Divine (28 page)

Nigel must've observed a dozen confused faces, because he moved to a table and picked up a rock the size of an orange. He turned it over in his hand for a few seconds,- then he gave it a few light upward tosses.

Mary looked around the room. Every set of eyes was on the rock.

"You hear the word
stoned
—" Nigel stared at the rock in his hands—"and you think of drugs. The street life." His eyes lifted to theirs. "Back in Stephen's day, getting stoned meant people threw rocks like this one." He stopped and faced the cement block wall at the far end of the room. Then with a sudden windup he reeled back, and with all his might he threw the rock at the wall.

It tore through the air and smashed into the cement block. The crash brought the room to a complete and breathless silence.

Seconds passed. Nigel turned to them. Agony was written across his face, his voice thick with passionate concern when he spoke. "That was getting stoned in Stephen's day. One after another after another . . . they threw rocks at him, and the whole time—the whole entire time—Stephen never took his eyes off Jesus.
Standing
there at the right hand of the Father."

"So ... he died?" The skinny white guy tugged on the bill of his hat again.

Around the room a few people were sniffing and wiping fingers beneath their eyes.

"He did." Peace filled Nigel's features once more. "But he didn't die screaming for help. In fact... he died asking Jesus to forgive his enemies. And that. . ." There was a catch in Nigel's voice. He pierced his pointer finger through the air above him. "That is what it looks like to be rescued by Jesus."

Silence settled around them like late-night fog on the Potomac.

Finally the black teen folded his arms. "I thought he'd get a
real
rescue." He jutted his chin out. "You said we were talking about God's way of rescuing us, man." He set his forearms on the desk. "Stephen didn't get no rescue."

Nigel's eyes shone so brightly that they warmed something deep inside Mary all the way in the back row. Nigel walked up to the teen and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Oh, son, but Jesus
did
rescue him."

Nigel looked around the room, and his voice began to build. "Everywhere else in Scripture—when Jesus is pictured in heaven—He's
seated
at the right hand of the Father. Seated in the position of authority. But this time, with Stephen in big trouble—deadly trouble—Jesus was
standing."
Nigel held his arms up high as if he were embracing an invisible God. "One of His kids was in need, and Jesus took the position of action."

Mary sat up straighter. Something was happening inside her, like sunshine breaking through, sending rays of light into the darkest places of her heart. When Stephen was being attacked, Jesus stood up for him. Rescued him. Emotion built inside her. How wonderful for Stephen, knowing that God was on his side. What would it feel like to know God loved you that much?

The sunny feeling dimmed. Mary wasn't good like Stephen. How sad that she would never know that sort of love or protection from God. How could she, when her insides were as dark as night, when nothing—absolutely nothing—could clean the stench her life made.

"I don't get it." The Hispanic woman had tears in her eyes. "But Stephen died anyway."

Nigel turned toward her. "His work here on earth was done, and Jesus was on His feet, the first to welcome Stephen into heaven. That, my friends—" he spread his hands out before them—"is the rescue of our mighty Savior."

A cross hung at the front of the room above the blackboard. Nigel pointed to it. "Jesus died on a cross so that He could rescue us—me and you—from everything in this world. From loneliness, hunger, homelessness, and the pain of being stoned. Even the pain of death."

The skinny white guy crooked his hand, gang style, and slashed it through the air. "Man, why'd He go do a crazy thing like that?" Confusion sounded like anger in his voice.

"One reason."

Mary held her breath. She needed the answer more than she needed to breathe.

Nigel sat back on a stool and clasped his hands. "Because Jesus loves you." He leaned forward, intensely serious. "That's what love is,- it's what love looks like." He directed his hand toward the ceiling again. "Jesus
standing
at the right hand of the Father, holding out a hand to us. Rescuing us. Freeing us.

"Even when it doesn't look that way to anyone else."

The story was supposed to make Emma feel better about Jesus. But it didn't.

Of course Stephen saw Jesus standing at his rescue when he died. Stephen was a good guy. He was a follower of Christ, and in the power of God he worked miracles and signs and wonders for the people.

But she, Emma Johnson, was not a good person. She'd rebelled against her mother. She'd violated moral codes by sleeping with boys throughout her high school years, and she'd aborted two babies. She'd left home to live with Charlie and stayed with him after she knew the truth—that he was plagued by dangerous fits of rage. And she felt crazy most of the time because of the evil voices in her head.

On top of all that she was a drug addict, who sometimes could convince herself briefly that she was not a user, that she was a normal mother like the ones she saw at the park with their children. But really, she was nothing but a lowlife. Trash, just like the voices in her head always reminded her.

The only way things were going to get better was by making up with Charlie. He was the father of her girls after all, and if he got the help he needed, everything about their life would turn out all right. At least with Charlie she had a home. He could learn to be patient and protective, and the girls would blossom under the care of two happy parents. Then Emma could get treatment for her drug problems.

Mary Madison's story was gripping, no doubt. But how was it going to make Charlie change? How would it help her and her girls find a normal life? Mary had talked some about the love of Jesus, the power of Jesus. But Jesus couldn't ward off the cold in the middle of the night, could He?

Emma didn't think so.

Because of that, Emma lay in bed early the next morning and came up with a plan. After breakfast she dropped the girls off in day care like she'd done the last several days, then, without catching the attention of Leah in the office or anyone else at the shelter, she slipped out the front door and caught a cab.

Fifteen minutes later she stood in front of the door of the apartment she'd shared with Charlie for the past four years. She raised her hand and knocked.

After nearly a minute, the door opened and there he was. "Emma . . ." Emotions played across his face: shock, joy, and finally the one she expected most—anger. "Where have you been for the last week?"

