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  “Yes, but … I am so confused.”

  “It is a very natural thing. Since you have not yet divested yourself of all your earthly trappings and involvements, I suppose you are still thinking of your family,” IRA said.

  “Yes, I am, very much. Is there some way I could see them? I just need to know that they are all right.”

  “You’ll see them at your funeral.”

  “I’m going to my own funeral?”

  “Nearly everyone does. Of course, you don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

  “No, I want to go. How do I do it?”

  “You just will yourself there.”

  “When is the funeral?”

  “Yesterday, now, tomorrow, one year ago, one year from now.”

  “Now, that doesn’t make one lick of sense.”

  “Sure it does, if you realize there is no such thing as time here. At least, not as you are used to it. Now is when you choose now to be. Do you want to go to the funeral now?”

  “Yes.”

  IRA raised his hand, or, he would have raised it if he had a hand. POTUS was beginning to understand that he was constructing the visuals in his own mind, like lifting a needle on a phonograph record and dropping it on a specific song—to put it in old-fashioned terms that POTUS as a youngster in the 1960s would understand. “Will yourself there.”

  CHAPTER

  48

  Washington, D.C.

  Half a million people were watching as the same horse-drawn caisson that had borne the body of JFK, Franklin Roosevelt, and the Unknown Soldier carried the assassinated President’s polished bronze casket down Pennsylvania Avenue. Muffled drums and the clacking hooves of the horses pulling the caisson were the only sounds to be heard on Pennsylvania Avenue. Those gathered along either side of the street watched in stunned and saddened silence as the cortège made its way to the Capitol, where the body would lie in state.

  POTUS watched the funeral cortège from several different angles, sometimes looking down on it, sometimes from the caisson looking out toward the people paying their respects, and sometimes from the crowd itself, standing next to someone—or assuming the illusion of standing next to someone.

  “He was a good man. He was a good president. What’s gotten into people that they are so quick to kill, anymore?”

  “Killing is the natural order of things,” another said. “It thins out the herd and allows only the strong to survive.”

  From this speaker, POTUS felt a wave of cold, and as he looked at him, it was almost as if he was surrounded by a black cloud. POTUS found that very strange, and he would have to remember to ask IRA about it.

  He willed himself to the Rotunda.

  In the Rotunda, Win Jackson managed to hold back her tears, as did her son, Marcus Jr. POTUS stood beside them. He leaned over and kissed Win on the cheek and smiled, or imagined himself smiling, when Win reached up to put her fingers on the exact spot he had kissed. He would have to remember that on future visits.

  During the public viewing, hundreds of thousands of mourners waited for hours in a line that stretched for four miles, fifteen persons wide, for the opportunity to view the casket. Inside the Rotunda, the closed and flag-draped coffin was guarded at each of its four corners by members of the military.

  After the viewing, the body was transported to the National Cathedral, and though there were only one thousand invited guests inside, millions around the world watched the funeral on television. Major General Ken Coats, Chief of Chaplains, conducted the funeral, and Charles Crawford delivered the eulogy.

  “The world knew Marcus L. Jackson Sr. in many ways. Many of the world’s leaders knew him as a man who was quick to offer support to allies when such support was needed. Other leaders, those who would do harm to the United States, knew him as a fierce enemy who would stand up for the freedom of his country.

  “Nations in strife, suffering from floods, hurricanes, earthquakes, fires, and famine, knew Marcus Jackson as a man of compassion, one who reacted quickly to provide assistance where assistance was needed.

  “Historians will know him as a black president, an inspiring speaker, and a great motivator. Win knew him as her husband, and Marcus Jr. knew him as his father.

  “I come from a slightly different perspective. In the army I knew him as my commanding officer. In my professional life, I knew him as my boss. But on a personal level, I knew him as the closest friend I will ever have, and I know him as the man who braved enemy fire to throw me over his shoulder and save my life.”

  It was difficult for Charley Crawford to get through the eulogy—he choked up at least three times and had to stop to regain his composure.

  Then Charlene St. John sang her most beautiful and heartfelt song: “Someone, Somewhere.”

  Do you see the light

  Of all creation: the day, the night?

  A universe of peace and love

  Of goodness that comes down from above

  Take his hand

  And you will understand

  That we are one

  We are one

  We are one

  Never had she sung it more beautifully, and never had POTUS heard more beautiful music.

  “It is truly the voice of an angel,” POTUS said on the Other Side. “And though I have heard this song before, I don’t think I ever heard the words, I mean truly heard the words, before now.” It was as if the notes didn’t just form chords; they created intentions as well. Inspiration held a whole new meaning for him.

  Instantaneously, POTUS found himself standing in the private garden of the White House. This memorial was not for the nation, but for his immediate family and close friends. From POTUS’s perspective, there was absolutely no time between the public funeral and the private memorial, but POTUS was learning to deal with that. It was here that POTUS felt love in a way that he had never experienced before. Love, joy, and fulfillment were all wrapped up into one feeling, and when he looked at Win, his beautiful wife, he knew immediately that somehow she would be all right and manage to move on. He didn’t know how he knew this, but it was something that he just knew.

