Angels Walking

by Karen Kingsbury

  Tyler couldn’t stay much longer without breaking down. He didn’t deserve anything the man had given him. He thought about the cross again and then looked back at Beck. “Thank you.”

  They walked together to the front door and when they reached it, Beck shook Tyler’s left hand again. “God will go with you. We already asked.”

  Something about the man’s handshake emanated confidence. As if in this man’s presence, Tyler could entertain the possibility that everything really could work out. That he might eat the lunch and get a job and find his way to the surgery he needed. That this might not be the end of his hope and future. But a beginning.

  A most unlikely beginning.

  TYLER’S HANDS SHOOK as he reached the car. He could feel Beck watching him, probably praying for him. The pain pills could wait till he was out of sight at least. At the next stoplight he shoved two pills down his throat and downed them with a bottle of water. It hadn’t been long enough since his last dose at Winn-Dixie. But he couldn’t go to a job interview feeling like this.

  His hands shook as he put the lid back on the bottle.

  What had just happened? First the cross and then Beck and the free lunch. Finally, the phone number for Harrison Myers. The slip of paper sat next to the bag of food. Tyler remembered something his mother used to say: “Good things happen to people who pray.” She said it more often as he neared his senior year, always with her eyebrows raised.

  Her meaning was clear: Tyler needed to eat right and condition right, he had to work out with his strength coach and his pitching coach, and he certainly needed to get the highest possible grades. But he also needed to pray.

  So good things would happen.

  Tyler didn’t know about that, but this much was sure—Beck had prayed. And now Tyler was on his way to a job interview.

  He turned into the next parking lot—a pet store and a TJ Maxx. Pulling into the first parking spot he found, he killed the engine. For a long moment he gripped the wheel with his good hand and tried to remember how he got here—homeless and desperate. Life had been so good for so long. Before high school graduation he was the boy everyone wanted. From his freshman year on he would come home and find a stack of letters from major universities.

  By the time he was a senior, the letters filled three black trash bags. Tyler saved every one, and that year when the Los Angeles Times ran a story on him—after he was awarded California’s Mr. Baseball title—Tyler pulled out the letters and dumped them across the kitchen table. The article’s photo showed him sitting on the table in the middle of the pile, grinning.

  Now the clipping was in one of the boxes in the trunk. The headline read: Mr. Baseball’s Tyler Ames: Still America’s Favorite.

  America’s Favorite.

  The phrase sounded like heaven back then. It still did.

  Tyler caught a whiff of his smelly brace. The heat through the windshield was warming the bag of sandwiches. He took one from the top and set the rest on the floor, in the shade. He unwrapped the plastic from the bread. Plain old peanut butter and jelly, but nothing had ever smelled so good. He ate the sandwich in just a few bites.

  Just in time, since the pain pills would make him sick on an empty stomach. He finished the sandwich and opened another.

  That same year, the Reds scout didn’t put on the pressure until baseball season started. He wasn’t the only pro scout interested. So why had Tyler been so sure that was the right choice?

  Like carbon monoxide, regret filled the car, burning Tyler’s eyes with tears and making each breath an effort. He set the sandwich beside him, half-eaten, and hung his head. There he was again, late April—blue skies as far as he could see. He was tall and lean, a pitching specimen, bounding through the door with the biggest news of his life.

  He had turned down the scholarship for the draft. It was official. “I’m home!”

  He expected a fight, of course. But in the end he believed his parents would see it his way. As he rounded the corner his parents were sitting at the kitchen table. Waiting for him. To this day he had no idea why the Reds scout would’ve called them. Tyler should’ve been the one to break the news.

  But there was no question they knew. Their disapproval was written across their faces.

  “Sit down, son.” His father patted the empty chair next to him. “We need to talk.”

  Tyler was there again. He dropped his backpack and took the seat. “You already know?”

  “Yes.” His father frowned at him. “You’re turning down your scholarship?”

