, "dad's gonna need stitches."  

Solomon patted his brother on the back, "I guess all that's well that ends well," he said.

"Nah," Marshall said, "I'll be fine in a couple days.

Solomon walked over to Jersey to get a closer looked.   He grabbed her hands and kissed her on the forehead and on the cheek, and then on the eye.

“Oh, stop it,” she said.  “I’m fine, it’s not even that black.  Trust and believe your father going to pay for this hit.”

“You shouldn’t have hit me with those keys.  You know what, I should've called the cops and reported you,” Marshall returned.

They all laughed, that was the end of things and they never spoke of that night again.  Solomon had never thought of that night again, until he sat down with Dr. Buford.  Funny though, he thought of that day with warm feelings and had learned it’s just better to walk away, rather than fight someone you love, because neither of you win in the end.

~~~~

Solomon was leaned over his knees, he looked up at Dr. Buford who was still leaned back in her seat with a smug expression on her face.

“I don’t know if you would call that abusive,” Solomon said after he thought things through.   He never thought about it before, but his parents taught him love, the only way they knew how, and in the process even they learned to love each other.

~~~~~~

The rights to the content and images on this website are owned by Jacqueline Session Ausby, and you have no right to use any of the content / images without her expressed permission.  If you would like to contact Jacqueline Ausby, please email jmbeausby@aol.com. 

Church or no?

Church or no...

Jersey struggled with the question when she opened her eyes.  It was as cold as a cave in her room.  October, she continued to sleep with the air on and the fan running.   Her husband, Marshall hated sleeping in the cold room, but she supposed he'd gotten used to it over the years, maybe not.   Pulling her housecoat over her shoulders, she forced herself out of bed, and ran down the hall to turn off the air. 

When she reached the thermostat she glanced into the living room and glimpsed her brother, Damon.  He was up, covered in blankets, watching television.   Without a word Jersey turned the air off, the heat on, and ran back into the room.

It was Sunday, 7 o’clock in the morning, and she wanted to sleep another hour.  Get in every minute before she got up and faced the real world without Marshall.  But, Damon was there, he'd come the night before and had kept her up until the wee hours of the morning.

Jersey shuffled beneath the blankets and was getting ready to try for another hour of sleep when she heard the first knock on the door.  She pretended not to hear the thumps.  Then came another knock, then another, followed by the creaking door, and a slither of light from the hall.

 “Jersey,” Damon called.  He tried to whisper, but his attempt was futile.

 “What!” Jersey yelled.  She lifted her head from beneath the blanket, and fixed the silk-blue bonnet she wore on her head.  She just wanted to get back to thinking of her life before everything had changed, and didn't want to hear Damon's complaints about one thing or another.

 “You believe your sister?” Damon asked.  He walked into her room without an invitation.

“Come on in, Damon,” she said.  At least he wasn't talking about Gina, but she was still annoyed with her brother's intrusion, "what are you talking about?”  She asked. 

 “I’m mad as hell.”

“About what?”

“Cordelia!" he said in a huff and he sat down on the edge of Jersey's bed.  "She turned my phone off.”

“She just turned your phone off, after all this time, just like that?" Jersey asked, surprised.  "Why would she do that?”

Jersey poked her lips out, and she glared at Damon with narrowed eyes.

“Because, she fucked up.”

“You don’t help pay the bill, what you expect.”

“I know, but it’s fucked up.  That’s all.   First Gina, now Delia."  Damon said before he left the room with a slam of the door.

Jersey watched Damon leave with sluggish shoulders and a dropped head.  Against her better judgement, she picked up her cell phone and dialed Cordelia’s number.  Once Cordelia answered, Jersey went right to the point.

 “Delia, you turned Damon’s phone off?”

Cordelia let out a loud sighed, “No I didn’t turn his phone off,” Cordelia said, she sounded as if she was mocking Jersey. 

“I thought maybe you turned his phone off because he hasn't paid a bill."

"Not one." Cordelia said.

Jersey laughed, "You know he can't stand being without his phone."

“Jersey," Cordelia said, her tone was rude but polite, "I don’t have to pay for his phone, but all the phones are off, including mine.”

 “Oh--He’s over her crying, like his phone is the only one that's off.”

“Tell him to stop crying, and trying coming up with some of the  $170 bucks to get them back on.  Who does he have to call anyway--ain’t like he has a job or anything?  He ain’t calling the fucking police…that’s who he needs to call.  Gina called here and told me how Damon jumped on her last night, and he worried about a phone.”  Cordelia said and she hung up .

