Unlocked (27 page)

“You’re late.” She looked up, weary. Always weary. “I thought practice was over at eight.”

“We had to stay longer.” He still had his flute case tucked under his arm. His mom didn’t like him leaving it out. She didn’t like it, period. “The Christmas concert’s next week. Remember?”

“Oh.” She stared at the stack of mail and thumbed through the top few envelopes in the pile. With shaky hands she took a sip of wine. “I forgot.” She didn’t quite look up again, but her eyes found his anyway. “You thought about what I said earlier?”

“About the drums?” Michael shifted. His tennis shoes had a hole at the bottom, and he was pretty sure he had a blister.

“Yes.” She adjusted her tone, less frustrated, more patient. “Your father played the drums. He’d be proud to see his boy on the drums.”

“He’s got a new family.” Michael walked a few steps into the adjoining kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. He hated when his mom brought up the drums or his father. Hated it. “Besides…,” He chugged back half a glass. “I don’t like the drums.

I like the flute.”

“But maybe just once you could—” She stopped and hesitated
for a long moment. Then she exhaled and turned back to the mail. “Never mind. The flute’s nice. Play the flute, Michael.”

“I will.” He finished the water and set the glass down. For a long time he studied his mother. She’d been pretty once, back when his dad lived with them. When they were a family. Three years ago he came clean about an affair, and the fact that he had two babies in another part of town. Now he lived there and only called every week or so.

Michael remembered being in kindergarten and finding his father’s drum set in the spare room. His dad had helped him onto the short stool and placed the sticks in his hand. “One day you’ll play the drums, just like me.” He could still see the smile in his father’s eyes, still hear the hope in his voice.

When his father left, he didn’t take much. But he took what mattered. The drums and his mom’s pretty. All the pretty she had left, anyway. Michael felt sorry for her, tied down to the bills and this way of life. She didn’t need any of it. If it wasn’t for him she could start over again. New marriage, new family. Same as Michael’s dad.

He walked over, put his hand on her shoulder, and kissed her cheek. “Need help?”

She seemed slightly startled by his question. Her tired face lifted to his. “I’ll be fine.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. She still had her hospital uniform on. She was a nurse’s assistant —changing bedpans and running errands for patients. “I’m working a double tomorrow. Don’t wait up for me.”

“Okay.” He lingered, the way he almost never did. “You work too hard.”

“It’s life.” Again her smile was weak. She squinted at him a little. “You okay? You’re acting funny.”

“I’m good.” He flashed a smile, one that felt as foreign as it probably looked. “Hey.” He gave her shoulder a tender squeeze. “Love you, Mom.”

“Love you too.” She was already turned back to the mail, back to the bills. It was probably borderline rocket science trying to pay for life on her salary. Especially lately. His dad had been laid off, so no money was coming in from him.

Michael headed down the hall, keenly aware of the stained threadbare carpeting and the shabby walls. They’d lived here since the divorce, and the landlord hadn’t made a single upgrade. He entered his room and shut the door behind him. Maybe he’d jump rope. He did that sometimes. When he hurt so bad he couldn’t stand another minute. When he was so angry he wanted to break a window or punch his fist through the wall. He would jump rope for half an hour sometimes. Until the pain subsided enough so he could breathe.

The jump rope hung across the dresser, waiting for him. His respite.

Or maybe he’d play the flute. The case was cold from the ride home, and as he set it on the end of his bed he opened the case.

For a long minute he stared at the instrument. “Play the drums …” He let his mother’s words wash over him again. Like that would ever happen. He lifted the flute from its case and brought the cold metal to his lips. His favorite song from the upcoming Christmas concert was “O Holy Night.” He reached into the case and pulled out the folded sheet music.

He opened it and studied the notes, soaked in the meaning of the words. Because he’d never felt that in all his life. A holy night. He blew just hard enough for quiet sounds to fill the room. No matter how quietly he played, his mom was bound to hear him. Maybe she would like the sound and come sit with him. Come listen to him play the flute. She hadn’t heard him play in almost a year, not since the last Christmas concert. He practiced at school and when she was at work.

