It was inked in the webbed skin between his thumb and forefinger. And it was identical to the one on Dara’s shoulder blade. Even down to the John 3:16 scripture. It made Dara wonder if they’d been in the same tattoo parlor on the same day. Had their paths met in time once before? It was the tattoo artist who suggested that Dara add a scripture to her tattoo. Was it because he’d tagged Cross’s body with the same thing?
If anybody could be reached, it would be Cross, Dara decided. When Dara looked back into Cross’s face, he was staring at her. She could see it in his eyes. He was trying his best to make sure a scowl stayed on his expression, but Dara could see past that. He had a greater vision pulling at his life, and he was in the grip of being yanked between light and darkness. All he needs is one encounter with God.
Cross winked at her, but the smile Dara gave him said, “I know your story.” He turned away and went to the edge of the curb to spit something out of his mouth.
Dara always returned home feeling empty after a day of evangelism. After leaving Ms. Bettye’s house, she and Isaac had mounted their motorcycles and cruised through the neighborhood in silent prayer. Later they’d joined Mario and the rest of the Kingdom Knights in praying for a group of women who were caught in the stronghold of drug abuse. But God was stronger.
Nelda wasn’t in that group. In fact, Dara hadn’t seen Nelda in a few months, and no one was aware of her whereabouts. Dara had prayed with Nelda before, and had even taken her to get the dust and dirt shampooed from her hair, which had started to lock in knots. The stylist had cut off most of the damaged hair and braided the rest into neat cornrows the way Nelda had requested. By the time Dara took her to buy her three new outfits and get showered, no one would have known Nelda was entangled in a web of drug use. Unless they saw her smile. She rarely parted her lips in happiness, but that day she did, having no embarrassment at her rotted teeth and infected gums. Dara was surprised to find out that Nelda was thirty-four, just two years younger than she at the time. She’d thought her to be at least in her midforties.
Dara checked Nelda into a halfway house and left her with a bag full of things that all women enjoy having, like fragranced lotion and body splash; a pocket-sized Bible; snacks; and Dara’s phone number. The next morning when Dara called the halfway house to check on Nelda, they said she’d checked herself out. She’d seen Nelda once since then.
Dara was devastated but not surprised, because she knew the cycle. Yet it pained Dara’s heart, and she continuously prayed and asked God what else she could do to make a greater difference in the lives of the entire community. This evening in particular, she felt like she’d get an answer to her prayers soon.
After time to unwind and refill her spiritual tank, Dara prepared her clothes for church service. There was a cute yellow sundress she wanted to wear, but her mother’s discretion had worn on her choices of her Sunday’s best clothing.
“A woman shouldn’t bare her shoulders at church,” she’d been taught. Dara wasn’t sure how her mother had ended up with the conservative ways and India’s mother bucked most of the tradition that had ruled their household as children.
“I haven’t worn this since last summer,” Dara said to herself, taking a green dress off its hanger and throwing it across the ironing board in the hallway. When she looked on her shoe rack for the shoes that matched it perfectly—a pair of gold gladiator-style sandals—Dara realized India had borrowed and never returned them.
Dara called India to tell her to bring them over the next morning. They usually rode together to church, then went out for their customary Sunday brunch afterward.
“You have something at your house that belongs to me,” Dara said when India picked up the phone. Actually, she’d had to yell it because the music was so loud in the background that it was a wonder that India’s neighbors hadn’t called the police to report her being a nuisance.
“What?” India screamed. “Hold on a minute,” she said. India disappeared from the phone and returned after turning down the volume to the level for people who wanted to keep their hearing well into their elderly years. “Now what’s so important that you had to interrupt my praise party?”
“My gold sandals, that’s what. You know, the gladiator-looking ones.”
“Do I have those shoes?”
“Stop playing.” Dara dumped the contents of the three purses she’d carried that week out on the bed. Shoes, India could borrow. Clothes, she could borrow. But her cousin never had, and never would, be allowed to walk out of the door carrying one of Dara’s purses. She was a purse connoisseur. She wasn’t necessarily stuck on brand names, but she was a stickler for quality and uniqueness. “As a matter of fact,” Dara said, “you’ve got quite a few things of mine over in your inventory.”
“The way I figure, if you don’t ask for it back in three months, then you don’t want it.”
“That’s a good one. But the devil is a lie. So you and your stealing self need to bring my shoes when you come over in the morning.”
