The Sacrifice

by Robert Whitlow

  “No.”

  “Would you like to eat it with a friend?”

  Scott smiled. “At the school?”

  “Of course. We’re having tacos and applesauce again, and it made me think about you. Lunch is at 12:20.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Kay’s call was brief, but it drove away the lingering darkness from his earlier encounter with the Garrisons. There was a lightness in her voice that made him notice that the sun was shining outside his window.

  Scott looked down at the street below. A woman and her small child were holding hands as they walked happily down the sidewalk. No matter what happened in State v. Garrison during the next few weeks people would still hold hands and eat tacos and applesauce. He opened Lester’s file and called the sheriff ’s department. Maybe Officers Hinshaw and Dortch were on duty.

  After the phone call to Scott, Kay returned to her classroom. Her next group of students arrived and began working on an assignment that involved reading excerpts from a technical journal and answering detailed questions about the subject matter of the article. It was a new method of developing reading comprehension in the computer age.

  While the students labored in silence trying to decipher the convoluted language, Kay secretly basked in the outer court of the realm where heavenly creatures surround the throne of God in unceasing worship. All morning she’d lived in the midst of a song—a first fruit of the new life taking shape within her.

  It had been a morning unlike any other. It began at daybreak.

  Before her eyes were fully open, the song came to her. She lay in bed, listening, amazed, afraid to move lest it leave. Then, when the demands of the day made her get up, she threw back the covers, and to her delight, the song didn’t disappear. It was stronger, more alive, more enduring than the mundane activities of her morning routine. Over and over a refrain of thanksgiving, joy, adoration, and praise rippled through her. She hummed softly as she walked through her apartment.

  Music has the capacity to bypass the mind, speak to the heart, and communicate a thought with a richness of feeling beyond the ability of words. It is one of the many doors that lead to the deep places of the human spirit. Every door has its own key. Each key is unique.

  A mountain vista.

  A beach on an unclouded day.

  A painting that captures the mood of a moment.

  A poem or phrase.

  A smell, a taste, a touch.

  And there is a door to the heart that only opens to the sound of a song.

  The circumstances of Kay’s life had never been more bleak. The night before her attorney had left a message on her answering machine that the final hearing in her divorce case was scheduled in two weeks. Jake had signed an affidavit stating that the marriage was irretrievably broken, and there was nothing Kay could do to stop him. Her marriage had failed, and although Jake had abandoned her, Kay couldn’t shake the nagging accusation that somehow it was probably her fault. If she’d written a poem that expressed her mood before she turned out the lights, it would have been a melancholy ballad, not an ode to joy. She’d gone to bed sad, only to awaken surprised by the glory of a new day and a new song.

  Driving to school, she didn’t listen to the radio for the morning news or weather report. Better news echoed within her. She didn’t stop by the teachers’ lounge to drink a cup of coffee or chat for a few minutes, but went straight to her classroom to be alone. She wanted to safeguard her newfound treasure from intrusion by unknowing outsiders. Fortunately, it was a test day for most of her classes, and once she handed out the questions, she sat at her desk and continued to listen to the sounds of heaven that had been released in her heart. She decided to share her joy with someone familiar with her pain. During a break, she had called Scott.

  At lunchtime Scott stopped by the school office to sign in. Dr. Lassiter came out and greeted him.

  “How is the mock trial team doing?”

  “Fine. We’re meeting two days a week in the evenings.”

  “Is Mrs. Wilson providing the assistance that you need?”

  Scott hadn’t considered evaluating Kay’s role in the process and quickly decided to put in a good word for her.

  “She’s outstanding. I couldn’t ask for anyone better. We’re meeting today in the cafeteria.”

  “Excellent.” The principal patted him on the shoulder. “It’s a Mexican menu today. I hope you like tacos.”

  “Tacos and applesauce,” Scott responded. “Two of my favorites.”

  He walked down the crowded hallway to the cafeteria. Kay was not in sight, and he waited inside the door. In a minute, she came into the room from the opposite side. He watched her make her way toward him. She was as beautiful as ever, but the thing that immediately grabbed Scott’s attention as she came closer was the expression on her face. She looked very happy.

  “What’s happened?” he asked. “I put in a good word for you with Dr. Lassiter, but it’s too quick for it to translate into a pay raise.”

  Kay smiled. “We’ll talk in the faculty dining room.”

  They made their way down the food line. Scott received the normal ration of applesauce and two tacos. Dessert was listed as rice pudding. He inspected the granular pellets inside the congealed substance. They were not moving, which he took to be a good sign.

  As soon as they sat down, Kay burst out, “Scott, I have had the most wonderful morning. Ever since I woke up, I’ve had a song inside my head.”

  Scott nodded and swallowed his first bite of taco. “I’ve done that. When I get a new CD, I’ll hum my favorite cut over and over for days. What’s the name of the song?”

  “No, this is different from what you’re talking about. It’s not a song I’ve heard before. It’s spontaneous.”

  Scott chewed another bite as he listened. “What kind of song?”

  “Simple words—thank you, praise you, bless you.”

  “Oh, is it something you learned at church?”

