Across the Western Sky

by S. C. Armstrong

  He texted Hannah next. Don’t know if I can hang out, he wrote, before explaining the situation in detail.

  I’ll go with you, Hannah offered after three times telling him how sorry she was.

  Not much deliberation was needed on Curt’s part to accept her offer. They arranged a meeting point in the middle of town. But Curt was happy to have her. Tom’s wouldn’t be the only death he was mourning that day.

  Curt and Hannah intersected near the heart of town, though a few streets removed from the main drag. Hannah eyed the surrounding houses as the two met on the sidewalk. She knew where many of the congregants from her church lived but not all. Sitting on a secluded softball field with Curt was one thing—this was wholly different. Each car that passed threatened to reveal their burgeoning relationship to her church family.

  “Hi,” Curt said, before moving in the direction of the accident site.

  He never fought her desire for anonymity. That made sense. As much as she wanted to conceal their relationship, he had as much reason. She remembered the shocked and critical stares at the SSA meeting when the two entered together. The people in his life would have been just as dubious of their relationship as the people in her life.

  She reached for his hand, which drew his gaze. He wrapped his fingers around hers and started to walk again. She tugged lightly on his hand, signaling him to stop. The gentle force turned Curt toward her. With her free hand, Hannah reached for his cheek.

  “I’m sorry about Tom,” she said before wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her head against his chest.

  As far as condolences went, that was all she could say. If Curt and/or Tom was a believer, she might have been able to offer something more substantial, some promise of a happy reunion one day. Without that, all she could do was demonstrate her concern for him.

  “Thank you,” Curt said, pulling her closer.

  They held the embrace for another moment before Curt released her. Only God knows the heart, Hannah reminded herself as they resumed their trip across town. But that was a copout. Tom professed to be an atheist; he had passed beyond hope. Curt hadn’t, though. Those thoughts gnawed at her brain, creating an uneasy silence.

  Three blocks away, a familiar car passed. Hannah’s pulse quickened. Her strides lengthened, pulling Curt along. The car came to a sudden stop.

  “Hannah!”

  She whirled around, only for a second. Identifying the man’s voice was unnecessary. She already knew who it was. Standing next to his black Dodge Charger with the NRA sticker on the bumper, Jake stared at her, his mouth open.

  Curt turned around to see what the commotion was about.

  “Keep walking,” Hannah said, fearing Jake’s reaction.

  And not just in that moment, though him tracking down Curt and throwing another punch was a real possibility. If Jake knew, then Samuel knew. If Samuel knew, her father would know.

  “Hannah! What are you doing?” Jake cried out. His voice was a mixture of desperation and anger.

  Hannah didn’t turn back this time. She was tempted, though, to see if Jake was still following them. Despite her fears and the fact her heart rate never dropped to normal, they completed the walk in relative peace. Neither said anything after Jake’s appearance. Curt’s eyes remained opaque. Perhaps other thoughts dominated his mind. As much of a threat as Jake represented, Curt had faced more intense heartaches of late.

  The couple arrived at the accident scene, located at the part of town where the residential streets turned into rural roads. A large curve in the road marked the spot, as an ominous yellow warning sign with a curved arrow stood sentry next to where Tom met his demise. Perhaps Tom had not heeded the warning. He wouldn’t have been the first person to take the curve for granted, spinning off the road as a consequence.

  Kate already stood at the spot, along with a few other peers. She turned and smiled somberly at Curt before recognizing who accompanied him. It only took a minute for the “what is she doing here” stares to begin.

  Curt traded subdued greetings with those assembled, who mostly remained silent. In front of them, a makeshift memorial had been assembled at the tree that claimed Tom’s life. Hannah watched Curt’s eyes, tracing the bend in the road. Tom’s car had been found wrapped around the large oak tree, itself unmoved by the collision. People had laid flowers at the base of the tree. Photos of Tom—now fluttering in the breeze—had been taped to the trunk. A few stuffed animal tigers (Beaumont’s mascot) had been placed on the branches. Someone had dropped a lacrosse stick and ball, representing Tom’s favorite sport.

