Private Property Page 5

  He sat up and walked into his bathroom. The cool marble floors sent a rippled chill through his body. He stood over the commode and relieved himself, then walked over to the sink. As he washed his hands, a sharp, burning sensation shot through his arm. He looked down, expecting to see steam coming from the sink because he thought he had accidentally turned on the hot water, but there wasn’t any. He turned the water off and stared in the mirror. The pain continued through his arm, and he rubbed it as he walked back into his bedroom and sat on the side of the bed. His arm was killing him, and he didn’t know why.

  The same voice that told him to wake up now told him to get on his knees and pray. He immediately did what he was told to do. As he folded his hands and closed his eyes, preparing himself to pray, he saw the vision of someone in his head.

  “Pray for him now. He needs you,” the voice told him.

  Micah peered at the vision in his mind, trying to see who it was he was supposed to be praying for. This wasn’t the first time he had been awakened to intercede on someone’s behalf, but the person’s face was always revealed. For some reason, this person’s face was blurred. Micah tried to focus harder, and the pain worsened in his arm. Suddenly, he realized who it was, and he jumped up.

  “No!” he said aloud in the empty room. He rubbed up and down his arm, trying to soothe the pain. As he paced back and forth, he tried to get the image of the person out of his head. He went back in the bathroom and put cold water on his face, hoping that would help. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and looked away, again saying, “No. I can’t and I won’t.”

  “Pray for him now!” the Spirit told him. “He needs you.”

  “He doesn’t need me to pray for him. Hell, he doesn’t even want me to pray for him,” Micah said, shaking his head and rubbing his arm.

  He remembered the last time they had seen one another. It was on a Wednesday afternoon, and Micah had been preparing the sanctuary in their new, state-of-the-art building for Bible study. He had been surprised to turn around and see him standing there. It was always strange because it was like staring at himself in the mirror. As much as their lives contrasted in every other aspect—personality, spirituality, and behaviors—they were still identical in looks.

  “I’m sorry this had to happen to you,” he told him. “You know, your having to go . . . um . . . away.”

  “Well, it is what it is. You know. Shit happens.”

  Micah shook his head. “Can you have some respect for where you’re standing, please?”

  “My bad,” Malachi said, looking around. “This place is big enough to hold a concert.”

  “We do hold concerts here.”

  “How many people can fit in here?”

  “About six thousand in this sanctuary. There are also two smaller ones. One for youth church and another one for private prayer.” Micah beamed with pride.

  “Remember the first church Dad started in that little-ass. . . I mean, small building that was a Chinese restaurant before he bought it? That place smelled terrible, like old shrimp fried rice and cat litter.” Malachi walked down the aisle and into the pulpit.

  Micah couldn’t help but laugh.

  “He only had about ten people in that jank.” Malachi stepped behind the huge podium embossed with the church logo where their father preached every Sunday. “Now look at all of this! The bishop done came up for real! He is the poster child for ‘started from the bottom and now we here,’ huh?”

  “Dad has grown his ministry tremendously over the past couple of decades. Everyone knows that.” Micah wondered why his brother was even at the church. He was surprised he even knew where it was.

  “Yeah, good ol’ Walt has done good for himself. Where is he?”

  “If he’s here, he’s in his study, preparing for service tonight. Do you want me to walk you over there?” Micah offered.

  “Naw, I’m good. I just wanted to check things out before I left. I’m just amazed,” Micah told him.

  “God is amazing. Look at the number of people Dad has blessed over the years, the souls he’s delivered, the lives he’s changed, the impact he has had not only in the church, but on the world. He’s written books, stage plays, traveled the world, and now he is about to produce a movie. Man, he’s scheduled to be on Oprah, Dr. Phil, and Jimmy Kimmel next month! That is unbelievable. ” Micah smiled. “Especially for a black man from Detroit.”

  Malachi stared at him and shook his head. “You sound like you’ve been drinking the Walter Burke Kool-Aid a little too long, bro.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” Micah walked up to the pulpit and stared at his brother.