  And he could feel just how he’d felt that day at the kitchen table. The hurt and embarrassment, because clearly his father thought he had chosen wrong. “I’m a man, Dad. It’s my career. If I want to start this way, that’s my choice.”

  “You’re hardly a man.” His father’s frown became a glare. “And you will not turn down that scholarship.”

  “Dad!” Tyler had felt himself losing control. “The whole point is to go pro. To be paid to play, right?”

  “You’ve already accepted the UCLA offer.” His father’s tone was stern. “You can’t back out.”

  Tyler hesitated. “I already did.” Something sat heavily on Tyler’s shoulders and he realized in that moment what it was. Years of being coached and pushed and prodded by his father suddenly felt like so many shackles. “Why do you care, Dad? As long as I’m successful, right—isn’t that what matters? The number of strikeouts and the speed of my fastball? My wins and losses?”

  “Don’t take an attitude with me, young man.” His father rose up out of his chair and then settled back down again. “Look, you’ve worked all your life for a baseball scholarship. Now you have one. A full ride, Tyler. Do you know what that means?”

  “Sure.” Tyler suddenly felt more like a pawn. “You want to tell your friends about how your son earned a scholarship to UCLA.”

  “Don’t talk to your father like that.” His mother’s eyes were dark with disappointment. “UCLA is the only right choice. Not for us, for you. You need a degree to fall back on.”

  “Being drafted is out of the question.” His father sat back. “End of conversation.”

  “It’s too late. They promised me a six-figure signing bonus. You said that’s what it would take.” Tyler stuck out his chest. “Besides, I’ve made up my mind.”

  His father stood, towering over him, the veins at his temples pressing out from his angry face. “I said that before I knew about UCLA. It’s almost impossible to get a full-ride scholarship for baseball. You know that.”

  Tyler wouldn’t be moved. “I can always go to school.”

  “Tyler Ames, you listen to me.” His dad’s eyes narrowed. “If you take the draft, I’m done with you.” His voice rose. “No son of mine will turn down a full scholarship.”

  And with that, the battle began.

  Tyler remembered how he’d felt, how the life had drained from his body and pooled around him on the kitchen floor. He and his father didn’t talk until draft day, when Tyler accepted the offer from the Reds. His father spoke to him just once after that.

  Tyler could still hear every word. “When will you leave?” As if the man couldn’t wait to be rid of him.

  “Not soon enough.” That was Tyler’s response.

  This many years later Tyler could only wonder. What if his dad had given him a choice? Gone over the options and applauded him for having so many offers? They could’ve sat down over a burger and celebrated the pluses and minuses of each direction and then his father could’ve patted him on the back and said, “Either way I’m proud of you, son. I’ll support you whatever you decide.”

  Tyler squinted back at yesterday. If that had happened . . . if his dad had treated him differently . . . he might’ve chosen UCLA. He gripped his elbow, pressing his damaged arm to his side. Certainly if he had the choice now that’s what he would do. Which could only mean one thing: His parents had been right. He should’ve gone to school.

  If Tyler had one wish, he would be ni
neteen again, walking away from the Reds’ offer. He would have his parents’ support and Sami at his side. And his baseball uniform wouldn’t say Billings.

  It would say Bruins.

  13

  HIS FRIENDS THE PAIN pills were doing their job, blurring the edges, dulling the pain inside and out. The way Tyler so desperately needed.

  He picked up the piece of paper from the passenger seat. The man’s name and number were all Beck had written. Now Tyler needed a payphone. He dug around his glove box and found a small handful of quarters. TJ Maxx was his best choice, so he walked there first. Sure enough, just inside next to the restrooms there was a single payphone. Almost an antique at this point. The call took all his change.

  He hovered near the phone, hoping to blend in.

  A man answered on the third ring. “Merrill Place. Harrison Myers.”

  Tyler closed his eyes. Think, Ames . . . speak clearly. “Uh . . . yes. Hello.” He tapped his forehead with his fingers. Why had he taken pain meds before making the call? Suddenly he remembered. “Beck from Hope Community Church told me to call you. Said you might be hiring?”

