by Amy Matayo
It takes me no time to drag a t-shirt over my head and replace my dress pants with a pair of black running shorts. I pull on my running shoes without untying the laces, because I found just the right combination of loose and tight a couple of weeks ago and haven’t messed with them since. Finally, even though I’m burning up, I pull a hoodie over my head because it’s December and if Mrs. Jenkins sees me wearing nothing but a thin shirt she’ll give me a lecture about catching my death or the flu or any other disease that might be catchable nine days before Christmas.
It’s nine days before Christmas. I’m not any more excited about it than about the way things finished with Kate. One week has messed up my outlook on everything.
I lock the apartment door and jog down the steps, then stop short when I see Scott pull into the driveway. I live in an apartment above the Jenkins’ detached garage—have for a while. Somehow along the road called my life, I was blessed enough to find a family that fit, and I haven’t been eager to let them go just yet. I was eager to move out of the main house, however, because Scott is a pain in the butt to share a bathroom with, so a couple of years ago, I moved into the apartment. Seeing Scott in the driveway is a normal daily occurrence.
The look on his face is not.
“What’s wrong?” It’s the kind of question people ask to be polite, not because they really want to know the answer. I don’t. I want to run. And based on the incredibly crappy week we’ve had so far, the news is bound to be bad.
Scott loosens his tie and raises an eyebrow. “Are you going for a jog dressed like that? Do you realize it’s freezing out here? It’s almost Christmas, Caleb.” He says it to be funny, knowing those kind of comments get under my skin. The difference this time: Scott doesn’t smile at all.
“Don’t be your mom. Now, what’s wrong? Whatever it is, the shock of it is written all over your face, so you might as well tell me.”
In eight short days, we’ve been through orders to cease and desist, an order by a merciful judge blocking the original order, countless interviews by the press who’ve made us sound both sympathetic and like heartless fools who only care about money. We’ve had offers of representation by well-known attorneys who charge exorbitant fees we can’t pay, and offers from attorneys to represent us for free who have no winning records to speak of. We’ve been shut down and reopened, funded and de-funded. We’ve been picketed and protested, cussed at and prayed for. We’ve been accused of being too Christian and not Christian enough. We’ve sent out press releases, granted interviews, and answered phone calls from local television stations to The Today Show, but every time we issue a statement, the game changes.
A new order is given. A new opinion is granted. A new judgment is issued. Public opinion is swayed.
But through it all, Scott has stayed upbeat. Hopeful. Surprisingly faith-filled where my faith has been shaken. Old habits have settled in with me, habits I’m hoping to break tonight, even if I have to pound them out of me.
But the look on Scott’s face has me doubting that will happen.
“They’ve been granted an emergency injunction.” It sounds bad, but I’m not about to admit I’m not entirely sure what that word means.
“Who has? And what’s the emergency?”
“The Hawkins’s. Their organization. Kate. Whoever you want to put the blame on. And apparently, the emergency is us. We’re a threat to small children, a threat so dire that our funding has been stopped. As of this moment—until we appeal and even then only if we actually win it—the only way we’ll be able to operate is through private donations. And since that barely adds up to enough money to pay the light bill…” Scott sounds bitter. Scott never sounds bitter, and that bothers me more than anything.
Except for the part about Kate. That pretty much has me seeing red.
“How can the ruling go into effect so fast? Shouldn’t they give us thirty days or something? Isn’t that the law?” I have no idea if it’s the law; I just know that it should be. Funny how you never pay that much attention to things likes rulings and laws and injunctions and politics in general until you’re standing in the middle of political chaos. Now, I’d give anything to be a lawmaker so I could tell these local judges to stick it up their—
“Not when it’s classified as an emergency. In that case, a ruling is immediate.”
