by Ted Dekker
But that was the problem. It was not his. At least, not legally.
Kent was startled by the sudden buzz of his phone. Dennis, possibly. Calling to apologize about that ludicrous exchange. He glanced at the caller ID.
It was Betty. And he was in no mood to discuss office business. He let the phone buzz annoyingly. It finally fell silent after a dozen persistent burps. What was her problem?
A fist pounded on his door, and he swung around. Betty stood in the door frame, stricken white. “You have a call,” she said, and he thought she might be ill. “It’s urgent. I’ll put it through again.”
She pulled the door closed. Kent stared after her.
The phone blared again. This time Kent whirled and snatched up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Hello, Mr. Anthony?” It was a female voice. A soft, shaky female voice.
“Yes, this is Kent Anthony.”
A pause. “Mr. Anthony, I’m afraid there’s been an accident. Do you have a son named Spencer Anthony?”
Kent rose to his feet. His hands went cold on the receiver. “Yes.”
“He was hit by a car, Mr. Anthony. He’s at Denver Memorial. You should come quickly.”
Adrenaline flooded Kent’s bloodstream like boiling ice. Goose flesh prickled down his shoulders. “Is . . . Is he okay?”
“He’s . . .” A sick pause. “I’m sorry. I can’t . . .”
“Just tell me! Is my son okay?”
“He died in the ambulance, Mr. Anthony. I’m sorry . . .”
For a moment the world stood still. He didn’t know if the woman said more. If she did, he did not hear it because a buzzing had erupted in his skull again.
The phone slipped from his grasp and thudded on the carpet. Spencer? His Spencer!? Dead?
He stood rooted to the floor, his right hand still up by his ear where the receiver had been, his mouth limp and gaping. The terror came in waves then, spreading down his arms and legs like fire.
Kent whirled to the door. It was shut. Wait a minute, this could have been one of those voices! He was going mad, wasn’t he? And now the voices of madness had touched him where they knew he would be hurt most. Tried to yank his heart out.
He died in the ambulance, the voice had said. An image of Spencer’s blond head lying cockeyed on an ambulance gurney flashed through his mind. His boy’s arms jiggled as the medical van bounced over potholes.
He staggered for the door and pulled it open, barely conscious of his movements. Betty sat at her desk, still white. And then Kent knew that it had been a real voice.
Blackness washed through his mind, and he lost his sensibilities. The days leading up to this one had weakened them badly. Now they simply fell away, like windblown chaff.
He groaned, unabashed, oblivious to the doors suddenly cracking around him for a view of the commotion. A small part of his mind knew that he was lumbering through the hall, hands hanging limp, moaning like some retarded hunchback, but the realization hung like some tiny inconsequential detail on the black horizon. Everything else was just buzzing and black.
Kent stumbled through the hall door, on autopilot now. He was halfway to the main lobby when the cruelty of it all crashed into his brain and he began to gasp in ragged pulls like a stranded fish gulping on the rocks. Spencer’s sweet, innocent face hung in his mind. Then Gloria’s swollen body, still blotched and purple.
He lifted his hands to his temples and fell into an unsteady jog. He wanted to stop. Stop the groaning, stop the pain, stop the madness. Just stop.
But it all came like a flood now, and instead of stopping he began to sob. Like a man possessed, Kent ran straight through the main lobby, gripping the hair at his temples, wailing loudly.
For a moment, banking stopped cold.
Twelve tellers turned as one and stared, startled. Zak, the security guard, brought his hand to the butt of his shiny new .38, for the first time, possibly.
Kent burst through the swinging doors, leapt down the concrete steps, and tore around the corner. He slammed into the car, hardly knowing it was his.
Spencer! No, no, no! Please, not Spencer!
His son’s face loomed tender and grinning in Kent’s mind. His blond bangs hung before his blue eyes. The boy flipped his head back, and Kent felt a wave of dizziness at the ache in his own chest.
