The Trinity Game

rewards of “abundant relationships” and “abundant health”). The other two had no interest in abundance of any sort. They preached that the End Times are upon us and the only thing that matters is getting right with Jesus in time to catch the Rapture and avoid being here for the living nightmare that will soon torment those left behind.
    Despite their differences, they’d come together for a live roundtable discussion on television, to present a dire and urgent warning to the world:
    Reverend Tim Trinity is not a servant of the Lord, and his followers are being led away from righteousness and salvation and straight to eternal damnation in hell.
    That was the message. The case they were making to the world. They quoted a ton of scripture and carefully explained how each quote helped make the case. And they frequently returned to the warning, repeating it exactly the same, word for word, each time.
    Andrew Thibodeaux sat at the Formica counter, absently stirring sugar into his eighth cup of coffee while starting at the television. He’d stopped at the Chevron next door to gas up, had almost fallen asleep standing at the pump, and realized how hungry he was when his eyes snapped open and the familiar yellow aluminum siding with the glossy black letters came into focus.
    WAFFLE HOUSE
    Two words that spelled
oasis
across the Southland. Even the red, white, and blue banner spanning the top of the menu provided comfort, assurance. Tim Trinity was not the Messiah and nothing made sense anymore, but a Waffle House was still a Waffle House, buttermilk biscuits were still buttermilk biscuits, and America was still America.
    Andrew needed that assurance. Needed it badly.
    But it wasn’t enough.
    The End Times preachers on the television weren’t satisfied with warning everyone what Tim Trinity was
not
and moved the conversation to what Trinity
might be
.
    Pastor Billy Danforth made their case. “Please understand, I’m not saying that Tim Trinity is the Antichrist. I’m saying he
could
be, and failure to look at the evidence is an abandonment of our pastoral duty…”
    The waitress who smelled of old lady perfume stopped by to collect Andrew’s empty plates and said something about all the coffee he was drinking. He wasn’t listening, but she laughed andhe realized she’d made some kind of joke, so he smiled at her and made a laughing sound before turning back to the television.
    “…The prophecies in scripture provide characteristics of the Son of Perdition, and you can’t deny a good number describe Trinity. Does he not present himself as an apostle of Jesus while preaching a different Jesus? Does he not make war with the saints and seek to change God’s law? In his last televised sermon he said,
Paul was wrong
. If that isn’t making war with the saints, pray tell me what is…”
    Andrew remembered to stop stirring his coffee, put the spoon down.
    “…Does he not speak great things and tongues, and understand dark sentences, and does the whole world not wonder after him? Indeed, has he not deceived millions into thinking he is the returning Messiah?”
    Andrew remembered to drink some coffee, noticed it was cold.
    “The Antichrist shall rise up out of the water,” said the other End Times preacher, deftly taking the baton. “And this man’s career rose up to new heights from the floodwaters of Hurricane Katrina. And I find it ominous that we know absolutely nothing of Tim Granger—that’s his real name, I refuse to call him Trinity—we know nothing of Granger’s bloodline on his father’s side...”
    Andrew Thibodeaux swallowed the rest of his coffee, signaled the waitress for a refill, and returned to the screen.

New Orleans, Louisiana…
    A s they drove into the city, Daniel was struck by the number of rooftops still covered with blue tarpaulin, Dumpsters in driveways, portable storage containers on front lawns. Six years after Katrina, and New Orleans—the cultural womb of the South, the city that gave America much of its soul—was still struggling to her feet.
    It’s a
shanda
, he thought, recalling the Yiddish word Julia once taught him. He turned onto South Carrolton, and as they rose to higher ground, the blue tarpaulins disappeared and the city looked more like her old self.
    He drove in on Magazine Street, and as they passed Bordeaux he felt a smile invade his face. Le Bon Temps was still in business and, aside from a fresh coat of paint, looked the same as when he drank and