A CHANGE OF HEART: Book 1 of the Hartford Series Read online

  A Change of

  Heart

  Jermaine Watkins

  Facebook: @AuthorJermaineWatkins @TheHeartTrain.

  Twitter Instagram Snapchat Tumblr: @JermaineWatkins @TheHeartTrain.

  A CHANGE OF HEART: Book 1 of the Hartford Series

  Copyright © 2016 Jermaine Watkins

  ISBN: 1540636216

  ISBN 13: 9781540636218

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016919847

  CreateSpace Independent Publishing Platform

  North Charleston, South Carolina

  This novel is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this story are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

  All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the authr or publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

  In Loving Memory

  To Willie Brooks, Ethel L. Brooks, Willie C. Brooks, Willie M. Brooks, Leola Gibson, Lessie M. Coklay, Daniel Brooks, John Maxwell, Wilbur Gibson, JoAnn Franklin, Johnnie W. White, Rosa L. White, Apostle James Williams, Beverly Adams, Bronzell Dinkins, Linda Porter, Tralelia Twitty, Bradley Twitty...

  and in remembrance of the satanic demonstrations of prejudice that have claimed thousands of Americans in our present time of war.

  May God bless us all, and keep us safe.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  It would feel unfair to let go unnoticed those people who truly believed in me. I list them in alphabetical order:

  Dawn Adams

  Paul Adams

  Ebony Brooks

  Katie L. Brooks

  Mary F. Brooks

  Preston Bryant

  Patricia Dinkins

  Arthur L. Franklin

  Candace Franklin-Cooper

  Pamela Franklin

  Carissa Holmes

  Abisola Igun

  Justin McCalop

  Troy McCalop, Jr

  Priscilla Pinkney-James

  Kitty Snow

  Sharolyn Snow

  Rever Stanley

  Aliah Watkins

  Alyssa Watkins

  Ashley Watkins

  Cassandra Watkins

  Chalice Watkins

  James C. Watkins, Jr

  LaTanya Watkins

  Sean Watkins

  Shanice Watkins

  Shante Watkins

  Shelton Watkins

  Mother Dorothy Williams

  A VERY SPECIAL THANKS

  I would especially like to thank...

  The Lord Jesus

  The Supplier and Keeper of all my dreams.

  Mary and Johnnie White

  The greatest parents any child could ever want, who are currently working hard to help raise the next generation’s dreamers.

  Jack, James, and Gerald Watkins

  My three favorite big brothers in the whole wide world. You didn’t always understand my dream—especially in my youth—but you helped me protect it against anyone who would try to destroy it. Thanks!

  Tralelia Twitty

  My personal editor, who was firm in teaching me the difference between formula-written stories and great writing. Thanks for further teaching me to hone in on the “meat of the story,” and for introducing me to the writing of Ernest Hemingway. I love and miss you. Rest in peace, baby.

  “Not everything that is faced can be changed. But nothing can be changed until it is faced.”

  — James Baldwin

  Contents

  Prologue

  Part One Summer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Part Two Autumn

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  PROLOGUE

  Ross Crass awoke to the crackling sound of burning wood and inhaled the light aroma of fresh smoke. His unidentifiable surroundings were aglow with flickering red light. He lay on a massive black rock, eerily soft and smooth, and felt the greatest relaxation he had ever experienced. Where am I? he wondered.

  Sitting up, he beheld a sight so shocking that he could only gasp: The rock rose high above a body of blood-red water that stretched as far as he could see. Faint white mist floated above the gently rolling surface of the water, kissing it now and then as the water rolled away from the rock on all sides. Suddenly, it occurred to Ross that it was not fire burning, as he had previously perceived. He was surrounded by boiling water.

  Startled beyond belief, Ross fell back on his elbows when a magnificent being soundlessly materialized from out of nowhere. It appeared to be a man, but Ross knew that it was impossible for humans to reach the height of this figure who floated before him now. His thick arms rippled with muscles and were the same earth-brown color as the trunk of a timeless tree, and his hands could more than hold Ross’s body—all 6 feet, 4 inches—without stretching to do so. A coarse, shiny Afro topped his head, and his onyx eyes appeared to consume everything within view. He wore a long flowing robe, which moved as if it were blown by a wind that Ross could not feel. The robe appeared to be made of gold, filling the space with its rays of bright, pure light.

  “What’s up, Ross?” the man asked in a voice like a thousand blaring trumpets.

  Ross opened his mouth but could not speak. Then he spotted the enormous double mounds of wings that arched high above the man’s shoulders. The feathers were perfect, black and silky, like a raven’s. Who are you? Ross thought. What are you?

  “I’m an angel of the Lord,” he answered Ross’s thoughts. “You in the Waitin’ Room, which got paths to three different dimensions: One goes to the Holy City of Heaven. The other is to Earth. And last, of course, there’s the one that leads to Hell. I been sent as a messenger to give you a wake-up call, my man. Your life been so evil God had to put it on pause. He knows your sinful past and present—and the burnin’ Hell you’ll face in the future if you don’t learn.”

