Chapter 28
****
As soon as the Burton family got in Carl’s sedan (except for Oliver and Elain who each had their own cars), Carl turned to Samuel, Aneurin, and Mary who were all seated in the backseat—Mary in the middle—and said, “What did you learn today in Sunday School?”
“Pastor Jordan taught about the rich young ruler”, Samuel said, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm against the car window. “He walked away sorrowful because he wouldn’t give up his wealth.”
“Ah, the rich young ruler, huh?”
“Yeah. Mommy, Daddy, before service, I’ve overheard Raymie talking with his mom about that lesson and he said he thinks his dad with what he wants comes first and only then if he’s got time for anybody else,” Mary said, her fingers tightening around Rosie’s paw as the car heater hummed to life. “Do you think that’s why Robert stopped coming to church? I mean, for the same reason?”
Carl and Donna exchanged a glance—a silent conversation passing between them in the rearview mirror’s reflection. The car’s heater clicked off abruptly, leaving only the sound of tires rolling over salted pavement. Carl cleared his throat. "Rayford’s always been… particular about his priorities," he said carefully, fingers flexing on the steering wheel.
“Robert was actually eager for church when he was little, just like you were, honey”, Donna said, “However, when he got into high school, he started changing—almost like he was trying to prove something to himself.”
“I’ve heard of kids who grew up in the church drop out in high school and eventually in college”, Samuel said, tapping his phone screen. “I think Robert just got exposed to more worldly ideas at Prospect High. Then at aviation school, no one ever talked about Jesus.”
Aneurin shifted in his seat, pressing his forehead against the cold window glass. “It’s not like he’s evil,” he muttered. “He just doesn’t care anymore.”
Mary’s fingers curled deeper into Rosie’s fur as the car slowed at a red light. Outside, a street preacher waved a tattered Bible, his breath visible in the frigid air. Samuel exhaled sharply, thumb hovering over his phone screen where an article about Greenland’s annexation glowed. “Maybe that’s the scariest part,” he said. “Not hating God—just forgetting He exists.”
As soon as they returned home and went outside, Carl checked his phone for messages and saw one from Dirk: *I’ve sent Buck an email the following: Cameron, you always tell me this message center is confidential, and I hope you’re right. I’m not even going to identify myself, but you know who it is. Let me tell you something major and encourage you to come here as quickly as possible. The big man—your compatriot, the one I call the supreme power broker internationally—met here the other day with the one I call our muckety-muck. You know who I mean. There was a third party at the meeting. All I know is that he’s from Europe, probably Eastern Europe. I don’t know what their plans are for him, but apparently they’re something on a huge scale. “My sources say your man has met with each of his key people and this same European in different locations. He introduced him to people in China, the Vatican, Israel, France, Germany, here, and the States. Something is cooking, and I don’t even want to suggest what it is other than in person. Visit me as soon as you can. In case that’s not possible, let me just encourage this: watch the news for the installation of a new leader in Europe. If you say, as I did, that no elections are scheduled and no changes of power are imminent, you’ll get my drift. Come soon, friend.*
Carl read through Dirk's text again, his thumb pressing into the phone screen hard enough to leave a temporary dent in the glass. He replied with a question: *European—Romanian?* The dots pulsed for what felt like minutes before Dirk’s answer appeared: *Possibly. He’s young. Charismatic.* Carl exhaled through his nose, watching Donna through the kitchen window as she stirred honey into her tea—the steam curling around her fingers like smoke from an offering.
“Dad, what is it?”, Samuel asked, watching Carl’s fingers tighten around his phone. The kitchen window cast a grid of light across the porch steps, dividing Carl’s shadow into fractured squares.
“Your uncle Dirk has a knack for finding trouble,” Carl said, showing Samuel the text—the words glowing stark against the dimming evening light.
“A young charismatic person from Eastern Europe being elected as President of the European Council—but no elections are scheduled?” Samuel murmured, scrolling through recent newsfeeds with deliberate slowness.