  POTUS and Win had never really discussed a potential future without him in it, with her having to take care of their only child, fifteen-year-old Marcus. He knew that she would be fine financially, and security was a way of life for all of them. He looked at his son and couldn’t be more proud. Marcus Jr. was standing way off to one corner of the garden, separated from the others. He was grieving, yes; it showed clearly on his face. But that same face, even as it showed grief, was also showing strength and maturity, more strength and maturity than POTUS ever would have imagined a young teenager could exhibit.

  IRA looked over at POTUS and said, “Go ahead.”

  Go ahead? How did IRA know what he wanted to do?

  Then, even as he was thinking that, IRA reminded him that now, everything was thought form, without boundaries, which meant that his thoughts were as audible here, as the spoken word had been in the before life. It was also part of IRA’s job to assist.

  IRA handed POTUS a TiVo remote. “This is to help you deal with the concept of time,” IRA said. “You have to understand that in the ribbon of time, everything that has ever happened is still happening, and that means you can move forward or backwards at will.”

  “With a TiVo remote control?”

  IRA said, “Admittedly, that is a gimmick. But do you remember how I told you that I appeared to you in the form of a secret service agent so you would not freak out? You saw me as the actor Martin Sheen, because that was your frame of reference. This, too, is part of your frame of reference. I have seen the commercials about how you can fast forward through the commercial, rewind, and pause … so hit the pause button.”

  “Hit the pause button? What is that supposed to do?” POTUS asked.

  “Why don’t you hit it, and find out?”

  POTUS hit the pause button and watched the action in front of him freeze as if the world was a large movi
e screen with 3D HD images that no longer moved. POTUS hit play, and it moved again. He then hit reverse frame and the whole scene shifted. This moment was really starting to feel like It’s a Wonderful Life, with Jimmy Stewart and his guardian angel standing next to him.

  IRA looked at him. “Do you understand the concept now?”

  “Yes, I think I do.”

  “Good. Are you ready?”

  “I am.”

  POTUS realized that he was actually looking forward to it, even to the scene at the end where he would watch himself get shot.

  “Once you thoroughly embrace the concept, you won’t need the remote. You can go anywhere within your lifetime quite easily; in fact, you will discover that you can go anywhere in the history of the world. And, as I told you, time is a ribbon so everything that has ever happened is still happening. That means you can move forward or backwards at will.”

  “What about going into the future?” POTUS asked.

  “We can proceed forward along the line of probable events based on today’s actions, but there is a problem with that, in that the timeline comes to an end in the not-too-distant future.”

  “You mean they are right? All these crazy ‘end-of-the-world kooks,’ who spout off the doomsday scenarios, the third secret of Fatima, the Y2K, and the Mayan 2012 conspiracies?”

  “You didn’t really just call the entire Mayan people crazy, did you, sir?”

  “What? You mean the 2012 thing isn’t just a kooky idea? It has to be. It’s past 2012, and we are still here, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, and no. Clearly, the date is not 2012, and quite sincerely, we don’t know the actual date, because so much depends on the acceleration of the negative tsunami of energy blanketing your world. We can’t see the end, as the negative forces want that edge. That is why so many are going back.”

  “Going back? Wait a minute, you mean reincarnation is real?”

  “Sir, oh … all these questions … it is almost not fair that I am only one packet of conscious energy, and yet they want me to assist one of the greatest minds ever to incarnate.”

  POTUS felt himself beaming and flattered at IRA’s remark. He let himself embrace the ego of IRA’s statement. “IRA, are you telling me that I am seen here as one of the greatest minds?”

  Suddenly the Governor of the Council of Elders appeared before them. “No,” he said in a voice that showed his irritation. “You were seen as one of the greatest minds there, though I’m not sure I know why. Here, you have to participate in your own transition and learning. God has a plan for all of us, and he needs your help.”

  The Governor was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

  “I wish he wouldn’t do that!” POTUS said.

  “Yes, sir, that is quite annoying to me as well, the way he just pops up like that. Now, where were we? I lost my train of—”

  “We were talking about reincarnation,” POTUS said.

  “No, you were talking about reincarnation. Now, please pay attention. There is much to do and I don’t have all eternity.” IRA laughed then, a cackling, high-pitched, and discordant laugh. “Actually, I do have all eternity, but I would rather not spend it acting as a guide to your Walt Disney Dead World experience. So, may we just focus on your funeral, sir?”

  When POTUS didn’t respond, IRA heaved a big sigh.

  “Hit the button, sir,” he said. “Hit the button.”

  CHAPTER

  49

  When POTUS returned to the funeral, he focused on his son. Marcus Jr. was holding back his tears and trying to be strong. POTUS thought he was a perfect blend of his mother and himself. Marcus had beautiful eyes with just the suggestion of an epicanthic fold, light brown with gold specks that complemented his light brown skin.

  Like his father, young Marcus kept his hair cropped close to his head. POTUS had never allowed it to grow into a full Afro. This was a personal choice that became a professional mandate. It was nice to know that America had come so far as to elect a black man who was married to a Vietnamese woman to the office of President of the United States. Yet, here IRA and his seemingly vast army were ready to march onto Earth to battle the bad guys.

