Thelma told Lester what to buy, but he always spent more than necessary for the simple items she requested. She didn’t know whether he purchased something else or simply put some of the money in his pocket before counting it out in her hand. Either way, she didn’t have the will or energy to confront him. A few times she’d smelled the familiar odors of beer and cigarettes on his breath and remembered the days when his father and her other sons started down the same path.
Since her sight faded away, Thelma didn’t walk anywhere except in the house. Her feet hurt. The doctor had a fancy term for it, but all she knew was that the diabetes was slowly destroying the feeling in her legs. It was six shuffling steps to the nightstand in her bedroom, fourteen steps into the kitchen, eight steps to the bathroom, ten steps to the black phone in the hall, sixteen steps to the front door, and twelve steps to Lester’s bedroom door. Thelma got up from her chair and slowly crossed the hallway, going into her room to the nightstand beside her bed.
She turned the knob on her radio. She alternated between two country music stations. Songs of others’ sorrow were her favorites, women vocalists her preference. Lyrics that expressed the futility of life in the face of suffering rang true to her soul, and she responded to melodies featuring the high, lonesome sounds of steel guitars—a wailing cry that echoed the whine of bagpipes played by the Scottish ancestors of the Appalachian mountain people. But today she stopped before reaching the signal for one of her usual stations. She paused when a clear voice spoke into the small room, “Please stop and listen for a minute. I have a message for you from Jesus Christ.”
Thelma Garrison sat on the edge of her bed. It wasn’t a complicated program. A minister from a neighboring town interviewed a woman who shared the testimony of her conversion. Like Thelma, the woman came from a hardworking, hard-drinking family and spent most of her life in the ruts and ditches of life.
Thelma had been to church and listened to preachers who yelled so loud they could have been heard by a crowd of a thousand when the congregation before them numbered less than a hundred. She’d been scared of hell a few times but never overcame her greater fear of being noticed by others to slip out of the pew and walk forward at the end of a church meeting and give her heart to Jesus. She finally decided religion wasn’t for her. God was somewhere on the other side of the universe and didn’t have an interest in a poor, uneducated girl who dropped out of school in the seventh grade. Her life then proved her point: teenage pregnancy, alcoholic husband, long hours of work for little pay, and one hard experience after another.
The woman described the way in which the Holy Spirit had drawn her to Jesus: “I was listening to a program on the radio one afternoon. It seemed like the person speaking was talking directly to me. I could barely breathe, and then the love of God came into my living room. It wasn’t just that God loved everyone; he loved me.”
Thelma sat very still with her hands in her lap.
The voice from the radio continued, “I began to cry. I wasn’t sad. They were good tears. They washed away the sorrows that had built up around my heart. It was like I took a shower that cleaned me on the inside.”
Thelma blinked back tears from her own sightless eyes. Most of her tears during the past sixty years had been ones of anger and frustration. These were different. They rolled off her cheeks, making small dark spots when they landed on her cotton dress.
“I got down on my knees beside my bed and talked to the Lord just like I’m talking to you. That’s when it happened. I said, ‘Jesus, save me.’ And he did.”
Thelma listened to the end of the program. When the woman finished talking, the preacher asked the people tuned in to the station to pray a simple prayer if they wanted to know Jesus Christ. Thelma hesitated, unconvinced that it would work for her. There was no hope of sight left for her in this world, and she couldn’t believe there was the possibility of new vision in the world to come.
With a deep sigh, she reached over and turned the dial to one of her familiar stations.
11
In life, as in a football game, the principle to follow is: Hit the line hard.
THEODORE ROOSEVELT
The following morning Scott drove south to Charlotte for a hearing in an uncontested breach-of-contract case. The long, watery fingers of Lake Norman on the Catawba River forced drivers traveling south from Blanchard County to select between the interstate highway that crossed the lake on several long bridges and a more scenic course that followed two-lane roads on the west side of the reservoir. Because he wasn’t in a hurry, Scott opted for the scenic route. He left early enough to stop in Denver, a small town with no resemblance to its famous Colorado counterpart; however, the cluster of bait-and-tackle shops and mobile-home manufacturing plants was home to a small roadside diner that served the best ham biscuits in the area.
The drive-up restaurant was in a small concrete-block structure with a flimsy aluminum awning. Scott gave his order to a woman with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of her mouth. In less than a minute, she handed him two biscuits wrapped in thin white paper and a large cup of strong coffee. Scott parked his vehicle in the nearest parking spot, unwrapped a biscuit, and took a bite. He was not disappointed. It was hot and fluffy, and the country ham had the perfect mixture of salt and sweet. He washed it down with sips of coffee.
At the outskirts of Charlotte, he stopped at a red light and flipped open the mirror on his sun visor to make sure there wasn’t any ham stuck between his teeth. He didn’t want to provide a visual replay of his breakfast to the judge assigned to his case.
The courthouse in Charlotte was a series of haphazard buildings linked by skywalks and underground tunnels. Scott had to park a couple of blocks away from the courthouse, and there was a long line backed up at the security checkpoint. As he waited to pass through the metal detector, he examined the contents of a large glass case where the security officers displayed some of the weapons and contraband seized from people who, for inexplicable reasons, attempted to bring switchblades, guns, and drugs into the heart of the justice system.
