How one lives without a home in a city will always be a mystery to those unacquainted with the invisible subterranean workings of life for those who call the streets themselves home. He met others of his kind—old men, tramps, crooks, con men, hobos. Among them were men of honor, and others who would slit a man’s throat for a few dollars. Life among them all taught him to read character, taught him to keep on his toes, taught him to sleep—whether under bridge or in vacant alley—with an ear always cocked for danger. It also subtly revealed, though he did not yet recognize this most valuable of life’s lessons, the truth that every man is on his way through life in one direction or another, eternally bound for one of two very different and opposite destinations.
As the months became a year, then two years, he grew and took on the gradual shape and form of teenage masculinity. His features hardened, his eyes narrowed. He became an angry black youth whose very gait drew the looks of the police, whom he now avoided.
He could no longer flit about the city unnoticed. No longer a cute little boy, he began to appear dangerous, which the look on his face did nothing to contradict. Stealing became more difficult because wherever he went, eyes were upon him. He looked suspicious and thus drew unfriendly stares.
A day came. A day of crisis, a day of destiny, a day of decision.
The boy, thirteen now, though he looked older, had fallen in with a rowdy group of half a dozen young thugs who prowled the streets with no good on their minds. Two or three had already been in jail for petty crimes. Remarkably, for youth is not only blind but also a little stupid, the younger ones looked up to these and sought to curry their favor with impressive deeds of ever more serious mischief.
They were out late one afternoon, roaming the streets looking for what might provide an easy target, venturing a little closer than was their custom to the white part of the city in hopes of slipping into some shop as a group and distracting the store owner with pretended shoplifting while one of their number sneaked behind the counter and pilfered the till. But there were crowds and occasional police about, and thus far their plans had come to naught.
A white man approached along the boardwalk. The first of their number slowed and looked him over, muttering a few threatening words as if sizing him up and wondering how much money he might have on his person. One by one they slowly passed him, until the last of their number, the youngest, came face to face with the tall commanding stranger. Something about the man’s face drew him and he glanced up. The eyes of the white man and black youth met.
A sudden look of shock and astonishment spread over the man’s face. The boy saw it and it startled him. His steps slowed. The two stared at each other a brief moment before a voice interrupted the silence.
“Duff . . . hey, Duff, whatchu doin’, man? Come on . . . quit starin’ at dat ol’ white man an’ let’s go.”
The boy pulled his gaze away and hurried to catch up with the others. Their running steps echoing along the boards were soon gone. Still the man stood in amazement, watching as they disappeared from sight.
Later that same night, the group of street toughs had still not had their thirst satisfied for excitement and conquest. They had been watching the shop of a certain jeweler for several days and this was the night their leader had chosen to raise the stakes of his deadly cat-and-mouse game with the police. Being the seventeen-year-old street thug he was, the fact that he planned to use his younger accomplices as decoys was not something he divulged to them.
He waited until after midnight when the streets were deserted. He signaled to his small gang to follow him to the vicinity of the store. There he would place them in position—two as sentries watching the street in both directions, two others to break in with him, and the last to make himself seen and run off in the wrong direction if anyone came.
They were some two hundred yards from the store when the youngest, feeling a growing anxiety in his stomach, begun to lag a few steps behind. Duff was afraid and he knew it. But he could not dare admit it to the others. Yet as they neared the store he slowed still more and fell all the farther behind, first only a step or two, then four, then—
Suddenly a bright light shone in his face. Trembling from head to foot, he stared into the blinding whiteness.
He froze in terror.
He became vaguely aware of the figure of a large man in the midst of the light.
“Don’t go with them,” said a commanding voice.
His comrades heard it too. They stopped to see a figure step from out of the shadows of a building into their path.
“Hit’s dat crazy ol’ man we seen earlier,” shouted one. “Git him!”
The ringleader turned and ran back, angered at this interruption of his plans. He went straight for the white man. As he approached, the glint of a knife blade flickered in the light of a distant street lantern.
But the man was shrewder than the young troublemakers gave him credit for, and twice as strong as any two or three of them together. He waited for the attack, then with invisibly deft speed grabbed the older boy’s wrist as he advanced and twisted it viciously.
A sharp cry of pain sounded in the night. The steel blade clattered to the boardwalk. Still holding the boy’s wrist as if he would break his arm, the man forced him to his knees. The boy yelled in helpless fury.
“You young fool—what did you take me for!” the man said. “Now you get away from me and don’t come back. If I see you again, next time I will break both your arms and personally walk you straight to the police station.”
He let go his grip.
Swearing violently, the ringleader retrieved his knife and ran off, followed by his young admirers.
In the fifteen or twenty seconds that the skirmish had taken, the bright light faded from the vision of the young black boy who had been following. The exchange of words had sounded distant and muffled to his ears. He was still in a trance, watching and listening to events from which he had suddenly become detached. He saw . . . he heard . . . yet within his own brain time seemed to stand still.
