The Sacrifice (26 page)

“Howdy, Thomas,” Mr. Hill said. “What can I do for you?”

“This young man needs a spring for a carburetor on a truck like mine. Do you have something in the shop or do we need to go to the field?”

“Only a spring?”

“I'm thinking that's the problem.”

“I don't have that sort of thing inside. Go get one.”

Lester and Thomas walked between the rows of automobiles and trucks. The old man walked briskly and took two turns without slowing down.

“Do you know where you're going?” Lester asked.

“Yeah. There's a row of Fords toward the back of the lot.”

The trucks were lined up like nursing home residents in wheelchairs enjoying the late-afternoon sun. Thomas raised the hood on one and took off the air cleaner. In a few seconds he held up a spring so Lester could see it.

“What do you think?” he asked. “It looks tight.”

Lester nodded. “Okay.”

As they walked back to the shop, Thomas asked, “Have you thought about fixing up your truck?”

“Not really.”

“Where do you go to school?”

“Catawba High.”

“I didn't make it past eighth grade at the old Autumn Hill school. I dropped out and went into the mills.”

Mr. Hill charged Lester a dollar for the spring and in ten minutes they were back in town standing in front of Lester's truck.

Lester raised the hood. “I don't want to mess it up trying to put it on.”

“I'll show you,” Thomas said.

The two leaned over the engine. Lester held the spring between his white fingers stained by engine grime, and Thomas guided him with his weathered black hand to the correct spot.

“Fit it here first, then it connects underneath.”

Lester attached it on the second try.

“Okay,” Thomas said. “Give it a try while I watch from here.”

Lester got behind the wheel and turned the key. The engine turned over once and started running smoothly. Thomas looked around the edge of the hood and smiled. He reattached the air cleaner and handed Lester his screwdriver through the window.

“Thanks,” Lester said.

“I love these old trucks,” Thomas replied, patting the door. “If you decide you want to do some work on it, give me a call. I know almost everything about them.” He got out his wallet and handed Lester a card. “I don't have a business, but my granddaughter made these for me on her computer. It has my name and phone number on it. Call me anytime.”

“Okay.” Lester looked at the card. It had a row of tiny red hearts around the edge. He laid it on the seat beside him.

Lester's truck didn't miss a beat as he drove out of town. When he turned down the road to his grandmother's house, he glanced at Thomas Greenway's card. Picking it up, he read it again, then tossed it out the window.

19

Are not all angels ministering spirits sent
to serve those who will inherit salvation?

H
EBREWS 1:14

T
ao Pang learned quickly. He couldn't read the labels on the different containers of cleaning solutions, but it didn't take him more than two or three times of show and tell to remember how and where to use each substance. Larry Sellers was pleased with his work. He valued someone who came to work on time and did his job carefully more than an employee who put on a good show when the boss was in view but spent the rest of the day finding secluded spots in the building to hide from work.

Tao's favorite job was buffing the floors. After the students left for home, he would sweep a hallway with a long-handled dust catcher to pick up bits of paper and loose trash, then use the buffer and a spray bottle of polishing compound to make the floor shine. Back and forth, he would let the buffer work its way naturally down the hall. The rhythm of the machine formed the backdrop for melodies that Tao sang softly under his breath.

The songs would have sounded odd to Western ears; they weren't based on an eight-note octave. But the singsong style was perfect for the looping cadence of the buffer. Often Tao improvised, creating musical pictures from childhood memories of mountains and streams. At other times, spontaneous praise to Jesus flowed from his heart. People who walked by might catch a hint of his song, but they wouldn't be able to decipher its message.

During lunch period, Tao often assisted in the cafeteria: cleaning the floor, wiping off tables, and taking bags of garbage to the Dumpster. Whenever he worked in the dining hall, he looked for the holy assembly he'd spotted on his first day at work. One Tuesday, after the students began streaming into the room and the noise reached a high decibel level, Tao checked the table in the back corner. Several students were seated around the circle, but this time it wasn't the students who arrested his attention; it was the attentive figures standing behind them.

Tao had seen heavenly messengers in Thailand. After his conversion, he took a journey from the refugee camp to Bangkok. On the return trip he was accompanied one afternoon by a spry old man who listened to Tao's many questions, answered a few of them, and shared a meal with the pilgrim from his brown food bag. At first Tao thought he was a holy man, but his fellow traveler didn't have a pious look. He laughed too quickly and enjoyed the sights and sounds of the surrounding forest more than a person who held himself aloof from association with this world.

After they finished their evening meal and Tao asked his last question, they lay down under the stars for the night. Tao was almost asleep when he briefly opened his eyes and saw the old man disappear from view. Tao was gripped with a sudden fear. He thought he'd seen a ghost, and all the superstitions sown into his mind from childhood swept over him. But the night air wasn't filled with fear, and Tao knew the being was good, not evil. So he banished anxiety and slept peacefully, undisturbed by troubling dreams. In the morning, he rose up refreshed and continued on his way. Later at the refugee camp, Tao read about the activities of God's holy angels in the Bible, and in the years that followed he occasionally discerned their unseen presence.