Unlike the main courtroom in Catawba, the utilitarian courtrooms in Charlotte had as much distinct personality as a row of metal fence posts. Scott slipped into the back door. There were about twenty lawyers spread out on the light-colored benches behind the bar. A woman judge came through a door behind the bench and began transacting the business of the day. Scott had to wait an hour before his case was called. No one appeared for the defendant, and the judge quickly scribbled her name across the bottom of the paper Scott placed in front of her. At times, practicing law was so simple a first grader could do it.
It was a clear day, and on the drive back to Catawba he took a five-minute detour to a place where the State Department of Natural Resources had placed four concrete picnic tables near the edge of the lake. He’d saved half a biscuit from his morning snack, and sitting at one of the tables, he nibbled the cold biscuit while he looked out over the water.
During the time he dated Kay, they spent a chilly Saturday afternoon on Lake Norman. One of Scott’s friends had a boat, and they spent an afternoon skiing in early April. The temperature of the water was a shock when Scott jumped in, but he pretended it was as tepid as the end of August.
Scott had been skiing on a slalom since he was ten years old. When his friend gave the boat full throttle, Scott plowed through the water, patiently waiting for the boat to lift him to the surface. The shock of the wind against his wet body made him grit his teeth for several seconds, but after shaking his head a couple of times, he was able to concentrate on skiing and made the slalom come alive. There were only a few boats on the lake, and the water was smooth as glass. He cut sharply back and forth, sending sprays of water twenty feet skyward as he pulled himself to a point almost perpendicular to the back of the boat. Twice, he approached the edge of the wake at high speed and launched himself in the air, clearing the bubbling turbulence caused by the motor and landing on the smooth water on the other side. The third
time he jumped, his rubbery legs didn’t give him enough thrust and he wiped out.
Scott’s friend and his date skied, but it took several minutes of coaxing to convince Kay to give it a try. She sat on the edge of the boat as they drifted in a quiet cove, stuck her toes in the water, and refused to budge. But peer pressure prevailed. Donning a yellow ski vest, she held her nose, jumped in the water, and came up screaming.
Sitting at the picnic table, Scott remembered the scene and smiled. Kay had long legs, and she awkwardly wrestled with the skis as she struggled to slip her feet into the rubber bindings. Her lips were turning blue by the time she was ready. Scott tried to give her last-minute instructions, but she told him to be quiet and get the boat moving before she turned into an icicle. The boat accelerated, and she popped quickly up out of the water. Keeping her legs bent, she stayed directly behind the boat, her wet hair streaming behind her and her mouth wide open. Scott wasn’t sure if the sounds coming across the water were screams or laughter. Amazingly, she didn’t fall. When she grew tired, she waved once and let go of the rope, sinking down until only her head and shoulders were bobbing above the surface. Praising her profusely, Scott helped Kay into the boat and wrapped her tightly in a large towel. She shivered for several minutes, then refused to let go of the towel until the boat was back on dry ground. Scott chuckled; it had been a day to remember.
He stood up and walked back to his vehicle.
Back at the office, Scott listened to his voice-mail messages. Number six was from a woman he’d dated a couple of times after they met while Scott was walking Nicky.
“Scott, this is Ashley Warren. I know it’s late notice, but I’d love to have you over for supper this evening. I’ve spent a week in Cancún and want to tell you all about it. Seven o’clock would be great. Please call.”
Scott hadn’t talked to Ashley in a month. She would be tanned from her week in Mexico, but listening to her chatter about the tourist traps she visited didn’t sound very interesting. He glanced at his calendar and saw a note he’d written about the home football game for the Catawba Catamounts.
Scott debated his options for several seconds before deciding on a plan of action. Taking out a quarter, he tossed it in the air. Heads he went to the football game, tails he accepted the dinner invitation. He caught the coin and opened his hand. It was tails. He paused before dialing Ashley’s phone number. She was attractive but talked nonstop. It would be a noisy evening whether he went to dinner or the game. The issue was so close that his first result required corroboration. Repeating the coin toss, it came up heads. That meant one final throw. Winner takes all. He flipped the coin almost to the ceiling and let it land on the carpet beside his desk so there would be no chance he could influence the outcome. It was heads.
The football game started at 7:30 P.M. Scott arrived fifteen minutes early but still had to park at the far end of the school parking lot. Football Friday night in a town like Catawba was a community-wide event and attendance at the five home games was a top priority on the social calendar. Even if residents of the community didn’t have a son or grandson wearing a blue-and-gold uniform, they came anyway. The team represented the town, not just the high school.
Scott walked through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd toward the main concession stand. Several men wearing blue T-shirts that identified them as members of the Catawba High football booster club had set up grills and were cooking hamburgers as fast as the white-hot charcoal would allow. Scott liked his hamburgers crispy with melted cheese on top, and in a few minutes he had three burgers topped with ketchup, pickles, and onions safely nestled in a paper sack next to a bag of barbeque-flavored potato chips and a soft drink.
