She made no complaints, however, as she followed Rosa, maneuvering between the crowded tables. As they made their way toward the stage, Sheila glanced around to orient herself to the place. To their left was a long bar, high tables and stools arranged opposite it, and behind them, the restrooms. In front of the stage was a small area cleared for dancing. It was too dark to make out many details of the place, but it looked clean. The few other couples and small groups that had arrived early to find seats near the band were in quiet, friendly conversation—as quiet as they could be, anyway, given the volume of the music flooding the place.
Sheila felt herself relax. This wasn’t the raucous, dirty scene she’d envisioned, and decided that she might actually enjoy the evening—if she could ignore the smoke.
“How about right here?” Rosa gestured to an empty table about ten feet from the dance floor. “It’s not so close that our ears will be blown off, but we’ll have a good view.”
“Sure.” Sheila smiled. Lord, why am I really here? Getting ready for the evening, she’d considered that God might want her to witness to Rosa in a place where she felt at home. On the other hand, He might just want her to show Rosa His unconditional love.
A slim Hispanic woman wearing a mini skirt and an apron lettered with the club’s name walked up to them. “Buenas tardes. Qué quieren tomar?”
Rosa asked for a beer; Sheila, a bottle of water. They sat in constrained silence while waiting for their drinks to come. Sheila noticed that Rosa kept glancing toward the door, and wondered if she was expecting someone.
“So, what do you think of it so far?” Rosa asked after the waitress gave them their drinks.
“It’s not. . .exactly what I expected.” Sheila uncapped her bottle. “You know, vomit under the tables and drunken brawls and all that. Unless that comes later.”
Rosa laughed. “Once in a while, but not often.” She sipped her beer and gave Sheila a leery glance. “You ain’t been in too many of these, huh?”
“Try none.” Sheila chuckled at Rosa’s wide-eyed surprise. “There are a few people in the world who’ve never been in a club before.”
Rosa raised her glass with a grin. “And now, you’re no longer one of them.”
Sheila couldn’t argue with that. She raised her bottle and, tapping it against Rosa’s glass, felt the awkwardness between them melt away. If it weren’t for the fact that she was going to have to wash the smoke out of her hair when she got home, she might hang out at a place like this more often.
Wanting to become better acquainted with her companion, she searched for a question that wouldn’t be too personal. “You speak much better English than your brother,” she ventured, pushing in her chair to let a couple pass. “How did—”
“I’m sorry.” Rosa suddenly stood. “I’ve really got to visit the ladies’ room. Would you excuse me?”
She had disappeared into the growing crowd before Sheila had a chance to answer. Sheila sat back, puzzling at Rosa’s rude departure.
She didn’t puzzle long. Not half a minute later Miguel Manriquez stood in front of the table.
They set me up, Sheila realized. The situation could have angered her, but the fact that it was happening to her and that she hadn’t seen it coming for some reason amused her. So when Miguel asked her if he could join her, she nodded with a smile.
* * *
Tonight would be the third Friday night that Hank had gone street witnessing with a small group from his church. They spent a half hour in prayer, then camped out for two or three hours in a bar or club parking lot to share the gospel with as many people as they could.
When they drove into the Latino club they had chosen to visit that night, the lot was nearly full.
“Looks like this field is ripe unto harvest,” one of the younger men, Juan, commented. He and Hank, along with two other men and a woman, slid out of the car to study their surroundings.
“Karen, look.” A middle-aged man named Jack spoke to his wife while gesturing toward a young couple emerging from their car. Without another word, the two joined hands and casually walked in their direction.
Hank stretched his arms as he lifted up a silent prayer on their behalf. Then he looked around for someone he might talk to.
* * *
Fifteen minutes had passed and Rosa had not returned. Sheila had no doubt that the brother and sister had conspired together, and that she probably would not see Rosa for the rest of the evening. Miguel had acted surprised, of course, to see Sheila sitting there, but as tempted as she was to let him know that she had figured out their little game, she decided to go ahead and play, more out of curiosity than anything else.
