Faithfulness

The McCallum family sat around the dinner table and exchanged small talk. Timothy, six years old, slid a rather large piece of roast beef off of his plate and into the mouth of the family dog, Biscuit.

“Timothy, I saw that,” his father said. “Don’t give people food to the dog. He has his own food.”

“Yes sir,” Timothy answered. “But it’s meat and he really likes it. Plus he said he was hungry.”

“He said he was hungry? What does that mean?” his father asked.

“Um, I… well he… he just said he was hungry, that’s all,” Timothy answered.

“Just leave him be, George,” his mother said. “It was just one little piece. It’s not a big deal.”

“Can I be excused now?” Timothy asked. “I’d like to go to my room to read.”

“You don’t have to go to your room,” his father said. “You’re not in trouble.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” the boy said. “I just like to be in the quiet and read. May I?”

“Yes, that’s fine,” his mother said. “Just make sure you’re ready for bed by eight.”

Sliding a piece of bread into his pocket, Timothy left the dining room and went upstairs to his room. Closing the door behind him, he opened his window and set small chunks of bread on the sill. Stepping back and sitting on the floor, he set a few more pieces in front of him. Within moments, a single pigeon and then a second and a third lighted on the sill and ate the bread.

“There you go, guys,” he said. “Here, come in, I’ve got more for you.”

The birds stood motionless for a moment, looked at the boy and then fluttered to the floor in front of him. Quickly eating the bread, they hopped toward him and stood motionless, just within reach. Timothy reached out and gently touched one on the back, stroking it’s feathers. 

“See, we’re friends,” he said. “I’m not like the other kids. I see them throw rocks at you. I would never do that. You’re my friends. I’ll call you Peter, James and John.” Picking up the chunk of bread, he broke off a few more pieces and held them out in the palm of his open hand. The birds hopped over and picked at the bread. He reached out with his other hand and gently patted them again. The birds walked in a small circle and then flew out the open window. Standing up, he watched them fly away.

Crawling up on his bed, he took the small booklet from his nightstand and began slowly reading the words. It was as he opened his eyes that he realized his mother was tucking him in. The clock on his nightstand read 8:10.

“Hey little man,” she said. “You left your window open. What were you doing?”

“I was talking to my friends,” he said, still half asleep. “I’m sorry I’m late for bed.”

“No, you’re okay,” she answered. “You were asleep anyway. I’ll see you in the morning.”

It was his thirteenth birthday and Timothy stepped out the front door for school. 

“Remember to come right home after school, Timothy,” his mother called out. “Grandpa and Grandma are coming over for dinner.”

“Yes, mom, I’ll be here,” he answered.

Walking the seven blocks to school, he climbed the front steps and started down the hallway toward his locker. He was a few minutes early and the hallway was nearly empty. But he did see three larger teens surrounding a smaller boy, backed up against the lockers.

“Give me your lunch, you little twerp,” the largest boy said, obviously the leader.

“But I’ll get hungry, Brant,” the little boy said. “Please don’t take my lunch.”

“Waa, waa, waa,” the large boy said. “Go cry to you momma if you’re hungry. Now hand it over.”

“Hey Brant,” Timothy called out. “I’m glad I found you.”

Turning, the three larger boys approached Timothy. “Whattaya want punk?” he answered.

“I’ve got that five dollars I owe you,” he said.

“What? You don’t owe...me… Oh yeah, give it here. Hand it over.”

Reaching into his pocket, he slowly fished around. Glancing up, he made eye contact with the smaller boy, who smiled at him and then ran the other direction. “Oh, yeah, here it is,” Timothy said. “I knew I had it with me.”

Handing the brand new five dollar bill over to the boy, the birthday gift from his father, Timothy made direct eye contact with Brant and smiled. “I’m glad I was able to get that back to you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” the boy said. “Now get lost.”

Later that day, during lunch, Timothy sat down next to the small boy. “I’m glad to see you’ve still got your lunch, Will,” he said.

“Yeah, thanks to you,” the boy answered. “Why did you do that? Did you really owe him money?”

“Naw, I didn’t. But it’s only money. I needed to help you out. Maybe you can help someone else out another time.”

Timothy stood on the sidelines of the football game. Though not an athlete himself, he loved to watch the others play. The 48 ounce soda suddenly hit him and he made a quick exit to the restroom. Just about to swing the door open, he heard a female voice around the corner.

“Stop it, Brant, I mean it. Don’t touch me,” the girl said, clearly frightened.

Leaving the door, Timothy walked around the corner to see Brant standing over a younger girl backed up to the wall, one of his arms on one side of her head, and the other pulling up her skirt.

“Hey Brant, there you are,” Timothy called out.

“What do you want, punk,” the boy answered. “Can’t you see I’m busy.” Turning his attention back to the terrified girl, he continued to grope her.

