After work, he drove to Dixon’s Body Shop. Perry was sitting in his office doing paperwork. When he saw Scott, he came out to greet him.
“I didn’t think I’d see you this week because of your trial.”
“The case was postponed for a couple of weeks.”
Scott changed clothes and began his workout. Forty-five minutes later, he’d completed a circuit that involved every major muscle group. Hard physical activity released friendly endorphins that produced a natural euphoria, and Scott took a break to enjoy the gentle rush. Perry came over and sat down across from him.
“Kay was at the courthouse today for the final hearing in her divorce case,” Scott said. “She and Jake are history.”
“Did you see him?”
“No. I was wrapped up in my own business. I ran into her outside, and we talked for a few minutes.”
“How did she handle it?”
“She’s devastated. I thought she had already worked through a lot of her feelings, but she was ripped up pretty bad by the final blow.”
“Did she take back her maiden name? I always thought Laramie was a cool name. Not nearly as boring as Wilson or Ellis.”
“Or Dixon,” Scott added. “I didn’t ask her. Since they didn’t have any kids, I’d think she would want to put it all behind her and start fresh.”
“What’s your plan of action? Once the word is out that she’s available, the line of hungry males will stretch down the street and around the corner.”
Scott threw his towel at Perry’s head.
“There aren’t enough single guys in this town who could keep her interested to fill half the seats in her classroom. I’m not worried about competition.”
Perry leaned forward. “So you’re in the race? Linda will want to know.”
Scott was silent for a moment. He didn’t even know if there would be a race. In the aftermath of Jake’s betrayal, he didn’t know when she would be capable of feeling something for another man. Her marriage had been a huge wall between them. He didn’t know how to act now that it was gone.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
Perry shook his head. “Linda won’t be happy with that answer. It sounds too passive; she believes in action.”
Scott slid some weights on the barbell and tightened the collar that held them in place.
“Linda needs to lift weights,” he said. “It would help clear her mental pores of all the romantic daydreams she has about me and Kay Wilson.”
At home that evening, Nicky greeted Scott with less enthusiasm than usual. The little dog immediately trotted over to his empty food dish where he began to hit it with his paw until Scott replenished it.
“Sorry, boy,” Scott said. “I didn’t think about you when I left this morning.”
Scott went to the refrigerator. Except for drinks, the main compart- ment was empty. He looked over his shoulder at Nicky. The dog was happily crunching away at the small nuggets of food.
“Who’s going to fill my food bowl?” Scott asked him.
Nicky ignored him and continued chewing.
Scott opened the freezer and found a frozen dinner that he’d avoided for months. He put it in the microwave, and six minutes later peeled back the plastic cover. The meal looked better in the picture on the outside of the package than when he set it on the kitchen counter.
Carrying the food into his bedroom, he turned on his computer. Clicking on the weather forecast, he typed in the name of a town near one of his favorite spots in the mountains around Asheville. The projected forecast called for a perfect weekend. The leaves would be beautiful, and there might be an opportunity to hook a few trout in a mountain stream. He debated for a minute. After the events of the day, Kay needed a pleasant diversion to look forward to. He decided to gamble.
Scott picked up the phone and dialed Kay’s number. The phone rang several times. No answer. He didn’t want to leave a message on the answering machine. Disappointed, he was about to hang up when he heard Kay’s breathless voice.
“Hello?” she said.
“It’s Scott. How are you doing?”
“I’m out of breath. I’d gone to the laundry room and heard the phone ringing as I walked up the stairs.”
Scott spoke before he could change his mind.
“Are you still open to a trip to the mountains? I checked the weather for this weekend. The leaves should be pretty, and I know some great spots to visit along babbling mountain streams. You were ready to go this morning. Now I’m calling your bluff.”
Several seconds of silence followed. “How far is it?”
“About three hours. We could leave Saturday morning and come back Sunday afternoon.”
“Overnight?”
Scott was ready. “I have two tents and all the equipment we’ll need to set up separate households. We’ll have a steak on a stick for supper, and I make great campfire coffee in the morning. Of course, Nicky wanted you to come, too.”
“Oh, Nicky is going to chaperone?”
“Yes. He’s an excellent watchdog.”
“Who is he going to protect? Me or you?”
“You’ll have to ask him.”
Kay paused. “I’ll let you know tomorrow night.”
After he finished eating, Scott went to the garage and sorted through his camping gear. He stored all his camping paraphernalia on large, plastic storage racks against the back wall of the garage. Each rack had a dedicated purpose: sleeping bags, cooking gear, air mattresses, backpacks. He’d been in the woods enough to know what was essential. Too many times he’d been miles from home and realized that he needed an item he didn’t have. Those moments made an indelible imprint on his memory, and he never made the same mistake twice.
One of his tents was a very lightweight two-person dome with a green rain fly. The other was an even lighter stargazer model with sides made of an almost invisible screen mesh. It was like sleeping under an open heaven without having to worry about being carried away by mosquitoes. If a midnight rainstorm threatened, he could lower waterproof flaps in a matter of seconds. He decided Kay would prefer the privacy of the dome tent, and he could commune with infinity from the stargazer.
