The Sacrifice

by Robert Whitlow

  “Is the tester thing on the nightstand?”

  The apparatus used to draw a tiny sample of blood and determine the glucose content of Thelma’s blood was always in the same place. Lester was sure his grandmother touched it twenty times a day to make sure it hadn’t grown legs and walked off. Beside it was a packet of disposable lancets.

  Lester picked up the hand-held device and handed Thelma a lancet. She pricked her finger and held it out so he could collect a small drop of blood onto a strip of testing paper that he put in the glucose meter. Anything over 109 was outside the normal range. He watched until the digital readout flashed a number. It was 215.

  “How is it?” she asked.

  “It’s okay,” Lester said. “It’s 95. I’ve gotta go.”

  Thelma sighed. “I guess that’s good to know. I thought it was high. When will you be home?”

  “Not too late.”

  Lester walked out to the front porch. Jack immediately hopped up to greet him.

  “Not this time, boy.”

  Jack raced to the truck and wagged his tail excitedly, but Lester didn’t change his mind. He often took Jack on short trips but not when he was going outside the Catawba area. Lester rolled down both windows before putting the key into the ignition. It was a pleasant evening, and he wanted to feel the wind on his cheeks. Before turning around in the yard, he reached under the front seat and felt the cool metal barrel of one of the pistols he’d purchased a couple of weeks after buying the truck. Its mate was in an evidence locker at the Blanchard County sheriff ’s department. The pawnshop owner on the east side of Charlotte had taken the cash Lester carefully counted out in front of him, put the bills directly in his pocket, and slid the two guns across the counter. He had never even asked to see Lester’s driver’s license. The serial numbers had been filed off both weapons.

  The truck’s engine coughed and sputtered to life. Lester turned on the radio and listened to the scratchy sounds that came through the one working speaker. One thing he shared in common with his grandmother— they both listened to the same radio stations. He turned right out of the driveway. By the time the sun went down, he would be on the outskirts of Charlotte. There were other things besides stolen guns that were difficult to buy in a small town like Catawba.

  14

  The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eyes are good, your whole body will be full of light.

  MATTHEW 6:22

  The following morning, Lester sat in his truck in the school parking lot until he heard the bell sound for first period. He didn’t want to go back to school, but the prospect of returning to the YDC eliminated other options. He walked through the front door and turned left down the hallway toward his locker as the last students were entering their classrooms. Frank Jesup glanced over his shoulder and saw Lester. Frank hesitated but knew he couldn’t stay and watch the fun.

  Lester popped open the door of his locker to grab his history book. Inside was a foot-long piece of shiny metal chain with a lock at one end and a note taped to the other. He pulled off the note:

  HERE’S THE PERFECT GIFT FOR YOU. PUT THIS CHAIN AROUND YOUR LEG AND LOCK IT! GET USED TO IT BECAUSE YOU’RE GOING TO THE REAL CHAIN GANG!! SEE YOU ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD WITH THE OTHER PIECES OF TRASH!!!!

  Lester looked up and down the hall to see if anyone was watching. He wadded up the note and put the chain in his backpack. If he found out who put the “gift” in his locker, he had an idea of how he would use it to teach them a lesson they wouldn’t forget.

  Jim Schroder, the superintendent of personnel for the Blanchard County school system, swiveled in his chair and picked up the phone. Behind him on a small credenza was a photograph with a handwritten inscription in the lower right-hand corner: “Da Nang, July 4, 1969.” In the grainy picture, Marine Corps Captain James A. Schroder stood in front of a green helicopter surrounded by his crew and several of the mechanics on the base. Of the ten men in the picture, three did not live to see New Year’s Day 1970. One more did not live to see New Year’s Day 1971. Six survived the war. Of those, one committed suicide in 1975 after spending years in and out of VA hospitals receiving treatment for posttraumatic stress disorder. The other five returned to civilian life, raised families, and tried to forget what they saw from the air and experienced on the ground in Vietnam. Jim punched in the pager number for Larry Sellers, the supervisor responsible for the janitorial and maintenance workers in the school system. In a few minutes there was a knock on his door.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Larry, a husky man in his midthirties, came in. “You called?”