Not surprised at Cordelia’s rant, Jersey threw the phone on her night stand. The heat was just starting to rise.  The cold being replaced by the warmth spilling out of the vents.  She remained beneath the blanket.  From her pillow she could see the big tree outside her window.  The leaves blew about in the wind.  She could tell by the way they waved about in a wild manner that it was cold.  That and dark clouds were giving way to a gray sky.  Her eyes rested on Marshall’s wallet.  He left it on the window sill.  He left behind a bunch of things when he departed.  His afro pick was still on the dresser.  Every so often Jersey checked to see if the single strain of his hair was still stuck between the teeth.  Marshall had been gone a month, had went to live with another woman. 

Jersey sometimes forced herself not to think of Marshall, tried, but without fail every hour he popped into her mind.  She turned away from the pick, once again, tried to put him out of her mind.  It was difficult, as they had did everything together.  There were times when she felt alone, but at least she had her son's Solomon and Elisha, that gave her satisfaction.  But they were grown now.  Had their own lives.  She had her siblings, of course.  Their constant intrusion in each other lives meant someone would always be concerned about her life.  Most of the time Jersey was grateful to have them, but  there were other days when she wanted to be alone, to dwell on the memories.  They had so many memories.  

"Not going to spend the day thinking of you, Marshall," Jersey said.   She got out of bed and searched about the room.  She still wasn't sure if she was going to church, but she was not going to sit in the house with Damon, talking about Gina all day. 

Jersey opened her bedroom door and could hear Damon in the living room on the house phone.   Damon was going to find two things in life, a phone and someone to talk to.

"Yeah…yeah,” he was saying to the poor person on the other line.

Damon wasn’t young anymore. He was forty-four, spoiled, and dependent upon his sisters to always bail him out of trouble.  He’d already stayed with Cordelia and Angel that year, and now it was Jersey’s turn.  He came the night before, he had called Jersey at 3’ o’clock in the morning to see if she would pick him up from the train station.  Jersey was hesitant to answer, but after he called three times, back-back, she answered.  He told her he was in a fight, and that’s what got her out of bed.

 “I beat the shit out of her,” Damon said when she picked up from the train station.   He crawled into the passenger seat and slammed Jersey's car door. 

Jersey was shocked to see his face all scratched up and coagulated blood was spread in places. 

“Is she alright?”

“I think so.”

“You beat the shit out of her? “  Jersey repeated, her tone sounded as if she wasn't convinced of that fact.   "Why would you do something like that--anyway?”

“I don’t know, I just snapped on the bitch.”

“That’s messed up.  She should have called the cops.”

“I know.   But she knew she was wrong, that’s why she didn’t call the cops.”

“One of yah going to get killed. “

 “She was asking for it," Damon said.  "She sneaks out the bedroom and calls her baby daddy over to smoke.  I come out, this nigger rolling up a blunt.  Then when I start talking shit, Gina takes the motherfucker on the porch and smokes, if that ain't bad enough," Damon said, and he tapped Jersey on the shoulder, "after they finish smoking, she leaves with him.  Don't come back until after 1.  Now that ain’t some shit?”

Jersey nodded her head—she understood having fist fights.  Her and Marshall used to fight all that time, but not like Damon and Gina.  They fought every day, and every other weekend she put Damon out.

 “You should have left.  That was her way of telling you she don’t want you no more.”

“But that’s some fucked up shit.”

“She's a whore, with a bunch of kids and no fucking baby daddy.  She’s trying to make it.  What you think she’s looking for right now?”

“I know a nigger with some money.”

“Right, she looking for a man that can hold her down," Jersey said.  "You can’t do it, Damon.   The police hot on your trail.  All you can give that girl is a knock on the door from the men in blue.  You don’t have a job, always high on pills..."

"I know all that Jersey.  I know," he interrupted.

Jersey didn't want to be mean.  She hated that she sounded cold,  but it was time he heard the truth.  When she reached the light at the corner of her street, she turned and looked at her brother.  "You need to turn yourself in, worry about your fucking daughter and leave Gina alone.  I don't know what Gina was thinking, she should have called the police as soon as she got home and found you were still there."

Damon had a dumb look on his face that made Jersey want to scream, “You right, she should have," he said.

“Did you make sure she was okay?”

“Yeah.  She was alive, standing at the door with a knife in her hand.   I left her ass standing right there, with blood dripping from her nose, her hands up like this.”  He lifted his hands to show how Gina stood.   “I got the fuck out of there.”

"You should have," Jersey said to him

Jersey scanned the line of dresses in her closet, and chuckled.  The thought of Gina standing at the door made her laugh.  She decided to wear a gray dress.  It was a sad situation, but even in all that sadness, funny shit happened.  Jersey walked over to the mirror and put the dress up to her frame.  Yes, that would do for church.  “Thanks Gina,” Jersey said as she stared at herself in the mirror, "I'm going to church, because we all need prayer."

The rights to the content /  images on this page are owned by Jacqueline Session Ausby,  and you do not  have the  right to use any of the content / images without her expressed permission.  If you would like to contact Jacqueline Ausby, please email jmbeausby@aol.com.  Thank you.

 

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