Cradle Robber

by Staron, Chris

  Wade pinched himself. Time to come back to the present. His lovely new friend put her hands in the back pocket of her jeans and cleared her throat.

  “You come down here a lot?”

  He stared at the old waterfall, its stream partially dammed by fallen logs. Kayaks paddled by, families played in the gentle current. The world without Carter looked the same as before.

  “I did when I volunteered with teenagers. We walked around and talked about their problems, trying to sort things out.”

  Traci twisted her hair into a ponytail, wrapping it with an elastic band. “What really made you leave MissionFocus?”

  Why did she want to bring all of that back? His mentoring days had disappeared, replaced by more effective methods of global change. But now she wanted to resurrect those painful years. One look in her eyes told him that she would not let him get off the hook with a general statement about burnout. The lady wanted answers.

  “It’s tough to bring that much grief into your life. Those kids were all I lived for. My whole life revolved around volunteering. Every day I'd have some kid on the phone talking about homework, bullies, girls.”

  She nudged him with her elbow, a thrill for him. “Girls? I should have known you were the consummation of knowledge on women.”

  “There are all sorts of things you wouldn't guess about me upon first glance.”

  “Like what?”

  He paused for a moment, observing the pillow-shaped clouds in the sky. “Well, for a man steeped in wisdom concerning women, I didn’t grow up knowing many. My father raised me.”

  Her silky hand touched his back. It was ecstasy. “What happened? Can I ask?”

  “She died during childbirth, right there on the kitchen floor. We were too poor for the hospital. She spent months in pain. It all ended at my birth.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  Wade shrugged at her apology. “Don't be, I'm not angry. She knew the risks of a difficult pregnancy when she had me. They called her a saint.”

  They continued their stroll over a handsome bridge. Children tossed scraps of sandwich bread to the fish below. Weeping willows dangled their branches over them, tickling their heads.

  Traci patted his back. “You ever feel guilty about it?”

  “About knowing everything about women?”

  “About your mother.”

  “I didn't ask to be born.” As soon as he said it he regretted his choice of words. He shook his head. “That came out wrong.”

  He picked at the wooden railing, splintered from years of beating sun and harsh winters.

  Traci intertwined her fingers and kicked at the railing. “It's okay.”

  “No, no it's not. It's not okay and it's a lie. I wish she were here. My dad was..., he was not a good father. Loved the bottle more than me. But everyone said the nicest things about Mom. I think she would have liked you.”

  Traci blushed. “Is that why you remained single for so long? Because your mother died young?”

  “No. At first it was the teens, getting my career established. Then my work.… Life got away from me.”

  She exhaled for a long time. “It does that.”

  A breeze lifted the willow branches, whispering over their heads. He tugged on the droopy leaves, running his fingers over their coarse construction. “As much as we try to hide it, we all have some level of guilt. I think I’m old enough to admit that now. I wish it wasn't true, but it is.”

  She switched her bag to another shoulder and dug out lip-gloss. It smelled like strawberries. Maybe soon he would know what it tasted like.

  “I don't know, Wade. I've heard preachers say that if we truly understood how forgiven we are in Christ, we would never bother beating ourselves up. If we are forgiven by a righteous God, then we have no reason to hold the past against ourselves.”

  The God talk again. Traci seemed to steer the conversation that way every chance she got. She wanted to drag him to church the next Sunday. The only way he agreed to go was to sit upstairs in the balcony they closed off years earlier for storage. That way nobody from his past could ask questions. Now this.

  “So you don't feel any guilt? There is nothing you wish you could change?”

  Traci stopped her fiddling and leaned over the edge of the bridge, staring down into the dark water. “There are always things we want to change. It's a question of whether or not we are willing to accept circumstances as they are.”

  Wade sidled up next to her. “Must be nice to live in a world where nothing haunts you.”

  Seconds passed. He almost apologized for his sarcasm, but she interjected. “I guess it's a bit personal is all.”

  “I'm sorry.” Wade turned his back to the wood railing. “I didn't mean to embarrass you.”

  “It's okay. Don't laugh at me if it sounds crazy.”

  “I won't laugh.” He crossed his heart with his finger.

  Hands in her pockets, she started moving. They walked behind the old wooden boathouse and out along a boardwalk that hugged the murky water.

  “I sometimes wonder why God gives us evenings like this,” she admitted. “I feel guilty for enjoying them, for walking without fear of what's next or what's around the corner.”

  “That's a little morbid, isn't it?”

  “I don't know. I think of all of the suffering in the world and wonder how it ever came to pass that I could have peace while others are dying.”

  “You feel guilty for being blessed?”

  “I wouldn't say guilty.” She played with the band on her silver wristwatch, hands shaking. “I mean, I've done things in my life, bad things, and I wonder how God could let me see these evenings. I worry that these moments will get snatched away and given to somebody more deserving.”

