Almost Heaven (8 page)

The enemy congregated around Billy's father, egged him on, whispered to him about his lack of value, his lack of faith, and how everything would be much better if he were not in the picture. They accused him about his older son. The man began to believe he was worthless.

Nothing could have been further from the truth, of course. That boy needed him. Though he felt like half a man, he was everything to the boy, and I wondered if events that would proceed later in Billy's life would prove that postulate true.

When I think of the differences between the way their Father in heaven works with them and the way the evil one tries to use them for his own selfish ends, it astounds me that more humans cannot see the ruse. At every turn, the Creator has endeavored to lead and guide His creation into Truth and Knowledge, but in the corner of those turns has been the enemy seeking to detour humans and cloud their thinking, twisting the good things the King has offered into diabolical traps. The evil one is crafty, and he is every bit the lion seeking to devour.

I dispatched a message to my superior and gave a full report of the enemy's activity. He sent a return message that I was to be on guard but I was not to intervene in any extraordinary way. I was instructed not to risk myself in combat against these forces and to focus on my charge.

Of course, this caused me to think about my actions long ago at the flood. If I had not acted, Billy would have been spared the trauma of seeing his father on the day the demons won. But he would have also missed the time they had together after the flood.

The room took on a palpable darkness, even to Billy, for I saw him several times as he approached and then turned away, as if he could perceive something amiss. Each time I found the enemy at the father's bedside or next to the rickety chair by the gas heater, I would disperse them. But like flies, they multiplied in the return and the onslaught continued. I never once feared their retaliation, for these were merely harassers of the soul. They feared me and where I might send them. But the taste and smell of death in that room lured them time and again, and when they saw they were winning the battle over the man's emotions and will, it only incited them, like fresh blood in a pool of sharks.

I tell you this to prepare you for what I saw at the funeral. Billy handled the day as well as could be expected. There was an initial shock that came over him and seeped into the countryside. Not many came to the service for his father. A few made the long trek from Buffalo Creek and tsk-tsked about his untimely demise. Billy's mother, of course, was in no shape to comfort her only living son, but she did the best she could. And the pastor of their local church did a much-less-than-adequate job of giving hope from the Scriptures.

The final straw was the imp I found sitting on the pile of dirt above the freshly dug hole.

“Have you no decency?” I said, teeth clenched.

He dodged my lunge and skittered away to a nearby tombstone, where he sat enjoying the anger he had caused. “Actually, I think not. Decency was the last thing handed out, and my plate was already full of greed and avarice.”

There was something familiar about his voice and demeanor, but I couldn't place him. That he was alone surprised me because the death of humans is something the enemy delights in. They love to see the crying and grief-stricken families. But it is also normal to see many like me at such occasions because the death of one who is loved by the King does not bring sadness, but joy. The enemy sees this as the end, but in truth it is only the beginning, the opening of a new door into a new existence that will last for all eternity.

“You should not be angry with me,” the demon said, simpering on the tombstone. “You should be angry with yourself for not preventing such a tragedy. Or if you really want to channel your anger at the one who deserves it, you would be upset with your own Leader, the One who sent you here. Didn't He forbid you to intervene?”

I suddenly recognized the imp. He had been there, aiding and abetting the father of lies when the sickness had been brought on the righteous man Job. When he had broken the pots in order to scratch at the boils on his ravaged skin, this one had been there, mocking the host of heaven as we looked on, silent, unable to act because of the decree.

I flew to the demon, sword unsheathed, and held the tip of the blade to his neck.

Eyes wide, he gulped and stammered, “Now who has the lack of decency? It's a funeral, after all.”

“Leave this place now, demon, and do not return.”

I let him get up from his awkward position, but then he turned to me. “This is not the end of trouble for your charge. We know the reason you were chosen.” He tilted his head sickeningly, too far, almost turning it all the way around. “Your Leader has left you vulnerable, just like the boy. He was abandoned by
his
father. And so have you been abandoned in this wasteland.”

I drew closer. “There is no abandonment with the Most High. There is not a word on your tongue that He does not hear.” The demon shrank back as I spoke the words from David, of old:

“‘Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence? If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea; Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.'”

The demon turned his head as if trying to block the words. When I was finished, he turned back and pointed to the grave.

I glanced at Billy, whose eyes were filled, brimming and running freely. His mother sat, stunned and unmoving, by his side. It was a picture of abject grief, the kind that sinks to the bone and takes hold of a life and alters it forever.

The demon's voice changed to whispered tones, and his confidence chilled me. “We know the thoughts of your Most High God for your charge and you. They are thoughts of evil to bring destruction upon you. And though you may call upon Him, He will not hearken unto you. The boy will seek His will but not find it, though he searches with all his heart. His is a future without hope.”

