Point of No Return

by Paul McCusker

  Karen groaned. “But I thought God was going to show me how to do better on my homework or get along with people I didn’t like. I didn’t think He’d drop me in the middle of a school scandal!”

  “What would Jesus do?” Lucy asked simply.

  “I don’t know,” Karen admitted.

  Lucy giggled and said, “Jesus said to go into our closets to pray…and this is a closet. So let’s pray about it and see what happens.”

  Karen said it was a good idea and they stood next to the humming copier and prayed for God to help Karen understand what Jesus would do.

  “Lucy? Karen? Is anyone in here?” a voice called from the office.

  Karen barely stifled a shriek. It was Mr. Laker!

  “We’re in here,” Lucy called back and quickly shoved the copies she’d just made under a package of paper.

  “What do I do? What do I say?” Karen asked quickly.

  “Just get out of here. We can’t let him see us next to the copier!” Lucy whispered and pushed Karen toward the closet door.

  Karen stumbled into the Owl’s office. Mr. Laker was crossing the room and looked at her suspiciously. “Hi. I’ve been looking all over for you. Mrs. Biedermann said she saw you together and had a wild hunch that you’d be here. It looks like her hunch was right.”

  Lucy came out of the closet and closed the door behind her. “Hi, Mr. Laker,” she said pleasantly.

  Karen stared at her wordlessly.

  “I came to get the Ballistic Printing file,” Mr. Laker said. “Do you still have it?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Karen said and snatched it from her notebook. She handed it over.

  “Did you get what you wanted?” asked Mr. Laker.

  Karen swallowed hard as her mouth went dry. “Yes, sir. The phone number.”

  “Good. Y’know, I wasn’t very happy with Mrs. Stewart. She shouldn’t have let that file out of the office.” He patted the file. “Oh, well. No harm done, I guess.”

  “No, sir,” Karen said.

  “See you tomorrow, then,” Mr. Laker said and walked out.

  “No harm done,” Karen repeated softly.

  “Yet,” Lucy added.

  Back in his office, Mr. Laker opened the Ballistic Printing file. He hadn’t actually looked at its contents for a long time. Invoices, receipts, and letters had been randomly shoved inside without his thinking that anyone else would ever see them. It was one of several files that he kept at home. He had a “modified” version of the Ballistic Printing file in the school office. It was a safer version.

  He chastised himself for bringing the file from home. He’d had a meeting with Jim Forrester a few days ago and wanted it on hand. It should have gone back into the filing cabinet at home right away. Obviously, he was getting careless in his old age. Leaving it in his briefcase was a stupid thing to do. He sighed. He should have cleaned the file out ages ago anyway.

  He flipped through the pages, checking each one to see if there was anything unusual—anything that might draw the wrong kind of attention.

  The report card bids caught his eye. What were they doing in there? He thought he’d thrown them away. He swore to himself and laid the bids on the desk. He’d use the office shredder to take care of them.

  His gaze drifted back down to the file in his lap. He saw the letter from Jim Forrester, the P.S., and the copy of the check—and slammed his fist against the desk.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  WHIT STOOD ON THE LONG stretch of land behind Whit’s End and absentmindedly raked wayward autumn leaves into small piles. His mind was on Raymond Clark. Raking leaves was one of the jobs Whit knew he could have offered to the man. He sighed heavily and looked at his watch. It was a little after 3:00 P.M. He knew he needed to hurry up: The after-school rush of kids would keep him busy inside until dinnertime. He gazed down at the street in front of his shop, just as a young woman—probably in her early twenties—rounded the corner. She stopped when she saw him.

  “Hello,” she called out.

  Whit walked toward her, skirting the shop to lean the rake against the wall. “Hi,” he said. “Can I help you?”

  As he got closer to the woman, he was struck by her square face and kind eyes—a clear resemblance to Raymond Clark. No doubt it was his daughter.

  “Are you John Whittaker?” she asked.

  “Yes, I am.”

