SECRET SALVATION

by Chad Josey

  A soft smile returned to the old man. This time, the smile never left as the graduates took their seats before the stands.

  The music stopped. The crowd released one last roar, which came rolling down to the stage where the principal welcomed everyone. After the speeches and a song sung by one of the female graduates, the principal retook the podium.

  “It is now time to present the graduating class of 1997 with their diplomas.”

  This statement signaled the old man as he unzipped and reached inside his jacket. The old man pulled out a rectangular piece of metal with light-brown, faux-wood on its top.

  He zipped up his jacket and pulled up on a small, square knob on the wood grain surface. The rectangular metal propped-open revealing an old Polaroid camera. The old man stepped down the side of the stands in the shadows and onto the field.

  The crowd was behind the old man, and the seated graduates were to his right. The old man stood near the steps where the graduates were coming down from the stage to go back to their seats.

  Camera flashes flickered all around the old man creating a strobe-light effect. His head turned side-to-side attempting to shake his triggered paranoia caused by the lights.

  The principal said, “Joseph Jacob Bishop.” The old man lifted his head. He felt his shoulders swell and his chest expand as his attention went to the same senior he had followed since arriving in the parking lot. A large smile replaced the soft one from earlier. Gone were all the old man’s teeth.

  The old man watched as the graduate walked across to the principal and shook her hand taking his diploma. The Polaroid camera blocked the old man’s eyes with his toothless smile visible underneath the camera.

  Flashes from other cameras bounced off the old man as he stepped in front of the graduate walking down the steps from the stage. With the graduate about five feet from him, the old man pressed the red button on the Polaroid camera. The picture slid out the front.

  “Hey, Jacob!” one of the other seated graduates yelled to the graduate coming down the steps making fun of his middle name. To the older man, hearing this name sent a cold chill over his body. A frightened expression overcame him as the old man turned his head side-to-side as fast as he could. The old man was visibly upset.

  A fellow cameraman bumped the old man causing him to turn and run from the field into the shadows cast by the stage. The old man ran away so fast he did not notice the Polaroid picture had fallen from his hand.

  Brown, parched grass supported the small, square piece of plastic. The white side of the picture faced up to the sky. Camera flashes and an ever-growing flickering of lightning filled the sky.

  People kicked the small picture a few times, but it never turned over. The white side grew dim fading away releasing like magic a familiar sight. A happy graduate with his diploma in hand appeared as the image stared toward the sky.

  More minutes had passed. The picture witnessed a rainstorm of falling blue, graduation caps. In one sudden motion, someone rescued the picture from being trampled or ruined by the brewing storm.

  Now safe, the image looked at the face of the attractive, older woman with brown hair, whom the old man earlier had followed. Her face frozen in amazement as she searched for picture’s lost owner. The old man was nowhere in sight. Darkness engulfed the picture as it disappeared into the safety of her purse.

  Eighteen years later, the picture sat safe on the corner of a desk staring at an older version of the graduate. His face frozen in amazement as he searched the picture for answers.

  Thanksgiving Day, 1997

  Pasadena, Texas

  THE BISHOP FAMILY had experienced too much suffering by unfortunate deaths throughout the years. Liz always had attempted to make the year-end holidays as festive as possible. But, this year was a first for her. Joseph would not be home for Thanksgiving, as he was seventeen-hundred-miles away.

  Three months had passed since Joseph and Mary had left their home in the Houston suburbs. The University of Stony Brook on Long Island may as well had been in a foreign country. Given the distance, Joseph and Mary had planned to come home once his freshman year at Christmas.

  This decision was difficult for them, especially for Liz. Thanksgiving held a terrible anniversary for the family, one, which changed their lives forever.

  Eighteen years earlier, in 1979, Liz had prepared her first, large Thanksgiving dinner, since Eli had taken the week off from his work at NASA. The turkey had cooked overnight filling the house with a savory smell. Steam rose from the buttery mashed potatoes.