The door to his Lexus was not opening easily, and he frantically fumbled with a wad of keys, dropping them once and banging his head on the mirror as he retrieved them. But he did not feel any pain from the gash above his left eye. It bled warm blood down his cheek, and that felt strangely comforting.
Then he was in his car and somehow screaming through the streets with his horn blaring, wiping frantically at his eyes to clear his vision.
He felt barely conscious now. All he noticed were the pain and blackness that crashed through his mind. He wove in and out of traffic, banging on the wheel, trying to dislodge the pain. But when he squealed to a stop at the hospital and met a wide-eyed paramedic head on, bent on restraining him, uttering consolations, he knew it made little difference.
Spencer was dead.
Somewhere in the confusion, a well-meaning man in a white coat told him that his son, Spencer, had been struck by a car from behind. A hit-and-run. One of the neighbors found him sprawled on the sidewalk, halfway to the park, with a broken back. Spencer couldn’t have known what hit him, he said. Kent screamed back at the man, told him he should try letting a car snap his spine at forty miles an hour and see how that felt.
He stumbled into the room where they had left Spencer’s little body lying on a gurney. He was still in his shorts, bare chested and blond. They had worked with his body, but at first glance Kent saw that his son’s torso rested at an odd angle to his hips. He imagined that body snapping in two, folding over, and he threw up on the gray linoleum floor. He lurched forward to the body, hazy now. Then he touched his son’s white skin and rested his cheek on his still rib cage and wept.
It felt as though a white-hot iron had been pulled from the fires of hell and stamped on his mind. No one deserved this. No one. That was the tattoo.
The pain burned so strongly that Kent lost himself to it. They later told him that he’d ranted and raved and cursed—mostly cursed—for over an hour. But he could remember none of it. They gave him a sedative, they said, and he went to sleep. On the floor, in the corner, curled up like a fetus.
But that was not how he remembered things. He just remembered that most of him died that day. And he remembered that branding iron burning in his skull.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Week Six
HELEN JOVIC piloted the ancient, pale yellow Ford Pinto through a perfectly manicured suburbia, struck by the gross facade. Like a huge plastic Barbie-doll set carefully constructed on the ground to cover a reeking cesspool beneath. Made to cover these dungeons down here.
It felt strange driving through the world. Lonely. As if she were dreaming and the houses rising above green lawns were from another planet—because she knew what was really here, and it resembled something much closer to a sewer than this picture-perfect neighborhood.
That was the problem with holing yourself up in prayer for a week and having your eyes opened. You saw things with more clarity. And God was making her see things more clearly these days, just as he’d done with Elisha’s servant. Drawing her into this huge drama unfolding behind the eyes of mortals. She played the intercessor—the one mortal allowed to glimpse both worlds so that she could pray. She knew that. And pray she had, nearly nonstop for ten days now.
But it was just the beginning. She knew that just as she would know the turning of the leaves signaled the coming of autumn. More was to follow. A whole season.
She was starting to accept God’s judgment in the matter. Much like a housewife might accept her husband’s leadership—with a plastic smile to avoid confrontation. Of course, this was God, not some man brimming with weaknesses. Still, she could not let him so easily off the hook for what he had done.
Or at the very least, allowed—which, given his power, was the same thing. Her time seemed to be divided equally between two realities. The reality in which she cried pitifully, chastising God for this mad plan, begging for relief, and the reality in which she bowed and shook and wept, humbled to have heard God’s voice at all.
Chastising God was foolishness, of course. Utter nonsense. Humans had no right to blame their difficulties on God, as if he knew precisely what he was doing when he breathed galaxies into existence but was slipping now in his dealings with the beings on planet Earth.
On the other hand, it was God himself, in all of his wisdom, who had created man with such a fickle mind. Believing one day, doubting the next; loving one moment, forgetting within the hour. Mankind.
“Oh God, deliver us from ourselves,” she muttered and turned the corner leading toward Kent’s.
