Mitty was seventy-plus, 4-foot-1, and skinny as a rail, with a deep masculine voice. She was from L.A., all right, and in fifteen years had still never acclimated to the Northwest’s cool weather. She often wore a ski cap and a long-sleeve sweatshirt on a sunny, 70-degree day. The rumor that she was a black-and-white film star was just that: a rumor. But someone should have made a film about her!
She was a fairy godmother to many, not only doling out dollars from time to time, but also taking food to poor people when they were sick, arranging rides to the doctor for those with no car or bus pass, and encouraging those who were too ashamed to ask for help. More than once, she gently placed a ten in my hand, sensing my need. I learned that she wasn’t a rich lady by any stretch of the imagination, but rather chose to deprive herself to help others. “We have to help each other out when we can,” she would say in her deep voice.
Time after time, I saw the poor give to the poor. If you had twenty and someone asked you for ten, you gave it to them. It was difficult, but I learned how to practice this kind of giving. When I got my hands on twenty bucks, it was as if some unseen force was telling someone in need to ask me for a five, and I would give up a ten. I discovered that the same force would somehow return the ten, plus ten more. I learned to give with joy.
Six teenagers were seated at the next table, directly behind the open spot I was heading toward: Josh, Ricky, Allen, Maria, and two boys I had never seen before. I noticed that Ricky looked like he had been crying. I nodded at him and he nodded back. I set my tray down and slid into my seat as John asked, “How’s your book coming?”
“It’s coming along,” I said, picking up a napkin. “I’m almost done.”
“That’s what you said last month,” John retorted.
Mitty came to my defense. “John, it takes a long time to write a book, you know,” she said.
“I know. I’m just kidding him,” John smiled.
Just as I was lifting the first bite of meatloaf to my mouth, I heard Ricky raise his voice. “Just leave me the fuck alone,” he yelled, pounding his fists on the table.
“Hey, Ricky, you know there’s no swearing in here,” Chef Pat said sternly from behind the kitchen counter, shaking her serving spoon in the air.
“We’re just trying to help, Ricky,” I heard Maria whisper.
“You can’t help,” Ricky said, his voice trembling. “No one can fucking help! They killed him!” Ricky yelled. “Go ahead and throw me out! I don’t care.”
Major Baker came rushing in from his office. Either he had heard Ricky, or someone had gone and told him there was trouble in the hall. He weaved his way between the tables to Ricky, who had buried his head in his hands; only his stained red baseball cap with the big red “A” could be seen.
The young people scrambled from the table when they saw the Major motoring in their direction, fearing he was going to throw Ricky out of Sally’s. The Major had strict rules: no alcohol, no fighting, no guns, and no swearing. But the Major also had a heart—a big heart.
He arrived at the table in all of his officialdom—dressed in black pants, black tie, and white shirt with the Salvation Army insignia on the shoulders—and sat down beside the tortured boy. He put his hand gently on Ricky’s arm. “What’s wrong, Ricky?” was all he said. He waited for a moment or two, then said, “We are not going to throw you out, Ricky. You’re my friend.”
It must have been the soothing voice, or maybe it was the touch of the Major’s hand, that reached Ricky. He slowly lifted his head, revealing the tears running down his cheeks. “Oh, Major, my old teacher at school died... He shot himself. He was the only teacher who ever cared about me. The only one! The only person who ever gave me a second chance.”
The Major put his arm around Ricky. “I’d like to hear about him, Ricky. He sounds like a wonderful man. Would you like to come into my office and tell me about him?”
Ricky hesitated, then said, “Sure.”
“Let’s go,” the Major said. They both rose, and the Major put his arm around Ricky’s shoulder, guiding him to the office.
The room was quiet as the Major closed the door—completely quiet.
Eventually, C broke the silence. “That display of compassion deserves a standing ovation—no, a twenty-one-gun salute,” he said, looking at John.
“Well, since they don’t allow guns in here, we can at least salute,” John replied, rising to his feet.
C also stood up. Then Mitty and all the people at our table rose. John turned, lifting his hands to motion to the others in the room, and one by one everyone stood up. Then we all followed John’s cue as he faced the door of the Major’s office and raised his right hand to his forehead in a sharp salute to Major Baker.
“You know, these kids have it real tough on the street—real tough,” Mitty said, after we had all settled back down. “It’s good they have somebody like the Major.”
“You know, Ricky was a baseball star at Aberdeen High School,” John said. “He was a good pitcher, but I think he got kicked out when he was a junior. Or he quit; I’m not sure. And I don’t know how he got here, but something sure happened. He’s been living on the streets for quite a while. He had a great fastball. He had the stuff. You know, I think Aberdeen is a lot like Bremerton—it’s not the type of town where people make their dreams come true.
“As far as I can recall, there has never been a famous ball player from Bremerton. They always end up working in the shipyard.”
The crowd finished lunch, cleared the tables, and returned their trays. I noticed Ricky’s tray was still sitting on the table, and I went over with the last of my coffee to clear for him.
