The Game (10 page)

Eduardo has only been gone a few months, and
he’s beginning to experience the numbing effect that time and
distance put on a friendship. It’s getting to the point that he’s
already beginning to forget what Eduardo looks like. The memories
in his head grow faint and blur more with each day. He would have
to look at a snapshot of the two of them to remind him that that
part of his past is not just a fading dream. It’s a strange feeling
to know someone for more than a year, to draw as close as brothers,
and then to have time and distance dissolve those memories like
sugar in water. The taste is still there, but the physical
substance is gone.

“
I miss Eduardo, Dad.”

Bill takes is eyes from the road, quickly
glances at his son, and then back to the road again—as if
evaluating his son’s emotional state of mind before moving the
conversation forward in a particular direction. “I know you do,
Son. But sometimes there’s nothing we can do to change a situation.
It’s all in God’s hands and if it’s His will, you’ll see Eduardo
again.” He pauses for a minute and another mile of road unrolls in
front of them. Then he continues, “When I was young, there were
very few people that I came into contact with that I didn’t see
again sometime while I was growing up. In fact, I can remember one
friend that—kind of like Eduardo—moved out of state during my
freshman year of high school. Do you know that a few years later
when I went to college, he came back to Texas and went to the same
university that I did?”

Even at such a young age, Steven realizes his
father doesn’t really want an answer.

“
We started at the same time but it
was the second semester before we ever ran into each
other.”

“
Really?”

“
Yup. And we're still good friends
to this day. So you can never give up hope that God will one day
bring you and your friend back together.”

“
So you really think that I'll see
Eduardo again?”

“
Gringo.” He pauses, thinking. He
snickers and asks, “Do you
really
like that
name?”

“
Yeah, Dad. I do.”

“
It’s just...”

“
Just what?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s just funny, I
guess.”

“
That’s the whole point,
Dad.”

Bill glances over again and smiles. Steven, for
the first time, notices the lines that crease the corners of his
dad’s eyes. His red hair is lighter than it used to be—thinner too.
His goatee, always a dark crimson, is now speckled with course
white strands of hair. In fact, there’s almost more white than red
now.

Boy, he’s getting old
. Steven turns to
look out the window just in case his facial expressions give away
his thoughts even though he knows there’s no way his dad can read
his mind.

There comes a point in life when the
realization that each and every individual on this planet is born
to die. Some individuals find out about mortality earlier than
others—no two people are the same. In some situations, a close
friend or relative passes away, leaving more questions about life
and death than there are answers. In other instances, such as now,
those questions come out of nowhere and hit with the full force of
surprise. He turns back to his dad’s profile and realizes that his
dad would not be here forever—that one day, his dad will die—and
his mom would die too—that all of them would die one day! Again, he
turns his face to the window, this time to hide the sudden tears
forming in his eyes. With the tears come the sniffles—and those are
a lot harder to hide.

His dad places a hand on his shoulder. “What's
wrong, buddy?”

He tries to think of something to say,
something other than what has been spinning through his head. “Dad,
if we see a deer...”

“
Yes?”

“
I just....I just.” He hates feeling
helpless; this feeling that everything in the world can turn on him
and bring a fresh river of tears. It’s so embarrassing and he wants
it to stop; he doesn’t want to lose control of his emotions. He’s a
young
man
and young
men
don’t act like little
girls.

He remembers when Eduardo sat across from him
in the hallway outside the principal’s office. Eduardo may have
looked toward the floor to gather his thoughts, but when he looked
up, the tears were already there—staining his cheeks. He hadn’t
been ashamed to cry—and to do it in front of a virtual stranger—a
stranger that had stood up to him in a crowded playground. Eduardo
was the biggest kid he knew—had known —and Eduardo had not been
ashamed of his tears because he knew what he’d done to Emily was
wrong.

If Eduardo was unashamed of his tears, then by
all means, The Gringo shouldn’t be ashamed either.

“
You just what, Son?” His dad’s hand
moves from his shoulder to his head and gently rubs his
hair.

“
It just hit me, Dad. I see the
white hair in your beard and the creases around your eyes and I
thought...”

“
Yes?”

“
I realized that you...that I...that
everyone...is going to die some day.”

His dad smiles and tousles his hair. “I don’t
think going anywhere for quite some time though, so don’t you worry
about it, okay?”

“
Really? But how do you know
that?”

His dad turns to the road as a couple of cars
pass them in the other lane, heading in the opposite direction. He
sighs and says, “To be honest, Son. I
don't
know. None of us
knows when our time here is up.”

“
Are you afraid to die,
dad?”

With no pause whatsoever, he says,
“Nope.”

“
Really? Why?” He can’t think of a
single reason why anyone
wouldn’t
be afraid of
dying.

“
Son, why do you think we make a
habit of going to church every Sunday?”

The car slows and Bill steers onto a dirt
track. The cabin on their deer lease sits about a mile ahead of
them, down the dirt track through the forest.

“
To study Jesus’ life and how to
live our lives like His?”

“
Yes, that’s part of
it...uh-oh.”

“
What?”

His dad points at the dirt road ahead of them.
A large tree has fallen, blocking the way. He throws the
transmission into park and the two of them climb from the car. Even
though the log is large, it’s a shell of a long-dead tree and
breaks apart easily. They make quick work of moving it and have the
road cleared within a few minutes.

As they climb back into the car, his dad asks,
“Do you remember the first verse that your mom and I taught
you?”

“
John 3:16?”