  The sound of a car pulling to a stop along the side of the road drew their gazes. Greg had just arrived. Hannah instantly tensed up as he got out of the car. He silently approached the memorial, his expression more angry than sorrowful. Hannah had seen people in her church get angry at God when a loved one died. Who did you get angry at when you didn’t believe in God?

  Greg took a place next to Kate, his eyes fixed on Tom’s photo. She had always associated Tom and Greg together. The two frequently stood next to one another in the hallway and showed up in the same places socially. Now that she thought about it, Tom was less strident than Greg. Tom’s worst crime toward Hannah had been smiling at Greg’s obnoxious jokes.

  “Someone should say something,” Kate said to no one in particular.

  When her suggestion went unheeded, Kate turned toward Curt. He picked up on her non-verbal cues and cleared his throat.

  “I’m going to miss you, Tom,” Curt said, his voice catching. Hannah leaned gently against his shoulder. “You’ve been part of my life since we were kids. You were on my little league team; you were in my homeroom during high school.”

  Curt ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry this happened to you. You didn’t deserve this. I think you would’ve had a good life. You would have had a lot of good times. I’m sorry you missed out on so many opportunities. But I’m glad I met you. I’m glad you were part of my life. And I’ll always remember you.”

  Curt’s voice trailed off. People’s heads bobbed up and down in affirmation but Curt’s words cratered in Hannah’s soul. In his mind, this was the end. There was no life after. No overarching hope, purpose, or meaning to Tom’s life. People died for no reason. And that was the end. They were nothing more than molecules and dust. The thought nearly made her weep.

  Hannah felt Greg’s eyes on her. His lips were shut tight and tremored slightly. Maybe that was who you got mad at when you didn’t believe in God. Hannah was God’s avatar in this situation. She waited for the explosion of anger, targeted at her, but it never came. Without a word, he stalked off. Hannah exhaled. One by one, the mourners started to disperse.

  Kate glanced at Curt and Hannah. “You going to be okay?” she asked Curt while eyeing Hannah.

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “You?”

  She sighed. “It’s a lot to wrap your mind around. Even standing here, I don’t know if I believe he’s really gone.”

  “Yeah, me neither.”

  Curt reached down and embraced Kate. “Let me know if you want to talk,” he said.

  “I will. Bye.”

  Kate cast one more questioning gaze toward Hannah before walking away.

  Curt and Hannah left a moment later in silence. A great burden weighed down her soul. Everyone she had loved before believed in Jesus. Her father believed. Her brother believed. All her friends believed. When her mom died, Hannah consoled herself with the thought she’d see her again, that Hannah’s mother was now in paradise with Jesus. Their grief was only temporary, a slight mist that would be burned away by the sun of eternity.

  The same truth didn’t apply to Curt. He might have been the first person she was intimately connected with who would wind up in hell if nothing changed. Thoughts of her father’s previous sermons and passages from Revelation percolated through her mind. Burning and sulfur. Weeping and gnashing of teeth. No relief in sight. She almost gasped as she considered the awful fate awaiting Curt if
he didn’t repent. Hannah summoned the necessary courage to speak the words brewing in her soul.

  “What do you think happens when we die?” she asked, reaching for his hand again.

  Curt didn’t look at her. “Leave it alone, Hannah.” Though an intonation of warning permeated his words, he still clutched Hannah’s fingers.

  “Do you really believe that nothing happens to us after we die? How can you believe that?”

  He shrugged. “Brain chemistry. All these thoughts we have about the world, about ourselves are products of the chemical reactions in our brain. When those stop, we don’t exist anymore.”

  She pulled him to a stop. “Don’t you want to believe that there’s something after we die? Don’t you want to see your father, again?”