Because he didn’t want her sitting in the other room wishing he was playing the drums.

The words sang softly to him as he played …
O Holy Night … the stars are brightly shining … It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth.
The music filled him and eased the pain. The pain that was like a towering grizzly bear, grabbing at him, clawing him. Devouring him.
Long lay the world… in sin and error pining …

Was there really a Savior? Really a baby born to save the world? If so, his mom and dad had never talked about Him. They never took the family to church or gave Michael a reason to believe in God. But the song gave him hope.
O Holy Night
… like maybe it really happened, somewhere back in time. The stars brightly shining.

Michael lowered the flute to his lap. Only gay guys played the flute? Was that really what everyone thought? He was some gay emo guy who played the flute? Like a girl or something? He laid the flute on the bed and stared out the window. It faced northwest, Michael made a point of knowing that. Northwest, the same direction three miles away where his father lived with his new family.

I’ll never play the drums, Dad …
He stood and moved to the window, mesmerized by the darkness, by the vastness of it. Why was he here, anyway? His dad didn’t want him. The trade-in was over and done with. New wife, new kids. And his mother? She worked all those hours because of him, right? If she didn’t have a kid to feed and clothe, maybe she’d have time to go on a date.

He thought about Monday morning, and the pain slashed at him like so many times before. How many people had heard Jake Collins shout at him tonight? Calling him gay and queer and telling the whole world that he played the flute. How many kids would sneer at him Monday morning, whispering about the gay kid who played the flute like a girl?

He used to feel sorry for kids like Holden Harris. Jake’s crowd never let up on Holden —especially since Ella had become his
friend. But here was the thing … Holden didn’t know the difference. In his private world, the pain couldn’t touch him.

But what about Michael Schwartz? Skinny, cheaply dressed Michael Schwartz? Where was his private world? The place where pain couldn’t touch him? He looked around his room again… the single bed, the worn-out cork bulletin board with a math paper from last year still tacked onto one corner. Tickets to a Georgia Tech baseball game he and his mom had gone to a couple years back. An invitation to a 5K race from a year ago. Back when jumping rope seemed like it could lead to a passion for running. The empty black night on the other side of the window… the flute lying on his bed …

Where was his relief? He closed his eyes and he could see them still, hear them shouting above the roar. “You’re gay, right? Just come out and say it, already. Guys who play the flute are gay … Guys who play the flute are gay.”

How was he going to tell everyone at Fulton that Jake Collins was wrong? That the flute calmed the bear—if only for a little while?

Relief … he needed relief. He didn’t want to play the drums. He wasn’t that little boy sitting next to his dad, dreaming for the first time about sharing something like drums with his daddy. No more. He loved the flute, and he wasn’t gay. No matter what Jake said. Michael closed his eyes tight. The pain was gaining on him, and if he didn’t find a way out he would be ripped apart, piece by piece. Any minute that would happen. Then … like a single safe place in the darkest of forests … Michael opened his eyes and saw it. The only other thing in his bedroom besides the furniture.

His jump rope.

From there his eyes darted across the room to the chin-up bar that hung on the backside of his bedroom door. He didn’t do pull-ups often, but it held his weight. Michael already knew that. The possibility ran like wildfire, like the craziest intoxicating
drug—through his heart and mind and maybe even straight through his soul. Who would miss him? The kids at school wouldn’t notice he was gone. His dad could stop feeling guilty —if he ever felt guilty —about not sending money. He had a new family, and kids who would probably grow up to play the drums.

And his mom could quit working doubles.

It was a way out, for sure. The only one Michael could see. He had to move quickly before he changed his mind. He stood and grabbed the rope, looped it around his neck in a hurry. The fibers scratched against the skin around his throat and he coughed a few times. It would be over before he could get scared and stop himself. Here was his relief, a way to stop the onslaught of pain. This way pain wouldn’t have the last say for Michael Schwartz. He wouldn’t have to defend himself to anyone Monday morning.

