Kate retrieved the bible from the floor and thumbed through its pages.
“What did it say?” Curt asked.
She looked nervously at him.
“Just read it.”
“He shot his arrows and scattered the enemy, with great bolts of lightning he routed them,” Kate read. She glanced up at Curt, her expression contorted in sadness.
Curt spun toward the door. The Wilsons were long gone. But that didn’t stop Curt from seething in anger. Their message had been unmistakable: Curt’s father was dead because he had opposed God, struck down by direct divine intervention. Curt was with Justin on this one: the Wilsons needed to pay.
4
Sunday is Coming
Justin staggered through the dark and sleepy town. No substances impaired his motor abilities or judgment: none were needed after the tumultuous grief of laying to rest family. Not the kind of family bonded to him only because of genetics or circumstances, who at best was stuck with him and tolerated his existence. No, Matt McDonald was the kind of family that chose him. And that seemed impossible to replace.
He should’ve gone home and laid in bed, wishing for the sweet mercy of sleep and forgetfulness. However, Justin pressed on past his apartment in the center of town. He walked ten more minutes, arriving on the shadowy street where the big brick church was located. Beaumont Bible Baptist.
God, they could have figured another way to squeeze in one more ‘B’? he thought. Bullshit, maybe? Or something to do with gay sex?
For a moment, Justin stared at the sign, imagining what he’d write to appropriately express his vitriol toward the faith community. Of course, he didn’t have any spray paint. His subconscious might have led him here after the run-in with Samuel Wilson at Matt’s wake. Unfortunately, his subconscious hadn’t adequately prepared for any juvenile acts of graffiti.
He searched the ground for a rock, something to break the glass on the sign, which spelled, WORSHIP WITH US, SUNDAYS 10:00 AM. ALL WELCOME. Breaking the glass would’ve given him access to the letters, but Justin was too tired to figure out a pithy message with the available characters. Words weren’t his specialty. Technology was. Besides, such a trick was too sophomoric. Justin was a college graduate. He could come up with better.
Justin circled around to the back of the church. When he used to come to church with his family, the back door had a habit of sticking and not closing completely. He reached the metal door, which in the limited light appeared to be slightly ajar. His luck held. Justin pulled the door open, which squeaked against the tight steel frame.
Glancing around to make sure the noise hadn’t alerted any of the neighbors, Justin grinned. How fitting that like so many other problems in the church, this breach in security had gone unfixed. Or perhaps it would have been more fitting that this one more superficial problem had been resolved while the fundamental issues—like being judgmental and intolerant—in the church remained.
Justin slipped in through the back entrance. He took out his phone to use as a flashlight. He remembered the layout of the church well. Not much had changed since he’d last attended, a little more than five years ago. Venturing into the sanctuary, Justin eyed the audiovisual equipment. The church projected the words to their worship music onto a large screen in the front of the sanctuary via computer. Justin picked up a folding metal chair and held it over the computer.
A few seconds later, he lowered the chair back to the floor. What would breaking the computer accomplish? A little inconvenience and money? No, someone would probably donate an old computer. It would be enough to support the low tech operation of Beaumont Bible Baptist Church. Even the projector would cost them a little more than five thousand. Justin wanted to make them really hurt.
He settled in front of the monitor. Justin turned on the computer, which took almost three full minutes to boot up— another reason why breaking the computer would have been pointless. He might have even been doing them a favor by forcing them to replace it. The trademark blue screen of Windows appeared on the monitor. As expected, no password was called for as the computer finished booting up. They used to employ such a security feature, but it locked out too many of the various volunteers who needed to access the computer on Sunday mornings. Thus, they did away with the password. He knew all this because he used to help run the church’s powerpoint; it was one way the church tried to involve otherwise disengaged boys.
Justin navigated around the computer. He explored the various software installed, paying careful attention to the browser history. Nothing inflammatory there. This computer was too public for any illicit searches, though. He needed to find something more private.
Turning his head, Justin stared beyond the doors of the sanctuary to where the offices of the church were located. Reverend Wilson’s office. Now that was a potential goldmine.
The church’s inferior security protocols continued. Wilson’s office wasn’t even locked, allowing Justin to waltz right in. This computer, however, did require a password. But that was no big deal. Justin knew a way around that. It only took him a few minutes to download an app to crack the password onto a USB drive he found by the computer in the sanctuary. Two more minutes and Justin was in Reverend Wilson’s computer.
Of course, if Wilson was the man he claimed to be or the man he demanded others to be, there would be nothing to find on his computer. No past searches of “bareback twinks” or “lesbian strapon sex”. Just a whole lot of online Bible commentaries and Bible Gateway hits. Then again, Justin knew firsthand that the people who sat in the pews were just as likely to be hooked on porn, abusing their spouses, or cheating on their wives as those outside the church. Maybe even more so. He’d lived in one of their homes for eighteen years so had intimate knowledge of how some religious people conducted their business.
Sure enough, a few more minutes of deep-diving into Wilson’s browser history brought the good stuff. Justin smiled. Just as he’d expected. Religious people were so predictable. And lousy at cleaning their browser history.