“Yeah. Samuel, imagine if someone becomes President of the United States while it’s still the middle of his predecessor’s term—without any election.” Carl tapped his phone against his palm—three slow beats like a muted drumroll.
Samuel’s fingers froze mid-scroll, the screen reflecting in his widened pupils. “That’d mean something broke.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Or someone *made* it break.”
“It could be, but I think this tells me something.”
“What’s that?”
“The Russian airstrike in Israel a year ago, the world currency being reduced to three, geopolitical shifts, and now a young charismatic Eastern European who may soon be elected president of his country- the Rapture may be nearer than we think.”
"Carl, do you think the stage is being set for the prophecy Pastor Billings have been talking about in his sermons?" Donna asked, her teaspoon clinking softly against the china as she stirred her tea—the amber liquid swirling like liquid fire in the low afternoon light.
“I believe so, dear. This Eastern European, whoever he is, I believe he’ll be the one known as the Antichrist”, Carl said, his voice steady despite the way his fingers trembled slightly against the teacup—the faintest ripple disturbing the liquid’s surface like the first tremor before an earthquake. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the kitchen window, scattering raindrops against the glass like thrown pebbles.
“Pastor Jordan had mentioned something about the Antichrist before, but even said he’s referred to as *the Beast*”, Samuel said, swiping to an article about rising nationalist rhetoric in Romania—the photo showed a crowded square, banners snapping like black wings in the wind.
“He said that when John was writing Revelation, chapter 13, he was writing about the Antichrist as God views him—literally a beast.”
Carl received a message from Buck, who informed him that he was coming to Chicago to see Lucinda. Anticipation, Buck Williams had come to realize, was his favorite part of the job. Buck simply liked the planning of his days as much—if not more—than the days themselves. Nothing fulfilled him more than taking a Sunday afternoon, idly watching sports on television and scoping out his next week on his computer, then downloading his schedule to his iPhone. As each task—rated by order of importance—was checked off, he felt better and better about himself. Someone had referred to him as an overachiever, but he didn’t see it that way. He believed the difference between him and a thousand other guys—stalled or stuck in jobs they didn’t like—had less to do with luck than it did with doing a thousand little things right. He knew he lived a charmed life. He traveled extensively; met interesting, important people; drew great assignments; and was paid well. More than well. He lived way beyond a level that would have easily satisfied him. His tastes were simple, yet his apartment in Manhattan was unattainable for anyone below his station. Buck left little to chance. Everything was planned and plotted. And as he made his lists and double-checked them to be sure he had what he needed, he imagined each experience. If it was a tense reunion, as was scheduled with Lucinda Washington in Chicago this week, he knew it was time to take her up on her promise to expose him to her culture in a great restaurant on the South Side of Chicago. And then, thanks to Marge Potter’s finding a direct Pan-Continental flight out of Chicago, it would be on to London to see Dirk. His quirky friend had been the source of some great and some not-so-great leads over the years, but this one was sure worth pursuing. Second to reuniting with Dirk, though, was the prospect of all those hours in first class over the Atlantic.
Carl replied by asking: *Is Connor coming with you? Maybe he can finally meet both Lucinda’s and my kids.* A pause—the dots pulsed—then Buck’s answer appeared: *Not this time. He’s got school, but I’m sure he’ll meet Samuel and Aneurin eventually.* Carl sighed and replied, *Thank you for letting me know. See you in the office sometime tomorrow.*
*****
Robert had been over at the Steele’s house, talking with Rayford, when Irene and Raymie had come home from church all psyched up. Irene, apparently encouraged by Rayford’s table-setting gesture, did not intervene when Raymie started in about how incredible the sermon had been.
“You’ve got to listen to it, Dad. Really. You’d love it”, Raymie said, leaning forward with his elbows on the kitchen table.