  As Liz placed the bread rolls in the oven, she set out the drinks and glasses, realizing they were out of ice. With the convenience store only a block away, Eli offered to walk there hoping they were not sold-out. Their son Jacob would have gone, but he was recovering from the flu.

  Three hours had passed. A thunderous knock came from the front of the house. Liz’s heart raced to the pit of her stomach as she opened the door with two policemen on her front stoop.

  They delivered grim news about Eli. As he was paying for the ice, two masked robbers entered the Quick Stop holding him and the store clerk at gunpoint. The police said an altercation had occurred with one robber shooting both the clerk and Eli in the head.

  The hardest part for Liz was not being able to say goodbye to Eli. Damage to his face was too brutal; they held a closed-casket service the following Wednesday.

  Jacob, then fifteen, would beat himself up for not feeling well that day or he would have gone to the store. Jacob had believed the outcome on that fateful afternoon would have been much different, and his dad would still be alive. Jacob had carried his guilt until his untimely death by a drunk-driver ten years later before Joseph’s birth in 1979.

  Thanksgivings were therefore a difficult time for the family. Through determination, Joseph’s grandma had reinforced the true meaning of the holiday, to be thankful for what you have. This year, rather than celebrate alone, Liz volunteered with her church to help at the local homeless shelter.

  If I can’t have family here this year, then I can at least help others.

  “Good morning. Happy Thanksgiving, Liz,” Bob Warner said. He rushed to Liz taking her tray of cookies she held.

  “Thanks, Bob,” Liz said delighted to see familiar faces. “Happy Thanksgiving to you, too. Have you spoken to Mary this morning?”

  “Oh… uh, yeah, sure. I called her this morning to wish her a happy Thanksgiving.” Bob walked away from her carrying the cookies into the kitchen through swinging double-doors.

  “Why, there’s a gorgeous sight, happy Thanksgiving, Liz,” James Unger said pushing by Bob. James hugged and kissed Liz on her cheek, which lingered a little too long for her comfort.

  “Now, now, Jim, you let Liz go now you hear. I swear one of these days, she’s going to slap you,” her best friend Martha said. Martha grabbed her husband by his shoulder in a playful manner. “Hey, Sugar, happy Thanksgiving. Come here and hug my neck.”

  The two ladies had been friends through church as long as either could remember. They hugged in the entrance as a steady stream of haggard-looking men walked inside passing them.

  “How are you holding up, Sugar?” Martha asked knowing how hard today must be for her.

  “Oh, I am great. The Lord has blessed us with a beautiful day, and we’re here to do his work.”

  “Amen, Sister… Okay, we’re set-up in the back to prepare the food,” Martha said. She took Liz by the hand through the double-doors into the kitchen.

  “Yum, look at that sight. Now, that’s what I’m thankful for, today,” James said as the two women walked away from him in the shelter’s entryway.

  “Jim, hush now, I heard that,” Martha said turning and giving him a stern stare.

  Martha leaned and whispered into Liz’s ear. “Shh, let’s not let Bob use the stove. I think he’s already been drinking this morning.”

  Yeah, you called Mary this morning, you bastard.

  “Okay, what do you want me to do?�
�

  “Sure. It’s simple. We mainly heat the food and place it in these aluminum pans. When it’s time to serve, we set everything out and give the guys what they want.”

  “When do we start serving?”

  “We always start at noon. This gives everyone time to eat, and us time to clean up. After that, everyone is welcome to watch the Oilers game in the Rec Room.”

  “Don’t you mean the Cowboys? I’m not a big football fan, but I at least know that much.”

  “I’ll tell you what, them Cowboys better kick their ass,” James said as he entered the kitchen.

  “Jim! Language!” Martha said.

  “Sorry, Honey. But, that son-of-a-bitch, Adams, took our Oilers up to Tennessee… first time ever I’m pulling for Dallas,” James said. He lifted the plastic wrap off of the plate of cookies. “These are delicious, Liz.”

  “Jim, you couldn’t handle my cookies,” Liz said as she and Martha laughed together at him.