  She held out her hand. “I’m Christine Holt—er, Clark. You helped my father, I was told. I came to say thank you.”

  Whit shook her hand. “No thanks are necessary.”

  “I disagree. You’ve been extremely kind and generous and—” She stopped as tears came to her abruptly. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Whit put his arm around her and led her to the back entrance of the shop. “Come in and sit down. I’ll make us some coffee.”

  He sat her down at the large wooden table in the kitchen and, once the coffee had been made and poured, eased into a chair across from her. She got her tears under control and sat quietly for a moment. Then she explained, “I went to the hospital to identify him and fill out a dozen different forms. When I asked about settling our bill with the doctors, they said you had taken care of everything. So I’m here to settle accounts with you.”

  Whit sipped his coffee. “There’s nothing to settle, Mrs. Holt.”

  “Christine.”

  “Christine, then.” Whit looked at her earnestly. “I’d be insulted if you insisted on paying me back. I did what I did as a matter of conscience. I only wish I could have done more—and sooner.”

  “That makes two of us,” Christine said, wrapping her fingers around the coffee cup as if to keep them warm. A silent moment passed. “You’re wondering how he wound up like he did.”

  “You don’t have to explain anything.”

  “No, I owe you that much. Though I’m not sure about all the details myself.” An ironic smile crossed her face. “That must sound terrible coming from his only daughter. But there’s so much I didn’t know. I’m not even sure where to begin.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “I grew up in Chicago. That’s where we lived most of my life. Dad was a press operator for various printers. It was never a great moneymaking job, but it was all he knew. His father was a printer, too.” She lifted the cup to her lips and blew gently across the top to cool the coffee down. “All I remember growing up was how little we had. We weren’t poverty-stricken, but we were pretty poor. Mom and I did what we could to help out. Dad didn’t want us to work, though. He insisted on being the breadwinner of the family. No matter how bad it got, he wouldn’t let us find jobs. In fact, he did everything he could to hide how bad things were financially.”

  “That’s how it was with men from the older generation,” Whit said.

  Christine continued, “I left home to go to college. I worked nights to do it. Dad felt terrible. He kept saying that he should pay my tuition. I didn’t mind doing it myself. Let’s see. That was four years ago. I met Robert on campus—he’s my husband—and we moved to Columbus because that’s where his work was. He’s a legal assistant right now. He’s studying to be a lawyer.”

  “How did your father wind up in Connellsville?” Whit asked.

  Christine replied, “The new computer technology kept putting Dad out of work, so he and Mom moved there. Staying in touch got harder and harder from so far away. I wrote and called, but he wouldn’t tell me what was happening. He didn’t tell me how sick Mom was with cancer. I barely found out just before she died. He also didn’t mention that he’d lost his job. I kept meaning to come visit him, but we couldn’t find the time.”

  Whit frowned. Couldn’t find the time. How well he knew that reason. Or was it an excuse? “Why did your father keep so much to himself ?”

  “He knew I would have insisted that he come live with us in Columbus,” Christine said.

  “He didn’t like Columbus?”

  Christine smiled and, for a moment, Whit saw a fresh-faced young girl, instead of a
grieving daughter. “He didn’t want to be a burden to me or Robert.”

  “If you can’t turn to your own family, who can you turn to?” Whit asked softly.

  “That’s right,” Christine said, then lowered her head. “I had no idea he was walking the streets, begging for work. The doctors said he had a very weak heart. If he had only told me—if I’d only known…” She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

  Whit reached across the table and gently placed his hand over hers.

  “I don’t know whether I feel sad or extremely angry at him for hiding so much from me.” She wiped her nose with a balled-up tissue.

  “Tell me about your father’s faith. He said a lot of things to us that made me think he was a Christian. Was he?”