“Maybe I will”, Rayford said, though the way his fingers drummed against the coffee mug—too fast, too restless.
“Promise.”
“Okay, I promise.”
“That’s two promises now, Dad.”
“How well I know.”
“You do?”
“Sure.”
“Next Sunday?”
“Yep. Promise.”
Rayford asked Robert to stay for lunch, and Robert accepted the invitation. Raymie spent the rest of the meal, not to mention the Bulls game, regaling Rayford with point after point from Pastor Billings’s sermon. Amazingly, Rayford actually found it interesting and wondered if perhaps he should have gone. But he wasn’t about to admit that. Who knew what a torrent of information that would unleash? Why couldn’t he just have a normal life, a normal family, a normal wife, a normal son? Nobody he knew had a kid this interested in church. Maybe they went, but what happened in church stayed in church. It wasn’t something you discussed ad nauseam at meals and while watching ball games on TV.
“Ray, have you talked with the rest of the flight crew about the upcoming flight to London?”,
Robert asked, pushing his half-eaten sandwich aside.
Rayford showed Robert the text messages between him and Hattie from that morning:
Hattie: *I’m on the London run.*
Rayford: *Great, Hattie. I’m looking forward to that.*
Hattie: *Me too. More than you know. More than I can say. But maybe not more than I can show.*
Robert read through Hattie's message again—his thumb hovering over the screen—before exhaling sharply through his nose. The scent of Irene’s rosemary-roasted potatoes still hung in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of Rayford’s untouched coffee. Across the living room, Raymie was sprawled on the couch, his sneakers leaving faint streaks on the upholstery as he tapped his phone screen with restless energy.
“Rayford, does Hattie always text like that?” Robert asked, turning the phone slightly as if adjusting the angle might make the message less suggestive. The Bulls game droned on in the background—a missed free throw echoing through the room like punctuation to his question.
Rayford explained to Robert that he had expressly forbidden Hattie to call him at home. It wasn’t that Irene was suspicious. It was that Rayford did not need even the possibility of that eventuality in his life just now. The truth was that he had become obsessed with Hattie, which made Irene, for all her efforts to resurrect their marriage, seem old, cold, plain, and shrill. Rayford knew better. Yes, there were times when she reverted to the Irene of old—the one who used anger or sarcasm to try to make a point. But in his heart of hearts he knew that was his fault too. He had drifted to where the only discipline in his life showed behind the controls of the jumbo jets he piloted. He always looked right and was prepared for that work. But his marriage, he knew, was failing. He did what he wanted to when he wanted to, looking out for number one, his own wife and son largely ignored. And his mind, it seemed, was constantly on the young woman he so enjoyed being with in the car, in the air, at more and more private dinners, and on the phone. But only his cell phone. But here was one of the most alluring women he had ever seen, fifteen years younger than he, and she wanted him. He could tell. He didn’t have to be a Rhodes scholar to figure that out.
Rayford and Robert both knew that landline was phasing out, and Rayford explained that he grateful that he and Irene still had one while most of his neighbors had gotten rid of theirs. Hattie didn't have his home number—not that she wouldn't be able to find it if she tried—but Rayford had made it clear that he didn’t want her calling him at home. He justified this by telling himself it was out of respect for Irene, but the truth was more complicated.
“There’s another thing, Robert. Raymie’s playing a tree in his evening program at school, but unfortunately it’s on the same evening we have our London run”, Rayford said, tapping his wedding band against the coffee mug.
“Well, at least I went to Mary’s skating competition yesterday”, Robert said, rubbing his temple where a tension headache pulsed.
Rayford nodded, his fingers tightening around the mug until his knuckles paled—the ceramic groaning under the pressure. Outside, Irene’s wind chimes clattered in a sudden gust, their hollow notes scattering through the room like loose change. Robert watched Raymie’s reflection in the darkened TV screen, the boy’s thumbs flying over his phone keyboard with the fervor of a cryptographer decoding divine secrets.