Miguel was clearly nervous. His glance flitted from her face to the band to his glass of club soda, and his knee had not stopped bouncing since he sat down. Switching back and forth between broken English and his rapid Mexican Spanish, his conversation was shallow and stilted. Sheila wished he would just come out with why he’d been so desperate to talk to her that he used his sister as bait.
Finally, he cleared his throat and looked her directly in the eyes for the first time that evening. “I am interested in getting to know you more, Miss Carson. I know it sounds crazy, but I think the two of us together. . .well, I think it would work.”
Sheila sat back, flabbergasted. Her heart raced. A couple of months ago, his suggestion would have revolted her. But as she returned his gaze, she felt flattered, even an attraction toward him. He was drinking a soda instead of alcohol. He seemed sincere in his desire to change. Maybe she should consider his suggestion, if only to befriend him.
Or maybe I’m on the rebound. No, something wasn’t quite right about the whole thing. She could feel it in her spirit, although she couldn’t put her finger on it.
“Mr. Manriquez”—she made a point of using the formality— “I appreciate your interest in me, but I. . .” But what? She was his daughter’s teacher? She was not Hispanic? What excuse could she give that would hold water? She faltered, embarrassed that anything she might say would make her sound shallow and selfish.
She didn’t need to finish. A movement at her side caught her attention, and when she looked up to see who it was, she started.
* * *
Go inside.
The directive was clear, but Hank did not obey right away. The witnessing team had gotten into trouble before for going into bars and sharing their faith, so they had established a ground rule that all spiritual conversation was to be done outside. Hank saw a pick-up pull into the parking lot, and headed toward it.
Go inside. The inner voice was stronger, making Hank pause mid-step. He glanced around at his friends scattered around the parking lot. Shouldn’t he ask permission first, or at least let someone know where he was going?
GO.
Hank went.
He stifled a cough as the smoky air assaulted his lungs upon opening the door. He paid the five dollar admission, and made his way toward the throng standing around the bar and seated at the tables. The sheer volume of the music swallowed him, and he wondered how anybody could have a decent conversation above the din.
Then again, he thought wryly, most of the people there had not come to have conversation.
So why am I here? He glanced around, trying to see through the dimness. He was supposed to talk to someone in here, but he had no idea who, or how he was going to pick one person out of the mob that was packed like sardines. As he began to walk toward the stage, he received numerous surprised, suspicious, and even hostile stares. Of course. He had to be the tallest guy in the place, and although he wasn’t the only Caucasian, he probably had blonder hair than had ever been seen in the neighborhood.
He shook away the discomfort, and continued peering around. His eyes settled on a table near the dance floor, and he froze in place. Is that—no, she wouldn’t be in a place like this. Hank inched forward, then mumbled his apologies in Spanish as he bumped into a middle-aged Mexican man, who glared at him in return.
Hank took another hard look at the woman who looked strikingly like Sheila. And saw that she was.
His first impulse was to run. Surely that had to be coincidence. Surely God hadn’t sent him there to talk to her. But like a roped calf, he felt pulled against his will in her direction. After taking a few more steps, he saw who was sitting with her.
Diana’s father?
Irrational anger and jealousy rose up within him. Sheila did not have a date with Miguel Manriquez. He wasn’t even saved, for crying out loud. And she wasn’t the kind of person who would touch Miguel’s kind with a ten-foot pole, if at all possible.
Was she? Maybe he had not known her as well as he thought he had. In that case, he was only too happy that they had gone their separate ways.
So why did he feel like punching Miguel’s lights out?
Jesus, help me. Whatever he was doing there, it wasn’t to cause trouble or to add negativity to an already godless atmosphere. By the time he had squeezed his way to her table, he had at least reigned in the emotions swirling around his mind. But he still had no idea what he was supposed to say.