Scott and I just stare at each other, both lost for wisdom, direction, and words. Eventually I find some. “So what does that mean for us? More importantly, what does it mean for the kids?” I pull the drawstring on my hoodie, toying with the idea of burying myself inside the fleece lining. “Twenty of them are going to show up tomorrow, and what are we supposed to tell them? The older ones have been kicked out of school and we’re their only option. The younger ones…” I grip the back of my neck and turn toward street, determined to get ahold of my emotions. Scott has never seen me cry. Never. His father has twice, but that’s about as far as I’m prepared to take the family bonding. Once I get control of myself, I face him again. “The younger ones. For a couple of them, we’re the safest place they’ve got.”
I’m in the bottom of a ravine again, holding on to my mother’s lifeless neck. I’m alone, scared, cold, without anyone to rescue me. And maybe that’s why I relate so fiercely to these kids, because as neglected as they might be, I’ve been there, too.
“I don’t know, Caleb. I really…” He scrubs a hand over his face, a move I’ve seen from his father a hundred times before but never once from him. Scott is composed. Scott is unruffled. Scott is glee club and ironed slacks and perfectly starched shirts. But for maybe the first time ever, Scott looks as frazzled and messy as me, and it’s beginning to show up on the outside. “I don’t know. All I know is that we need to trust and pray and hope that—wow.” His eyebrows shoot up and he looks at me. “I haven’t seen that face in a while.”
I study him, only now aware that my arms are crossed. “What face? I’m not making a face.” A rock is at my feet and it’s bugging me all of a sudden, so I kick it down the driveway. It’s hard to miss the way Scott rolls his eyes, especially when he adds a well-placed sigh just to annoy me more.
“You’re definitely making that face. The one that says ‘Quit talking to me about God and trust and praying and crap and I won’t talk about your inability to dress better.’” I cringe, remembering the night I said those words verbatim after his father bailed me out of jail. Scott asked if he could pray with me. I ignored him, so he prayed anyway, out loud. I let him go on for a few minutes, tried not to listen as he finished up and began to ask me about my life, my childhood, my mom. And then I snapped.
Don’t ever talk about my mother.
The way I figured, God had taken everything from me that mattered—my father, my mother, my home, even that stupid JC Penney picture. Obviously the Man hated me, so over time I learned to return the sentiment. I wanted nothing to do with God, even less to do with Scott and his Bible and his concern and his talks about faith. But like mold that sticks to cheese no matter how many times you cut it off, Scott wouldn’t go away. Scott prayed for me all the time. At breakfast, in the car, in the freaking bathroom. I finally became a Christian just to shut him up.
Scott is living proof that prayer actually works.
“I wasn’t making a face.”
“Don’t give me that line. I know that look when I see it. I’ve only been on the receiving end of it about a thousand times from you alone.”
Now I’m cold. I zip my jacket and blow into my hands. “I swear I wasn’t—”
“Caleb.” The way he says my name shuts me up fast. “Don’t let this mess up your faith. I know this situation stinks, but you’ve been through worse, and we’ll get through this, too. Do you still believe that God is still God?”
Scott is two years younger than me, but in every way that counts, he could be my father. He has the wisdom of men twice his age, maybe more. I rub my hands together, uncomfortable with his question. Of course I believe that God is still God. That
He loves me. That He can take care of everything, even this. Don’t I?
“Yes.” Even I can hear the doubt that turned that word into a question.
He doesn’t believe me, I can tell by the way his left eye almost imperceptibly narrows, but he lets it slide. “Good. Those kids need a place to be, and I have no idea how, but we’ll give them one. Somehow things will work out. They always do.”
“Can I go now?” I’m not trying to brush him off. I just need to get out of here, be alone with my thoughts and take my anger out on the pavement. That’s the strange thing about anger. No matter how hard I pray, and no matter how much I’ve changed, it’s the one thing determined to hang on. Right now, it’s gripping my chest in an iron fist, squeezing and churning until the air in my lungs feels heavy like blood.
“Sure. Go.” I see the way Scott’s shoulders slump but pretend not to. And with that, I take of running.
