The Journal: A Prophecy, A President & Death

by Parker, W. Leland

  The Journal

  A Prophecy, A President & Death

  By W. Leland Parker

  The Journal

  A Prophecy, A President & Death

  By W. Leland Parker

  Copyright © 2013 by W. Leland Parker

  SYZYGY Media

  wleland@syzygymedia.net

  All rights reserved. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address above.

  This story is fictional. Names, character, places, and incidents are derived from the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locations, and incidents are purely coincidental.

  Cover art and layout by SYZYGY Media

  Here Comes Howard!

  The Funeral Was Just The Beginning

  In The Cold Of The Night

  Who, What, When, Where, How?

  Shortly After Midnight

  Just “Like” A Good Neighbor

  People Come And Go So Quickly

  World’s Colliding

  Wait Stop Think

  So Much To Tell, So Much To Conceal

  Right & Wrong

  The Sign Post Up Ahead

  Too Strange Not To Be True

  The Last Fight Home

  Getting To Know You

  Home, Safe & Sound

  Family Court

  Answers

  Getting Serious

  Revelations

  Serious

  From Here To Eternity

  The End Begins

  The Girl That’s Something Extra

  The Connection Is Made

  So Little Time

  The End

  The Searchers

  The Kiss

  Back On The Right Track

  Acknowledgements

  This was a project of complete shock and joy. After years of having ideas and portions of ideas scribbled down, I was shocked to see that I could complete one as a book—and I enjoyed every minute of it. The fact that it was even attempted is due to the support of many, going all the way back to the beginning.

  Certainly, if I were to thank anyone for their support, I would have to thank the two women who played the biggest hand: my wife, and my mom. My mom, Elnora Parker, managed to raise my sister and me, against all odds, with a core belief that we could really do or be anything we wanted. She was big on education back when I would have rather played sports. She bought me books instead of toys—though I did get my fair share of toys. My God-given curiosity was well fed, and thanks to her influence, believing I could, was a big part of attempting this book.

  I had other blessed influences along the way, the details of which would simply sound too self-important. Marion Moore, the mother of a dear friend, taught me how to play chess, and encouraged the creative spirit within me. Larsi Claiborne reinforced my mom's direction on the importance of education with a dash of creativity. And Marlene Rengert poured even more encouragement into me, while defining what friendship was all about. I encountered these three women—my “moms”—at ages 12, 14, and 20, and their consistent message was that I could do anything.

  The message of great expectation was fundamental at my high school, the Duke Ellington School of the Arts, which was partly responsible for leading my friend, Chris Aldridge, and me to write. At the age of 27, the two of us embarked upon financing and producing a short video with the support of my sister, Janice, my friend, John Anderson, and others. It was clear that I was being led to creative ventures.

  In the end, though, it was my lovely wife, Rosi, who laughed and cried reading over my drafts. She listened to any of a half dozen other script ideas, and helped me see that God was encouraging me through family, friends, and other loved ones. She was a vital conduit of hope, as I knew she would not give me a pass just because she loved me. Her careful review, the readings by Gina Regis and Adeola Fasola, and the previewing of Brad Lewis and Mark Robinson were very important in the completion of this book. So I did this on the flow of love and encouragement of nearly a dozen people, whose names I've included to help shoulder the blame, if you don't enjoy it. But if this serves to entertain or inspire just one person, it will have been worth it. It is a work of love, hope, joy and faith … but the greatest of these is love.

  Here Comes Howard!

  Clang, clang, clang, clang … a church bell tolls in the distance. If you use your imagination, you could believe it to be the bell of an arriving train, rumbling into the station, with the coach pulling up to take you somewhere … somewhere exciting. Margaret Jennings hears it and imagines such things … and it makes her feel a little sad. She would have liked to have, at least, gone to church today. She would have liked to have gone anywhere today. But today was a bad day, and at 87, bad days come as often as good.

  So, in the kitchen of her very neat, small apartment, she uses her energy to place a kettle on her gas stove; enjoys the warmth a moment, then slowly walks back to her favorite recliner. Today, her apartment feels especially small, and her only company, other than an attentive cat, is that distant bell and the warm thoughts it brings. In her mind a whistle blows signaling that it’s time to go. A warm smile on her pretty face reveals her thoughts, as she is both nostalgic and humored by the realization that it is her tea kettle calling, not a train’s whistle. A slow shuffle to the kitchen brings her to the aid of the kettle’s cries. She doesn’t have much of an appetite anymore; tea will probably be all she’ll have today. And then, there’s a bell again. Only now, instead of a train or a church, it’s her front door.

  “Who in the name of the Lord …?” she thinks, wondering who might be calling upon her at this late hour on a Sunday. But she is definitely more intrigued than concerned. She makes her way to the door; her progress tracked by the cat that seems oblivious to the ringing doorbell. “I’m coming,” she says. The setting sun pours through her apartment front window, streaking across the front door. “Who can this be,” she thinks, “no doubt it’s someone from church coming to visit.” When at long last she reaches the door, after a moment’s thought, she places the security chain on the latch. “Who is it?” She calls through the door while putting on her glasses to get a look through the peephole. But there isn’t any reply. Squinting through the peephole, she sees someone who looks vaguely familiar, but she’s just not sure. “Who is that?” she says, with mild agitation in her voice, but great hope in her heart.