She no longer struggled with the believing, as most did. But the loving . . . Sometimes she wondered about the loving. If human nature was a magnet, then self-gratification was steel, clinging stubbornly. And loving . . . loving was like wood, refusing to stick to the magnet no matter how much pressure was applied. Well, like it or not she was still human. Even after all she had been through before this mess. Yes indeed, Kent here was a saint compared to what she had been.
“Why are you taking us here, Father? Where does this road end? What have you not shown me?”
In the five weeks since she’d first seen the heavens open, together with Gloria and Spencer, she had seen a glimpse of the light every day. But only on three occasions had she seen specific visions of the business up there. That first one when she had learned of this whole mess. The second showing Spencer’s death. And a third, a week ago, just after Spencer had joined his mother.
Each time she had been allowed to see a little more. She had seen Gloria laughing. And she had seen Spencer as well, laughing. She didn’t know if they laughed all the time—it seemed the pleasure of it would wear thin. Then again, wearing thin would require time, and there was no time in heaven, was there? And actually it had not been one big laughter up there. Not every moment was filled with laughter, if indeed there even were such things as moments on the other side. Twice in the last vision she had seen both Spencer and Gloria lying still, neither laughing nor speaking but hanging limp and quivering, their eyes fixed on something she could not see. Wallowing in pleasure. Then the laughter came again, on the tail of the moment. A laughter of delight and ecstasy, not of humor. In fact, there was nothing funny about the business her daughter and grandson were up to in the heavens.
It was the business of raw pleasure. If she had not seen that, she might very well have gone mad.
Helen blinked and turned onto Kent’s street. His two-story rose like a tomb, isolated against the bleak, gray sky.
In her last vision, Helen had caught a glimpse of this thing’s magnitude, and it had left her stunned. She had seen it in the distance, beyond the space occupied by Gloria and Spencer, and for only a brief moment. A million, perhaps a billion creatures were gathered there. And where was there? There was the whole sky, although it seemed impossible. They had come together in two halves, as though on cosmic bleachers peering down on a single field. Or was it a dungeon? It was the only way Helen could translate the vision.
An endless sea of angelic creatures shone white on the right, clamoring for a view of the field below. They appeared in many forms, indescribable and unlike anything she had imagined.
On the left, pitch blackness created a void in space filled only with the red and yellow of countless flickering eyes. The potent stench of vomit had drifted from them, and she had blanched, right there, on the green chair in her living room.
Then she saw the object of their fixed attention. It was a man on the field below, running, pumping his arms full tilt, like some kind of gladiator fleeing from a lion. Only there was no lion. There was nothing. Then the heavens faded, and she saw that it was Kent and he was sprinting through a park, crying.
She had gone to him that afternoon and offered him comfort, which he’d promptly rejected. She had also asked him where he’d been at ten that morning, the time of her vision.
“I went for a run,” he’d said.
Helen pulled into the drive and parked the Pinto.
Kent answered the door after the third buzz. By the rings under his eyes the man had not been sleeping. His hair lay in blond tangles, and his normally bright blue eyes peered through drooping lids, hazed over.
“Hello, Kent,” Helen offered with a smile.
“Hello.” He left the door open and headed for the living room. Helen let herself in and closed the door. When she walked under the catwalk he had already seated himself in the overstuffed beige rocker.
The odor of day-old dishrags hung in the air. Perhaps week-old dishrags. The same music he had played for days crooned melancholically through the darkened living room. Celine someone-or-other, he had told her. Dion. Celine Dion, and it wasn’t a tape; it was a CD, like the initials of her name. CD.
She scanned the unkempt room. The miniblinds were closed, and she blinked to adjust her eyesight. A pile of dishes rose above the breakfast bar to her right. The television throbbed silently with colors to her left. Pizza boxes lay strewn on a coffee table cluttered with beer bottles. If he permitted, she would do some cleaning before she left.