  Could it be that this whole thing was no more than a weird hallucinatory dream? Could it be that he wasn’t dead at all, that someone had just slipped him something at a cocktail party?

  “Sir, would you keep this moving, please?” IRA said irritably. “Having to follow your thoughts has become tedious, almost beyond endurance. Eternity, sir. Eternity?”

  Metaphorically “hitting the pause button” on his life remote, everything stopped. POTUS moved closer to Marcus, and as he did so, he could feel his pain. Everything in his being wanted to take the pain away from his son.

  “No,” IRA said, reading POTUS’s emotional response, even before he formulated the thought.

  “What would it hurt to assuage his grief?” POTUS asked.

  “Do you think there is any emotion without cause or consequence? Grief is planting seeds in the garden of his life, and it could help inspire him to be great. You will have the opportunity to help him, though.”

  “How? When?”

  “Now,” IRA said. With that one word, they were no longer in the garden. Instead, they were in Marcus’s bedroom, and Marcus was asleep. This moving back and forth on the ribbon of time no longer surprised POTUS, and it seemed as natural as breathing to have gone within the blink of an eye from a beautiful sunny afternoon to the middle of night. The darkness of the bedroom was illuminated only by the green glowing digits of the clock—2:23—and the blue light of the TV satellite box.

  “You can communicate with him now,” IRA said.

  “How?”

  “By joining him in his sleep. All you have to do is think about him and it will be like tuning in to a radio frequency.”

  POTUS found it almost ridiculously easy to do as IRA suggested. He thought of his son, and the next thing he knew he was walking toward the back part of the three-level brick manor house that was their private home in Savannah, Georgia. It was midafternoon, and the lawn had just been cut. The gardens were in full bloom with a myriad of flowers of all sizes and types. They exploded in a profusion of color, their scent perfuming the air.

  POTUS heard the bouncing of a basketball on the cement pad that had been poured alongside the house, and he projected himself there in time to see Marcus make a long jump shot, his right arm extended as the ball started its arc, his hand pointing as if willing the ball to get all net. It swished through cleanly.

  “A three-pointer,” POTUS said. “Impressive.”

  As he hoped would happen, when the boy turned toward him, POTUS felt an explosion of energy from his son. “Daddeeeeeeeeeee! Is this real? Are you here, or are you a ghost? It doesn’t matter, I see you, that makes you real to me. I love you, Daddy. I love you.”

  “How is your mom doing, son? I miss her so much.”

  “I guess she’s doing okay.” It was difficult for the fifteen-year-old to process that he was talking to his dad, let alone answer questions. But he pulled together all his strength and concentration, for he sensed this was a unique moment.

  “And how about Charley?”

  “Uncle Charley is really sad. Everyone is sad—Mama and me the most, then Uncle Charley. Can I still call him uncle? I mean, I know he isn’t my real uncle, but now that you are gone, can I still call him uncle?”

  “Yes, of course you can.”

  “Miss St. John came to sing at your funeral. And the writer that I like? Dawson Rask? He sent me an autographed book.”

  “You are going to have to be very grown up now, Marcus. You are the man of the house.”

  “That’s what Mama says. Daddy, how is it that we are talking, but there aren’t any words being spoken?”

  “It is because this is a conversation between our souls.”

  “Does that mean this isn’t real?”

  “How does it feel to you?”

  “It feels real.”

  �
��Then it is real.”

  “Is it real enough that I can give you a hug?”

  POTUS looked over toward IRA, who had been hanging to one side, watching with complete dispassion. IRA nodded yes.

  “What are you looking at?” Marcus asked. “Is someone there? Someone that I can’t see?”

  “Can you see me?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s all that matters. Do you still want the hug?”

  POTUS opened his arms and his son came to him, filling his arms like a hand filling a glove. POTUS sensed that the connection between them wasn’t actually physical, but the embrace was one of the most powerful feelings he had ever experienced.

  Marcus pulled away from him, and when he looked up, POTUS could see tears streaming down his son’s cheeks. They were also streaming down POTUS’s right arm. That didn’t upset him as much as perplex him.

  “IRA, how could—?”

  IRA interrupted his question. “Later, sir. Be in the moment. We will have to leave soon.”

  Marcus looked to see whom POTUS was speaking to, but could not see IRA. “There is someone else here, isn’t there? Who is here?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Marcus, I need you to do something for me. I need you to tell your mama that I came to you and that I am okay. I just have some things to take care of, and when I do, I will come back. Can you do that for me, son?”

  “Yes, Daddy, I can. Daddy … Can I help you? Do you need me?”

  “No! Absolutely not!” IRA blurted out.

  By now POTUS was beginning to realize that while IRA was his guide, the adviser wasn’t his superior. So he responded to his son as he wanted to, without regard to IRA’s negativity.

  “Marcus, I will always need your help. I need you to tell your mama that I am all right. Remember, I will be with you—and the family—remember what I always told you. When you miss me…”