  “Nothing,” Malachi said, looking around. “To think he got all this now. Well, I gotta get out of here.”

  Micah watched his brother jump from the pulpit and into the aisle, heading toward the door. “Chi, wait!”

  Malachi stopped and turned. “What?”

  “Look, man, while you’re here . . . I mean, I know you leave tomorrow for, uh . . .” Micah paused.

  “Jail,” Malachi finished for him with a shrug.

  “Hey, why don’t you let me pray for you at least? We’re right here,” Micah offered.

  “Naw, I’m good. I don’t need you praying for me, especially not here. You keep right on doing what you’re doing, and I’ll be fine.”

  “Why do you act like you don’t belong here? Like you’re too good for this place? I know you love God and you love Dad, so—”

  “You don’t know anything about me, Micah. The only thing you know is that you came out of the same twat I did two minutes later, but you don’t know me for real. It’s a whole lot that you don’t know!”

  Micah was hurt by his brother’s words. Although they had the same face, it was as if he no longer recognized him. There was so much anger and animosity in Malachi. Micah didn’t know if it was the result of the drugs, the alcohol, or if his brother had just turned evil over the past few years.

  “Everything that our parents have done for you—private schools when you got kicked out of public ones, counselors, rehab programs, lawyers—and you still acting like an ingrate. They deserve way better than what you been doing, Malachi. Way better and you know it.”

  “Fuck . . . forget you, Micah.”

  Micah could feel anger rising within and decided to try a different approach so that things wouldn’t get worse. Although it hadn’t happened very often, Micah and his twin had gotten into some serious physical altercations when they were younger. No one ever truly won, but they both suffered bruises and black eyes back in the day. This wasn’t how he wanted things to go, especially since, in less than twenty-four hours, Malachi was going to prison for over a year. Ultimately, this was his brother, and despite their disconnect, he was concerned.

  “I don’t know why you think I’m your enemy, but I’m not. I am asking to pray with you because I love you, Malachi.”

  “I don’t need shit from you, Micah. Don’t pray for me. Pray for yourself and your father . . . and all of this!”

  Malachi turned and rushed out of the sanctuary. Micah started to chase after him, but instead, he let him go. He tried reaching out and making himself available, and not only was he turned down, but he was disrespected. There was no hope.

  He hadn’t tried to reach out since that day. The only time Malachi was even talked about was when his mother brought him up or invited him to come and visit with her. Micah gave the excuse that Malachi told him he didn’t want anyone to see him in that situation, so he was respecting his brother’s wishes. Their father never even spoke about Malachi when they were together, and Micah knew that his father was just relieved. His father no longer had to worry about phone calls in the middle of the night telling him his son was in trouble or arrested or in the hospital. They didn’t have to worry about photos in the tabloids of Micah partying at the clubs with some random athlete or celebrity. Both the bishop and Micah could focus on building the ministry for the Kingdom of God without the distrac
tion of Malachi.

  Now, here God was waking him out of his sleep, telling him to pray for a man who didn’t even want to be prayed for. Although he was spiritual and normally welcomed the opportunity to intercede in prayer for those who needed it, when it came to praying for Malachi, he didn’t have that same propensity. Praying was intimate time between him and God that he enjoyed. He and his brother were disconnected in so many ways, and the frustration of their relationship caused him to be hesitant. It didn’t have that same sense of enjoyment, and he didn’t feel fulfilled like he did when he usually prayed.

  “Pray for him. He needs you.” The Spirit’s voice was loud and clear.

  “God, he doesn’t need me. He needs you. You are the only one that can fix whatever it is. Me praying ain’t gonna help that fool.” Micah shook his head and went to lie back down in his bed. The pain in his right shoulder got worse and worse until he couldn’t take it anymore. He knew he had to do what he was being told to do. He kneeled down and began to pray for his brother. For nearly thirty minutes, he asked God to handle whatever it was that Malachi needed, and he also asked for his own forgiveness for being disobedient when told to pray for him.