34
Who may ascend the hill of the Lord?
Who may stand in his holy place?
PSALM 24:3
Lester Garrison didn’t want to go to school. He rolled over in bed and stared at the faded yellow wall of his bedroom. The dingy room was cramped, and the bare bulb in the ceiling produced an unrelenting glare that attracted moths at night through holes in the screened window. The moth invasion was worse in the summer, but even at this time of year a few large specimens swirled around like tiny bats when he got ready for bed. But for all its faults, the room was home, and it was safe.
“Lester!” his grandmother called. “Are you up yet?”
In her sightless world, Thelma Garrison less and less lived by the sun. She often slept during the day and roamed the house in the night. She might have been awake for hours listening to the radio.
“Yeah,” he answered.
He shut his eyes in an effort to lose consciousness, but it was no use. His mind was in gear, and he couldn’t go back to sleep. He got up and put on a faded pair of blue jeans and an old T-shirt.
“Did you take a shower?” Thelma called when she heard him in the kitchen. “I didn’t hear the water running.”
“I took one last night,” Lester lied. He poured a glass of orange juice and opened the door to the front porch. Jack was waiting for him.
Lester put on a brown jacket and sat down on the top step. Jack lay down on the step below his master’s feet and lay his head on his paws. Harold Garrison had called the truck terminal as soon as they arrived home from the courthouse and caught a load to Louisville before sunset. Lester was working in the shed when his father left without saying good-bye. In the morning light, Lester looked at his old truck and again considered his options. He could be halfway across the country before anyone
would miss him. Jack would love it.
He finished his juice and went inside to his bedroom. He opened the door to his closet and took out the old boot where he kept his money. It was gone. He quickly checked the other boot. It was empty. He tore through his closet looking for the dirty sock.
“Grandma!” he yelled. “Has anyone been in here?”
Thelma shuffled down the hall until she stopped at his door. “I think your father was in there yesterday. What happened?”
Lester swore. “He stole my money!”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
Lester held up the boot. “I kept it in this boot. Did you see—” He stopped and stormed out of the house.
He was still steaming when he arrived at school. He skidded into a parking space and slammed the door of his truck. The bell for the start of the first class of the day sounded, and he went to his locker to get his books. He jerked open the door. A G.I. Joe doll with tiny tattoos drawn on its arms was hanging from a hook with a rope around its neck. A note pinned to the chest read, “Lester Garrison - RIP.” He jerked the doll from the hook. When he did, its head popped off.
He stared at the headless figure. There were people at Catawba High School who would regret they’d ever heard the name Lester Garrison. He didn’t need any money to make that happen.
During his midmorning break, Tao took the yearbook to the break room and fixed a cup of hot tea. Sitting alone at a table, he studied the book that was one of his main windows to America. Flipping the pages, he’d memorized many of the scenes, and even though he couldn’t read the captions, the pictures often told a story that was easy to understand.
Tao had immediately recognized the purpose for the floats built for the homecoming parade. They were similar to the ornate objects used in pagan festivals in Southeast Asia. Every float in the yearbook featured various depictions of the local god of the high school—a feline creature somewhat smaller than a lion. Other than in pictures, Tao had never seen the school mascot, a catamount, and he wondered where the animals lived in the midst of the cars and subdivisions of Blanchard County.
There were photographs of students riding on the floats with their bodies painted in the school colors and symbols. Boys decorated their chests with giant cat paws; girls made intricate drawings on their faces that included long whiskers. From the appearance of the leaves on the trees in the photographs, the festival took place in the fall.
Other pictures were more puzzling to him. In several photographs, a group of male students were dressed like the girls who performed tumbling routines at the sporting events. Instead of showing shame at their loss of face and embarrassment for dressing like women, the boys appeared ridiculously happy. Tao could find no cause for joy in what he saw.
Although he used the yearbook to learn about life in an American high school, Tao stayed true to the reason he’d retrieved the volume from the trash can in the first place. God had spoken to him, and the book was a tool the Heavenly Father used to speak to his servant. God loved people, whether they were pagan Hmong who walked in fear of the spirits of rocks, trees, and rivers in the Laotian mountains or American teenagers worshiping a different set of idols in a small town in North Carolina. So as he scanned the pages of the yearbook, Tao kept his heart open for divine direction and cut out the pictures of students and teachers who needed special attention in prayer. He’d carry a couple of the photos in his pocket and glance at them during the day, seeking the Lord’s specific direction and influence for each person. He didn’t try to remember names—that would have been too difficult, but he would try to connect faces in the crowded hallways with the photographs in the book. Time after time, he would see one of the students whose image was close to his heart and smile. No one ever noticed. Pictures of several members of the Tuesday group that met in the cafeteria spent days riding in Tao’s shirt pocket as he performed his job. Others were selected for no other reason than a gentle nudge of the Spirit. Living in the unseen world of God’s reality, Tao didn’t rely upon what he saw with his eyes or knew with his mind.