Today, the angels stood around the table. They were clearly visible, and Tao counted eight of them. Their dominant characteristic wasn't their appearance but their unrelenting focus. They were interested in nothing in the room except obedience to their assignment on behalf of the young people seated at the table. Tao picked up the soapy cloth he was using to wipe off the tables and tentatively came closer. One of the angels became aware that Tao had entered the edge of their realm and glanced toward him. Tao stopped. He didn't want to intrude or disrupt what was happening with the students. The angel looked away, and Tao's quick prayer for guidance didn't yield a negative response. He came closer. Two students who had been sitting at another table walked past him on their way to the drop-off window for dirty dishes and silverware.

As Tao watched, one of the angels spoke to a tall girl with dark skin. The words out of the messenger's mouth were like tiny flames of fire, and Tao saw the girl's lips move in immediate response to the unseen prompting. Tao felt the brush of a gentle wind on his cheeks. Fire in one realm, cool refreshing in another.

“Father,” Alisha Mason said. “We ask you to send your holy angels to our school to watch over and protect every student and teacher. We need your help. We want your help.”

Janie Collins continued, “We pray for the students at this school who are confused and lost. We believe that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life for them. Please reveal yourself to them in ways they can understand and draw them to you. We ask you to do this for Frank Jesup and Leila Farner.”

After swallowing a bite of his sandwich, another student continued, “We pray the same thing for Larry Bingham, Kimberly Griffin, and Lester Garrison.”

On they prayed. Unaware of the guardians who stood watch over them. Oblivious to the helpers sent to guide them.

Tao put his cleaning cloth on the edge of a table and picked up a paper napkin that had fallen on the floor. When he stood up, the angels were gone. Disappointed, he began wiping off the table. He finished and looked again in the direction of the table. Nothing. A couple of students left, and another one sat down. Then a cool breeze brushed Tao's cheek. He smiled.

Scott spent two hours Tuesday afternoon working on the mock trial materials. He couldn't tell the students specific questions to ask on direct or cross-examination, but he could identify the most important issues and keep them in mind when critiquing the students' performances. Likewise, he couldn't provide a detailed outline for an opening statement or closing argument, but he could ask questions designed to guide the students in selecting the most persuasive points to emphasize.

He worked late and drove straight to the high school. He was a few minutes early, and Kay's car was parked beside the modular unit. The door to the classroom was propped open to let in the cool evening air. Kay was sitting at her desk intently writing on a piece of paper. As he walked up the steps, Scott determined not to revisit the conversation they'd had after the football game. He'd opened the door to her, but he wanted to keep it by invitation only. He knocked on the doorframe.

“Hello!” he said.

Kay looked up without putting down her pen.

“Come in. I'm finishing up a thought.”

Scott walked in and sat down in front of her desk. Kay immediately returned to her paper and scribbled a few more lines. A few strands of her hair escaped and hung down on the edge of the page. She blew them out of the way and kept writing.

“Done,” she said in a few minutes.

“Grading papers?” Scott asked.

“No, writing one.”

“What about?”

“Adoption. Do you handle adoptions?”

“I represented a couple last year who brought a little girl to the U.S. from the Philippines. She was supposed to be six, but I think she was closer to nine; it's hard to tell because she was so small. She'd been living on the streets before an agency took her in and gave her a place to stay. It was a great experience for everyone, including me.”

“I've had a great experience of my own,” Kay said. “That's what I was writing about.”

“With a student who's adopted?”

Kay pointed to herself. “No, me.”

Puzzled, Scott said, “You're not adopted. You look more like your mama every day.”

Kay smiled. “I'm not sure how well you remember my mother, but that's not what I'm talking about. I've been adopted by God.”

Scott gave the teacher a closer inspection. She looked happy, not crazy.

“What are you talking about?”

“I've been going to church services in the gym at the middle school on Sunday mornings. Janie Collins invited me.” Kay picked up the papers from her desk and handed them to Scott. “Here, read this. It describes everything better than I can tell you.”

Scott read the first few lines quickly then slowed down and carefully worked his way through the pages. He didn't comment until he turned over the final sheet.

“Interesting,” he said.

Kay waited. Scott handed the sheets back to her.

“I'm not looking for compliments, but do you have any other reaction besides ‘interesting'?”

“You're a good writer,” Scott said, laying the pages on the corner of the desk. “Very descriptive, almost passionate. I guess you could call it spiritual.” He paused. “How am I doing?”

Kay pushed her hair behind her ears. “Okay, I guess. You still sound detached, like a newspaper book reviewer. I mean, did it affect you emotionally?”

“Do you want an honest answer?” Scott asked.

“Of course.”

Scott's eyes met hers. “What you've heard and felt about God's love struck a chord in you. Other readers may hear the same notes. I didn't.”

“That's better. Will you give me another honest answer?”

“I'd rather hear the question first.”

“Do you think this is just an emotional response by a woman who's been rejected by her husband?”

“It's not what I think that's important but what you believe yourself.

Because religion is such a personal issue, I usually consider it off limits. I was baptized as a kid and believe in the Ten Commandments. Whatever anyone wants to believe is up to them.”

The students started trickling in. Yvette Fisher gave Scott a knowing smile, appreciative of the information she'd purloined at the football game. She'd not exaggerated the relationship between Scott and Kay to the extent the teacher predicted, but several female students now viewed the tall, blond teacher as more human because she'd eaten bittersweet fruit in a high-school romance.

Dustin Rawlings limped in and sat down in a desk so he could extend his right leg straight out in front of him. Scott came over to him.

“What's wrong? I was at the game Friday night and didn't see anything happen to you.”