  “More deserving? You're a nurse, a mentor. A hero.”

  The boardwalk led them past an open field. Fifty yards away children chased after a golden retriever. They squealed as the dog scooped a tennis ball and dropped it at their feet for them to throw. Traci stood for a while watching them play.

  They remained apart for a moment. Should he hug her? Put his arm around her shoulder? She hovered there, watching the family across the field, the perfect picture of a complete life, something she might never have because of him. He rocked on his heels, indecisive.

  “You're so hard on yourself.” Wade guided her away from the kids. “Whatever it is. There is no use ruining a perfectly good life with obsession.”

  “You said yourself that you struggle with your past. The teens.”

  “Sure. But when I see something in the past that needs taken care of, I just..., take care of it.”

  “You take care of it?” Judging by her guffaw, she wasn’t buying it.

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, but yes, I take care of it.”

  “Even those things you wish you could take back?”

  He leaned in close, his voice warm and reassuring. “There is nothing in the past that you can't take back. As cliché as it sounds, sometimes our biggest mistakes turn into our greatest blessings.”

  He stared into her baby blue eyes, desperate to tell her everything, but couldn’t. They met because of her sin. Her indiscretions led them down the twisted road to the present and he orchestrated it all. Though he could never have guessed at an evening like this, his heart grew proud. Nights of grueling work on the machine led him there. Her night of misdirected passion morphed into this simple moment. They were alive and close together, their breaths intermingling in the open air.

  If she could see the past, what she was back then, if she knew how Carter turned out, or how she used to drown herself in booze, she might forgive herself. But she could never know. Telling her the truth meant giving up everything good in his life.

  “The Bible says that Jesus forgives all our sins,” she said. “If only I could forgive myself of mine, even for a few minutes….”

  “Is that why you volunteer with teens? To make up for something?”

  “No.” Her words came
out hollow. Of course she compensated for the hole she felt in her heart. It betrayed itself in her body language, in the grueling schedule she kept.

  He should know. It’s how he used to bury his guilt.

  She dabbed at her cheeks with a tissue. “Maybe. I don't know. Even if I am trying to cover something up, it’s worth it. Those kids need me. You should come by and meet them. It would mean a lot to me.”

  He took her hand. The coolness of her fingers mixed with the heat of his. Visible goose bumps rose along her forearm.

  He squeezed her palm. “I did the same thing. I've lived that life. I thought that if I could reach one more kid then my life would mean something, my sins would disappear. But it’s all lies. Circular thinking. No amount of drawing blood or changing sheets is going to make up for whatever it is you've done. Give yourself permission to be happy. I'm with you now. The moment is here, don't fear it.”

  She started to cry. Her fingers trembled, squeezing the tissue as she wiped at her running makeup. Wade opened his arms and pulled her close. Her warmth gave him courage. For the first time in years he felt like a man, like he held something good.

  “I haven't even told you what I did,” she said.

  His voice softened as he leaned toward her ear.

  “And you'll never have to.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The cellophane protecting a bouquet of flowers crinkled as he opened the doors. Wade stepped into the old Baptist church, all of his senses blaring. Teenagers ran around inside, pushing each other, flirting, and carrying on as they always did at MissionFocus.

  He'd come back, but only to see Traci, give her the flowers, and leave. No sense in staying around in such a miserable mood. The very thought of being in the same place as sixty teenagers terrified him. The pain in his chest made it difficult to breathe. He rubbed it now and looked under his shirt. Blue veins popped out against the hairy pale skin. It felt like they were trying to burst from his chest.

  Maybe this is what a stroke feels like.

  Little changed. The walls were still made of pock-marked old cinder blocks. Black and white tiling dotted the floors, providing easy clean up for the inevitable messes that come with teen ministry. A small wooden stage occupied the back of the building. That’s where he’d find her.

  Hyperactive young men kicked a soccer ball around, bouncing it off of windows, walls, and dusty old tables. Girls in skimpy outfits flirted with the jocks, while the social outcasts clustered in small cliques of their own, critiquing the world of the cool.

  Wade’s skin crawled. It literally felt like ants marched in a line up his back. His heart beat fast. So fast. Sweat rolled down his face, though he’d gotten no exercise.

  So it was true––he really did fear these kids. How illogical. They could do nothing to him. They were of no real danger and still he dodged them as if they carried a life threatening disease.

  Get in, give her the flowers, and leave. This is another mood swing. Keep your head about you. Don’t say anything stupid.

  At the rear of the building Wade spotted Traci standing on stage. Cans of shaving cream lined the table in front of her along with disposable pie plates. Ah, this old trick. Nothing kids loved more than a mess.