  Curt looked away. “No,” he said quietly. “Not if it requires billions of people to suffer in hell. Forever. That’s what you believe, right? And you probably think my father is there, too. So even if there was an afterlife, you can’t offer me hope. Not for my father.”

  “But I could offer it to you.” Her eyes implored him to listen.

  Curt withdrew his hand from hers. “For me what? I get saved but my father is in hell? And my mother? Why would I even want that?” The tone of his voice bordered on anger.

  “She can be saved. So can you.” She stared into her eyes, struggling over the next thought. ”Your father would want that for you.” If the Bible was right, Curt’s father now knew a God existed. And he’d do anything to spare his son and wife from ending up in the same place he now resided.

  “Don’t you even dare say that.” Curt took a step away from her, though she held onto his hand.

  “But he would,” Hannah protested.

  His face now like chiseled granite, Curt moved away from her. Hannah was losing him. This was what every Christian feared would happen when they broached the idea of hell with a non-Christian. She lunged for his arm, desperately trying to salvage the situation.

  Curt allowed her grasp to halt his movement. “How can you believe this, Hannah? You’re too good a person to believe this.” His eyes were closed as if he couldn’t even bear to look at her.

  “I don’t believe in things because I want to, I believe in things because they’re true.”

  Didn’t he understand that? Hell wasn’t her idea. She hadn’t invented the concept. All Hannah could do was permit the reality of hell to inform her conversations and relationships on earth and trust that the good and loving God presented in scripture would do right when the time came. And if God thought hell was a necessary part of creation, then Hannah had to believe there was no better way to organize the universe.

  “How can you think any of this is true?” Curt repeated, becoming even angrier.

  Hannah would have given everything for hell not to be true. But she lacked that luxury. The tears she had shaken away previously refused to be stifled any longer and spilled down her cheeks. “What if it is? What do you have to lose by believing in Jesus? There is no risk in believing. But you risk everything by not believing!”

  “Hannah, I can’t. I can’t.” Curt’s voice trembled, but from what? Sadness or anger? His voice had grown softer. She couldn’t read his eyes, which avoided meeting hers.

  He jerked his arm free from her grasp and sped away from her. Hannah crossed her arms, sobbing. This was not a lover’s spat. Existential dread had taken root in her mind. All of Hannah’s life had taught her that Curt stood on the precipice of damnation. And even if he didn’t fall off the edge now, the ground beneath threatened to swallow him alive at any moment. Then he would be gone forever. Away from God. Away from heaven. Away from her.

  27

  Parental Advice

  Tears still streamed down Hannah’s face when she burst through her front door. She didn’t—or couldn’t—restrain them, even when her father unexpectedly met her in the living room. Most Saturdays, he was sequestered in his study, working on the Sunday sermon.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, jumping off the chair where he sat, his expression shifting from frustration to compassion.

  “He won’t believe,” Hannah blubbered, not even considering whether or not Jake had broadcast the fact that she’d been walking through town holding hands with Curt. Hannah launched herself into her father’s arms.

  “Who won’t believe?” he asked, completing the embrace.

  “Curt. A classmate of ours died, and I tried to tell him the gospel, but he doesn’t believe. He wouldn’t even listen to me. Now if he goes to hell, it’s all my fault.”

  A second explosion of tears detonated. Her father patted her back.

  “Shh, shh. Don’t think like that. Don’t do that to yourself. All you can do is try to tell people. They have to take the next step. You can’t believe for them.”

  “But why won’t he believe?” Hannah asked between heaves of sorrow.

  “Well, I don’t know. Maybe he doesn’t want God in his life. On our own, we’re rebels, enemies of God. We can never please God in our own power. All our righteousness is like filthy rags to Him. We can’t even see the truth, much less believe it. Not until the Holy Spirit works in our hearts.”

  “Why hasn’t the Spirit worked in his heart, yet?”

  The reverend frowned. “I don’t know. That’s God’s business. Everything happens in His timeline. It could be that you planted a seed that will one day sprout. All you can do is pray for him.”