He passed by a long row of men who were leaning against a rusty chain-link fence that encircled the playing field. In every sporting venue there is an area devoted to the most loyal fans: the bleachers at Wrigley Field, the west stands at Ohio State, the student section in Cameron Coliseum at Duke. The die-hard fans of the Catawba Catamounts were a no-nonsense group of middle-aged and older men who stood shoulder to shoulder along the rusty fence. Some of them had played football when the team still followed the Confederate battle flag onto the gridiron; others dropped out and never graduated. But they all took football seriously. Dressed in blue jeans and wearing caps, some chewed tobacco, some chewed gum, and some chewed one of the long blades of fescue grass that grew up into the fence. They didn’t cheer. A touchdown by the home team caused nothing more emotional than a nod of the head in approval. They didn’t boo. A bad play by a Catawba player caused a chain reaction of spitting down the line. Cursing was reserved exclusively for the referees.
Scott was wearing blue jeans, but the chain-link fence crowd was not in his plans for the evening. He climbed the metal steps of the bleachers. A female voice called his name.
“Scott!”
He looked down the row of bleachers to his left. It was Kay. She was in the middle of the row, standing up and waving her arm.
“Are you with some friends?” she yelled.
“No.”
“There’s a seat here.” She pointed beside her.
Scott gingerly made his way past a dozen spectators. He was almost to the vacant place beside Kay when an overweight man hit him in the leg. Scott lurched forward and watched in slow motion as his drink tipped over and slipped out of his hand. At the last instant, Kay reached up and grabbed the cup before it turned upside down and the lid popped off.
“Good reflexes,” Scott said with relief. “I didn’t want to give you a soft-drink shower.”
Her hair in a ponytail, Kay was wearing tan slacks and a long-sleeve, green, knit shirt. She moved a lightweight coat so that Scott could sit down. It was warm now, but the air would cool quickly once the sun set.
“Have you come to other games?” she asked.
“First one since I moved back. Dustin Rawlings mentioned it the other night.”
Kay picked up her game program and ran her finger down the list of players. “He’s number 81. Senior. Wide receiver. 6'1" and 185 pounds.”
Scott opened his sack, took out a hamburger, unwrapped it, and took a big bite.
“That smells good,” Kay said.
Still chewing, Scott mumbled, “It is.”
“What’s on it?”
He swallowed. “Cheese, ketchup, pickles, and plenty of onions.”
“Sounds good,” Kay answered.
Scott took another bite and turned his attention toward the field. The opposing team, dressed in white jerseys, red pants, and white helmets, was assembling in the end zone before running onto the field.
“Could I borrow your program?” he asked.
Kay handed him the booklet, and Scott flipped it open to the team roster. Dustin’s picture and bio were printed on the right side of the two pages devoted to Catawba’s seniors.
“Do you want me to help myself?” Kay asked.
“To what?” Scott turned toward her.
“A hamburger.”
“You want one?”
Kay smiled. “Is that a possibility?”
Scott reached into the bag. “Are you sure you like onions? They’re pretty strong.”
Kay took off the wrapper. “I eat more than cantaloupe. Besides, I’d better eat a few onions in self-defense if we’re going to be sitting next to one another.”
“I can exhale in the opposite direction,” Scott offered.
Kay took a bite. “No, this is a better solution.”
Scott opened his small bag of potato chips and reluctantly held it toward Kay. If the quarter had landed tails on the third try in his office, someone would be feeding him right now. “Potato chips?”
“No, thanks,” she said. “I don’t like barbeque chips.”
Scott finished the second burger and the chips at the same time Kay put the last bite of hamburger in her mouth.
“Onions make you thirsty, don’t they?” she asked.
Scott didn’t wait for further hints. He handed he
r his drink. “I only have one straw.”
“I can avoid that.” Kay took off the lid and took a long swallow directly from the cup, waited, and took another drink. “That should hold me until halftime, then I’ll treat you to a bag of peanuts and buy a drink of my own.”
Scott put the lid back on the cup, sucked on the straw, and drew air. He tilted the cup and found just enough liquid for one good sip. He took off the lid and shook some ice into his mouth.
The coaches were already along the sideline. The Catawba players were massed behind the goalpost in one end zone preparing to run through a huge paper banner held by several members of the cheerleading squad. The crowd rose to its feet as the team burst through the paper barricade and ran full speed toward the home field bleachers.
After the crowd quieted down, Kay said, “I know you played football but don’t remember the position. You were on defense, weren’t you?”
“Right side linebacker. It was a lot of fun.” Scott remembered days wearing heavy pads in the blazing heat of August and added, “At least the games were fun. Practice was terrible. Nobody likes football practice.”
The game quickly settled down to a defensive struggle. Neither team seemed capable of getting a first down, much less a touchdown. Dustin caught one pass for eight yards before being pushed out of bounds. On running plays, he usually had to block the opposing team’s cornerback, a muscular young man who hit Dustin so hard on two plays that Scott winced in sympathy. But the Catawba player also got in some licks, including a flying block that freed the home team’s running back for a fifteen-yard run. It was the Catamounts’ longest play of a first half that ended in a scoreless tie.
The Sacrifice Page 10