The Words of The Prophet
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.
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.