  Kay shook her head. “No. At first I thought it could be a memory coming to the surface, but it’s not. I’m sure it has something to do with what has happened to me at the church, but the minister didn’t talk about God putting a song in your heart.”

  So far, Kay hadn’t made a bit of sense.

  Still clueless, Scott asked, “Did you write it down?”

  Kay didn’t answer. She put her hand over her mouth. “There it is again.” She closed her eyes.

  This was getting a bit weird. Scott watched for a second, then glanced around the room to see if anyone else noticed that Kay Wilson was sitting in front of a full plate of food with her eyes closed and her hand over her mouth. The rest of the teachers and staff were munching their tacos, unaware of the newborn mystic in their presence. Scott swallowed a couple of bites before Kay opened her eyes and looked at him. She was beaming.

  “I’m sorry. You must think I’m crazy,” she said.

  “I’m not sure what to think,” Scott answered truthfully. “You seem happy.”

  “Happy is not the right word; it doesn’t describe what’s happening. I mean, my lawyer called last night and left a message that the final hearing in my divorce case is in a couple of weeks. My circumstances are as bad as ever, but something has changed in my outlook.”

  “Coping is important,” Scott replied, hoping the new word fit.

  Kay leaned forward. “The song in here,” she said, pointing to her heart, “is more powerful than my troubles. Everything around me looks more vibrant and alive. Even your tie looks different. I’ve seen it before, but today the colors are more bright.”

  Scott glanced down at the blue-and-gold tie that hung from his neck. It was his favorite. A tiny spot of sauce from the taco had landed on one edge, and he carefully wiped it off with his thumb. Kay’s sorrow at the football field he understood. This new song and its effects on her attitude were outside his universe.

  “I know you are a very creative person,” he said slowly, “but the words you’re using don�
�t compute in my legal brain. At least you’re not down in the dumps. I hated it when you were so sad.”

  Kay sat back in her chair and relaxed. “I know. Thanks for caring.”

  “And you were a good person before this morning,” Scott continued. “If this is better, then go for it.”

  “So, do you think I’m crazy?” she asked.

  Scott captured the last mouthful of applesauce with his spoon.

  “Maybe. But it seems like a good crazy.”

  By the end of the day, Scott had made little progress in further investigating the Garrison case. None of the police officers had returned his calls. He tried to reach Bishop Moore, but the preacher was out of town for the afternoon and would not be home until the following day. At 5:30 P.M. he left the office. A few minutes later he pushed open the door to Dixon’s Body Shop.

  Perry was not in sight and the gym was more crowded than usual. After changing clothes, Scott decided to take a spin on the arm bike and was whirling away when Perry walked through the front door of the building with a short, stocky, older man with a bushy head of gray hair and a thick neck. Scott continued on the arm bike and watched as the older man strapped on a well-worn weightlifting belt and proceeded to warm up by easily lifting heavy barbells that would have been the personal best for many of the patrons of the gym. Perry stood ready to assist, but it was soon obvious to Scott that the stranger was not going to need any help.

  The man began performing a procedure known in weightlifting as a snatch. Squatting down low to the floor, he put his hands far out on the barbell. After getting a firm grip, he pulled up the weight, quickly locked his arms overhead, then stood up with the weight in the air. After a few minutes everyone else in the gym stopped to watch. Scott let the arm bike slowly rotate until it came to a halt. Additional weights were put on the end of the bar. Scott tried to calculate the total and had to start over when he lost track of the combination of large black discs.

  This was a serious lift, and the gray-haired man circled the barbell, staring at it and breathing slowly. He didn’t look at anyone else in the room. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he approached the barbell, squatted down, and positioned his hands. The room was completely silent. Perry stepped back.

  Then, with a yell that began deep in his chest, the man pulled up on the barbell and, with a movement so rapid that it was hard to follow, locked his arms overhead. He was still in a deep squat, and Scott stared at the man’s knees, wondering how they could stand the strain. The weightlifter’s thighs began to quiver as he tried to straighten his legs. He pushed upward and with a supreme effort slowly stood to his feet. He held the weight over his head for a couple of seconds then stepped out from under it, letting it fall to the mat in front of him. Scott wondered if the foundation under the floor might crack.

  Several people clapped and yelled. The man gave a slight bow and walked over to the water cooler. The show over, the other men returned to their own activities. Perry walked up to Scott.

  “What did you think of that?” Perry asked.

  “Awesome. Who is he?”

  “I can’t pronounce his name. He’s a fifty-nine-year-old Bulgarian. He was on their Olympic team about thirty years ago and came to the U.S. when things opened up.”

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “He heard about you and wanted to get some pointers about the arm bike. He’ll be over to ask you some questions after he rests for a minute.”

  “No, tell me.”

  Perry sat down on a stool. “He has a job with a company that makes door locks. They advertise their locks as the strongest and most durable in the industry. He’s their poster boy. One of the owners of the company has a house on Lake Norman and brought him up for the day. He wanted to work out before he puts on an exhibition at a trade show in Charlotte tomorrow.”

  “That was poetry in motion. I couldn’t believe how quick he was.”

  “It’s a lot more speed and technique than most people think.”