Something else had changed in the main room. Her eyes rested on the mantel above the fireplace. The large framed picture called Forgiven was missing. It had been of Jesus, holding a denim-clad killer who held a hammer and nails in his hand that dripped with blood. A faint, white outline showed its vacancy.
She slid onto the couch. Kent was not being so easily wooed. Father, open his eyes. Let him feel your love.
Kent glanced at her as if he’d heard the thought. “So, what do you want, Helen?”
“I want you to be better, Kent. You doing okay?”
“Do I look like I’m doing okay, Helen?”
“No, actually you look like you just returned from hell.” She smiled genuinely, feeling a sudden surge of empathy for the man. “I know there’s little I can say to comfort you, Kent. But I thought you might like some company. Just someone to be here.”
He eyed her with drooping eyes and sipped at a drink in his left hand. “Well, you think wrong, Helen. If I needed company, you think I’d be in here watching silent pictures on the tube?”
She nodded. “What people need to do and what they actually do are rarely even remotely similar, Kent. And yes, I do think that even if you did need company, you would be in here watching the tube and listening to that dreadful music.”
He shifted his stare, ignoring her.
“But your situation is not so unique. Most people in your position would do the same thing.”
“And what do you know about my position?” he said. “That’s asinine! How many people do you know who’ve lost their wife and their son in the same month? Don’t talk about what you do not know!”
Helen felt her lips flatten. She suddenly wanted very much to walk over there and slap his face. Give him a dose of her own history. How dare he spout off as if he were the sole bearer of pain!
She bit her tongue and swallowed.
On the other hand, he did have a point. Not in her being clueless to loss; God knew nothing could be further from the truth. But in his assertion that few suffered so much loss in such a short time. At least in this country. In another time, in another place, such loss would not be uncommon at all. But in America today, loss was hardly in vogue.
Father, give me grace. Give me patience. Give me love for him.
“You are right. I spoke too quickly,” she said. “Do you mind if I do a little cleaning in the kitchen?”
He shrugged, and she took that as a Help yourself. So she did. “You have any other music?” she asked, rising. “Something upbeat?”
He just humphed.
Helen opened the blinds and dug into the dishes, praying as she worked. He rose m
omentarily and put on some contemporary pop music she could not identify. She let the music play and hummed with the tunes when the choruses repeated themselves.
It took her an hour to return the kitchen to the spotless condition in which Gloria had kept it. She replaced the dishrags responsible for the mildew odor with fresh ones, wondering how long they would remain clean. A day at most.
Helen returned to the living room, thinking she should say what she had come to say and leave. He was obviously not in the mood to receive any comfort. Certainly not from her.
She glanced at the ceiling and imagined the cosmic bleachers, crowded with eager onlookers, unrestrained by time. She stood behind the couch and studied the man like one of those heavenly creatures might study him. He sat dejected. No, not dejected. Dejected would be characterized by a pouting frown, perhaps. Not this vision of death sagging on the chair before her. He looked suicidal, devastated, unraveled like a hemp rope chewed by a dog.
“I cleaned the kitchen,” she said. “You can at least move around in there without knocking things over now.”
He looked at her, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. Maybe her voice reminded him of Gloria—she hadn’t considered that.
“Anyway. Is there anything else I can do for you while I’m here?”
Kent shook his head, barely.
She started then. “You know, Kent, you remind me of someone I know who lost his son. Much like you did, actually.”
He ignored her.
She considered leaving without finishing. Are you sure, Father? Perhaps it is too soon. The poor soul looks like a worm near death.
God did not respond. She hadn’t really expected him to.
“He was crazy about that boy, you know. They were inseparable, did everything together. But the boy was not so—what shall I say—becoming. Not the best looking. Of course, it meant nothing at all to his father.” She dismissed the thought with a wave. “Nothing at all. But others began to ridicule him. Then not just ridicule, but flatly reject. They grew to hate him. And the more they hated him, the more his father loved him, if that was possible.”