  “Yes. I’ve hired a replacement for Duane Mitchell on the janitorial staff at the high school,” Jim said. “He can start immediately. He’s already been processed through personnel.”

  Larry sat down across from Jim’s desk. “Good. Any experience?”

  “No. In fact, he doesn’t speak English. He’s a recent immigrant, a Hmong.”

  “A what?” Larry asked.

  “H-m-o-n-g. The H is silent. It means ‘free’ in their language, and the name fits. I came in contact with them in Vietnam.” Jim pointed at the photograph on the credenza. “My most important job in the war was to rescue American pilots whose planes were shot down by surface-to-air missiles. If North Vietnamese soldiers or Vietcong guerrillas captured a pilot, he would be killed or sent to a prison camp in the northern part of the country. Our best help came from Hmong militia who lived in the mountains of Laos, northern Cambodia, and western Vietnam. They knew the area and were superb fighters: brave, tough, and unselfish.”

  “Was this man a soldier?”

  “I couldn’t get a clear story through the interpreter, but I know he had contact with Americans during the war. He saw my photograph, pointed to his chest, and gave me a thumbs-up. He could have been on a rescue team himself. His name is Tao Pang. He’s not young, probably about my age. He came in with a relative who speaks a little English. You should have seen his face when I said, ‘Nyob zoo,’ which means ‘Hello’ in his dialect.”

  “Do you speak the language?”

  “Just a few words. Not enough to do any good.”

  “How will I tell him what to do?”

  “We can show and tell until he learns to communicate. Ask the guys at the high school to work with him. If anyone has a problem with him, send him to me.” Jim leaned forward, and a glint of the steel that had burned in his eyes when he was a marine returned. “Hmong soldiers died saving American lives. The least we can do is let this man clean our toilets.”

  A few hours later, Tao Pang walked through the front doors of Catawba High School for the first time. He was five-foot-four with short black hair streaked with gray, deep brown skin, and dark eyes. No one but God knew that he was fifty-two years old.

  A remnant of the Pang family had settled in North Carolina after entering the country in California. Like countless immigrants before them, the newcomers looked for a place in America that resembled the land of their birth, and the mountains of North Carolina resembled the hills of the Hmong homeland in Southeast Asia.

  As a young man, Tao had been a warrior, and when the U.S. government broke its promises and abandoned the Hmong people after the fall of South Vietnam, he wanted to continue the fight. The village leaders disagreed.

  “Many of our people have died. Many more will die if we stay. The land has vomited us out, and we must go.”

  They left that day and began the difficult journey to Thailand. Tao’s wife was pregnant, and the journey was difficult for the young couple. After they crossed the Mekong River and reached the first refugee camp in Thailand, she gave birth to a baby girl they named Mai. She was the most beautiful creature in Tao’s universe. The tiny infant lived six months before contracting dysentery. Without medical care, she lingered for eight days, growing weaker and weaker. She died at sundown. Part of Tao died with her.

  Two years later, Tao’s wife became ill with a fever that climbed higher and higher. Tao sat on the di
rt floor beside her mat, rocking back and forth, praying to the gods of his ancestors. Exhausted, he finally fell asleep, and when he awoke, she was dead.

  It was the end. Tao had no more reason to live. He went outside, looked up at the starry sky, and asked to die. He considered swimming toward the middle of the nearby river until he sank from exhaustion and the waters buried his sorrow forever. But as he walked along the creek-bank, he could not make his feet enter the water. He didn’t die. Instead, he entered a zone of numbness where he became a walking dead man.