  The next hour had passed. Clanging pans echoed through the kitchen. Wonderful aromas of turkey and ham with all kinds of sides hovered into the dining area.

  The men who had come today took seats at the folding tables set-up outside the kitchen. The number of homeless men who had frequented each year seemed to increase closer to the holidays.

  Nearby manufacturing companies tend to cut positions this time of year to make their annual numbers. This creates a negative effect on the local community. Several people who were already living paycheck-to-paycheck had found themselves with little-to-no money for Thanksgiving.

  New faces appeared this year in the crowd. The most unsettling sight for Liz was seeing a young woman with a baby, who had entered the shelter. This problem in southeast Houston no longer had seemed to impact just men.

  “Doesn’t that break your heart, Sugar?” Martha asked.

  “Have you seen her before?” Liz asked.

  “This is the first time I’ve seen anyone but men here in all my years. She was here yesterday. I tried speaking with her, but she doesn’t speak any English.”

  “Oh, bless her heart. I’ll be right back,” Liz said as she walked to the woman with her small baby.

  Liz welcomed her and told her ‘Happy Thanksgiving’ in Spanish. The woman continued with her frown until Liz asked her in Spanish if she needed anything.

  A smile chased away the frown on the woman. “Oh, gracias. Thank you.” The woman continued speaking to Liz in Spanish, as Liz placed her hand on top of the baby’s head before walking back to the kitchen.

  “She doing okay, Sugar?” Martha asked Liz when she returned.

  Liz opened the refrigerator pulling out a jug of milk and poured it inside a bottle the woman had handed her. “She’s okay. She just needs milk for the baby.”

  “When did you learn to speak Spanish?”

  “I’ve been taking lessons over at the community college. We’re getting more students in our classes from Mexico. And, I find it easier when I’m teaching to help them in their language.”

  Liz warmed the milk by running warm water over the bottle in the sink. After a few minutes, she tested the warmth of the milk by squirting a few drops on her wrist.

  Liz gave the full bottle back to the woman. The baby drank, and the woman looked up to Liz from her seat. Small tears formed in the corners of the woman’s eyes. Liz melted with emotion as she bent down to hug and comfort the woman.

  The team of volunteers assembled the food onto the outstretched tables forming a buffet line. At noon, Minister Greene had arrived in time to lead everyone in prayer before dinner.

  A record number, one hundred thirty-two people, formed a line to wait their turn. The volunteers served everyone. Liz’s duty was to serve turkey stuffing to each outstretched, white paper plate presented.

  Joy and happiness filled the shelter for the afternoon. This masked the pain and sorrow many had felt. Everyone ate and enjoyed the fellowship.

  As the last pieces of pumpkin pie vanished, everyone stumbled into the adjoining recreation room fighting off their pending food comas. The big football game between the Oilers and the Cowboys was about to start. The room was split with their emotions around their once beloved Oilers.

  The game had started. Cheers and jeers roared into the kitchen as the volunteers began the daunting task of cleaning. Bob, now feeling hung over from his morning bender, washed dishes with James. Martha and Liz were on trash duty.

  “Liz, I’ve been volunteering here for many years, and this is the worst part of it,” Martha said as she stacked empty food trays to take to the kitchen.

  “Well, at least all the food is eaten and nothing’s gone to waste.”

  “At my house, we’re eating leftovers for days, and still throw out so much food,” Martha said, as she left for the kitchen. “Would you go around the tables and get any trash that may be there?”

  “No problem,” Liz said as she pulled a large black trash bag across the sticky floor. She shook the bag. Air rushed inside creating a loud plastic-popping noise as it opened.

  Looks like my house after one of Joseph's parties.

  Liz walked between the tables placing used napkins, paper cups, and dishes inside the bag. More cheers came from the Rec Room, as the Cowboys scored a touchdown.

  On the last table in the back of the room, farthest away from the buffet table, Liz found one last empty plate. She picked it up and placed it inside the bag. As the plate fell into smelly darkness, Liz saw handwritten numbers and letters on its underside. Curious, she reached in and pulled the plate back out of the bag.