“I will. They hurt my little toe anyway,” India said.
While India complained about the fickle clients she’d been trying to please all week, Dara downsized the contents of her purse to the essentials she needed for church—her wallet, makeup compact, lipstick, lotion, and a tissue pack.
“Here’s my ticket to hell,” Dara said, picking up the lottery ticket India had purchased for her. It had only been forgotten in her purse for a week, but somehow a leaky red ink pen had stained the top of it. The numbers were still legible.
“Make sure it’s a round-trip ticket,” India joked. “But if it ain’t, make sure you leave a will and testament about everything you want me to have.”
“You know what?” Dara said, as her cell phone rang. “You need prayer.”
Dara knew it wasn’t anyone she knew. She’d assigned a specific ringtone to all the family and friends she talked to on a regular basis. Even all of her clients were grouped into a particular ring. “Let me see who this is,” she told India, grabbing the phone off the dresser and unhooking it from the charger. “Be on time in the morning. If you’re not here by nine thirty I’m leaving you.”
“Yada, yada,” India said, and hung up the phone.
Dara took her cell phone and walked into the hallway to iron her clothes. “Hello?”
“May I speak to Dara Knight, please?”
Dara hesitated before she answered. Who would ask for her by her first and last name on a Saturday evening? “This is she,” she said. “May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Zebulon. Remember the guy who was trying to pick you up on the side of the highway?”
Remember? How could I forget? “Hi, Zebulon. Nice to hear from you,” she said.
“I told you I was going to call. I’m a man that keeps my word,” he said.
That’s what they all say, Dara thought before chastising herself. She wasn’t going to lump him in the category with the men she’d been encountering lately. “And I appreciate you keeping your word,” Dara said.
“I wanted to call and check on you. See if you’d made it in okay.”
“After a week?” Dara teased.
“Charge it to my head, not my heart,” Zebulon said. “It’s been a crazy week.”
“I know how it is,” Dara said, leaving her dress to finish ironing later. “I’m just teasing you.”
“So what made your week so busy?” Zebulon asked. “Tell me about yourself. By what’s on this card, you must be a woman who knows how to handle business.”
Dara stretched out across her bed. “I can’t say you’re wrong about that,” she said. She picked up the lottery ticket that was lying on her pillow and folded it into a paper airplane. “Hello?” Dara said, when there was nothing but silence on the other end of the phone.
“I’m here,” Zebulon said. “Waiting for you to tell me about your week. Or about you.”
“Oh, you really want to know? Because if you get me started I’ll talk all night.”
“And I’ll listen all night,” Zebulon said. “Well, not really. I need to get at least a few hours sleep so I won’t fall asleep in church.”
“I feel you,” Dara said.
Dara didn’t expect her conversation with Zebulon to flow so easily—and for such a long time. They’d covered a whole gamut of topics from their preferences in food to their careers, future aspirations, and their mutual affinity for crime and forensics television shows.
From how Zebulon talked, he sounded like he’d been raised in a home much like Ms. Bettye’s house, but instead of foster children, his home was a revolving door for family members who needed help while they got back on their feet.
“Can you believe it’s after midnight?” Dara said, looking at the clock on her end table for the first time since she’d gotten on the phone with Zebulon. “It’s past my bedtime,” she said.
“I don’t want to hold you,” Zebulon said. “But I would like to see you sometime soon if that’s okay.”
“That would be nice,” Dara said. “I’ll wait for your call.”
“You won’t be waiting long,” Zebulon said. “Good night.”
“Good night, Zebulon,” she said, and then hung up the phone. Zeb. Zebbie. Lon. She went through his possible nicknames.
Dara flipped on the switch for the ceiling fan. Even though she faithfully ran the air conditioning during the summer months, she enjoyed the feeling of the soft breeze over her head while she slept. After turning back the sheets, Dara picked up the miniature paper airplane and unfolded the lottery ticket.
She picked up her phone and called the automated line listed in tiny print on the back of the ticket, following the prompts that the computerized voice gave her. Dara figured she might as well put India’s mind at rest, because if not, she’d get hounded until she found out she hadn’t won.
Dara listened to the numbers from the Mega Millions. She didn’t think much of the match with the first two numbers, but when the third number was the same—she took a deep breath and tried to stop her heart from turning over in her chest.