Several members of the Tuesday group had noticed a change in their meetings over the past few weeks. It isn’t easy to focus attention for prayer in the midst of a crowded high-school cafeteria, and because they ate while they prayed, there was an inherent casualness about the sessions around the table. This wasn’t bad. One of the beliefs of those who started the group was that communication with God is not limited to dimly lit sanctuaries on Sunday mornings at 11 A.M. Jesus Christ is Lord of the whole earth, and his children are commanded to pray without ceasing no matter where they are. Nevertheless, a natural result of the group’s location was disruption from the surrounding environment. The students at the table tried to concentrate; however, at times they would be distracted by what was happening in other parts of the room.
But not now.
Janie, Alisha, and several others noticed the change. They found themselves staying longer and eating less. The noises of the cafeteria were still present, but an awareness of a Presence greater than the distractions of their world made it easier to remain spiritually focused. It was as if an invisible curtain had been cast around the table, and those who passed through it entered into the inner court of another realm. The students prayed the same words as before, but the faith to believe that God would answer increased. At times Janie felt glued to her chair, held by an unseen hand that firmly let her know that she was on duty before the throne of heaven. Alisha found herself on the verge of tears.
Each Tuesday, Tao stood watch while the students prayed.
Today, he saw the shimmering veil that encircled the table. He opened his eyes wide with amazement. The barrier didn’t appear as a solid piece of cloth but glistened like the thinnest of waterfalls—an intentional mist. It looked so wet and real that he glanced down to see if there was moisture collecting on the floor. He stepped closer. The floor was dry. There was no need to get a mop.
“Father, bring every person in this school to yourself,” Janie said. “We offer ourselves to you. Use our lives in any way you want to.”
A quiet chorus of “Amen’s” and “That’s right” circled the table.
Alisha thought about a friend who had made some terrible choices in the past few weeks, and the dam behind her eyes threatened to break.
Several others prayed a sentence or two. There were moments of silence that didn’t seem awkward.
Then, a young man prayed, “Lord, do whatever it takes to bring a revival to Catawba High”—he paused—“and let it start with us.”
He flipped open the Bible resting on the table beside his sandwich and read from the Psalms, “‘Who may ascend the hill of the LORD? Who may stand in his holy place? He who has clean hands and a pure heart, who does not lift up his soul to an idol . . . He will receive blessing from the LORD and vindication from God his Savior.’”
He closed the book and continued, “Lord, are my hands clean? Is my heart pure? Change my life so that I can be the kind of person you really want me to be. I don’t want to compare myself with others and become proud of the things I don’t do. I want to be righteous in your sight because of who I have become on the inside. Break the power of sin in my life and set me free to love you and other people.”
Tao saw a tiny ray of light come out of the veil and go through the heart of the young man sitting at the table. God was at work, and the fire of Tao’s own desire to pray for the young people received fresh oil. Something was going to happen in this place because the students were praying. Tao didn’t know what, but he wanted to be a part of it. He didn’t know when, but he was certain it would happen.
35
Do not speak to a fool, for he will scorn the wisdom of your words.
PROVERBS 23:9
Kay was talking with Janie Collins and Alisha Mason while they waited for the other students to arrive for mock trial practice.
“Thanks for telling us what’s been happening in your life,” Janie said, her brown eyes shining. �
�When we heard that you were getting a divorce, we started praying for you in the group that meets in the lunchroom on Tuesday.”
“To know that you have met the Lord,” Alisha said. “It makes me want to laugh and cry at the same time.”
Kay gave both girls a hug as Scott came through the back door of the classroom.
“Thank you,” she said. “And don’t stop praying.”
“Thanks, Ms. Wilson, I mean Ms. Laramie,” Alisha said. “We won’t.”
Scott stepped forward. “Where’s my hug?”
Kay smiled slightly. “That would give Yvette something to talk about. We probably don’t want them to think about anything except mock trial practice.”
“Did I hear that you’re Kay Laramie again?”
“Yes, an older and hopefully wiser return to my former name.”
“It’s a good name,” Scott said.
“And I intend to keep it for a while.”
Scott set down his briefcase.
“Before we get started, I want to mention something to the kids about the team we’ve drawn in the first round.”
“Sure.”
Frank Jesup made his entrance into the room and loudly proclaimed, “Order in the court! Did anybody hear about the case of State v. Garrison?” Pointing to Scott, he continued, “In this corner, Scott Ellis, Esquire, attorney for the accused, Lester Garrison, our resident redneck racist.”
“That’s enough, Frank,” Kay said. “This is not something to joke about.”
“I’m not joking,” Frank responded. “It’s the truth, isn’t it, Mr. Ellis?”
“No comment,” Scott said dryly. “I can’t discuss the case because of attorney-client privilege. That’s one of the first lessons a lawyer learns— to keep his mouth shut. I suggest you put it into practice immediately.”
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