  Several months later a man arrived at the camp. It was in the evening and the heat of the day had been replaced by a southerly breeze that cooled the air. The men of the camp invited the stranger to sit with them on logs in a circle.

  “Why have you come to this place?” one asked.

  “I am here to tell you about Jesus Christ, God’s Son,” the man said. “It tells about him in a book I received in Bangkok. It’s called the Holy Bible.”

  “Jesus Christ. We have heard that name from the American soldiers,” one of the men answered. “They used it as a curse. I do not want any more American curses falling on my head.” Several men nodded in agreement and stood up to leave.

  “Wait,” the newcomer said. “The soldiers were wrong to use the name as a curse. Jesus came to remove all curses from us.”

  “How could he do that? Does he know our names or where we live?” another man asked.

  “He took the curses upon himself and died for us.”

  “A dead man can’t help me,” the first speaker said.

  “But he didn’t stay dead. He came back to life. The curses couldn’t hold on to him.”

  “Did an American tell you this?” one asked.

  “No, it was a Vietnamese man—”

  “Hah!” one of the men exclaimed. “We want no part of an American god served by a Vietnamese who hates and kills our people.”

  All the men walked away. All except Tao.

  “Have you seen him alive?” Tao asked quietly. “This Jesus Christ.”

  “Not with my eyes, but I have met him in here.” The man pointed to his chest. “The Bible calls it being born again.”

  “How can a man be born a second time when he’s fully grown?”

  “That is a good question. A holy man asked Jesus the same thing.”

  The stranger told Tao the story of Nicodemus. He concluded by reading from his Bible. “Jesus answered, ‘I tell you the truth, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless he is born of water and the Spirit. Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit. You should not be surprised at my saying, “You must be born again.” The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.’”

  As he listened, Tao felt nervous, yet excited.

  “Is this Holy Spirit, the one who blows like the wind, a brother to Jesus?” Tao asked.

  “Closer than that, I think. They are different, yet one. Who can understand all things about God? But I know that Jesus has broken the power of evil spirits in my life and made me a new man. I’m free from the darkness that threatened to destroy me.”

  “I know this darkness,” Tao nodded. “I hear the voices of hate in my head.”

  The man bowed his head for a second then looked up. “Would you like to be free?”

  Tao rarely made face-to-face contact with anyone except his family and closest friends. Hmong culture did not encourage casual eye contact, and Tao had much to hide in the darkness of his soul. But there was a light and life in the stranger’s eyes that Tao had never seen in another person. He invited him to stay with him, and on the third day Tao entered the kingdom of God. He became truly Hmong, truly “free.”

  Lunch was served at Catawba High from 11:30 A.M. to 1:30 P.M. One day a week, members of the Tuesday group occupied a small round table in the back corner of the cafeteria. Each student was given thirty min- utes to eat, so the identities of the students sitting at the table shifted during the two-hour period.

  The prayer group had started years before. The original members had graduated, and the current participants were second, third, and fourth generation, but the simplicity of the founders’ mission had been maintained without significant change. When they sat down at the table, the students knew what to expect. They prayed simply, personally, and from the heart. They didn’t try to act spiritual; they were spiritual.

  Janie Collins had been part of the Tuesday group since she was in the ninth grade. Alisha Mason participated on a regular basis. Kenny Bost, shy in class or social situations, felt comfortable and safe in the group. The bond created during their times in the cafeteria spilled over into their contacts throughout the school day. When members passed each other in the hall, they greeted one another with an unqualified acceptance rare in high school.

  When someone was praying, the others would listen and agree. Sometimes, a student would write a request on a card and put it in the middle of the table so the topic or person would receive prayer throughout the whole time period. There was one rule about written requests— they had to be suitable to broadcast over the school intercom without causing embarrassment to another person. No gossip prayers allowed. Most members prayed with their eyes open.

  And that is what attracted the attention of Tao.

