by Bill Myers
And she raced to me.
Before I could stop myself, I was holding her. I felt her hot tears against my neck, her body trembling. Was I still angry? Yes. A thousand times over. But even as I held her, tears spilled onto my own face, running down, mixing with hers.
Finally, I forced the word from my clogged throat. It came, but barely a whisper. “Mary . . .” I pulled her closer, buried my face into her hair. “My Mary.”
CHAPTER FOUR
She motioned to my coffee. “You quit using milk?”
“I lost the taste.”
“Take yours like a real man?” It was supposed to be a tease but it fell flat.
We just kept sitting there, redefining the term, awkward. I was never good at putting my thoughts into words, they always came out stupid and clumsy. Not like Mary. And now with everything so jumbled up in my head I wasn’t even sure where to start.
Mom and old man McDermott had the good sense to let us get off by ourselves. Though it took an extra nod from Mary to her dad, like she was telling him I could be trusted.
Like I was the one with trust issues.
We’d retrieved my beater pickup from the back of Leroy’s Bar and Grill, and after a little coaxing, I got the engine to fire up in the cold. The heater wasn’t so cooperative, leaving the cab freezing. It had never been a problem for us before — the joy of bench seats—but now Mary stayed on her side, miles away. It was the right choice. I don’t know what I would have done if she tried scooting next to me.
It was the right choice, but it broke my heart.
When we got to the town’s one and only Starbuck’s—or as Mary calls it, “St. Arbucks”—I parked and crossed around to pry open her door. I helped her down and offered my arm so she wouldn’t slip on the ice. Besides the little living room scene, it was the first time we’d touched. It felt good and awful.
After ordering, I took her coat and paused only a second at the size of her belly. We found a table at the far end of the room. I took a seat with my back to the wall so I could keep an eye on things. Survival technique. I was back home, but old habits die hard.
Knowing where I sat and why, Mary started up the conversation again. “Was it hard for you?”
I looked at her.
“I mean I got your e-mails. About Charlie. But I could tell you were leaving out a lot of—”
“It was hard for everybody.” My voice was sharper than I wanted. I looked out the window.
She nodded, then softly added, “But at least you came home.”
I tried not to scoff, but like I said she had a way of knowing what I was thinking.
We sat there in the silence. Her ring, the one with the little diamond I gave her nearly a year ago, sparkled a moment in the sunlight. She saw me see it but said nothing. I guess she figured it was my turn.
I swallowed, looked out the window. “So . . . when’s it due?”
She waited until I turned to her. “It’s not an it. It’s a he.”
“You’ve done the tests?”
She shook her head.
“Then how do you—”
“I just know.”
I looked down at my coffee, then up and across the room just in time to see a gray-haired couple glance away. I’d seen them before, off and on, whenever Mary dragged me to her father’s church.
Alright. Enough moping. It was time to suck it up and cut to the chase. I turned back to her and said, “Whose?”
Her eyes faltered ever so slightly, but she held my gaze.
“Whose?” I repeated.
She answered, her voice soft but steady. “You know in the Bible, all those prophecies talking about a great leader that’s going to come?”
My jaw tightened. This was not the time for her to get religious on me.
“In Isaiah 7:14 it says—”
“I’m not in the mood for a Bible study!” I was way too loud and way too angry. And we both knew it.
She looked at me a moment, then nodded and sat back in her chair. “No . . . you’re not.”
A shattering explosion came from behind the counter. I jumped, my body on full alert . . . until I saw one of the employees had simply dropped a mug.
“Sorry,” he said to no one in particular.
I took a breath and then another. I turned back to Mary, her eyes on me the whole time. I saw the concern but wasn’t going to have it. “So that’s it?” I said. “That’s all you’re going to say for yourself?”
Her answer was still soft, but had that quiet strength she was known for. “That’s all you can hear.” More gently, she added, “For now.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shook her head.
I pressed in. “What’s throwing the Bible at me got to do with anything?”
“I wasn’t—” She caught herself and simply shook her head.
“If you’re trying to turn this into one of your father’s sermons, forget it.”
“No one’s trying to—”
“There’s more to life than God and the Bible, you know.” My voice had gotten loud again. I fought to bring it down. “Sometimes people have to take responsibility for their own actions.”
She looked at me, then looked down, slowly nodding.
Alright, I’d lost it. Maybe if I’d chosen a less public spot. Maybe if I was more sensitive, understanding. Maybe if— No. I was not on trial here. I wasn’t the one who created this mess.
I said nothing more. Just waited.
She kept staring at her cup.
Finally, I spoke. “That’s it then?”
She nodded, then quietly repeated, “For now.”
Well, she was right about one thing. I’d had enough. I scooted back the chair and rose. “I’ll get your coat.”
“I think I’ll stay here a while.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You go ahead. I’ll find a ride.”
