Angels Walking (14 page)

“It’s his excuse.” Beck stayed at her side, both of them still unseen. “The only way he can get a shower.”

“Exercise would be good for him.” Ember kept her eyes on Tyler. The two of them hovered at either side of the young man, waiting. Watching.

Tyler walked to the first stationary bike he saw, dropped his bag, and climbed on. Ember knew as she watched that his pain had settled into a constant burn, an hour-by-hour reminder that life had changed. He pedaled slowly at first, no doubt dragged down by the medication coursing through his bloodstream.

Ember’s heart hurt for him. She watched him, praying.
Father, help us direct him to California. Give us wisdom.

Tyler kept pedaling. Ten minutes became twenty, and twenty became forty. Sweat dripped down Tyler’s face and into his smelly shoulder brace.

“The next hour will be critical.” Beck had never looked more serious.

After his workout, Tyler finished showering, returned to his car, and turned on the engine. As he did, Ember could see the panic on his face. “He feels it,” she whispered to Beck. “The noose . . . closing in on him a little at a time.”

Beck sighed. “He’s running out of options.”

Ember and Beck watched as Tyler drove to the gas station down the block and pulled up at the closest pump. He paid the clerk thirty dollars, enough for just half a tank, and drove away.

“He has seven dollars and fifty cents left.” Ember hovered next to Beck, a few feet from Tyler.

Half a mile down the road he turned into the Winn-Dixie parking lot.

“Great.” Ember couldn’t see where this was going. “What’s he supposed to buy with $7.50?”

Tyler stuffed his wallet in the pockets of his dirty jeans. He stared at the outdoor BBQ set-up. The sign read “Ten Dollars a Plate.” Tyler didn’t have that much to his name. He walked inside. Ember and Beck stayed on either side, unseen.

In the produce section one boy tugged on his mother’s sleeve. “Hey, Mom . . . that’s Tyler Ames!”

Tyler kept walking. He reached the refrigerator section and grabbed a single piece of string cheese. A few feet down the aisle he reached the bakery and without hesitating he took an onion bagel from the case.

He stared at the bread and string cheese for a long moment. Then he peeled back the slightest bit of wrapper.

“No!” Ember grabbed Beck’s arm. “He can’t steal!”

Beck didn’t look worried. “God can work this out for the good.”

If Tyler got arrested—if he got into trouble, he would never find his way to California.
Please, Father, intervene. Help Tyler! Please . . .

Again Tyler stared at the bagel and the cheese and then he glanced behind him, over one shoulder and the next.

He was going to do it. Ember could feel it. She stood a few feet from him, silently pleading with him to change his mind. But even so he peeled the plastic back and bit off half the cheese at once. Keeping his back to the aisle, his face toward the bagel wall, he chewed as quickly as he could. Next, he took a bite of the bagel, as if no one would ever know, and he began walking toward the exit.

Not until he passed through the front doors did someone call out, “Hey! What are you doing?”

Ember and Beck kept up with him, one on either side. How was this going to work out? Ember resisted the urge to help in any way but one—she prayed. One of the rules of Angels Walking was this: All interaction had to be covert.

Tyler seemed to set his eyes on his Charger parked in the front row. He walked quickly in front of a moving car. The woman behind the wheel slammed on her brakes and scowled at him. He nodded and at the same time someone grabbed his good shoulder.

“You need to pay for that food!” It was the manager, the same one Tyler had asked for a job two weeks ago.

“I’m sorry, I was just—”

“Give me it!” The manager glared at him. “Stealing isn’t the answer. Whatever the problem.”

Tyler narrowed his eyes, as if he was looking through the man to his soul. “I’m out of money. I . . . I don’t know what to do.”

The manager hesitated. “Fine.” His expression softened some. “Take it.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re a mess, Tyler.” The man shook his head.

“Tell him about the food kitchen!” Ember hovered inches from the man, silent and invisible, but begging him all the same.

The manager started to turn to leave, but then he changed his mind. “There’s a soup kitchen at Hope Community Church, end of town. They give dinner every night and canned food.” He frowned. “It’s a crime, the way you baseball players end up.” He shook his head. “All for the love of a game.”

Ember prayed the entire time until Tyler pulled into the parking lot at Hope Community. It was just after noon, probably too early for a free dinner.

“My turn,” Beck pointed to the back wing of the church. “I’m about to be a volunteer.”

“Go.” Ember’s voice sounded urgent. “Hurry.”

She watched as Tyler walked through the doors and stopped, as if he might change his mind. But then his eyes locked on the cross at the front of the sanctuary. It towered from floor to ceiling.

He stood there for a long time and then slowly, gradually, Ember watched Tyler Ames fall to his knees.

And beside him, Ember did the same thing.

12

T
YLER WOULD’VE STAYED ON
his knees all night. For the first time in weeks he felt peace and hope—even when there was no tangible reason.

“Hello?” A voice called to him from a few feet away. “Can I help you? Or do you need a few minutes?” The man’s tone was full of something Tyler knew nothing about.

Unwarranted, undeserved, unmerited grace.

He opened his eyes and turned. The man looked vaguely familiar. He wore a button-down short-sleeve shirt and khaki pants. He took a few steps closer. “I’m Beck.” He smiled. “You’re Tyler Ames, right?”

Tyler struggled to his feet and tried to focus. Beck? The guy looked like a pro linebacker. “Are you—?”

“I work with the fire department. Paramedic.” He hesitated. “I was the first to reach you the night of your accident.”