  The janitor’s first assignment was to stem the tide of trash and fallen food from covering the floor during lunch period. Larry Sellers took his newest employee into the cafeteria, handed him a broom and a dustpan, and pointed at a napkin and piece of bread on the floor. Tao got the message. He began at one end of the room and went from table to table cleaning up behind the messy American teenagers. It was easy labor, and he diligently worked his way to the back of the room.

  When he reached the area near the round table where the students were praying, Tao leaned over to pick up a paper cup. He glanced up and saw Janie Collins’s face. Her lips were moving; her eyes were open. To a casual observer, she appeared to be carrying on a conversation with the other students around the table. But Tao saw something different. Radiating from her eyes was the same light that shone from the eyes of the evangelist who came to the refugee camp many years before. He stood up and quickly looked at the other students. The same light was in the eyes of the other four teenagers seated around the table. Tao knew the reason. The only explanation for eternal life in the eyes was the presence of Jesus in the heart.

  Tao smiled as he continued picking up bits of garbage. He’d found family in the midst of strangers.

  15

  My true and honorable wife.

  JULIUS CAESAR, ACT 2, SCENE 1

  Scott left work a few minutes early so he could lift weights before going to the high school. He moved from position to position on the Nautilus machines, then switched to free weights. He was sitting on a bench panting when Perry came over.

  “This is early for you, isn’t it?” the owner of the gym asked.

  “Yeah. It’s mock trial night at the high school. I have to be there by seven o’clock.”

  Perry helped guide the heavy bar from its resting place, and Scott lowered it to his chest and pushed upward. After ten repetitions, Perry asked, “Trying to get pumped up before you see Kay tonight? You’ve already got great definition on your pecs. They’re about to pop off your chest.”

  Scott gritted his teeth. “Don’t talk to me.”

  Perry waited until Scott pushed the bar up ten more times, then let it fall into the brackets on the weight stand. Scott lay on the bench and let out his pent-up laughter.

  “You know better than to say something like that while I’m under a bunch of weight,” he said. “I could have hurt myself.”

  “I was here all the time. Besides, you’re my lawyer. If you get hurt, you’ll have to defend me against yourself.”

  Scott sat up. “That would be an easy case. I’d roll over on you and give me what I wanted.”

  Perr
y tossed Scott a towel. “So, what’s happening with Kay?”

  “Nothing. Why are you so interested?”

  “It’s not me; it’s Linda. I told her what you were doing at the high school, and when I mentioned Kay Laramie, she started cross-examining me. She remembered all about you and Kay dating when we were seniors. Remember, we ate together with a big group at a fancy restaurant in Charlotte.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “She also says you made a big mistake dumping Kay when you went into the army.”

  “I didn’t dump her. I tried to call her when I was home on leave. Her father told me that she was going out with Bill Corbin, so I let it die a natural death. A long-range relationship between a guy in boot camp and a junior in high school wasn’t in the cards.”

  “That’s not what Linda says.”

  Scott wiped his forehead. “Really? What else does Linda say?”

  “She said you were a ‘cute couple.’ Kay was good-looking, but as far as I can see, there has never been anything cute about you.”

  “That’s reassuring from your perspective,” Scott said wryly. “But remind Linda that Kay is still married and going through a breakup with her husband. I’m not sure she’s in the market for another car so soon after wrecking the one she had.”

  “When is her divorce final?”

  “She mentioned a hearing in a few weeks. I could check the file at the courthouse and find out.”

  Perry nodded thoughtfully. “I’m sure Linda thinks that’s what you should do.”

  Scott twisted the towel and snapped it toward Perry’s leg. “Tell Linda to mind her own business. Taking care of you is a full-time job.”

  That evening the mock trial session progressed better than Scott had anticipated. Young minds grasp facts quickly, and Kay had recruited motivated students. However, the prohibition against asking leading questions on direct examination was constantly violated, and the more aggressive students and witnesses were too quick to let the questioning degenerate into an argument.