*
Five miles later, the blood in my lungs has changed to bubbling lava, and I can barely catch a breath. But I won’t stop. I have no plans to stop unless I fall over or run out of air, whichever comes first. It might make for a long walk home, but I don’t care. The last thing I need is the four walls and one television waiting for me inside my garage apartment. Walls tend to close in, and television almost always delivers bad news. If I never hear another piece of bad news in my lifetime, I’ll still have heard more than most people.
I’ve run past neighborhoods and stoplights and a drive-in movie theater that closed down years ago. I’ve passed a middle school and three churches—two Baptist, one Latter-Day-Saints. I’ve run uphill and downhill, through twists and turns and one Do Not Enter sign with a Detour pointing right. I ignored it and took my chances, jumping over a three-foot crater in the pavement without breaking stride. Laws haven’t stopped me before, especially ones as meaningless as that.
My adrenaline has pumped so hard that a whirring began in my ears a while ago and hasn’t let up. I like the noise, I just wish it were louder. Then it might drown out the sound of Scott’s earlier question. Do you believe that God is still God?
It isn’t the first time I’ve been asked that question. It’s the first time I don’t have an honest answer.
Of course I believe He made the world. That He died for me. That He lives in heaven, and all the other stuff most kids learned in Sunday school but I didn’t learn until a few years ago. Those things are easy. But God wasn’t there when my father left. When my mother died. When my foster father hit me. When I wound up in jail. God seems great at performing the big things—making animals, trees, humans out of nothing but dirt. It’s the little things He doesn’t seem to care much about.
How am I supposed to believe He’ll take an interest in this?
I’m depressed and no closer to an answer when I find myself in front of my church. My feet carried me here of their own accord, without thought or consideration whether I wanted to be here or not. At least that’s what I tell myself. I don’t want to be here. It’s the last place I feel like visiting now. As I look at the gleaming white and red building, I’m resentful and pressured and angry all over again, because suddenly I hate the sight of this place. With its steeple and cross and great, big welcome sign. I hate it.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
For a minute.
And another.
Until I remember.
Until my breathing slows and I stare at the cross—really stare at it and all it represents—and I know it in my gut all over again. Until I’m certain that I’ll never walk away, never, no matter how angry I get. God waited around for me; the least I can do is return the favor.
This place is home. This place is me. This place is my life and my soul and where I found meaning a few years ago. This place is the kids and the elderly and the addicts and all the other lost souls who need the same grace I was offered back when I didn’t want it.
This place is God and friends and family who made me their own. It took blood and lava and sweat and screaming muscles to rediscover the thing I already knew but tried for a week not to believe.
God is still God. God cares about everything. Somehow this will get fixed. With God’s help, somehow I’ll fix it. Even if I have to climb through lawsuits and accusations and look up the definition of injunction to do it.
*
Apparently the definition of injunction doesn’t include a detailed description of why an opponent in a lawsuit who keeps making ridiculous nativity demands should stay the heck off your property, because if it does, a certain pink-wearing, record-loving blonde is ignoring it for all it’s worth. She sits in front of Joseph—Joseph, like she owns him or something—with a thin black bag leaning against her leg, looking as out of place as a stripper at a tent revival. Except Kate looks beautiful as usual. Perfect and gorgeous and angelic.
Just like that, lava burns in my lungs once again, dripping a little of its hot sting into my heart as well. Because I don’t want to think about Kate being beautiful. Or angelic.
I want to think of her as the enemy. The instigator. The devil amongst the holy family in this little scene. It’s worked for me all week, and she’s on the verge of blowing that image just by sitting uninvited on a pile of hay.
Maybe someday I’ll get control of this anger issue. Maybe someday I’ll get control of how much I like her. Someday isn’t now.
“What are you doing here?” I say, aware that the bite I intentionally forced into my voice sounds even harsher than I meant it to.
She looks up at me, grimacing a little but not at all intimidated. I’m sweaty, winded, and tired—not exactly making my best case to appear threatening.