When Sheila glanced up, his heart began to pound in his chest. For a long moment her eyes met his with alternating flashes of shock, anger, and sadness.
It was Miguel who finally broke the spell. “Señor Johnson.” His tone held a hint of warning.
Hank forced a smile. “Señor Manriquez.” He continued in Spanish, “Good to see you again.”
He silently asked forgiveness for lying.
Miguel looked at him with hard eyes. “What do you want?”
For you to stay away from Sheila. For Sheila to stop having these missionary dreams so we can—
What was he thinking? It was over between them; besides, he had his sights set on Barbara. God had brought her back into his life for a purpose, and he believed he knew what that purpose was.
That settled in his mind, he saw with clarity why the Lord had led him to that place, to that table. Sharing the gospel with tough, down-and-out people was one of Hank’s strengths, and he realized that as much as he despised seeing Miguel sitting in a club with Sheila, he was there to minister to the Mexican.
“I want,” Hank finally replied, “for you to know Jesus like I know Jesus.”
Miguel narrowed his eyes at him. “I don’t want anything to do with your Jesus,” he growled.
Hank prayed for the best approach to get through to this man. The direct, blunt approach was often the most effective for hardened men, so he decided to go with it. “Maybe not,” he said, “but one day you will stand before Him, whether you like it or not.”
“Man, do you hear what I’m saying?” Miguel raised his voice and pounded the table with a fist. “I don’t need God or Jesus, and you better not say another word about it.”
Glancing at Sheila, Hank saw that she had paled as she watched the exchange with wide eyes. He considered leaving, just to save her from whatever reaction Miguel would have if Hank continued to press the issue. On the other hand, he knew that she wanted Miguel to come to the faith as much as he did. Maybe more, he thought with chagrin.
Hank persisted. “If you’re blaming God for all your problems, you’re wrong. There is a devil, and he’s the one working in your life to—”
Miguel’s fist smashed his right eye before Hank realized he had even gotten out of his chair. Hank stumbled backward, falling into the table behind him. Reeling from the pain, he barely noticed the glasses crashing to the floor and the screams of the table’s occupants. Somehow, he managed to regain his balance and straighten up.
Miguel had sat back down, and glared at him with fiery eyes. “I know you’re not going to hit me back. You’re just another one of those cowardly turn-the-other-cheek Christians. But I’m not, and if you say one more word—”
“Gentlemen, I think it’s time for both of you to leave.” A man almost matching Hank’s height but with a much more burly build approached as a busboy rushed to clean up the mess behind them.
Hank was only too happy to do so. He’d never felt so humiliated in his life. He pushed his way through the mob and back out into the parking lot, wishing he’d brought his own car so he could sneak away and not let the others from his church see his condition. But he hadn’t, so he went over to Jack’s car to wait.
Karen walked up a few minutes later, and immediately began exclaiming over his eye. Jack followed with a stern reprimand about sticking to the rules, refusing to listen to Hank’s attempt at explaining that God had told him to go in. By the time he got home that night, he was totally depressed. In one fell swoop, he’d been publicly humiliated, scolded by a spiritual leader, and had most certainly been demoted in the eyes of a woman he’d come to care about deeply.
The worst part of the whole evening was, he had failed. God had sent him to bring somebody closer to Him, and Hank had failed.
Lord, he prayed as he drifted off to sleep, I’m sorry, but I’m through. Let me just be a teacher.
CHAPTER 19
Two weeks later, Sheila was headed toward the principal’s office, full of trepidation, wondering if Diana’s father had gone off the deep end again and tried to get her into trouble. She didn’t know why he would. The night he had socked Hank in the eye he had been extremely apologetic as the bouncer led him out of the club, and the next Monday Diana had shown up with a small bouquet of roses with a card offering additional expressions of regret. She’d thanked Diana, and told her to tell her father that it was okay, and hadn’t heard from or seen him since.