He now saw the man, whom he too recognized from earlier in the day, though he was still enveloped in a glow of fading brightness no earthly source could account for. He could also see the shadowy forms of what he had thought were his friends. In truth they were no friends at all, for they failed utterly in the first and primary test of friendship—they did not seek for his best, only what would gratify themselves. But the forms of his companions were dark, distant, and shadowy. Though they were but fifteen or twenty feet away, he could barely make out their voices, as if they came from far away through a tunnel of darkness.
Gradually the sound of their retreating footsteps came to his ears as the gang of boys disappeared into the night. He took several steps toward them, trying to follow. But his feet were leaden.
“Come on, Duff,” called a voice after him. He stepped toward the sound in a living dream. But slowly the voices and running footsteps faded into the blackness of night.
Fearfully he turned back. There stood the strange man of the light only a few feet away. He stood bathed in the glow of an eerie brightness coming from behind him.
A chill swept through him. What was this! Had he fallen and whacked his head? Was he dreaming? Had he fallen asleep somewhere and would wake up any instant? Or was he going crazy! What was this light in the middle of the city in the dead of night?
He turned again. The dark tunnel was still spread out in the opposite direction. One faint final, Come . . . on . . . Duff! came from it. He spun around yet again. There still lay a path of brightness. Back and forth he looked two or three more times in bewilderment. He knew he must follow one path or the other.
Still the strange man stood silently waiting between the two.
“Your life is in front of you, boy,” now said the man. “Your whole life—right here, right now. Every choice makes you who you are. This is where it begins—with this choice, this moment. You’ve made some bad ones. But they can be put behind you in an ins
tant. Don’t be a fool, like those others. They are no friends. But I will be your friend. They will lead you nowhere but to trouble. Turn to the light and let them go. I want you to come with me.”
One more fleeting look to the right and then to the left, then gradually the vision of light and the dark tunnel faded. He was alone on a deserted street in the middle of the night.
All around was silence. A white man, a complete stranger, stood in front of him, waiting.
He felt his eyes begin to fill with the hot tears of loneliness. A hand clasped his shoulder. He looked up. The man was staring deeply into his eyes.
“What will it be, son?” he said. “I will force you to do nothing you do not choose to do. Will you go with me?”
A moment more the boy waited, then slowly nodded his head.
Without another word, the man led him away. He remembered nothing more of how the rest of the night passed.
MENTOR
17
THE BOY WOKE UP WITH DAYLIGHT STREAMING through two windows above a warm bed in which he slept. He had never slept in a bed with actual sheets and blankets and a mattress in his life. He had no idea where he was.
Gradually the events of the strange night returned to his consciousness.
His natural instinct was to flee. But almost as quickly, he realized the folly of the idea. He had never lain in anything so soft and clean and comfortable in his life. It felt good! Why would he run from this?
Now he realized that he was wearing some kind of strange clothing. It was clean and soft like the bed. And he didn’t smell anymore—his body was clean too.
A door opened. The man from yesterday walked in. He was carrying a tray.
“Good morning, son!” he said. “How did you sleep?”
“Uh . . . okay, I reckon.”
“Would you like some fresh orange juice?”
“Uh, sure,” he replied. The man handed him the glass on the tray. He sat up, took it, tasted it, and then drank it down in a single long gulp.
He handed the man the glass and looked up at him. “Uh . . . thanks,” he said. “I ain’t neber had dat before.” His forehead wrinkled in question. “Why’d you bring me here, mister? Who is you, anyway?”
“My name is Trumbull,” the man answered. “And I didn’t bring you here, you chose to come.”
“How you mean dat?”
“I put a choice before you, then you made your own decision. You may leave anytime you like. There are always two roads before us. They are before us every minute of our lives.”
“What does you mean . . . two roads?”
“The two roads between light and darkness. They are the two roads of character that determine what kind of people we become.”
“What kin’ er nonsense you talkin’ ’bout, mister? I ain’t neber heard nuffin’ like dat. What wuz dat light I seen las’ night?”
“I don’t know. I saw no light.”
“When you come out from dat buildin’, dere wuz light all roun’ you.”
The man called Trumbull smiled. “Well, that is amazing,” he said. “He must have wanted to save you even more than I did.”
“Who you talkin’ ’bout? Whatchu mean He must hab wanted ter save me?”
“I’m talking about God, son.”
“What! Now I knows you’s crazy! I’s gettin’ out er here. Where you put my clothes?”
“I was planning to have them washed this morning. But if you want them back now, I will get them for you.”
He turned to walk away.
“Hey, mister—how’d you know where ter fin’ us las’ night?”
“I followed you,” answered Trumbull, turning back into the room.
“Why—why you doin’ all dis? Why you foller us?”
“I followed you, son—only you.”
“Why me?”
“I have my reasons.”
“Well, I want ter know why.”
“What’s your name, son?”
“Duff . . . Micah Duff.”
“Well then, young Micah Duff,” said Trumbull, pulling a chair to the bedside. “If you want to know why, I will tell you.—Why don’t you have some breakfast from this tray while I tell you about it.”