  “Learn what?” Ross shouted. Springing to his feet as fast as he could, he prepared to defend the truth as it had been taught to him by his parents. God was pure and white and despised a whole race of people so much that He had cursed them with black skin. There were no black angels—not Michael, Gabriel, or any of the others. In fact, this experience with the nigger thing seemed blasphemous against God, the God whose divinity did not allow room in Heaven for Afro hairstyles and slang-talkin’ and pimp-walking and drive-by shootings—and all the other disgusting things he had ever associated with blacks.

  “You must learn about life!” The blaring trumpets in the angel’s voice were full of wrath and power, causing his throat to contract as he spoke. He balled his enormous fists, preparing to reach back and punch the mortal deep into the dimension of Hell, where he had a strong possibility of ending up. The angel had heard Ross’s ugly inner conversation about what he thought of blacks and fought to control himself. His supreme job was not to duke it out with the mortal; he was just a messenger of God.

  “Ross, what you see when you look at me?”

  “An angel?” Now Ross spoke in a low voice. He lowered his shoulders in surrender. The angel’s furious retaliation had terrified him. Besides, he knew that it was physically impossible to win a fight against the angel, even in a dream. But the longer he stood on the rock, surrounded by the blood-colored water and the slow-moving white mist, the more he began to believe it was all real.

  “That�
�s all you see, my man? That I don’t look like them niggas on Earth?” The angel’s eyes were dark and clever and smiling in the bright gold light that radiated from his robe. He was hinting at Ross’s secret prejudice in a way that gave Ross the impression that the angel already knew.

  But Ross no longer wanted to discuss “niggas,” skin color, or his deeply embedded hatred. He especially did not want to reveal how drastically far he’d gone to keep his white world free from one particular nigger, Clarence Jackson. He had tried to blast off the ugly black face of the aspiring writer with his gun, but the violent confrontation had ended with Ross’s taking the bullet.

  “Am I a nigga?” The angel’s voice was a whisper. Once again, it was obvious that he already knew the question’s answer, and his anger returned. He floated closer to Ross. Glittering gold dust from his robe sizzled as it fell down into the boiling red water. “Why now you scared to say what you called me and the rest of the black race all your life? Don’t you see that’s why God arranged this meetin’? I wasn’t even in existence before your outrageous hatred was such that it moved Him. He needed to get an important message to you. He sent me especially as proof that the same God powerful enough to create white people and white angels also creates black people and black angels. My very name was chosen as a seal of all the evil hatred you and other prejudiced whites carry in your hearts for the black race. But now, here you stand, afraid to say it.”

  “I... do not know your... name,” Ross said, stepping backward until his feet came to the edge of the rock. This is a trick, he thought. If I call the angel a nigger, my chosen dimension will surely be Hell.

  Ross’s thoughts immediately disappeared in terror, as the Higher Authority swooped down and forward, stopping an inch from the mortal’s face. Ross squeezed his eyes closed to block out the robe’s powerful light.

  “Say my name!” the angel commanded.

  “Nigger.” Ross whispered the word and fell to his knees. He was so consumed by fear that he willed himself to cry. But he could only sob tearlessly, no matter how much he squeezed his eyes closed.

  “You can open your eyes and stop tryin’ to make tears, ’cause it ain’t happenin’ here. Tears is an Earthly thing. There’s none of that stuff here in the spiritual realm.”

  Nigger pointed down to the boiling water. “Here, everything got significance. Like this body of water that must look strange to you. But I know you was brought up in church. You read about the great Red Sea that parted and rose to the sky to make an escape passage for the runaway Hebrew slaves. A great man named Moses led the way under the strict guidance and power of our God.”

  “Where are you going with this?” Ross cut off the angel’s speech in frustration. It was true that he had been raised in a strict Christian household. He had probably read every chapter in the Bible at least ten times and knew them well, especially the holy battle Moses won over Pharaoh. But he did not know how the story could be relevant to his life or why the black angel chose to go on and on talking about it.

  “This sea is relevant to your life,” Nigger said. Again, he had heard the mortal’s thoughts. “This is where you got to cross over to enter the dimension back to Earth. Just like Moses and the rest of the Hebrews, who’d been in bondage for a very long time, you in bondage too, Ross—with yourself. All tangled up in prejudice and hate, and it done affected your life in the worst way on Earth: You got no friends... nobody to love...You nearly got killed after your run-in with Clarence Jackson.... But you ended up here, surrounded by the Red Sea, and it’s very relevant. Our wonderful God done thought up a clever situation to set your soul free!”

  “What are you getting at?” Ross asked.

  “You goin’ back to Earth for a second chance to turn your life around and learn how to love all humankind. But be forewarned: On your return, there’ll be a great surprise waitin’ for you.” The golden rays of light from his robe illuminated his serious onyx eyes. “Now it’s time I leave you to start your... sentence,” he said.

  Ross closed his eyes to blot it all out, all the confusion. This is just a bizarre nightmare, he thought. And then, with his eyes still closed, he counted to ten. His eyes reopened to find the tall black angel still in his presence, much to his great disappointment.