She broke away from her thoughts long enough to give a professional smile to a mother just leaving the office with her two children, then let the cheerful expression fade. Maybe Mr. Medina didn’t like something he’d seen when he’d visited her classroom last week. Or some parent had complained about so-and-so hitting their child on the playground.
She had almost reached the office door when Hank appeared beside her. He must have been just behind her, since she would have noticed him coming down the opposite way.
“Oh, hi.” It was the most she had said to him in the past two weeks. She wished she could work up the nerve to tell him that she thought that what he’d done that night in the club was courageous. He had risked a blow for Jesus, and, like Jesus, had not returned it. In her mind, that made him one of the strongest Christian men she’d ever met.
But whenever she considered going to his classroom to tell him, her own courage failed her. She was afraid he might think she was trying to reestablish their relationship and cause an argument, or that the mere act of complimenting him might deepen the pain she still felt about their breakup.
Now, as her hand inadvertently brushed against his leg when he gestured for her to enter first, she felt heat rise up into her cheeks. Whatever Medina had to say would be a piece of cake compared to this brief encounter.
She avoided Hank’s eyes as she told the office manager, “Mr. Medina called me in.”
“Really?” Hank sounded surprised. “Me, too.”
Sheila turned to him and raised an eyebrow. Medina didn’t mean to talk to both of them at once, did he? No, that made no sense. He must have had separate issues with each of them, and was going to conference with them one at a time.
But it was 3:20, and the kids were long gone. Why didn’t he call one after he finished conferencing with the other? That way, nobody’s time would be wasted.
“He’s talking with a parent right now,” the office manager said. “He should be almost through.”
Four cushioned chairs lined the wall opposite the office counter. Sheila sat on the first, Hank on the last. Neither spoke for several long, uncomfortable minutes.
Finally, Medina’s door opened. An unsmiling man walked out, dragging a terror-stricken boy behind him. This child was no doubt in for a miserable evening.
“Okay,” the office manager said. “You can go in now.”
Sheila and Hank glanced at each other. “Which one?” they asked in unison.
Fee
ling her face flush again, Sheila looked away.
“He wants to see both of you. Together.”
* * *
Hank shook his head in unbelief as he pulled several microwavable meals out of the freezer. Not thirty minutes ago, he had agreed to work with Sheila on the May Day festival. He hadn’t had much choice. Neither one of them had.
“You’re the most creative one on our staff here,” Medina had told Hank, “and you,” he said, turning to Sheila, “have probably the best organizational skills of anybody I’ve ever worked with. The PTA will take care of the games, but I need someone to facilitate the entertainment.” He had glanced from one to the other, his stern look daring them to argue. “You are both elected.”
“Excuse me.”
Hank looked up to see that his cart was blocking the aisle. “Sorry,” he mumbled, pushing his cart to the side, then absentmindedly followed the woman for whom he had just moved.
As he and Sheila had walked out of the office, he wondered if his face looked as shocked as hers. “Well, it could be worse,” he said, grinning. “He could have asked us to switch grade levels.”
“That would have been easier,” Sheila retorted, and started to storm out of the office.
Hank had stopped her long enough to get her to agree to meet with him in his classroom the next day to have a brainstorming session, then she was off like a rocket. Hank felt a pang of guilt. Had he really hurt her so much that she was so unwilling to work with him as a professional?
He knew the answer, however reluctant he was to admit it. Lord, we’re going to need Your help, he prayed as he wheeled his cart toward a checkout line. Big time.
* * *
Trudging up the stairs toward Hank’s room, Sheila felt like spitting nails. If she hadn’t already been planning to resign at the end of the school year, she would have put in for a transfer. No way did she want to stay under a principal who expected you to ask, “How high?” when he told you to jump.
Hank appeared relaxed and calm as he leaned back in his desk chair, which only aggravated Sheila’s fury. She knew he didn’t like Medina’s bright idea any more than she did; the least he could do was frown or scowl or. . .something.