  “Who?” The man sounded more tired than gruff.

  “Beck . . . he’s a—” Suddenly he remembered. “I’m supposed to tell you Pastor Roman sent me, sir.” Tyler’s brain was starting to work.

  “Pastor Roman. Okay. Um, yes.” The man sounded distracted. “I need a maintenance man.”

  “I’m very interested.” Adrenaline pumped through Tyler’s veins. He needed this job, needed it more than he’d needed anything in all his life. “Could I . . . come in? Talk to you for a few minutes?”

  The man was silent, and in that silence Tyler knew he would at least get an interview. “Do you know where we are?”

  “You’re off the main boulevard?”

  “Two blocks north.” Mr. Myers hesitated and then rattled off an address. “Be here in ten minutes. I have a lot to do.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Tyler hung up the phone and leaned his forehead against the dirty plastic casing. He had an actual job interview! He walked back to the car, fighting through the pills and the drunken feeling that came with them. Back behind the wheel he felt the rush of panic again. How could he have a solid conversation with Mr. Myers when he felt like this?

  He looked around his car. Was there anything that could sober him up? Take the edge off the effects of the pain medication? He spotted the half-empty case of water. Yes, water could help. He grabbed two bottles and drank one without stopping for a breath. The bag of food caught his eye next. Perfect. Food would definitely absorb some of this fog. He ate another sandwich and topped it off with the second bottle of water.

  Tyler loosened his belt. He hadn’t felt this full in a month.

  He checked the time on the dashboard. Seven minutes until his interview. He felt the slow blink that came with being medicated. Wake up, Tyler! This is important. He shook his head and slapped his cheeks a few times. There. He felt a little more awake. For good measure he sprinkled the remaining drops of water from the second bottle onto his forehead. With the palm of his one working hand, he spread the dampness back into his hair.

  Pensacola was easy to navigate. He drove with the windows open, hoping the warm breeze would help him stay awake. The medication felt more intense this time, like he could close his eyes and sleep till Sunday. He had taken too many pills too close together. Keep your eyes open, he ordered himself. Sober up! He opened his eyelids wide and kept driving. He reached Merrill Place with two minutes to spare.

  His vision was cloudy as he checked the rearview mirror, but from what he could see he looked okay. As Tyler moved to open the door, he caught another wave of his stench. Never mind the shower he took that morning. He needed to wash his clothes and his brace. If he got the job, that’s what he would do with his last seven dollars. For now he’d have to leave some distance between himself and Harrison Myers.

  And hopefully sit downwind.

  Inside, the place wasn’t as bad as he expected. More of a hospital feeling—at least in the entryway. A middle-aged black man sat in an office on the other side of the entrance. He spotted Tyler, stood, and waved him in. The man looked as overworked as he had sounded on the phone, but his smile was warm.

  “Have a seat.” He pointed opposite his desk. “Please.”

  “Thank you.” Tyler nearly missed the chair as he introduced himself. The room seemed to tilt at an unusual angle. “I ’preciate you taking time for me.”

  “Yes, well.” Mr. Myers didn’t seem to recognize Tyler’s name. He looked at a file on his desk while he talked. “I’m not sure you’ll want the job. But it’s yours if you do.” He slid the folder to Tyler. “This is the application. I’m looking for someone to wash the floors and clean up after the residents.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Myers looked at Tyler’s brace. “Oh, man.” He sounded frustrated. “I forgot about your busted shoulder.”

  “It won’t get in the way.”

  Myers studied him, clearly not convinced. “I need physical labor, son. You gotta push a mop and clean tables. How you going to do that with one good arm?”

  “I will, sir.” The haze of medication was like the thickest fog. Tyler blinked a few times. “I’ll work harder than anyone with two good arms. I promise.”

  “Well. We’ll see,” Harrison Myers muttered. He tapped the folder. “People don’t last in a job like this. Cleaning up messes. Keeping things disinfected.” He searched Tyler’s eyes. “You have to have a heart for older people.”