“It’s freezing cold out there.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“C’mon. I drove you here, it’s my responsibility to—”
“No, Joey. It’s not.” She looked up at me, those blue eyes, gentle but piercing. “I’m not your responsibility.”
I stared. Noticed how cold the shop had become.
She looked back at her coffee. “I’ll find a ride.”
“Mary—”
Her voice was so quiet, I almost missed it. “I managed for eleven months, I can manage now.” She said nothing more, just kept staring at her coffee.
“Alright, fine.” I turned and started for the door. “Call me if you need me.”
If she answered, I didn’t hear as I shoved open the door and felt the cold blast of winter hit my face.
CHAPTER FIVE
It wasn’t hard breaking into the school that night. The moon was almost full. As long as I stayed out of sight from the street, I’d be fine. If I was lucky, Mrs. Sanford was still having her hot flashes which meant she still taught near the window which she always kept open a crack and usually forgot to lock at night.
I was lucky.
Once inside, it was a quick jog through the halls, lit only by exit signs, and into the gym. High above the polished floor, the skylights filtered in just enough blue-gray light to see my way around. So many memories. And smells . . . old wood, floor polish, the faint whiff of gym clothes from the adjacent locker room.
I crossed to the far end, the last set of folded-up bleachers. And there, carved into the third row of seats, visible only to those who knew where to look, were the initials…
* * *
J S
+
M M
* * *
I RAN my fingers over them.
It had been Friday night after one of my games. She’d hung back, waiting for me. Somehow, we were the last ones in the gym. And as a sixteen-year-old, proving my undying love, I’d whipped out my Swiss Army knife and began to carve.
“Joey, what are you doing?”
“Shh, nobody will know.�
�
“But—”
It was probably the only act of vandalism in her entire life. And though she protested and tried to stop me, she didn’t try too hard. It became our little secret, and more times than I could remember, our rendezvous point. It stayed here throughout the rest of our high school. And apparently longer.
“Do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife.”
The phrase never faded from my thoughts. If anything, it got louder—during the fiasco at Starbucks, then my drive to our other special place on the river, and later, at the tennis courts where I used to watch her lose match after match, but where she never stopped trying. I even swung by her father’s church and parked a few minutes.
“What is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.”
What did that mean? It made no sense. Then again, as far as I was concerned, that was right up God’s alley. Not that I didn’t believe in Him. But to try and figure him out? Just ask Charlie Riordan, another Bible thumper. Charlie Riordan, who at this moment was in a California hospital fighting for his life. Charlie Riordan, who despite his God talk, became my best friend in boot camp and served in my unit . . . until Charlie Riordan, without a second’s hesitation, threw himself between me and some kid firing a Kalashnikov.
“She will give birth to a son and you are to give him the name Jesus because he will save his people from their sins.”
I shook my head. I stuffed my hands into my pockets and strolled out onto the floor. The place, once full of cheers and life, was now silent and dead. I don’t know how long I stood there before I heard the ball roll across the floor. A basketball heading directly for me. I turned, put out my foot to stop it, then peered into the shadows. At first I saw nothing.
“You still got it, kid?”
I smiled. The voice was impossible to forget—the wheezing, smoke-cured voice of Mr. Coghill.
The overhead lights clicked on and an old man in coveralls waddled into view—slightly stooped, fifty pounds overweight, with just a few remaining wisps of flyaway hair. “The war hero still know how to throw up a three pointer?” he asked.
I winced at the phrase, but let it slide. We always let things slide with Mr. Coghill. He’d been the janitor there for as long as anyone can remember. Crotchety, short-tempered, but with the ability to see through any smoke screen—teacher’s or student’s. What he lacked in grace, and believe me he lacked plenty, he made up with unflinching honesty. Which is probably why the administration kept him around.
Either that or they were afraid to fire him.
“Aren’t you dead yet?” I asked.
After a deep, hacking cough, he answered, “Not for lack of trying.”
“Those cigarettes just aren’t doing the trick?”
“Jack Daniel’s a wash, too.”
Everyone knew Coghill had a drinking problem, but he never brought it on campus. And he was quick to spot and bust any kid who did . . . then give the kid no rest if he thought he had a problem. Another reason they kept him around.
“So, take a shot,” he said.
I glanced down at the basketball, then picked it up and bounced it a couple times, the sound echoing against the bleachers and walls.
“Heard you swung by Leroy’s last night,” he said.
I shook my head in wonder. “Is there anything you don’t know?”
“Small town. Don’t be a wus, take a shot.”
I looked up to the basket. I was at the top of the key. I took a couple more bounces and fired. Whoosh. All net, no rim. First satisfaction I’d had all day. I strolled to the ball, scooped it up and dribbled over to the left of the key.
“She’s a good kid,” he said. “’Course you know that. And way out of your league.”
I set and shot. “Which is why she’s having someone else’s kid,” I said. It hit the rim and bounced off.
He gave no answer.