  Hannah nodded. Her tears had begun to subside. Her father swept the hair away from her forehead.

  “It seems like you’re really broken up about this boy, Hannah,” he observed gently.

  “Aren’t we supposed to be broken over the lost?” she asked, turning away from her father so he couldn’t read the truth in her eyes.

  “Yes, but I’m guessing the same truth you’ve realized about him applies to plenty of your other classmates, too. I’ve never seen you cry for them.”

  He had a point. Hannah rubbed shoulders with spiritually lost people every day. Yet she’d accepted their fates without shedding any tears.

  “Perhaps you’ve allowed yourself to get too close to this boy. You have to guard your heart. Our hearts are deceitful, Hannah. They can lead us into some dangerous places. And what about Jake? I thought you two were starting the courting process?”

  “I hadn’t decided about him, yet,” Hannah said, trying to remain non-committal.

  “Oh. Well, I still think you’d be a good match,” he replied, seemingly unswayed by Hannah’s apathy toward her would-be suitor. “Give your heart to someone who will honor it. I trust Jake will.”

  “Curt would do that,” she said softly, even though her father would never identify him as anything else besides an unbeliever.

  She expected a rebuke, but her father’s voice was tender. “Then why are you crying now?”

  Because Curt had broken her heart, through no fault of his own. And he’d break it again tomorrow. And every day after that until he believed. Hannah wiped her cheeks with her sleeve. She hugged her father once more before retreating upstairs to her room.

  Across town, Curt stormed into his house, stomping past his mom sitting in the living room and up the stairs to his bedroom. She raised her head upon his entrance but never attempted to halt his advance.

  As angry as he was toward Hannah, Curt was mad at himself, too. Of course, Hannah saw the world through this draconian lens of spiritual condemnation for anyone who didn’t hold the exact same tenets of faith as her. How did he think this relationship would play out? When Curt crossed the hallway in school to give her a tongue lashing, in his mind, she represented everything wrong with Christianity: the superstitious, reductive mindset that saw everyone as believer or unbeliever. Then she held him. She’s different, he told himself. She cares. She really sees people and their pain. But Kate was right all along: Hannah was worse than the rest. Deep down she was the same; she just cloaked those hateful beliefs with a pretty smile. At a certain point, that seemed like deception.<
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  A knock on the door interrupted his brooding. His mom poked her head through the door. “Do you want to talk about something?”

  “No!” Curt shot back.

  His mom nodded and began to retreat.

  “It’s Hannah.”

  His mother froze.

  “She makes me so angry!”

  Elizabeth McDonald pushed the door open and sat on the edge of his bed. Curt proceeded to narrate the salient points of his fraught exchange with Hannah. He proved not to be the best narrator, as his feelings were too charged to create a coherent storyline. He went out of order and other times repeated himself. By the end, his mother simply nodded.

  “Can you believe she looks at the world like that?” he asked.

  “Poor girl,” she murmured.

  “Poor girl?” Curt scrunched his brow in disbelief. “She thinks Dad is burning in hell. What’s poor about her?”

  “She believes what she’s been taught. Probably all of her life,” his mother said calmly.

  “Why are you making excuses for her? You were right, Mom; I was probably just a project for her. Someone she had to save.”

  “No.” His mother shook her head. “I don’t think that’s true. From what you’ve told me, I think she cares for you. A lot. She’s probably miserable about this right now.” Elizabeth McDonald smoothed her hair. “Can you imagine going through life like that? Think about the pain. What if your child or parent didn’t believe? How would you even make peace with that? It would haunt you all of your days.”

  His mom gazed into the distance for a moment before returning her focus to Curt. “Don’t get me wrong. There are some Christians who are absolutely despicable about their belief in hell. Gleeful, even. They can’t wait until all of us sinners get our just deserves. There are some who weaponize that belief, use it to manipulate people. I don’t think that’s Hannah, though.”

  “But she doesn’t have to believe this. She could reject it,” Curt protested.