Of course. Tyler took a step back. Every good feeling from
a moment earlier faded. “Do you . . . remember what you said that night?”

“Yes.” Beck’s compassion filled the space between them. “I told you this wasn’t the end. It was a beginning.”

Anger swept through Tyler. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s true.” Beck looked down the aisle to the cross. “What you felt a minute ago on your knees—that’s more real than anything you ever felt on a pitching mound.”

Tyler wanted to argue with him. But he was too weak. The pain pills made it difficult to turn thoughts into words.

“Anyway.” Beck shook Tyler’s good hand. “I’m a volunteer here at Hope Community Church.” He paused. “You want to talk?”

“No.” Tyler’s answer was quick. He didn’t want anything from the man. “I need . . . food. And a job.” He couldn’t look the man in the eyes. “I heard you have a soup kitchen for—”

“People in transition? Yes, we do.” Beck wasn’t in a hurry. He looked genuinely concerned. “Dinner’s not for a few hours. But we have sandwiches.” He pointed down a hallway at the end of the foyer. “Come on.”

Tyler walked behind him, not sure whether he should laugh or cry. This was the best breakthrough of the day. But he didn’t want to need help from Beck. Anyone who could see this as a beginning didn’t understand him. No matter how kind he seemed. They reached an oversized kitchen with five refrigerators. Beck opened the first one. “We always have sandwiches ready. Pastor Roman sees to that. You never know when someone might be hungry.”

Tyler held his breath. It was hard not to like the guy.
Other than the Chick-fil-A guy, no one had been this nice to him since his injury.

Beck grabbed a bag and dropped in three wrapped sandwiches, an apple, and a carton of milk. “Here.” He handed it to Tyler. “You said you need a job?”

“Yes, sir.” Again, Tyler kept his eyes averted. The pills weren’t working the way they used to. His mind was clearer but his arm killed him. How could this be his life? Begging food at a church he’d never stepped foot in? “I’ll do just about anything.”

Beck thought for a moment. “Pastor Roman has a friend. The guy runs a retirement center off the main boulevard.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “Here, take down this number.”

Tyler reached absently into his pocket and then shook his head. “I . . . don’t have my phone.”

“Don’t worry.” Beck moved to a kitchen drawer and found paper and a pen. He wrote a number down on the pad. “Ask for Harrison Myers. Tell him Pastor Roman sent you. Harrison knows him. Pastor Roman from Hope Community.”

Tyler took the paper and nodded. “Thank you.” Why was the man so kind? Tyler had walked into the church starving and ashamed without a chance for a job. Now he had a bag of food and a lead on work—best lead he’d had since he’d lost his home.

Beck surveyed him, thoughtful. “Can I pray for you? For your shoulder?”

Tears welled in his eyes. He couldn’t stop them. “I . . . I’m in a bad spot.” He looked at the door. He needed to get out of
here. He had what he wanted. If this man really knew him, he’d tell Tyler this was his own fault.

But Tyler couldn’t leave. He was desperate for the man’s kindness.

“It doesn’t matter what got you here.” Beck put his hand on Tyler’s good shoulder. “I’d still like to pray with you.”

Pray with me? Really?
Tyler tried to remember a single time anyone had asked that. His parents had stopped praying with him when he was in the fourth grade. He pinched the bridge of his nose, holding back the tears. He couldn’t talk, couldn’t do anything but nod. Yes. Yes, he would like this nice man to pray for him.

Beck bowed his head and closed his eyes. Tyler did the same.

“Father, one of Your sons is in trouble. You know the details, and You know he’s feeling broken.” The man’s voice resonated like something from heaven. “Would You show him You love him, Lord? Please help him get work and the surgery he needs. It’s okay if it takes a miracle. You’re the God of miracles, and we believe You. We thank You even now before it happens. In the powerful name of Jesus, amen.”

Tyler opened his eyes. Peace came from the man’s voice, his expression. There was a feeling around him that drew Tyler and dropped his walls. “You really think this is a beginning?”

“I do.” Beck didn’t hesitate.

Tyler couldn’t stay much longer without breaking down. He didn’t deserve anything the man had given him. He thought about the cross again and then looked back at Beck. “Thank you.”

They walked together to the front door and when they reached it, Beck shook Tyler’s left hand again. “God will go with you. We already asked.”

Something about the man’s handshake emanated confidence. As if in this man’s presence, Tyler could entertain the possibility that everything really could work out. That he might eat the lunch and get a job and find his way to the surgery he needed. That this might not be the end of his hope and future. But a beginning.

A most unlikely beginning.

TYLER’S HANDS SHOOK
as he reached the car. He could feel Beck watching him, probably praying for him. The pain pills could wait till he was out of sight at least. At the next stoplight he shoved two pills down his throat and downed them with a bottle of water. It hadn’t been long enough since his last dose at Winn-Dixie. But he couldn’t go to a job interview feeling like this.

His hands shook as he put the lid back on the bottle.

What had just happened? First the cross and then Beck and the free lunch. Finally, the phone number for Harrison Myers. The slip of paper sat next to the bag of food. Tyler remembered something his mother used to say: “Good things happen to people who pray.” She said it more often as he neared his senior year, always with her eyebrows raised.

Her meaning was clear: Tyler needed to eat right and condition right, he had to work out with his strength coach and
his pitching coach, and he certainly needed to get the highest possible grades. But he also needed to pray.

So good things would happen.

Tyler didn’t know about that, but this much was sure—Beck had prayed. And now Tyler was on his way to a job interview.