Blue Star Rapture by JAMES W. BENNETT Page B

creature say, “Come!” And I saw, and behold, a pale horse, and its rider’s name was Death, and Hades followed after him; and they were given power over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by wild beasts of the earth . T.J. wrote down Revelation, chapter and verse, but he had no idea what use, if any, he could ever make of this passage.
    The 700 Club was on. From the corner of his eye he watched it on the small black-and-white TV located on an empty bookshelf. Sometimes he watched this program in the evenings, in spite of himself. There was something to learn, something perched only on the apron of his consciousness, but he felt it had something to do with the Rapture.
    Once, while watching the program, he heard the Reverend Jerry Falwell say in an interview, “I expect never to die. His second coming is so imminent, I expect to join the Lord in the air. If you ever read an obituary of Jerry Falwell, rest assured that your surprise will be no greater than mine.”
    When he heard that declaration, T.J. couldn’t help but think of the sermon he’d heard Sister Simone preaching that night in LuAnn’s tabernacle. The language was so similar to these words out of the mouth of Jerry Falwell.
    One day near the end of August, T.J. wrote in his diary that he was tired of manipulating. He didn’t need to do that anymore. It wasn’t necessary to spend your whole life guarded and wary and searching for methods of control. A person can change , he wrote in bold letters.
    But he also wondered, change to what? A basketball star? Just because of that one shining moment at Full Court camp when he shut down Ronnie Streets? That was a moment driven more by guilty desperation than by any actual goal. In and of itself, how could it be the basis for any meaningful change?
    He wrote in the center of a page, I am a person in transition . He might have written more, to attempt a framework for this change of life, but the phone rang. He had to go downstairs to the kitchen to answer it.
    It was Gaines, the sportswriter. “You never called me about Full Court,” he said.
    â€œI never promised you I would.”
    â€œSo how’d it go? Anything to report?”
    â€œIt would be old news now, wouldn’t it?” said T.J. In his mind’s eye he saw LuAnn and the footbridge, but he knew it wasn’t the kind of material that the sportswriter sought. “Ishmael Greene is going to Notre Dame,” he said.
    â€œEverybody knows that,” Gaines pointed out.
    â€œLike I said, nothing to report.”
    As soon as he hung up, he saw the papers on the table, which were forms for school registration. There was also a note from his mother that said, I signed these forms but I don’t have time to fill them out. That’s your job. Your work shirt is pressed in the second drawer. There’s leftover casserole in the oven you can warm up .
    T.J. turned on the small TV that sat on the counter next to the stove. The news at noon from Channel 25 in Peoria was coming on as he fixed himself a grilled cheese sandwich. He looked at the registration forms briefly, but then Tyron was at the door. He joined T.J. at the kitchen table. He wanted to know if Coach Lindsey had called.
    â€œIf he calls,” said T.J., “He’ll be calling you. ”
    â€œHows come?”
    â€œBecause I wrote him a note. I told him to take everything straight to you. Either you or Coach DeFreese.”
    â€œHows come?”
    â€œBecause it’s the right way. None of this shit needs to go through me anymore.”
    There was a large economy-size box of Famous Amos Oatmeal Cremes perched next to the newspaper. Tyron reached in to pull out five or six of the cookies. “But I want you to help me,” he said.
    â€œI didn’t say I won’t help you. If you want my advice, I’ll give you advice. But nothing goes through me anymore,