“
Yup. That’s the one. I’m sure you
hear it a lot at church don’t you?”

“
Yes, sir.”

“
Have you ever really sat back and
thought about the words to that verse? About what it actually means
as a Christian?”

They pull up to the cabin and park.

“
I guess I haven’t really thought
about it.”

His dad quotes, “
For God so loved the world,
that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not
perish but have eternal life.
” He opens his side of the car and
slides out. Steven does the same and they meet at the trunk to
gather their overnight bags and rifle cases. “I’m not sure how much
you have learned in Sunday School and I have to admit, I shouldn’t
have waited so long to discuss this with you—that verse may sound
like it’s about death, but it’s not.”

They heft their supplies into the cabin and
Bill goes around the main room lighting candles and gas lanterns as
he continues speaking. “When I was your age, I always focused on
the word
perish
and I was always under the assumption that
the verse is referring to death. What God did was send His Son to
Earth to be the vessel for all our sins. He died on the cross for
our sins so that if we accept Him as our Lord and Savior, the blood
He shed covers our sins and we will be able to live for all
eternity with Him.”

They both go outside and gather wood for the
fireplace and the wood-burning stove. “Does that make sense to you,
Son?”

“
Yes, sir. I know all that.
Remember? I accepted Christ as my savior at youth camp a couple of
years ago.”

“
I know. But what I’m trying to
explain to you is
why
I’m not afraid of death. Remember your
question? You asked me if I was afraid to die.”

Yes, he did ask that very question, but with
the tree limb, unloading the car, getting the cabin ready for the
night, and the talk about John 3:16, he forgot what had actually
brought them to this discussion in the first place. He nods. “Yes,
I remember.”

“
Well that verse is the
why
.
What Jesus did for me on the cross is
why
I’m not afraid of
death.” He adds a starter log to the fireplace and strikes a match
to light it. The dim light dances across his face, accenting the
hollows of his eyes. For the briefest of moments, Steven believes
he can see beyond the skin and muscle of his dad’s face; he thinks
he can see right to his dad’s skull. A shiver runs up his spine and
his arms break out in goose bumps.

“
Do you understand now?” He
asks.

Steven nods again. “Yes, I believe
so.”

“
That’s good,” says his dad. “Now
break out that pot and let’s get some beans and bacon cooking.
How's that sound.”

That sounds just fine to him.

The wind whispers through the trees as the sun
sinks slowly toward the horizon. Its light bleeds across the
scattered clouds, painting their edges with threads of red, orange,
yellow, and gold. He and his dad sit on the ground, their backs
pressed to the rough bark of two of the largest pine trees Steven
has ever seen. Layers of pine needles cover the forest floor with a
soft cushioned blanket, their years of weight choking out only the
most resilient of underbrush. The pine trees stand close enough to
provide ample shade, but far enough apart to give the hunters
multiple shooting lanes in every direction.

So far, they have only seen a couple of
white-tailed doe. And as with their first two hunting trips, his
dad opted out of purchasing doe permits so when a small herd
wondered through, all they can do is watch and admire their
gracefulness.

But today ended up being different. Steven
hears movement down the hill from where he sits. It’s a buck.
Luckily, the wind sweeps up the hill, so the buck does not realize
that two hunters are just a few yards away. Steven slowly lifts his
rifle and puts the scope to his eye. The scope’s magnification is
set so high and the deer is so close, that its image fills his
view. He adjusts the rifle, shifting it upward so he can look below
the scope and down the iron sights on the barrel of the gun.
Much better
, he thinks.

He lines the sights on an area just behind the
deer’s massive shoulders and squeezes the trigger. Thunder echoes
through the forest—the gunshot is louder than he expected. He
lowers the gun and watches the deer. It just stands there. Its ears
twitch once, its head lowers, and then it falls to the soft bed of
pine with a solid thump.

Steven scrambles to his feet and rushes down
the hill, leaving his rifle on the ground next to the pine where
he’d been sitting for the past hour. His heart pounds hard in his
chest, beating in time to his short legs as they take him down the
hill toward the fallen deer. He wouldn’t realize it for several
minutes, but fat drops of tears pore from his eyes. He tries to
stop before he reaches the fallen buck, but his feet slip on the
pine needles and he slides toward the deer on his knees.

From behind him, his dad shouts, “Stay back!
Don't touch it!” But there’s nothing Steven can do, his momentum is
too great, the pine needles too slick, and the incline too steep
for him to gain any control over his slide. He collides with the
deer and comes to a stop. He immediately scrambles away,
remembering his father’s warning lesson from their first hunting
adventure a few weeks before:
Always approach the deer slowly.
Their horns and hooves are sharp weapons and if the bullet doesn’t
kill them right away, they still have that fighting instinct and
will lash out at you. You have to make sure they are dead before
you approach, okay?

He had said yes, he understood, but this is
different. Before now, the thought of killing one of these
beautiful creatures was just that, a thought. Now that the deed is
done, he can’t believe he actually pulled the trigger, actually
took the life of such a majestic and beautiful creature. All
thought of his father’s warning went by the wayside as he buries
his fingers into the buck’s coarse brown coat of fur. Thankfully,
his bullet had flown true and the deer had been dead before it hit
the ground.

He can hear his dad’s heavy footfalls behind
him and a few seconds later, he slides down next to his
son.

“
You okay?” he asks,
panting.

The Gringo continues to massage his fingers
through the deer’s fur, as if his hands hold a healing power that
will bring new life to the fallen creature. Through his tears, he
says, “I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!”