Boy Scouts had been another bust for him—without a dad it wasn’t a lot of fun. But he’d been in long enough to learn about knots. It didn’t take long. Less than a minute. He did a pull-up and adjusted the rope, fixed the knot so it wouldn’t slide. All he had to do was let go, and that would be that. No more Jake Collins, no more dad living three miles out the northwest-facing window. No more kids thinking he was gay because he loved the flute.

The flute.

For a minute he’d forgotten about the flute. That was a way out, too, right. What had his teacher told him that evening? He was one of the best flutists she’d ever heard.
“You could play in a symphony one day, Michael. You have a very bright future ahead…”

Bright future … bright future … bright future …

Maybe he didn’t want to do this. He tried to lengthen the rope, slip it back from the knot so he could find his way to the floor. His arms were shaking… he couldn’t hold this position much longer. Panic coursed through him. Just because of his dad and the drums … because of Jake Collins? He was taking this way
out because of them? He stared at the flute and tried to keep his grip, tried to pull the rope free.

But as he tried, his hands slipped and he fell, the rope jerking tight around his neck. He couldn’t breathe, could barely even cough. “Mom.” He squeaked out the word, but it was only a whisper. “Help me … help!”

Fear gripped at him, tighter than the rope digging through his skin, cutting off air and life and circulation. Fear bigger than the bear from earlier. “Help …”

His neck was on fire, his lungs even worse. But as the seconds passed, as the air drained from his lungs, the pain let up. Black spots dancing before his eyes. The last thing he saw—the very last thing—was his flute. The flute he should’ve spent a lifetime playing … for audiences all over the world.

His flute.

One day his father would’ve come to see him play and he would’ve said, “Good job, Michael. Very good job.” And every Jake Collins of the world would be sweeping floors while every Michael Schwartz was making music for symphonies, and life would win. Because he wanted to live! Living would always be better than this … than … than —

Suddenly the message of the Christmas song filled his heart and he knew, he absolutely knew. There was a Savior! He had come to earth that holy night, and He had lived then. He lived still.
Please, God … save me … I’m sorry. I don’t want to die … please, God … I need a Savior!

He lurched again at the rope, but it was too tight, the knot too sure. He couldn’t breathe, and he grabbed at the fibers binding to his neck.
Set me free, God … please. I believe in You!

There was no answer, nothing but a strange, sad sort of peace that swept over the pain and stilled the roar. No more names and strange looks … no more wishes from his mother that maybe —just maybe—he would play the drums. No more longing through
a northwest-facing window … All of it … all of it was over now. One final time the Christmas song filled his heart and he was carried away on the words …

Truly He taught us to love one another … His law is love, and His gospel is peace … Chains shall He break, for the slave is our brother … and in His name, all oppression shall cease …

All oppression … all oppression … all oppression.

Ceased.

For all time ceased.

A
N HOUR AFTER THE PAPER HIT THE SIDEWALK
S
ATURDAY MORN
ing, the news spread through the tree-lined neighborhoods and cheerful North Atlanta suburbs surrounding Fulton High. They’d lost one of their own. Michael Schwartz was dead. Victim of a hanging.

An apparent suicide.

Manny Hawkins set down his morning paper and turned dry eyes out the window at the sunny day outside. Shouldn’t it be raining, he thought? Wouldn’t that be apropos on a day like this? He stared at the headline … let it seep into his heart and mind.

“Fulton High Junior Hangs Himself.”

The air inside Manny’s two-bedroom condo was stuffy. Too stuffy. He stood and took long strides toward the patio door. Once it was open, he breathed deep. Two breaths, three. Until the nausea began to subside. He’d had Michael in his class the last two years. English Comp I and II. The kid seemed normal enough. Quiet, a little dark in the wardrobe department, but nothing too out there. Nothing gothic or deathlike. No signs that this past Friday night he’d ride his bike home from band practice and hang himself in his bedroom.

Manny pushed himself back to his kitchen table and sat down again. The breeze through the open door was good, a reminder of life. The life that still reigned all around him. He scanned the article, catching quotes from the boy’s mother and father. The two were separated—nothing too unusual. His father commented
through a family friend stating only that the family “appreciated the prayers and support from the community.”