There was a crumpled newspaper lying beside the tray, a four-day old copy of the Kitsap Sun. It was folded open to a story with the headline Teacher OF the Year Commits Suicide, so I sat down and began to read.
ABERDEEN: David McKay, the 2002 Teacher of the Year in Washington State from nearby Aberdeen, took his own life December 10. McKay, 42, was found in his pickup truck with self-inflicted wounds from his shotgun on a country road just south of Copalis Crossing, off the Ocean Beach Road.
McKay inspired his students to write books in his class, many of which were published. He met with President George Bush in 2002 and was recognized for his achievements in education.
McKay was facing possible discipline for viewing pornography on his computer at school, according to a Sheriff’s Office investigation. Sheriff Mike Whelan said, “I’ve been thinking a lot about this. He was a very popular teacher, a man loved by hundreds of people. Like many of us, he had faults. But nothing he did was against the law, and there was nothing he did that warranted him taking his life.”
I read on, trying to imagine how labels of “unprofessional conduct” and the threat of having his teaching certificate revoked would affect a gentle and sensitive man, a man who had devoted his life to teaching and caring about children, a man (it was also reported) who was suffering from depression. “Tragedy seems like such a hollow word to describe this situation,” the sheriff was quoted as saying.
I set the paper down, took a sip of coffee, and pondered what those last thirty-odd days of Mr. McKay’s life must have been like. They had seized his computer in early November, but he didn’t, or couldn’t, tell his wife what was happening—or call his mother, father, brother, or sisters.
Just a few months earlier, David had been the shining star in a small logging and whale-watching town, respected by hundreds, greeted with smiles and waves—a proud man who gave his family credit for his success. But when he needed help the most, he was all alone.
We had too much in common, this stranger from Aberdeen and I: we had it all, and we lost it all. He lost his way in the Internet; I lost mine in depression. He took his own life; I had attempted to take mine and still thought about trying again. In some ways, I felt just as dead as he was.
How frightening those final days must have been for him—hiding his fear, his shame, his depression while participating
in the pre-Christmas rituals developed over fifteen years of family life—and what the terror of December 10th must have been for his wife and children.
Then the irony hit me: the irony of McKay living in Aberdeen. Just on the edge of town is a bridge millions of Americans have seen—the bridge in the film Pay It Forward. In the film, a young boy from Las Vegas develops a reverse pyramid scheme of goodness as a class project, and a homeless man is the recipient of one of boy’s three good deeds, each recipient then being obligated to perform three good deeds himself. The man relapses into drug use after being helped by the boy, and the boy feels that his project has failed. But at this bridge, the homeless man saves the life of a weeping, shaking woman who has climbed on the rail, preparing to jump to her death. He stops her by begging her to save his life by having a cup of coffee and talking with him. She responds to his need, seeing the possibility that it might be more urgent even than her own.
I wondered why someone hadn’t paid it forward for David McKay. He’d been supposedly seduced by the siren call of pornography on the Internet, but this was hardly unique. It’s the number-one hit in the cyber world; gambling is second. His mistake was peering into that world on the school computer. I wondered why the principal or the superintendent hadn’t just taken Mr. McKay out for a cup of coffee and a few words of advice. Had it really been necessary to confiscate his computer and call in the feds, to ruin his career, to destroy his fragile hold on life? Wouldn’t a slap on the wrist and a warning have been enough? What happened to the concept of a second chance?
Sure, the principals in this scenario could hide behind the “legal ramifications” and the “liability factors,” but for David McKay, the fall from Teacher of the Year to Internet Porn Addict was just too great. And now neither lawyers nor psychiatrists could save him.
All David McKay had needed was what we all need: someone to touch his life, just like he had touched Ricky’s.
Big Bill, the tall, muscular man who cleaned the tables and mopped the floor at Sally’s, was beginning to fold up the chairs and place them on top of the tables in the back of the room. I took another sip of coffee and looked at Bill. “You got fifteen minutes or so, son,” he said. “I’ve still got to fill up the bucket and get the mop and stuff.”
I picked up the newspaper one more time to check my horoscope. As I leafed through the pages, I stumbled on a familiar name. Right there at the top of the obituary section, just above Mr. McKay’s notice, was this: Marcia Ulep—my friend from the hospital waiting room months ago. Below her name was her picture, taken on a sunny day on a warm beach with sparkling water in the background. She had long dark hair, accentuated by a white orchid, and was wearing a print dress. She wore the same cross around her neck, the one with the ruby in the center. She looked big and strong, weighing maybe two hundred pounds. She had probably been in her late thirties when the picture was taken.
“Beloved wife, mother, grandmother, and friend, Marcia went to join Jesus after a long battle with cancer,” the article read. “She will be in the thoughts each day of her loving husband Vonne, her seven children—Corazon of San Diego, Rafael of Denver, Christine of Dallas, Jaypee of Agana, Phillipines, Marcella of Los Angeles, Warren of Seattle, and Valerie of Pittsburgh—and her twelve grandchildren.”
I smiled as I remembered my visit with Marcia in that waiting room. She died on the same day as Mr. McKay. I hoped that he was waiting in line to get into heaven with my friend Marcia. She would cheer him up, buy him a hot coffee and a hamburger, and show him her photo collection, all the way from Corazon through Angelee.