I retrieved the ball and dribbled it up to the foul line. As casually as possible I asked, “So do you know who the father is?”
Again, no answer.
I shot. Missed. And crossed over to pick it up, again.
“You remember when you boys won District? Right here in this gymnasium.” He broke into more coughing. “Remember?”
I didn’t bother to reply. Of course I remembered. It was one of the high points of my senior year.
“What was the score again?”
“Eighty-three to eighty-two,” I said.
“Yes sir, one fine game. I remember it like it was yesterday. Course you weren’t the star that day. Didn’t make the winning point.”
I started to answer, but he cut me off.
“Jacobson, wasn’t it? The new kid. Two seconds left. You were under the basket, could a gone up for an easy layup.”
“‘Cept their center, Bobby Smoke, was all over me.”
“But you was right there. The logical thing to do was try. But no, you passed it to Jacobson, way over there on the base line.”
“He was good.”
“He was new. Less than a week on the team.”
I dribbled back to the foul line. “He proved himself in practice. I figured he could deliver.”
“And you were right.”
I expected more from the old timer but that was it. I turned to see him standing there, waiting for me to take the bait. Like I had a choice. “So, tell me, Obie-Wan . . . what great lesson am I supposed to learn from that?”
“Nothin’ I can think of.”
I shot another miss and headed back for the ball.
“Trust’s a tricky thing,” he said. “‘Specially when it comes to the big stuff.”
I picked up the ball, looked over to him.
“But if a person’s proved themselves in the little things, sometimes you gotta let ‘em have the ball in the big things. Even if it don’t make sense. If you know ‘em, really know ‘em, sometimes it’s just a matter of trust.”
I stared. Message delivered loud and clear.
“Glad you’re home, kid.” He turned and hobbled toward the exit. “Stay out of trouble.”
“That’s it. That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“Oh…” He slowed to a stop.
I braced myself.
“Turn out the lights when you’re done.” He continued toward the doors. “And close your mouth. Makes you look stupider than you are.”
CHAPTER SIX
The second morning was worse than the first.
Sleep might have helped, but it wasn’t in the cards. I lay on top of the covers, still in my jeans and sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling of my attic bedroom. Thoughts and conversations kept churning, no, make that, roaring, inside my head.
“You know what they say about preacher kids . . . do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife . . . way out of your league . . . she will give birth to a son . . . it’s not an it, it’s a he . . . I never did like that family . . . everybody loves Mary . . . what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit . . .”
It wasn’t ‘til five, maybe six in the morning that I got around to remembering the Bible verse she had tried to quote. Isaiah seven, something-or-other.
I rolled out of bed, grabbed a Bible off the shelf, the one Mary had given me, and sat down at my little desk in front of the dormer window. The sky was just starting to smear with blue and pink. I found Isaiah, then chapter seven. The beginning wasn’t so helpful, all about some king afraid of another king, and this and that, and none of it making much sense.
Until I got to the verse where God talks to a guy named Ahaz:
* * *
“ASK the Lord your God for a sign, whether in the deepest depths or
in the highest heights.”
* * *
‘A SIGN.’ Now that was something I could use. Yeah, I know there was the dream, and that was a big deal. The fact I remembered every detail made it even bigger. But still . . .
I stared back out the window, thinking . . . and praying. “Look, God, I don’t want to be disrespec
tful or anything, but I could sure use a hand here. Nothing big. It’s not like I need to see a burning bush or anything, but just, you know . . .”
Now don’t laugh, but I literally sat there. Just waiting. Listening.
And, big surprise, I got . . . nothing.
I sighed, looked back down at the book and kept reading. Two sentences later it hit me:
* * *
“THEREFORE THE LORD himself will give you a sign: The virgin will conceive
and give birth to a son, and will call him Immanuel.”
* * *
I BLINKED, stared at the page as the angel’s words rushed in:
“What is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit . . . she will give birth to a son.”
Then my conversation with Mary:
“It’s not an it. It’s a he.”
“You’ve done the tests?”
“I just know.”
I looked back at the page.
* * *
“—AND WILL CALL HIM IMMANUEL.”
* * *
I FROWNED. Strange name. But no stranger than:
“—and you shall call his name Jesus.”
I thought a moment then reached over and fired up the computer. I logged on and, just for fun, Googled the name: Immanuel.
Its meaning? “God with us.”
I thought another moment, then entered the name: Jesus.
Its meaning? “God saves.”
Not a perfect match, but both talked about God. Maybe it was something. Maybe not. But I was getting closer. To what, I wasn’t sure. I closed my eyes, trying to remember what else Mary had said:
“You know in the Bible, all those prophecies talking about a great leader that’s going to come?”
I’d heard about this leader my whole life. Some dude who’s supposed to save the world, solve all our problems. Not that I paid much attention. You hear stuff like that enough times and pretty soon you don’t hear it at all.