  Bits of turkey stuffing and mashed potatoes fell from the plate to the floor. Liz smeared a brown grease stain on the back of the plate to get a clear view.

  What’s this? It looks familiar?

  As fast as the questions entered her mind is as fast as Liz dropped the plate back into the bag. She used a dishtowel clipped to her waist to bend down and clean the food particles, which had fallen on the floor.

  No? It can’t be?

  While crouched on the floor, she pulled the paper plate again back out of the bag. Liz pulled herself up to the chair next to her at the table.

  This looks like the game that Eli and I used to play. It can’t be, because I remember we made it up as we went along.

  “Hey, Sugar, no sitting on the job,” Martha said walking over to Liz. “Oh, just kidding. I need a break, too.”

  Martha sat across from her. Liz slid the plate to Martha with the letters and numbers showing. “Do you notice anything about this?”

  “Yeah, they’re super thin. We had hoped to get those thicker ones, but we didn’t want to turn down the donation.”

  “No, I mean look—”

  Before Liz had finished, a roar rushed out of the Rec Room toward them as the Oilers scored a matching touchdown. The screams caused Martha to stand and run away to see the replay.

  Liz carried the paper plate by her waist as she followed Martha. The room seemed split down the middle. The remaining loyalist Oilers’ fans sat on one side, and Cowboys’ fans on the other.

  Who could have written this? I can’t remember who sat at that table.

  Liz scanned across the room for any familiar face. Martha motioned for Liz to join her in an empty seat in the back. Liz joined watching the rest of the game with about sixty, remaining people.

  As the Cowboys scored the next touchdown to go up by seven, Liz’s attention was on the letter and number scramble written on the thin, white paper plate with a small grease stain.

  How did we used to solve this?

  “Touchdown!” came the shouts from the Oilers’ side of the room to tie the game.

  I… I can’t think with all this noise.

  “Excuse me, Martha, I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  “Okay, but hurry up, the Oilers are getting ready to score, again.”

  As Liz stood and walked out of the room, a ruckus erupted as Martha’s prediction came true. Liz slipped out a pencil from her hanging coa
t pocket and sat at a nearby table.

  The back of the plate stumped her. It appeared to be a random pattern of letters and numbers, which read:

  K N Q T W

  Z 3 6 9 12 J

  15 18 21 24 A 3

  D G J M P

  S V Y 2 5

  2.4, 3.5 4.4, 3.5 2.5 2.4 5.2 5.5

  She racked her brain studying the pattern. Her left elbow rested on the table and her left pinky was stuck inside the corner of her mouth. In her right hand, she held the pencil tapping the eraser-end on the table.

  “Touchdown!”

  Liz recognized Martha’s high-pitched scream from the crowd. The Oilers had scored again.

  I’m going crazy. I remember Eli would give me these puzzles to solve and I would send the answer back to him. Heck, but that was so long, ago.

  As the distance of the years came to her mind, Liz looked from the table toward the ceiling in disgust.

  Dammit, it’s this stupid anniversary. It’s making me see things that can’t be.

  Her curiosity disappeared as fast as the Cowboys’ lead based on the group’s reaction in the other room. The Oilers had kicked a field goal to go up 27 to 14.

  Okay, if this is even real, let’s see... The letter 'J' on the side starts the matrix. So, the first letter would be the next letter in the alphabet, K.

  Liz studied the matrix. Her memories with Eli helped her.

  Then, this number 3, below the J, is what I count to get the next letter. It would be L, M, and then N.

  The rules of their puzzle game flew back to Liz. So far, it worked correctly by explaining the letters K and N she saw on the first row. This realization snapped her out of her pity state, which had developed earlier.

  So, I repeat this logic and fill in the first row by counting 3 letters away from N. This is the letter Q, next would T, and then W.

  Liz sat in amazement. Her logic matched the first row of the handwritten matrix.

  How can this be? I thought Eli and me were the only ones that played this code game. I used to think this was a stupid game he made me play.