  When he got up, there was still a dull aching in his arm, but the shooting pain was gone. He walked over to the window of his bedroom and looked out into the dark night. Flashes of red and orange in the near distance caught his eye, along with gray smoke. Micah grabbed his shoes and threw on a T-shirt, rushing to check on his mother next door and now praying that everything was okay.

  Chapter 6

  Lisa Wells, 6524 Harrington Crest

  Lisa Wells walked over to the stainless-steel oven of her dream kitchen and peeked in on the latest masterpiece that she was baking. The idea came to her in the middle of a dream. After being woken up by the constant barking of their nearby neighbor’s dogs, she got up out of bed, careful not to wake her snoring husband, and went downstairs to begin baking. The scent of freshly baked apples and peaches wafted through her nostrils, and she smiled. She knew it was going to taste even better than it smelled.

  She closed the oven and wiped down the marble countertops. As she looked around, she still wondered if she was living in a dream and would indeed wake up. Never in a million years would she have imagined being able to wake up and immediately put a recipe into action without a thought of not having the ingredients she needed or the money to buy them.

  Now here she was able to just walk into the fully stocked pantry and refrigerator of their home, get whatever she needed, and have at it. She had the same mixing bowls used in the kitchens of five-star restaurants, state-of-the-art appliances, and every baking pan she could ever think of. Baking had always been her passion, and now she was able to do it whenever she felt the urge, which was quite often. There was no worrying about how much the gas or power bill would be because she was up all times of night pursuing her passion. There was no worrying anymore about money, period, because for Lisa and her husband, Marcus, money was no longer an issue.

  Life for them was way different than it was almost a year ago. She and Marcus had been living paycheck to paycheck, doing their best to make ends meet and take care of their three kids: 12-year-old Michael, 10-year-old Aaron, and their baby girl Faith, affectionately known as Cocoa, who was 8. Marcus worked in the warehouse of a furniture manufacturer, and she worked part-time at a bakery in a grocery store in their hometown of Bristol, North Carolina.

  One day, while on their way to work, Marcus and his brother Sam stopped at the corner store to get a cup of coffee. Marcus waited in the car, but when Sam hadn’t come out in ten minutes, he decided to go in and see what the holdup was. Just as he suspected, Sam, who would carry on a conversation for thirty minutes about nothing to anyone who would listen, was talking to the cashier.

  “Man, what is taking so long? We’re gonna be late for our shift!” Marcus said.

  “It’s my fault,” the cashier told him. “I had to restart the coffee pot. He was just talking to me while it brewed.”

  “Don’t mind him. He’s always grouchy in the morning,” Sam said. “Hey, why don’t you make yourself useful and pick out some numbers for me to play in tonight’s drawing.”

  “It’s gonna be a big one,” the cashier said. “Everybody’s been playing.”

  “I got more important things to do with my money than to play the lottery,” Marcus told them. “And if you don’t hurry up, I won’t have any money, because I’m gonna be fired. Let’s go!”

  “Here, pick the numbers while I make my coffee,” Sam said, passing him the lottery slip.

  “We don’t have time for this!” Marcus said.

  “Just pick the numbers and hurry up!” Sam walked over to the coffee pot with his cup in hand. “You pick. I’ll pay. When we win, we will split it fifty-fifty.”

  Not wanting to waste any more time, Marcus quickly filled in the birthdays of his wife, the kids, and his mother. He estimated that they would get to work nineteen minutes late if he didn’t hurry, so he picked that as his Powerball number. Sam walked up to him and took the paper.

  “Let’s go!”

  Sam paid for his coffee and the lottery tickets, and they headed off to work. The next morning the two brothers woke up $97 million richer. The news spread faster than an untrue rumor throughout the town that the brothers had struck it rich. Marcus and Lisa tried to remain normal. Their first purchases were a bigger and nicer home, a new pickup truck for Marcus, and a luxury SUV for Lisa and the kids. They donated money to the church they grew up in and of course made sure that their parents and close family members were taken care of, including Lisa’s younger sister, Shari.