Trumbull drew in a deep breath and thought a minute. “I have a brother,” he began. “He is older than me. From as long ago as I can remember he was full of anger and hostility. Though we had a gentle and soft-spoken father, my brother became angrier and more rebellious and violent as he grew. He finally left home, got into trouble constantly, and eventually killed a man. He is now in jail and I have not seen him in many years.”
The man paused and stared again deeply at the boy.
“Do you know what all that taught me, young Duff?” he asked.
“What?”
“It taught me that everybody has choices in life. It taught me that the way people make those choices determines the kind of people they become. I realized I did not want to become like my brother—angry, hard, self-centered. Look where it led him. I didn’t want that. So I set out to take a different road in my life, a road leading in another direction. It took me a while, but I eventually set out to try to figure out the kind of person God wanted me to be. And that’s what I’ve been trying to learn to be ever since.”
“What’s all dat got ter do wiff me?” asked Micah.
“You’ve got that same choice before you, just like my brother did, just like I did—the choice of what kind of person you want to be.”
“But I want ter know why you followed me.”
Trumbull smiled. “Because of something I saw in your eyes when I ran into you and your gang of street thugs yesterday.”
At the words the boy bristled.
“Dey ain’t no gang er thugs, dey’s—” he began.
“Come, come, young Duff,” interrupted Trumbull. “You and I will never get anywhere if we’re not honest with each other. Those boys you were with were no-good thugs who are going down the road of darkness. The sooner you admit that, the sooner you can understand the difference between that and the road of light and truth. Now do you want to know what I saw in your eyes?”
“Yeah,” he answered.
“I saw a look I remember in my own brother’s eyes when he was still young enough to have gone either way. The instant I saw you and looked into your face, it was like seeing my brother again. There was nothing I could do for him—he made his own choices in life. Those choices took him down the path of darkness. But in that moment, I thought that maybe I could help you.”
“Help me . . . how?”
“Not to become like my brother, or like those toughs you were with.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I don’ need any er yo help, mister. Who ax’d you, anyway! What business is it of yers what I’s like?”
“Just the business of every human being to his brother.”
“Yeah, well, you ain’t my brother and I don’ need yo help. I’s doin’ jes’ fine afore you come along.”
“Were you, young Duff? Were you doing just fine? What kind of life were you living, Micah?”
“It wuz all right.”
“Was it? Tell me, Micah, can you read?”
“No, I can’t read.”
“You want to learn?”
“Neber thought much ’bout dat.”
Trumbull left the room. He returned half a minute later holding a newspaper. He opened it and held the front page toward where Micah Duff still sat upright in bed.
“Do you know what this says?” he asked, pointing to a caption at the bottom of the page.
Micah shook his head.
“I’ll read it for you,” said Trumbull. “It says, ‘One Negro youth stabbed, one shot, three jailed, in midnight robbery attempt thwarted by police’.”
He went on to read the names listed in the brief article. Young Micah Duff’s throat went dry.
“Now, young Duff,” said Trumbull, “are you ready to listen to the difference between light and darkness, between good choices and
bad, and between becoming a person of dignity and worth and character or a person of selfishness and anger?”
It was quiet a long time.
When the boy spoke again, his voice was soft and sober.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I reckon I’s ready.”
REFLECTIONS
18
The cabin fell silent as Micah paused.
The look on his face showed how deep were the memories he had relived in telling us his story. The rain had let up some but was still falling steadily on the roof. The fire in Henry’s stove was toasting us, and we were so engrossed that none of us even thought of moving from where we sat listening.
“So that was the beginning of three years spent with the man called Hawk Trumbull,” Micah went on with a smile. “I stayed with him till I was sixteen. After that I joined the army.”
“Dat’s da man you tol’ me about,” said Jeremiah.
“Yes it is, Jake,” smiled Micah. “Hawk’s story is why I said some of the things I did to you back then. I know it wasn’t too pleasant, but I felt I had to.”
“How you mean, Duff?”
“Well, you see,” Micah replied, “Hawk’s brother’s name was Jake too. And so the moment I met you, I thought of Hawk, and I knew that maybe you’d been sent to me just like I’d been sent to Hawk—to help you face your choices just like Hawk helped me face mine.”
“An’ dat you did—though I didn’t care much fo it at da time, I’s mighty thankful now dat you had da courage ter make me face my anger.”
“Me too,” added Henry.
“I am glad to hear that, Jake,” smiled Micah. “I was the same way too at first. I was thirteen when I met Hawk. You were twelve or thirteen when you and I first met. So we were a lot alike, Jake. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I was so hard on you—I saw myself in you. Mine was a terrible life, though at the time I was too young to know anything different. But God will use anything He can to find a way to get His love into us. So He used the dreadful circumstances of my life to accomplish that. When Hawk took me under his wing, I squawked and complained too. But on that first day, after he showed me the newspaper, I realized that he had saved my life.”
The Soldier's Lady Page 12