  Christine nodded. “Oh, yes. He was an elder in our church for years. That’s one thing he didn’t hide: his faith. I think he struggled with it sometimes. I know he questioned God when he couldn’t keep a job— and when Mom got sick and died. He never said anything outright, just little things that made me believe he was wrestling with what it all meant. The last time I saw him, at Mom’s funeral, he asked me if I understood what it really meant to be a Christian. It’s as if he was trying to figure out what makes a Christian different from other people. He never said anything judgmental. It was like he was sorting it out for himself.”

  “He asked us those same questions before he collapsed. It’s caused quite a stir. Some of us are doing a lot of soul-searching because of him.”

  “I hope none of you blame yourselves,” Christine said. “He was a stranger to you.”

  Whit looked her directly in the eyes. “He was a stranger, but none of us took him in.”

  Christine shook her head. “It’s not realistic to expect anyone to…to…”

  “Put ourselves on the line like Christians have for the past two thousand years?”

  “You’re being too hard on yourself,” she replied.

  “Not at all. I’m merely asking the same question your father asked: What does it mean to follow in the footsteps of Jesus? It’s an important question to answer.”

  “Can it be answered?” Christine asked.

  “Not without great sacrifice, I suspect.”

  They sat quietly for another moment. The bell above the front door jingled as kids made their way in.

  “I think I have some customers,” Whit said.

  Christine stood up. “My husband is coming tomorrow to help make arrangements for my father. We’re going to bury him in Connellsville next to my mother. Will you come to the funeral?”

  “Of course,” Whit said warmly. “And if you need any help—with anything—money or— well, just ask.”

  Christine took Whit’s hand and smiled gratefully. “You’ve done enough already. Just come to the funeral.”

  When Tom Riley stopped by to visit later in the evening, Whit told him about his visit with Christine.

  “She seemed like a very sweet girl,” Whit said in conclusion.

  “I’m sure she is,” Tom said. “I’d like to join you for that funeral, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’d appreciate the company.”

  Tom climbed onto a stool at the soda counter and eyed his friend. “Well?”

  Whit wiped off a table with a damp cloth and picked up someone’s sticky, empty ice-cream bowl. “Well what?”

  “You’ve got that pinched look in the corner of your eyes. There’s something on your mind,” Tom said.

  Whit took the dirty dishes back to the counter and lingered there while his mind worked out what he wanted to say. “Tom, this whole thing has done something to me.”

  “I can see that.”

  “It’s created an ache in my heart that I can’t get rid of. And I don’t mean feelings of guilt. It’s more than that.” Whit wiped the counter with the cloth. “Raymond Clark could be any one of us. He was a good man, a Christian man, and yet there he was at the end of his life still wondering what it meant to be a Christian.”

  “I wonder about it all the time. Don’t you?”

  Whit shrugged. “I guess I thought I’d have some of it figured out by now. Isn’t that one of the benefits of growing old?”

  “Says who?” Tom chuckled. “I don’t remember anybody giving us guarantees about what we should or shouldn’t know. All I remember is that the Bible tells us to be obedient, whether we can figure things out or not.”

  “I know, I know,” Whit said. “But it seems strange to be a Christian as long as I’ve been and find myself right back at the start. What would Jesus do? It’s such a basic question and I’ve never practiced finding an answer to it.”

  Tom laughed. “When have you ever had the time, Whit? Look at the hours you put into this shop—not to mention all the other things you do with the church and various city committees. You’re constantly on the run. Not even Jesus tried to do everything.”

  The Starduster careened downward toward the village of Mythopoeic, its hyper-blast guns trained on the group of unsuspecting citizens going about their business on the main avenue. The Evil Overlord Latas gently squeezed the firing stick. The Starduster jerked as laser-balls burst forward. Each one hit the village below, disintegrating the people into clouds of dust and leaving behind craters of black soot. Leisha, daughter of the once-powerful Madrigal, turned and cried for help from the gods of Avaline. Latas trained his sites on her—because she was his only reason for attacking the village in the first place…

  Matt suddenly paused the DVD player. “Was that a car door? I thought I heard a car door slam.”