Sobs built in Emma's chest. She worked hard to find the words. "We need help, Charlie." She held her hand out to him. "Please . . . tell me we can get help."

The anger grew and darkened his features. He grabbed her hand, jerked her inside, and shut the door. "What'd you do, Emma?" His voice was loud, panicked. "Did you tell the cops what happened?" He let go of her hand and paced across the living room and back again. He pointed at her, his finger inches from her face. "Did you? Did you tell the cops?"

She shook her head and shrank back, pressing herself against the door. This wasn't happening ... it couldn't be happening. She didn't come back to fight with him. "I promise, Charlie." Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding. "I didn't tell the cops. No one knows anything about us."

He stopped and raised his fist. His lips trembled, and rage turned his eyes into squinty slits. Emma could already feel the blow, already sense his knuckles crashing into her cheekbone. But at the last second, he put his hand through the wall instead. The force of the hit left a gaping hole in the plaster.

Charlie grunted as he pulled his hand from the mess. "You're lying to me, Emma. Tell me now!" He took a step closer and shook his fist at her. His fingers were bleeding, but he didn't seem to notice. "Where have you been, and where are the girls?"

"At some friends'. Then I went to a shelter!" Emma grabbed at her hair and covered her ears. "Stop screaming at me. We need to talk!"

That was all Charlie needed to hear. "A shelter?" He yelled louder now. "Where you sit down and tell your troubles to some do-gooder?" He took a few steps and knocked a lamp to the floor. It shattered in a pile of glass and wires. The whole time he never took his eyes from Emma. "Of course the cops know." He turned and started toward her. "You tell someone at a shelter and you might as well have called the cops yourself!"

Emma tried to duck, but his fist came hard and fast against her face before she could move. She fell to the floor,- after that there was no escaping him. He attacked her, dragging her into the bedroom and throwing her onto the bed in a heap.

"No, Charlie!" she shouted. "Please . . . stop!"

Her cries grew faint as the attack continued. Then—as quickly as it had started—Charlie drew back and wiped his brow. He looked at her for a long time, breathing hard. Without speaking, he turned and went to the bathroom. She could hear him washing his hands, his face. Then he came back.

This is it,
she told herself.
He's going to finish me off. Why'd I come hack, anyway? Mary was right, but I wouldn't listen. I never listen.

But when Charlie reached the bed, his shoulders slumped forward and he was contrite. "I'm sorry, Emma. I guess I was ... I don't know, crazy for you." He sat on the edge of the bed and studied her. "I don't mean to hurt you."

She was shaking, every bone in her body bruised, and her right shoulder throbbed with an intensity that made her feel faint from the pain. Her face was bleeding, and her head hurt. She pulled away when he tried to touch her.

"Look." He sighed. "You're right, okay? I need help. I wouldn't have gotten so mad, but I don't want you and the girls leaving again." He touched her knee. "Understand?"

She wanted to spit at him, run from him, and never come back. But the things he was saying made sense. Maybe if she hadn't left they could've gotten help sooner. Of course he was mad at her for leaving. Either way she couldn't answer him. She was shaking too hard from the silent sobs racking her body.

"I'm going to take a shower." He gave her a slow look down the length of her body. "When I come out, I'll show you how sorry I am. I don't want to hurt you." He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he gave her another long look. "I want to love you, Emma. Fifteen minutes. You'll see."

He turned and went back to the bathroom. She heard the shower turn on.

Panic squeezed the air from her. She couldn't wait around for him to return. He had tried to kill her too many times. She would die if he came back and forced himself on her.

She struggled to a sitting position and grabbed the phone from the nearby table. With a whispered voice, she called for a cab. "Hurry, please. I don't have a lot of time."

The dispatch promised a car in five minutes. Emma stumbled out of bed and went to the other bathroom, the one off the living room. Her face was bruised and scraped, swollen around both eyes. She dabbed at the bloody areas and started to cry again. The cabdriver would know she'd been beaten up. Not only that, but she couldn't use her right arm. Her shoulder hurt too badly, and her arm hung at a strange angle.

Help me, God ... I need to get out of here. . . .

If Charlie came out of the shower and found her trying to escape, he'd kill her. She had no doubt. She reached into the coat closet and found a lightweight scarf. It was enough to cover the obvious injuries. She tied it around her neck and face, grabbed her wallet, and checked first one drawer then another. Where were the joints? Didn't Charlie keep them here somewhere? They were his stash, forbidden goods. But where she was going it wouldn't matter if she took a few. After looking in three drawers, she gave up. Every second mattered.

As quietly as she could, she slipped outside and strained to see down the street. Where was the cab? It should be here by now.

Hurry. . . . Please, hurry. . . .

Suddenly from inside she heard Charlie's voice. "Emma?" He was out of the shower, earlier than expected. "Where are you?"

She walked to the curb and searched down the street. A car was coming.
Please, God . . . let it be the cab . . . please!

"Emma!" Charlie was at the door now, his hair wet, a robe wrapped around his thick frame. The rage was back, worse than before. "What are you doing?" He opened the door and started down the walk. "Get back here!"

Emma started to run. The approaching car was yellow,- it was the cab, for sure. She hurried toward it, waving at the driver. She could still hear Charlie, hear him yelling and running toward her.

The cab pulled over, and she flung the door open. "Hurry!" she shouted at the driver. She closed the door just as Charlie reached them.

The driver looked in his rearview mirror and scowled. "That guy bothering you, lady?"

Emma fell against the backseat, her chest heaving. If he only knew. "Yes ... he was." Three hard breaths. 'Thank you ... for hurrying." She didn't catch her breath until the end of the block.