  But people continued to harass them for money. Random strangers taped notes to their cars and on the door of their new home, and people approached them at local restaurants. Lisa became stressed with all of the attention, and she no longer felt safe, even with the security system they had installed. They no longer had any privacy. Marcus didn’t seem to mind the attention, though.

  “We need to move, Marcus,” Lisa told him one night after they left the kids’ school. “This is getting ridiculous, and I don’t like it.”

  They couldn’t even enjoy Michael’s band performance because people were pointing and whispering. Some even took pictures with their cell phones. Faith didn’t want to get out of Lisa’s lap because she was so afraid.

  “I don’t want to move. This is where we grew up. All of our family and friends are here. This is where we wanted to raise our kids, remember?”

  “That was before we had money and didn’t have a choice. Don’t you want better for your kids?” Lisa asked him.

  “My kids do have better. We live in a better house, drive better cars. Hell, they have better parents because we don’t have to work. What I don’t want is for our kids to think they are better than anyone else. This money will not change us. I said that from the beginning,” Marcus argued.

  “I wanna move,” Cocoa’s tiny voice whined.

  “Me too,” Aaron chimed in.

  “Dad, I think you might wanna listen to Mom on this one. Everywhere we go, people try to talk to us,” Michael said from the back seat of the SUV.

  “You act like people didn’t know us before. Don’t start tripping. We are the same, and money don’t change us.” Marcus glared at his son in the rearview mirror. Michael sat back and didn’t say another word.

  Lisa knew there was no point in arguing any further, so she just turned up the radio. Her husband was determined to remain the same cool guy from the warehouse who everyone knew and loved. The chubby, jovial guy who was on their high school football team for four years, but never even touched the ball during a game. Millionaire or not, he was gonna be everybody’s homeboy.

  They pulled into the driveway of their home, and just as they got out of the car, they heard someone behind them. “Marcus! Lisa!”

  Lisa turned around to see some raggedy guy walking toward them. She quickly closed the back door and told her kids,
“Don’t get out. Stay in the car!”

  “It’s me, Los!” The guy steadily came toward them.

  Marcus stopped and stared while Lisa jumped back in the car and closed the door, preparing to call the police. “Marcus, get in here!”

  “Who are you?” Marcus asked the guy.

  “Carlos, Tony’s brother.”

  “I don’t know you, man. I think you need to leave.”

  “Don’t be like that. We used to shoot ball together down on Bayou Street. Me, you, my brother Tony and our cousin, Johnny.” The guy kept coming closer.

  “Marcus!” Lisa screamed out again.

  “Mommy, I’m scared,” Cocoa whined.

  “It’s okay, Cocoa. Daddy is just talking to the man,” Lisa said as she fumbled with the phone.

  “I been trying to catch up with you about this business I’m trying to start, and I think you’d be interested in getting in with me. My boy and I—”

  “I’m not looking to invest in anything right now, my man. I need to get my family inside and make sure they’re safe. So I’m gonna need for you to leave. It’s late, and you shouldn’t be on our property.”

  “I see what you’re saying, and I don’t mean any harm, but you changed your cell number. I reached out to your brother Sam. He told me over a week ago that he would holler at you about it, so I am just doing what I can to follow up.”

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I haven’t spoken to my brother. But I’m asking you nicely to please go ahead and leave, now!”

  Hearing the tone of her husband’s voice, Lisa began to pray that Los or whoever he was would listen, turn around, and leave. Marcus was a gentle giant, standing well over six feet and weighing nearly 280 pounds. He was well liked by everyone, and rarely did he get angry. But when he did, there was no calming him down and no stopping him once he got started.

  Either Los must’ve known Marcus was about to latch on to his raggedy self and fight him like a heavyweight boxer with no one to save him, or God heard Lisa’s prayer. Either way, the man quickly ran off into the darkness.