  “I didn’t hear anything. Now turn the movie back on; this is the best part,” Jack said, then turned to Oscar, who was hiding his eyes behind a pillow. “You can come out now, Oscar.”

  Oscar peeked at Jack. “This stuff gives me nightmares. That Over-lord Latas and his army reminds me of Joe Devlin and his bullies.”

  Matt listened for a moment to make sure his parents hadn’t come home early from their meeting. “I could’ve sworn I heard them.”

  “Come on, Matt. This is where Leisha calls down the lightning from Natrom.” Jack grabbed for the remote control.

  “Wait a minute,” Matt said, holding the remote out of Jack’s reach.

  “What’s the matter? Your parents aren’t home yet.”

  “I know, but…” he hesitated. “It just suddenly occurred to me that this is wrong.”

  Jack scrunched his eyebrows down. “What’s wrong?”

  “Watching a movie that I know my parents wouldn’t want me to watch,” answered Matt.

  “They didn’t say you couldn’t watch it,” Jack reminded him.

  “But they didn’t say I could, either. You brought it over. They don’t know anything about it.” Matt turned the movie off.

  Jack groaned. “It’s only a movie.”

  “When Leisha prayed to those gods like she did…well, it seemed wrong. There’s only one God,” Matt said.

  “I was thinking the same thing myself,” Oscar piped in.

  Jack folded his arms impatiently. “It’s a story that takes place in a different dimension. What’s with you guys?”

  “We promised that we’d ask what Jesus would do about everything,” Matt said. “Would Jesus watch this movie—especially when He didn’t have His parents’ permission?”

  “I don’t know,” Jack shrugged. “They didn’t have movies when Jesus was a kid.”

  Matt persisted: “They probably had a lot of things like movies, though. Storytellers or books or whatever. The question is, would Jesus watch a movie where the bad guys kill everyone and the good guys pray to gods who aren’t God?”

  “Beats me. How do we find out?”

  “Mr. Whittaker said we’d have to study Jesus in the Bible,” Oscar offered. “Do you have one around here? I’d like to see what it says about Joe Devlin.”

  Matt thought about it. “I have a Bible in my room. And there’s one that my Dad uses in his den.”

  They turned off the te
levision and Jack grabbed the DVD to put back into his backpack. He looked at the cover one last time: where starships fired at innocent villagers and a dazzling blonde woman shot lightning from her fingertips at a gruesome monster. For a fleeting second, Jack thought he saw the picture as Jesus would’ve seen it—and he felt sad. It was only a story, all right, but was it a story that Jesus would like? As he slipped the movie into his backpack, Jack knew he would never watch the film again.

  Bibles in hand, the three boys sat down in the living room to see if they could find out what Jesus would do about movies and bullies and anything else they could think of. No one was more surprised by the scene than Matt’s parents when they got home.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “LUCY!” KAREN CALLED down the hallway the next morning at school.

  “Hi, Karen.”

  Karen was breathless as she spoke. “He wants to see me.”

  “Who does?” Lucy asked.

  “Mr. Laker! He wants to see me in his office,” Karen gasped, looking left and right as if the man himself might be standing nearby.

  Lucy looked at Karen wide-eyed, then fought to keep control of her own fear. It wouldn’t help for both of them to be panicked. “Really?” she said calmly.

  “‘Really?’ Is that all you can say? What am I going to do?” Karen asked in a harsh whisper.

  “What would Jesus do?”

  Karen held her books close to her chest while she rubbed her eyes wearily with her free hand. “I read my Bible last night—I prayed—I’m still not sure. Oh, I wish I never looked at that stupid file! I didn’t get any sleep last night.”

  “I wonder if Jesus had any sleepless nights from worry?” Lucy asked, more as an accusation than a question.

  Karen frowned at her friend. “Cut it out. I’m not Jesus. I’m just trying to follow Him. And right now it’s scaring me to death.”

  “Did you tell your parents about the file?”