  “Is he going to do anything else?”

  “I don’t think so. He wanted to do some regular lifting and offered to put on a brief exhibition. I like to provide extras to my customers.”

  Scott watched as the Bulgarian began doing bench presses, his arms moving up and down like pistons.

  “What should I tell Linda?” Perry asked.

  “Linda? About what?” Scott asked.

  “When you mentioned poetry, it made me think of English teachers. When I think of English teachers, I think of Kay Laramie.”

  Scott opened a bottle of water and took a drink. “Tell Linda that Kay Wilson and I are friends—period. Her divorce is final in a couple of weeks, and she has been bouncing all over the chart. The other night at the football game she was crying her eyes out. Today at lunch she was talking about God putting a song in her heart and couldn’t wipe the smile from her face.”

  Perry shrugged. “What’s unusual about that? She’s a woman.”

  Scott chuckled. “Be careful, or I’ll report you to the chauvinist thought police.”

  “Is she going to go back to Kay Laramie after the divorce is final?”

  “I didn’t ask her because it wasn’t my business.”

  “Was it your business when you read her file at the courthouse?”

  “Don’t badger the witness,” Scott answered. “Just tell Linda that Kay’s name will not be Ellis anytime in the foreseeable future. I know better than to consider anything beyond friendship while she’s going through a divorce. A lot has changed in the years since high school.”

  “And a lot hasn’t.” Perry motioned toward the weightlifter. “Some things have enduring strength.”

  Sometimes, the sound and appearance of a word reflect its function. Not so with bomb. There is a softness to the word that hides its meaning. Spoken in a normal tone of voice, it does not convey a sense of explosive devastation. In a crowded room, it could be confused with a word of healing like balm.

  Bomb. He’d muttered and written the word over and over and over until it lost any sinister connotations and became a familiar friend. He wrote it on the margins of test papers in silent, hidden warning, but he was always careful to obliterate it before a teacher might see it. He was not a voice secretly crying for help. He was a volcano waiting to erupt.

  He revisited the image of the fire-filled hallway until it became a familiar fantasy. When he didn’t want to go to school, the mild rush he felt when he walked down the main hallway and imagined the moment of explosion drew him back. He often placed people he hated at the center of the maelstrom. He knew he couldn’t control everything about the moment of destruction, but he allowed himself to hope that particular individuals would be in the wrong place at the right time, or from his perspective, the right place at the right time.

  The number grew. It never shrank.

  21

  My sheep hear My voice.

  JOHN 10:27 (NKJV)

  Tao Pang was learning more English words. Most of them related to his work—trash, bathroom, mop, even disinfectant. Names were another matter. He was amazed at the length and complexity of Western names. It wouldn’t have been much more difficult for him if he’d landed in Russia.

  One afternoon he found a school yearbook in a trash can in the school office. The binding had been damaged and the book discarded. Tao recognized the outline of the school building imprinted on the cover and picked it up. He began to look at the pictures. The hundreds of faces on the pages were unfamiliar until he came to a group photograph of the janitorial staff. There were most of his coworkers, standing stiffly at attention in white shirts and dark-colored pants in front of the school trophy case. He continued turning pages, studying photos of the marching band, the chorus, the basketball team, the football team, the girls’ softball team. He could tell the yearbook was a record of the people and events at the school, but the significance of many of the pictures could not be understood without the ability to read the captions. Toward the back of the volume, he saw
pages of advertisements for local businesses. When he finished, Tao put the book in the large, plastic barrel he was using to collect the garbage.

  “Take the book.”

  Tao stopped and turned around. The voice was so clear that he thought someone had spoken to him from one of the offices. Then he realized the message was in his own language. No one in Blanchard County other than his family members knew those words. He picked up the yearbook from the trash container and looked at it again.

  This time he turned the pages more slowly, searching for the reason behind the command. The first section was devoted to seniors whose formal pictures were twice the size of the rest of the student classes. Tao could tell these were the older students. Nothing he saw on the pages caused him to pause. A third of the way through the junior-class pictures, he stopped. He recognized a young woman’s face. She looked like one of the girls who sat at the cafeteria table where the angels had assembled.

  “Does this have to do with her?” he asked.

  He studied the picture more closely. The girl had short, dark hair and a gentle smile. She had good eyes—clear eyes that had lost the need to hide what lay behind them. Yes, the girl with the good eyes was one of the students at the table.

  “Pray for her.”

  Tao didn’t look around this time. This was a command he understood. He’d heard the Voice directing him to pray for a specific individual before. The identity of the person was the first step. Knowing what to pray was the second.

  “What do I pray?”

  Not for her salvation. The girl was a Christian who attracted the attention of heaven—a fact proven by the angelic messengers surrounding the table. But there was a role for him to play as well. He waited.

  “Hold her close to your heart.”

  Tao put his hand on his chest. How could he do that? When he touched his shirt, he felt the outline of his empty pocket.

  On the receptionist’s desk was a cup containing an assortment of pencils, pens, and a small pair of scissors. Tao picked up the scissors, carefully cut out the girl’s picture, and put it in his pocket—close to his heart. The rest would come as he needed to know it.