But what to do with this motherload of incriminating evidence? That took longer to figure out than it did to find Wilson’s stash. However, before he slipped out the broken back door of Beaumont Bible Baptist Church, Justin had laid the perfect trap. Only for a few moments did Justin consider his mentor’s reaction to his trick. In the end, he shrugged that off. Matt was gone. And Samuel Wilson and company needed to pay for their arrogant bluster.
Justin couldn’t wait for Sunday.
5
Gravity’s Work
“How are you doing?” Tom asked.
Curt couldn’t count the number of times people had asked him that question in the last few days. Like all the other times, he replied with a meager, “I’m okay,” as he paced his small bedroom, holding a cell phone to his ear.
The funeral had been yesterday, but the feelings hadn’t changed much. Empty. Lost. Angry. Numb. Hopelessly sad. All these words described his emotions at various moments. And there was no end in sight. This was life now.
“Man, I can’t even imagine what you’re going through,” Tom said. “You’re dad was such an awesome guy.”
“Yeah.”
Curt held back tears, though he could only restrain them for so long before cracking. Tom meant well, but Curt couldn’t handle these conversations anymore. The slightest thing set off his grief. That’s one reason Curt stayed home: he was afraid of breaking down in front of his peers. Granted, there were more reminders of his father at home. His empty office. His closet, still stuffed with clothes. Little inconsequential notes he’d written in his nearly impenetrable scrawl. Perhaps school—without all of these catalysts for grief—would enable Curt to find greater emotional stability.
“Hey, what happened with that girl?” Curt asked, suppressing his own emotions.
“Uh, we don’t need to talk about that now,” Tom said quietly.
“No, it’s fine. What happened?”
“It’s not really that important,” Tom
protested.
“Just tell me,” Curt said, his tone rising in impatience. He needed a normal conversation, one that didn’t reek of death.
“Uh, okay.”
Tom started out uncertainly, as if even entertaining thoughts of love and sex was an affront to Curt’s sadness. But as the story progressed, Tom became more enthusiastic as he narrated the electric meeting he shared with a girl from a neighboring school during one of his last lacrosse games. Texts between the two had become increasingly steamy.
“So, she doesn’t want to hookup unless I’m really serious about doing a relationship with her beyond the summer,” Tom said, arriving at the crux of his dilemma.
“Where’s she going to college?” Curt asked.
“Villanova. See, that’s the thing. I don’t want to do the distance thing. That never works, and I don’t want to waste my first semester of freshman year trying to make it work.”
“Yeah, I get it,” Curt said.
Villanova and Hofstra were probably about four hours apart—certainly not an insurmountable distance, but long enough to be a problem.
“Greg thought I should ‘let gravity do the work’, as he put it.”
“What does that mean?” Curt asked.
Greg was one of the more outspoken atheists from their school, one that Curt didn’t exactly get along with well.
“Do whatever with her this summer, then kind of let the relationship drift when I’m at school, doing whatever I want. Eventually, the relationship will kind of just die on its own. I mean, he kind of makes sense, right?”
Sure, from a utilitarian perspective that discounted human emotion, Greg’s suggestion sounded rational. But Tom had already shown his hand. If he hadn’t been concerned about the ethics of the relationship, he wouldn’t have had this conversation with Curt to begin with.
“Nah, don’t listen to Greg. Deep down, you’d know you were using her. Sometimes we use people by accident, without even meaning to, but you’d be doing it on purpose. I don’t think you’d feel okay about that.”
Tom went silent on the other end before releasing a sigh. “You’re right. You’re right. Damn. She’s so hot, too. I wish I’d met her last summer.”
“Well, timing is everything,” Curt said, realizing how devastatingly true that was sometimes. A few more seconds—like if Curt and his father had walked and not run to their car—and Matt McDonald might still be alive.
Tom didn’t seem to pick up on the hidden meaning those words might have possessed to Curt.
“Yo, man, I can’t believe we’re graduating, can you?”
“No.”
Up until his father died, Curt’s level of nostalgia had been steadily rising. The change in the seasons as spring overtook winter and their commencement day drew closer was palpable, bringing with it a sweet sadness settling into his soul. Now, graduation seemed an austere fact, a terrible inevitability.
“You coming to school tomorrow?” Tom asked.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Curt said. He couldn’t stay home forever; life had to continue, as cruel and difficult as that notion seemed.
Curt and Tom said goodbye. When he put the phone down, Curt heard a soft, sobbing sound coming from across the hallway. He opened his bedroom door which amplified the sound. His mom. Curt stepped across the corridor, poised to knock on her door but stopped. His father always used to say that people needed to have an emotional release, sometimes alone.
Curt retreated to his room, where he tore off a sheet of paper from a notebook. You don’t have to cry alone, he wrote with a pen in tall and clear script. Then he slid the paper under his mother’s door.
If she’d seen his note, she didn’t take up his offer of company. Instead, Curt lay alone in his bed, cycling through the same feelings as always. Eventually, he settled on anger. Unlike his other emotions, anger felt actionable. He could do something about it. The Wilson family became the target of his fury that night. Samuel had rejoiced in his father’s passing. Though externally contrite, Caleb Wilson probably chalked his father’s death to the sovereign hand of God, too.