  “But why me?” he yelled. “I’m sure there are others on Earth more prejudiced than I am. Why is my life so significant to be made an example of?”

  Nigger’s wings stretched out long and wide. They began moving back and forth, slowly at first, and then their speed increased into a full flapping rhythm. The powerful wind from the angel’s flapping wings blew away the steamy mist from the surface of the red water as he lifted up into the air.

  “Wait! Where are you going? What kind of surprise will I face?” Ross’s questions were cut short as a small crack appeared at the edge of the black rock where it met the water. The crack expanded away from the rock, into the seabed, and the water parted, as if some unseen creature swam just below the surface. In a matter of seconds, there were two towering walls of blood red water, separated only by a dirt path that had appeared a mere step down from the rock.

  Ross beheld the brightest white light he had ever seen in the distance. It was making its way toward him, completely filling the large tunnel through the water. The mesmerizing effect distracted his thoughts. He soon forgot all about the black angel, where he was, or wondering why he was beckoned there. Nothing mattered more than the precious white light that pierced his soul with a feeling so overwhelmingly wonderful that he gasped, trying to stabilize his breathing, as if he were blasted by the mighty winds of a hurricane.

  In his haste to meet the light, to absorb it into his skin and become one with it, Ross stepped down off the rock and onto the dirt path in its direction.

  PART ONE

  Summer

  1

  Ross’s eyes opened weakly as he awoke from sleep. He swallowed hard, wincing, as he tasted a parched dryness in his mouth. When he felt a tiny tingle at the bottom of his foot, he moved his toes slightly.

  Dr. Craig Taylor was at the foot of the bed, getting ready to touch the bottom of Ross’s other foot with a needle, when he heard Ross gasp. He glanced up to acknowledge the awakening of his patient.

  “Don’t try to speak—just rest,” the doctor said, pricking Ross’s right foot. He smiled when he saw Ross’s toes make the same small movements as the toes on his left foot. Then he rose and walked to the head of the bed, where Ross lay propped up on four fat pillows.

  Ross smiled back, before surrendering to the joyful tears that filled his eyes, as he stared at the white face of the doctor. Now he knew he had never had a spiritual confrontation with a black angel. It was just a nightmare.

  “Welcome back to the world! Honestly, you’ve got to keep out of trouble,” the young doctor said with a smile. Dr. Taylor had first met Ross, a once reputable literary agent, at Hartford Hospital. There had been much scandal in the news about Ross’s white supremacist attitudes, which led him to a violent altercation with some writer. However, Dr. Taylor never questioned the lifestyle of his reclusive patient, who spent many days working to regain his health.

  Ross had lost his business and wealth in a legal settlement awarded to the writer, but Dr. Taylor didn’t let that affect their professional relationship. He had learned time and time again through experience that a doctor’s job went far beyond professional obligation. He was the kind of person who loved helping others, and that part of his job was a personal quality, a gift from God in the harsh reality of medicine. He was kind enough to help locate an affordable place for Ross to live when he left the hospital. It wouldn’t be permanent housing, but it would suffice until Ross could get back to work. Dr. Taylor promised to stay in touch and reassured Ross with the phrase he had used in the hospital: “If you ever need me, just call.”

  Now, in a barely audible, raspy voice, Ross managed to ask, “Why are you here?”

  Dr. Taylor patted the other man’s hand and began to explain
what horrible events had occurred the night before.

  Ross was sitting outside in his wheelchair in front of his apartment building, scanning the rundown housing project that was his new home. Sparkling pieces of shattered glass and stray garbage speckled Hexter Street, the main road that passed through a neighborhood of about a hundred four-story red brick buildings.

  The street was overcrowded with unfamiliar black faces of people who were outdoors now that the sweltering heat from earlier that summer day had subsided. Children were playing football in the street, jumping rope on the sidewalks, and leaping into cool water that gushed from an open hydrant. Adults sat on apartment building steps in animated gossip sessions, listening to music so loud that it caused Ross’s wheelchair to vibrate. He had forced himself to come outside only to escape baking to death in his oven-hot apartment.

  “Hello.”

  Ross jumped at the sudden sound of a young black woman’s voice as she approached his side. He made a quick right turn in his wheelchair, rolling from the wide asphalt walkway onto the grass and dirt path that passed below Clyde Barren’s first-floor window. The middle-aged black man, who lived across the hall from Ross, was the maintenance man for the entire housing project. From the first day, he had offered to help Ross up and down the few steps in front of their apartment building.

  But now Clyde did not seem to hear as Ross repeatedly called his name, “Clyde! Clyde! Clyde!”

  “Please, don’t go,” the young woman said with a sweet voice and disarming smile that compelled Ross to stop calling for his neighbor. He slowly wheeled himself around to face the ebony stranger, whose freshly permed hair reached down to her shoulders. Her short summer dress with spaghetti straps and a bright floral print set off her youthful good looks.

  “Sorry... didn’t mean to scare you.” As the woman took a seat on the steps, her eyes darted all around, as if she were expecting someone.

  “How long you live here?” she asked.