  Traci glanced up, their eyes meeting each other. Her mouth hung open.

  “You came.”

  Wade stood at the bottom of the stage, mesmerized by her glowing face. “Of course I came. You said this was important to you.”

  “Linda told me you'd never be caught dead here.”

  “That's not true.” Wade pulled at the collar on his polo shirt. “They can take my body wherever they want once I'm gone.”

  Something hit Wade from behind. His body lurched forward, knees smacking the edge of the stage. One of the boys playing soccer ran into him and didn’t apologize, but dashed away after the ball.

  Traci snapped her fingers at the young man. “Alan. Watch where you’re going.”

  The young man ignored her and kicked the ball hard. It shot right into the stomach of a young woman standing not five feet away and she doubled over in pain.

  “Welcome back,” said Traci, filling a pie plate with shaving cream, ignoring the chaos.

  Wade pulled the flowers from behind his back. “I wanted to give you these.”

  She leaned over and kissed the top of his head. “That’s very sweet of you, Wade. Thank you.” She smelled the daisies. “They’re lovely. You should stay tonight. We’ll put you in charge of a game. Sounds like fun, right?”

  His throat swelled up. Claustrophobia set in. His brain grew weary at the idea of faking happiness. The smile slipped from his face, and sarcasm took over.

  “On pie night? Oh yeah. I should slit my wrists now.”

  Her face contorted. Rats. Wrong thing to say. He should have known better, but his body shook so hard that nothing felt normal. His knees ached from being rammed into the stage. Vision flickering, his eyes twitched. Yes, it certainly felt like a stroke.

  Teenagers surrounded him.

  Attack. His instincts buzzed. Attack.

  A young man with dark hair walked by with his arms around two women. He looked exactly like Carter—same swagger, same bravado. Thoughts of violence echoed in Wade's brain, clouding his ability to concentrate. The voices taunted him, pushed him to tackle the kids, to scream into their faces, to knock sense into them.

  Teeth gritted, he muttered his true feelings. “I don’t see a point in trying to help these people. They'll only break your heart. It's like stepping into oncoming traffic and expecting nobody to hit you.”

  She paused for several seconds, her mouth pinched tight. “Linda said you'd act like this. You don't have to stick around if you don't want to.”

  “Okay. Enjoy the flowers.” Wade pivoted, turning to the door.

  She reached down from the stage and took his hand, pressing it in hers, stopping him cold in his tracks. “I appreciate the surprise. You're very sweet. It's really not as bad here as you think, I promise. Help me make these pies.”

  He relented. He could do this for her. It was a simple task. The kids were busy dancing, kicking the ball around, ignoring their inhibitions. If he got on stage and turned his back to the crowd, he didn't have to interact. He’d help with the pies and leave.

  Wade set the plates out on a table at the front of the stage. In a hurry he filled six with shaving cream.

  Logic, Wade. Focus on the logic. Small steps.

  One tray at a time. He forced his brain to think through every detail of filling the plates, simple work for a man of his intelligence. Cover the plate with shaving cream, get another can, fill another plate. He locked his vision onto the thin disposable pans, fixated on the grooves around the edges. He didn’t dare look up.

  But then he did. His gaze wandered.

  A vision came. A small boy manifested by the Foosball table. Was he real or imagined? Hard to tell in this condition. Jeans torn, the kid appeared impoverished. An oversized sweatshirt covered his arms. Cheeks sunken in, the boy probably hadn’t eaten a good meal in a long time.

  It was him. It was a kid, not Carter, but very like him. They had the same mop of messy locks on their head, the sunken cheeks from malnutrition. He stood alone behind the Foosball table, playing the game by himself.

  Carter had started coming to MissionFocus at the same age as that kid. A police officer friend found him wandering around an apartment complex begging for food from strangers. His mother wallowed in drugs, dead to the world, leaving her son to fend for himself. Soon after, Wade started picking him up every week for MissionFocus meetings and shoveling food into his mouth. Pizza wasn't enough. Carter was so malnourished that Wade brought him home-cooked meals so he could get a few vegetables. They went everywhere together, dropping donations off at food banks, attending professional baseball games.

  And look how that turned out.

  Carter fell down the same hole his mother did. He believed the lies, swallowed the pill. Calls poured in from juvenil
e detention. The police and counselors talked to Wade before they called Traci. The old Traci. This version was fine, happily setting out snack cakes and bowls of candy. The other one, the one in the past….

  Teens rushed the stage for shaving cream. Wade lost sight of Carter's look alike. He couldn't see over the mob. Big kids crowded out the little boy. Two young men, hair in their faces, with underwear showing, knocked into the table, flipping one of the plates to the ground, foam-side down. Frustrated, Wade shoved them back.