Curt wouldn’t see Caleb or Samuel Wilson at school. But he would see Hannah. For the next hour, Curt imagined telling the beautiful blonde off, even though she hadn’t said anything. That thought gave Curt a level of satisfaction, an objective to strive toward, which helped him fall asleep.
6
Her Arms
It was Thursday morning at Beaumont High School, in between third and fourth periods. Hannah stood in front of her green metal locker, searching desperately for the notebook she needed for her next class. Suddenly, her friend Jane appeared on her right.
“He asked about you, again,” she said, leaning back against the lockers next to Hannah’s. Jane’s long brown hair was tied into a ponytail and that day she’d opted to wear glasses rather her usual contacts.
“Who did?” Hannah asked, her eyes still fixed on the chaotic contents of her locker.
“Don’t give me that. You know who. Jake Ankiel,” Jane said.
Hannah shrugged. “So.”
Jane gave her an exasperated look. “So, he’s really cute. How can you even act this way? Besides being cute and in our church, so your dad might even approve of him, he’s an EMT. He could probably tell you stories about finding dead bodies and stuff.”
The reference to EMTs and dead bodies instantly made Hannah think of Matt McDonald. She peered across the hallway where Curt was transferring some books from his bag to his locker.
“Why would that be a good thing?” Hannah asked, returning her attention to Jane.
“It probably isn’t, but it means he’s had real responsibilities, not like these pesky high school boys,” Jane said, dismissively gesturing at their surrounding male peers.
“You know why I’m not into him, Jane. I’m going off to college in a few months. I don’t have time for that kind of relationship.”
Hannah was slated to attend Houghton, a small college located a few hours away toward Rochester. College was not a foregone conclusion for females in the Wilsons’ branch of Christianity. Especially if an eligible male suitor presented himself. Churches like Beaumont Bible Baptist championed marrying young in order to resist temptation. And push out babies, which was the pinnacle of womanhood, in their eyes.
“Okay. I guess that makes sense,” said Jane with a sigh. “You want to wait for those college boys. I guess I can support that. Of course, Jake already is a college boy.”
Besides being an EMT, Jake took a full load of classes at the local community college.
Hannah still hadn’t located her elusive Math notebook. Nevertheless, her eyes roamed over to Curt, now closing his locker.
“I’m surprised he’s back in school,” Hannah said.
“Who?” Jane followed her gaze to Curt.
“His dad’s funeral was yesterday, I think.”
“Yeah, that was really tragic,” Jane said, looking at her fuchsia-colored nails. “Anyway, are you going to be ready for our game tomorrow?”
“Of course.”
Hannah was the star pitcher on their softball team. During her last outing, she’d strained an oblique, which put her next start in jeopardy. Fortunately, Hannah was feeling much better and expected to make the start as planned.
Curt looked their way. He locked eyes with Hannah, his visage intense. Jane glanced up, recognizing the current tension between the two relative strangers. After another minute of staring, Curt looked away.
“What was that all about?” Jane asked.
“I don’t know,” Hannah said, now paralyzed.
“You know, he’s kind of cute.” Jane cocked her head for a closer inspection. “Maybe even really cute. Too bad he’s an atheist.”
Jane shared Hannah’s religious affiliation. Like Hannah, she’d been taught the perils of dating someone from a different (or no) faith. Unequally yoked, people in her church termed it. Such a relationship was destined to bring misery to all involved. At least, that was th
e party line.
The bell rang, interrupting their conversation. “Hey, are you ready, yet?” Jane asked, sounding annoyed.
Hannah resumed her fruitless search for the vital Math homework, becoming more flustered each moment she couldn’t find it.
“Do you want me to wait for you?”
Jane’s frequent attempts at conversation weren’t helping Hannah’s search. Neither was Curt’s presence, though Hannah couldn’t figure out why that distracted her so much.
“No, I need this notebook. It has my homework. Go on without me. I’ll be there in a minute or two.”
Which would mean Hannah was late. But she had no other tardies on her record, so one wouldn’t kill her. Given her sterling record, the teacher might dismiss the tardy altogether. It was late May and she was a graduating senior. Detention for such an offense seemed unlikely.
“Okay, suit yourself.” Jane gathered her things and strolled off toward their fourth-period class.
The hallways started to clear. Soon it was just Hannah. And Curt. She hadn’t noticed him at first, but Curt had never left. He glared across the empty corridor at her. What passed as a smoldering gaze before now seemed alarming. She looked around her but they were alone. Curt grabbed his book bag and walked straight toward her. As he got closer, Hannah abandoned the search for her notebook. She stuffed the papers falling out of her locker back in and slammed the door shut. Curt now stood next to her. She jumped backward, her back pressing into the locks.
“You think God struck my father dead, don’t you?” he asked.
“What?” she asked in a faint voice, flattening herself against the lockers.
“That’s what your brother wrote.” Curt’s eyes became little more than slits.
Across the Western Sky Page 3