  “Maggie? Maggie, I would have thought that you’d recognize me through the peephole,” says the stranger through the door.

  “Oh, my Lord, could that be!” She quickly reaches up and unlocks the door. Pulling it open to the extent of the chain, she gets a full view of a man she hasn’t seen in years! He’s about six-foot tall, slim, wearing a nice overcoat, hat, and gloves; he looks to be about 40 years of age. “Oh, my Lord! Why are you doing here?” she asks in a most confused way.

  “Maggie, you won’t believe it but I’ve come all this way just for you!” says the man with a loving warm smile and sincere eyes.

  “For me, why? Howard, what are you talking about?”

  “So you do remember my name! For a while
I wasn’t sure you’d remember me. I’m so glad that I came. Um, Maggie, would it be too fresh of me to ask if I could come in?” he says with a teasing tone.

  “Oh! Oh my goodness yes, yes,” she replies as she closes the door to unlatch it. Then she remembers how much Howard enjoyed teasing her in grad school, so she opens the door again and says, “Actually, I’m sorry, sir, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to see some ID.”

  “Whoa, there’s the wit! My goodness she hasn’t changed a bit.”

  With a big, satisfied smile, she unlatches and pulls the door fully open and he steps in to give her a warm loving embrace. She pushes back to get a better look at his face, and as they peer into each other’s eyes she says, “What are you doing here? What did you mean about coming to see me? How have you been? What have you been doing?” She takes a moment to get her breath then repeats, “What are you doing here?”

  Working their way slowly into the apartment, arm in arm, Howard separates for just a moment to turn and close the door. He is amused by her barrage of questions, and has a slight smile on his face to prove it. Margaret slowly continues on, turning her back to him as she heads back towards her chair; but feeling a little vulnerable, she turns around to catch his expression. Howard looks her directly in the eyes and says, “I can answer all of those questions with one long answer. You see, I was sent here to get you.”

  Intrigued and skeptical, she interrupts, “To get me? What for? Howard please, I haven’t seen you in fifty years! What is this about? Who could have sent you for dusty old me?”

  He continues, “I started to say, a lady requested that I come get you—well, more than that. Please sit down, let me read you a letter.”

  With a few groans from creaking bones she sits and eases back into her favorite chair mumbling, “Alright.”

  He reaches into his coat and pulls out a letter that appears to be written on impossibly thin and light parchment paper. Very carefully unfolding it he reads, “Dear God, you know I really began to question if you are everything people say you are.”

  Margaret leans forward in her chair as Howard continues.

  “After that horrible argument with David, God I was just so … Ugh, so darn sick of it all. I mean, you know I’m trying to do better in this stinking world! You know I would have done it, I wasn’t thinking of anyone, not the kids, certainly not David … well, maybe I was thinking to punish him, you know that’s what was really on my mind.”

  Margaret interrupts, “That’s a letter? Sound’s like somebody’s diary, or maybe a … maybe a prayer.”

  “Shhhhh, wait a moment,” Howard says gently, “let’s see … yeah,” locating his spot in the letter he continues, “punish him … what was really on my mind. Okay, here we go, wanted to thank you for the lady in the park, Mrs. Jennings …”

  “Mrs. Jennings?” exclaims Margaret.

  He continues, “I’ll never forget her, the way she spoke to me Lord, she seemed so caring, and she was so nice. My God! I think I would have—I think she may have saved my life!” Howard looks up at her.

  Margaret is completely baffled. “I’m, I’m sorry Howard, but I don’t remember this girl at all, I don’t remember, I don’t remember anything about this … I mean I’m happy if I helped somehow, but–”

  Howard interrupts almost whispering, “That’s alright.”

  Margaret continues, “So she’s sending for me?”

  “Well, her and some others. Do you remember a Professor Woodson?”

  “Oh, my yes! He was the professor of um … oh, my memory!”

  “Professor of Trial Law.”

  She nods approvingly, “Yes, that’s it. Wow, Howard, how can you remember so well? My gosh, you haven’t aged a day, and you haven’t forgotten a thing! How is–”

  “I think this letter will clear up a lot,” he says with a smile as he retrieves another letter from his coat pocket, just as feathery light as the first.

  Leaning forward with marked concern she asks, “You have a letter from him?”

  “Yes,” he replies; “it’s quite alright.”

  She is very uncomfortable, but again her curiosity outstrips her concern, and she gets a hold of herself and relaxes back into her chair.

  He begins to read, “Dear Lord, thank you. Thank you for protecting me. Thank you for Maggie. I’m so sorry; and I pray she didn’t leave the University because of what I– What I tried to do. I thank you that she believed me, that she was merciful. That she spoke about You rather than … told on me. Lord you know my feelings, you know that I actually do feel for her … that I love her.”