“Wow,” she says. “I thought churches were supposed to welcome people, not yell at them to get off their lawn.”
“I didn’t yell, and you’re sitting in my nativity. Get out of it, or I might scream loud enough for the whole town to hear.”
Surprising me, she stands and picks up her bag, walks slowly across the yard, making sure each step is extra firm, and sits down in the grass right at the edge of the dead flower bed. The ground is frozen and I’m certain she’s cold, but instead of jumping up, she sears me with a look and picks up a landscaping stone. She tosses it in the yard, and then tosses another.
“I bet you feel like screaming now.”
She’s mad. This keeps going until stone number seven, when I tell her to stop. She’s made her point. She thinks I’m a jerk. A jerk who kissed her last week and left without a word. Maybe so, but I’m also a jerk who doesn’t feel like transferring stones from the grass back to the flower bed all evening.
“Get up,” I say. “I’m not going to yell at you. Just tell me what you’re doing here.”
She stands, but she has to think about it first. The girl is as stubborn as I am. “I came to see you.”
“And you just assumed I would be here? I do have a life, you know. I don’t spend all of it at church.” I don’t know why I feel the need to say this. Sure, I have a life. But almost all of it is spent here. I like it that way.
“Well, I stopped by the bar first but didn’t see any fistfights breaking out in the parking lot, so I left. Thought I’d give this a try.”
Smart mouth.
“Cute. Now, you want to enlighten me so that I can run back home before midnight?”
Her bravado slips, and for the first time she looks nervous. She chews on her lower lip and clutches her bag to her chest. “I don’t know why you won’t just take this thing down,” she gestures behind her to the nativity. “But I don’t want the foster center to close, Caleb.”
It isn’t what I expect her to say, but this girl has surprised me a dozen times in the three weeks I’ve known her. Still, it doesn’t matter what she wants. She waited too late to decide.
“Even if I took it down—which I won’t because it’s Christmas and I don’t bow to that kind of pressure—it doesn’t matter. Because without funding we’ll have to close our doors eventually. It costs
a lot to feed these kids, and short of a miracle, we just don’t have the resources. It’s too bad you didn’t have a change of heart before you decided to sue.”
“I’m not the one who decided to sue. Last night, I begged my parents to drop the lawsuit. I told them about you and about everything I’ve seen on the days that you took me to the center. About Ben and your pastor and his speech…” She stares into the yard, her gaze following a leaf that releases itself from a branch and drifts to the ground. She stays focused on that leaf for the longest time, and when she looks up at me, her eyes have changed. They’ve lost their fierceness. Now, they just look sad. “My parents have done this sort of things for years. They’re driven, determined, and it’s never bothered me before.” She blinks up at me in a look I can only describe as haunted. “Now it does. I don’t want you to lose your money. I don’t want the center to close.”
My heart twists inside me. One, because I think she means it. And two, because the ruling has already been made. We’re out. Broke. It’s too little, too late.
“There’s nothing I can do about it now.” Using the hem of my sweatshirt, I mop up the trail of sweat sliding down my forehead. “Until the appeal is filed, until a ruling is made, our hands are tied. Right or wrong, we rely on public funds to keep this place running. Without them, we can barely afford to keep the kids fed, never mind the tutors and counselors and the electricity needed to keep the building warm at night.”
When it comes down to it, I don’t know why she’s here. It’s great that she’s changed her mind, but I might be more appreciative if she’d decided before now that I wasn’t the bad guy her parents have portrayed me to be on every news outlet that would run their story.
“What if I can help? Would you let me?”
“Why should I?” I’m acting like a child, but I don’t care. Besides, short of personally demanding the judge reverse his decision—an impossible action—there’s nothing Kate can do.
“Because I can. Help, I mean.”
I breathe a humorless laugh. “Kate, you’ve helped enough already. How exactly do you think you can help now?” It’s a mean thing to say, but I’m running low on nice.