  At this point Tyler had a heart for making money. A heart for surviving until tomorrow. Nothing more, nothing less. Whatever Mr. Myers meant, he wasn’t sure. Especially against the backdrop of Oxycodone.

  Mr. Myers leaned forward. “You following me?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tyler chided himself. He had to remember to answer every time he was spoken to. Tyler narrowed his eyes, willing away the blurriness. “I’m sorry. It’s been . . . a rough day.”

  For a long while Mr. Myers studied him. Then he sat back in his chair and sighed. “Look, I know who you are.” He paused, thoughtful. “I followed your career since you were a kid.”

  Great, Tyler thought. He was done for sure. The guy would know the long, ugly résumé that came up when a person Googled his name. The job was all but lost. He was a waste of talent, a failure at every level and now—

  “Tyler?”

  “Yes, sir?” He looked up.

  “Were you going to say something?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tyler blinked, desperate to focus. “I . . . disappointed a lot of people.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry.” He stood, his legs wobbly, and started for the office door. “I shouldn’t have wasted your time.”

  “Tyler.” The man’s voice was kind but stern. “Sit back down.”

  He did as he was told.

  “I’m offering you the job. One good arm and all. Working here . . . it isn’t the dream. But all dreams have to start somewhere.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Tears burned at the corners of Tyler’s eyes. He didn’t want to cry but a single tear slid down his cheek before he could swipe at it. “You . . . don’t know what this means to me.”

  “Fill out the application.” The man looked out the office door at the vast tiled entryway. “If you have time, you can start today. I needed someone last week.”

  “Yes. I have time, sir.” A surge of hope flooded Tyler’s veins. The man knew him, knew his past, and still was willing to give him a job? Even with one arm? Tyler took the application and moved to a chair in the lobby. His experience was nonexistent and he had no address. But he filled out what he could.

  When he finished, Mr. Myers showed him a closet full of brooms and mops, rags and buckets, and two shelves of cleaners. “Start with the floors. Every hallway, every room. If the residents are sleeping, come back later. Most are out in the common areas.” He stopped short and looked at Tyler. “What’d you say the name of th
e guy was from Hope Community Church?”

  Tyler felt more sober now. “Beck. He was a volunteer.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. Myers shrugged. “Never heard of him.” He picked up a bottle of Lysol. “Anyway, use this mixed with warm water.” He looked over the floor again. “I think you get the drill.”

  “Yes, sir.” Tyler took the cleaner, stuck it under his good arm, and grabbed a bucket. He was still badly injured, desperately broke, and homeless. But he had something now he didn’t have that morning.

  A chance.

  14

  THE NAME ON THE door was Virginia Hutcheson.

  It was Tyler’s third day at Merrill Place and so far he hadn’t been in the woman’s room. She was always in her bed, always sleeping. The male nurse on staff had explained yesterday that she’d been having outbursts of terrified screaming. None of the staff could understand why.

  “We keep her pretty medicated.” He shrugged. “Otherwise she tries to escape.”

  Tyler had been through the building enough times that he didn’t blame her. The place was clean, the staff was kind. But life was already over for the residents of Merrill Place. With the exception of a few card games, everywhere Tyler looked people were waiting for death. Today might be an exception for Virginia Hutcheson. Her daughter was coming and the nurse had backed off on her medication.

  Which was more than Tyler could say for himself. He was going through the pain pills faster than before. Almost ready for another bottle. They were all he had to look forward to.

  He knocked on the door. “Ms. Hutcheson?”

  “Leave the milk on the porch!” the woman called out. She sounded pleasant.

  Tyler was sober for the moment, his shoulder burning through his body, the pain pills waiting for him in the car. He needed to mop Virginia’s floor before he could finish up. He opened the door and peeked in. Virginia was sitting straight up in bed, her expression slightly confused. She was thin with unruly white hair.

  He gave her a nervous smile. “Hello, ma’am.” He pulled the mop into sight. “Is it okay if I clean your floors?”