I turned and gasped to see a thousand demons congregated in that valley of death, with more behind the edge of the trees, all of them grinning as if the victory was won. Having a warrior spirit, I knew I could fight and defeat the assembled foe if called upon, but I also knew it was imperative to inform my superiors, to say nothing of my concern for the boy and his mother.

I sprang from my position and the demons followed. I was not running from the fight but taking it to a different plane. But as I ascended and signaled my comrades, I couldn't block the demon's voice. Did he really know the plan? In the case of Job, that was true. Satan had conferred with the Most High, and it led to devastation. Though in the end, Job was not killed and his life proved a testament of the faithfulness and sovereignty of the One, I wondered about Billy's life. The seed of doubt that had begun to grow had sprouted. The demon had used my own lack of knowledge and trust against me.

The war that day was fierce and I was joined by many of the host to battle these unholy ones. We fought them all the way to the pit, where they scattered and abandoned the struggle, shrieking and screaming. And when I returned to the home of my charge, his mother sat in front of the television, entranced. Billy sat in his room with the mandolin, playing a sad and mournful tune.

6

My sophomore year in high school was my first year at Dogwood High. Back then freshmen still went to junior high on the hill overlooking the high school.

One afternoon in the spring I was sitting in the little control room in Mr. Gibson's class that we used to record ourselves for the local radio station. Every week they let us have a ten-minute show that would air on Saturday afternoons. We recorded it on a reel-to-reel Wollensak that clunked when you hit Record. I was always the engineer and editor for the program and never got to talk much.

We called Mr. Gibson “Buzz” because he wore his hair closely cropped at a time when everyone else wore it long. And he was painfully short, which must have been hard for him because most of the guys who walked in towered over him. He had hands that looked like they belonged to a beauty queen, and for a West Virginia born and bred man, he had an eye for fashion. He wore shiny cowboy boots and pastel-colored suits with floral-print shirts that stood out in pictures. He had a way of walking with a purpose the rest of the teachers and administrators didn't have.

“I didn't know you played,” he said, stepping into the room as I shut off the recorder. I had hoped to get away with playing the mandolin without discovery.

“I'll erase it.”

“No, play it for me.”

“I'm not any good; I just fool around.”

He looked at the small mixer we had that was hooked up to an eight-track player as well as a turntable. “What were you playing?”

“Just playing along with a record I bought.”

He leaned over the turntable and his Brut aftershave swept through the room. “Bill Monroe,” he said, his head moving as he read the name on the record. “Can you keep up with him?”

“You know bluegrass?”

“I'm a closet fan. There's a fellow at my church who plays in a group. Can you keep up with Bill Monroe?”

“I can stay with the tempo okay.”

“Let me hear it.”

“It's not any good.”

“You said that already.”

* * *

The kids on the bus made fun of me for bringing my mandolin. They called me “Flatt and Scruggs” and it killed me because I hated the attention. I didn't have a case for it; I just kept it strung over my shoulder and hidden under my coat. When I sat down next to Heather the next morning, she spotted it. There was not another kid on the bus I would have handed it to, but when she held out those slim, milky-white hands, I unstrapped it and gave it up. She plucked and strummed and smiled. Something happened to my heart.

One of the kids behind her grabbed it and held it over his head, hooting with glee. It was Earl Caldwell, a hulk of a boy with a penchant for crude remarks to young ladies and violence toward any male smaller than him. He would draw his middle finger behind his thumb as he walked down a classroom aisle or on the bus and flick his knuckle at the skulls of unsuspecting victims. The echoes of bone on bone still haunt me.

“Looks like old Scruggs here won't be making any music,” he howled.

The bus driver glanced in the mirror and then looked back at the road. Mr. Scarberry was not a disciplinarian to those who were taller than he was, and he was of the same stature as Mr. Gibson. I looked back and saw the equivalent of a vital body part being tossed about by a gorilla. One kid suggested that Earl toss the instrument out the window, and for a minute I thought he was going to.

“Hey!” someone shouted. “Give it back. Now!”

It was Heather. She stood, the curlers still in her hair. She was David against the Philistine, the little engine against the big mountain.

She held out her smooth hand, her jaw set, just real determination. “I said give it back.”

Earl pursed his lips as he handed the instrument to her. “Ought to be ashamed, having a girl pick your fights, Allman.”

“Shut up, Earl,” Heather said.

She took the mandolin and handed it back to me, then as calmly as ever began unrolling the rest of her curlers. I could feel Earl's breath. Smell it too. But I didn't turn around.

“I have to stay after school today for practice,” she whispered. “My mom can give you a ride if you want.”

“Cheerleading?”

“Season's over,” she said. “The school play. I got a little part. You shouldn't carry that on here again with these cretins.”

I rode home with them that afternoon. Her mother didn't recognize me at first, but when Heather said, “Billy needs a ride,” a wave of pity came over her and then she smiled.

“You two have a good day?” Mrs. Blanch said.