  Margaret eyes begin to fill with water.

  “Please let her know that I have not gone back on my word, that nothing like that will ever happen again. That I did as she said, and told Valerie everything … and she seems to have saved my marriage.”

  “Oh, my Lord!” Margaret exclaims. “Oh, my Lord, oh my Lord, oh my Lord! So these are people whose lives I have affected? Is that what–”

  “Yes,” says Howard with a happy smile and a nod.

  “And they are asking me to come?”

  “Yes, they want you to come. They stand in testimony of the life you have lived, and they want to thank you and have you there as they thank God for you.”

  Batting back her tears she gets out, “Really?”

  “Yes. So what do you say, do you feel up to it?”

  “Why yes. I feel great! And I hear the train whistle, is that our train?”

  “Yes,” he says, with an outstretched hand to her, “So, Margaret Jennings, you have finished your race, do you want to come with me now?”

  “Yes.” She takes his hand, and they walk out the front door and directly into a train compartment. As the train pulls off, she sees her life pass by outside the windows. Through one of the windows the kettle she had put on the fire is whistling its heart out, as she never actually made it to the kitchen. A neighbor is knocking at her door, and the cat has jumped into her lap where her body is still sitting in the chair. She sees her eyes full with tears of joy, and with a warm smile, they slowly, peacefully, close, and a single tear rolls down her cheek.

  The Funeral Was Just The Beginning

  A fax arrives with its usual fanfare of rings and beeps. “Is it okay if I bring you that print out?” says the wife of Secret Service Deputy Director, Harold W. Danning. She is calling out to her husband who is immersed in a project he’s brought home from work, but rather than confining himself to his home office, he’s opted to review it from his favorite chair in front of their living room fireplace. Carol Danning could hear the fax machine in his home office as she was clearing dinner dishes, but she does not touch her husband’s faxes or printouts without his consent.

  Deep in thought he just barely catches what she said and replies, “Uh, yes … I’m sorry; yes sweetheart, if you don’t mind.” When she carries it in, she sees that it is a death certificate for a Margaret Jennings of Denver, Colorado. Time of death is 8:00 p.m.. Cause of death is listed as Natural causes.

  She places it on a small neat stack of papers within an open folder labeled Lifesaver. Her husband, Harold, is 38 years old, though unfortunately for him he looks much younger. He is a meticulous man, who keeps even a mess of books and papers in neat piles and quite orderly. He is of average height, average weight and superior intelligence. At this moment, that boyish face shows a mix of confusion and concern as he compares a hard copy of a chat room conversation with some photocopies of hand written notes from a notebook, an old unabridged dictionary, and the Holy Bible. His laptop, perched on a side table, is running email.

  His wife sits down next to him in her favorite chair. When it comes to a puzzle she’s is a lot like him, slow to let go. She sits strategically close enough to help if asked, but far enough not to meddle. Occupying herself with some light reading, she cannot help but be curious, and his expression of utter bewilderment doesn’t ease her curiosity one bit. In what she hopes will open the door for him to discuss the case,
she asks, “Will it disturb you if I turn on the television?”

  There is no reply. He’s hot on the trail of something, and partially oblivious to everything else around him … but only partially. He removes his glasses carefully taking hold of the bridge over the nose and proceeds to clean them using a packet of pre-moistened wipes he keeps in his wallet. The meticulous care and finely choreographed process would seem to indicate that he’s become distracted, but he isn’t; rather, his movements are the result of a mind that uses the familiar to help it unravel the unknown. Consciously, he doesn’t even realize he has his glasses in his hands. He then focuses in on the fax that his wife just brought in. She goes ahead and turns on the TV anyway, which obviously doesn’t disturb him any more than her question. They’ve been married for 13 years, and she’s been with him every step of his swift rise in the intelligence community. She knows that he means her no disrespect and that he is mentally recording everything that she’s said to him. He’s got that kind of mind. Remarkable. She has come to enjoy watching it in action, and she relishes their bedtime conversations where he typically plays back every point of the evening’s events and discussions. It’s part of what she loves about him; part of what impresses her about him.

  Carol Danning is a tall and attractive 35-year-old administrator, working part time for the District, and is for him the ideal wife. Smart, honest, discreet, takes great care of their household. Some wonder how he managed to catch her, but she thinks it’s the other way around. All her life, and in her studies, she always appreciated intelligence, and to her thinking, her husband is the most intelligent man she’s ever known. She knows him so well. However on this night, things were not going to play out as she’s become accustomed.

  Out of nowhere he poses a question she could not have seen coming. “Carol,” he says, “as far as you know, is there any instance in the Bible where a person has interpreted tongues and the interpretation was prophetic?” She is completely stunned, and while groping for a reply, he adds, “Oh, and I’m sorry, I’m sure you realize that, no, the TV wouldn’t disturb me at all.”