Chapter 32
THE HOLY GHOSTS
It was a week before Christmas when the ghosts of the church came to visit, or perhaps decided to reveal themselves to me. I’d been staying in the sprawling building for almost a month now. Usually I slept in the sanctuary with Willow curled up beside me in my sleeping bag. It was the quietest place in the building, away from the noise of the busy road in front. And though it was peaceful, I could hear the old furnace firing up in the basement and the pump pounding as it routed hot water. When the furnace and pump stopped, I could hear the trickle of hot water cruising through the pipes.
It was a Wednesday night, and the church had been in a hubbub all day. The florist had delivered a truckload of poinsettias for the sanctuary; the organist (who was kind enough to bring me a shepherd’s pie dinner) tuned up the organ for choir practice. Meanwhile there was an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting at one end of the church, where those in recovery got together in an effort to summon the courage not to imbibe during the holiday season; at the other end was a Boy Scouts’ Christmas party. The choir members arrived in a festive mood, talking about how dizzy they were from shopping for their children and how busy they were preparing for their Christmas festivities. People were making plans to rush to the airport to pick up relatives flying into Seattle and lamenting that they just didn’t have time to get everything done.
The choir director graciously asked if I wished to sing, but I begged off. “Maybe another time,” I said. “I’d just like to listen, if that’s okay.” She gave me a warm smile and headed off for the director’s stand with several copies of music tucked under her arm.
While the choir practiced, a group of young people moved a crèche into place to the right of the altar. They were carrying in small figurines of Mary, Joseph, the Three Wise Men, a lamb, a cow, and a horse, and a little girl carefully carried the figure of a baby. “I’ve got the Baby Jesus,” she said proudly. An older boy lugged in a bale of hay to spread around the scene.
I sat in the back pew with Willow in my lap, watching from afar, wishing in some ways I had the desire to sing. But I was an anomaly—I was a homeless man living in a church who did not believe in God.
It was about nine thirty when the choir finished its last song and began to file out. Pastor Earl walked back to me. “Richard, would you make sure all the doors are locked and the lights are off before you turn in?” he asked. I assured him I would, and he reached down to pet Willow before heading for the door.
I made my way down to the ground floor to see if all the doors were locked. They were. I turned off all the lights and then climbed the stairs again to check the locks on the big double doors of the main entrance. They were secure. I returned to the sanctuary, slowly closing the large wood-and-glass doors of the massive room.
I was finally alone. Willow had curled up asleep under the pew where we had been sitting earlier.
A panel on the wall in the back of the church contained a dozen or more knobs and switches to control the lights that set the atmosphere in the sanctuary. I turned them all off except the one small spotlight that directed a narrow beam onto the altar, a good two hundred feet away.
The dim beam highlighted the cornucopia of flowers, the altar, and the crèche the children had made. I was tired, but I felt compelled to get a closer look. So I walked down the main aisle and peered at the baby doll that had been placed in the wooden crib and at the statues of Mary and Joseph.
I whispered to myself, “This is so beautiful.” And I remembered doing this before, over fifty years ago, when my mother took me to a church for the first time. I was six years old and it was Christmas Eve.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Oh, yes. I had done this many times before—walked in dim light slowly and softly to the side of a crib. I had done it in the hospital nursery the night each of my three children had come into the world; I had done it on the night we brought each one of them home and first placed them in their own cribs. I had done it whenever I heard them cry, or whimper, or cough. And each time I witnessed the miracle of their presence, I had whispered, “This is so beautiful.”
I remembered walking my mother up the stairs of the old farmhouse we were renting in Ohio and into the room of our first child. She, too, had walked slowly to the side of the crib and stood there in silence, tears of joy rolling down her cheeks.
The sound of a bell ringing brought me abruptly ba
ck to the present. It was the doorbell at the front of the church. I figured one of the choir members must have forgotten something. Willow awoke and barked a couple of times as the bell rang again. I could see the shadow of a person pacing the walkway that ran along the side of the sanctuary to the front door. The figure turned back toward the door, and the bell rang a third time. “I’ll be right there,” I yelled through one of the windows. I walked the length of the sanctuary, flipped on the hall lights, and headed for the door.
A young girl I didn’t recognize was standing at the door when I arrived.
“Can I help you?” I asked.
“I don’t live far from here, and I came to church here once,” she said. “I wondered if—if it would be all right if I came in and said a prayer.” She was wearing just a T-shirt, jeans, and tennis shoes, and she was shivering.
“I don’t know. It’s kinda late,” I said, though I found myself pushing the big door wide open.
“I won’t take long, Father,” she said. It appeared she’d been crying.
“Sure, sure. Come on in,” I said, stepping back to let her in. The rush of cold air from outside filled my nostrils. “Where’s your coat?” I asked.
“Oh, I forgot it,” she said.
I let the door slam shut behind us and turned to see Willow jumping up on her leg to welcome her. “That’s my dog, Willow,” I said, as she reached down to pet her.
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