Timothy drew back and kicked the boy in the side of the knee. Crying out in pain, Brant dropped to his knees and fell to the ground. “Kid, you are dead meat,” he said. Struggling to his feet, he turned and grabbed him by his shirt. The girl looked at them both and then ran off in the other direction.

Receiving a fist to his stomach in a very rapid manner, Timothy doubled over and gasped for breath. Brant then swung an upper cut and laid the boy out on the grass. Stepping on his hand as he limped away, he swore under his breath and returned to the grandstands.

With a groan, Timothy pulled himself to his hands and knees, wiping the blood from his nose, he hobbled into the bathroom and cleaned himself up the best he could. Taking a few deep breaths, he left the bathroom and began walking toward the parking lot. Seeing a swift movement toward him from his peripheral vision, he feared the worse. But it was only the girl from earlier.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said. “Are you alright? Thank you for doing that. I don’t even know you. Do you go to our school?”

“Yeah, no problem,” Timothy answered. “No one should have to put up with guys like that. Just be more careful next time.” Slowly walking off, he returned to his car and drove home.

“Hey, Tim, you’re still here,” the face said as it peeked over the cubicle wall.

“Uh, yeah, I work here, remember. And it’s lunch time,” he answered.

“Yeah, but it’s Tuesday,” the face said. “You always leave during lunch on Tuesdays.”

“Ah shoot, yeah you’re right. Thanks for the reminder,” he answered. Grabbing his keys, Tim hurried out of the building and across the street. Doing a mixture of a walk and a run, he hurried into the small grocery store and caught sight of Mrs. Meyers in line. Walking up to the bagging end of the grocery line, he waited for her groceries to reach him. 

“Hello, Timothy,” the elderly woman called out to him, smiling and gently squeezing his arm. “I was starting to think that you forgot about me.”

“Oh no, Mrs. Meyers. I could never forget about you,” he answered.

“I sure do appreciate you helping me like this every week with my groceries,” she said. “I don’t know if I could do it without you.”

Placing the last items into the bag, Tim picked up the two sacks and walked with the old woman out of the store and across the street to her apartment. Though her room was only on the second floor, they took the elevator. Opening the door, she let him in and he placed the groceries on the counter. “Well, you have a good day, Mrs. Meyers,” Tim said. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Are you sure you can’t stay for a few minutes and talk?” she asked.

“I’m sorry ma’am, I really need to get back to work but thanks anyway. Goodbye.” Hurrying down the stairs and out of the building, he jogged up the sidewalk and returned to work.

That evening, as Tim had just finished his workout, an abrupt and powerful knock erupted on his front door. “Sheesh, yeah, just a minute,” he called out, reaching for the knob. But before he could unlock it, the door burst open and two police officers tackled him and cuffed his hands behind his back.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the officer began. Listening to his rights being read, he was roughly led out of his apartment building to a dozen nosy neighbors peeking through their blinds. Shoved into the back of the police car, he cleared his throat and asked for an explanation.

“You are under arrest for the murder of Mrs. Rosalyn Meyers,” the officer said.

“What?! Mrs. Meyers is dead?” he answered. “But… no… I didn’t… no… that can’t be.”

The trial ended and Timothy was found guilty for the murder of the old woman. 

“Mom, Dad, this is all wrong. I didn’t do it,” he said, his head swirling at how this could have happened. 

“We know, son, we know,” they answered. “but all the evidence makes it look like you did. We know you’re innocent. We’ll do our best to get this straightened out. Don’t worry.”

Timothy sat on death row for the third week in a row until the notification came. “Sorry, Tim,” the guard said. “The governor refuses to grant you a pardon. I don’t understand it myself but the official date has been set. You’ve only got two more days. I’m sorry.”

Slowly walking down the hallway, his steps were small as the ankle chains restrained his movement. Laying down on the hospital bed in the cold and nearly empty room, the leather restraints were placed on each limb and finally across his forehead. At the very edge of his peripheral vision, Tim could see a small number of people behind a small window. The slow ticking of an analog clock was the only sound. The guard squeezed his shoulder as he left and again apologized to the young man.

The ticking of the clock continued and finally a nurse entered the room and filled the syringe that lay on the small table next to him. Tim began talking with the older man. He asked about his day, his family, and what his plans were for the rest of the evening. He told the nurse of his job at the health department and how he loved to go fishing with his grandfather.

The nurse suddenly stopped his methodical sequence and leaned on the edge of the bed. Tim could see him remove his glasses and wipe his eyes. The man let out a restrained groan and placed the syringe back on the table. Putting his glasses back on, the man left the room. And the clock continued to tick, a slight echo in the empty room. Tim lay in silence for several minutes before another nurse came in, this time a younger woman.

Tim began chatting with her as well. Asking if she was married, if she had any children, and where she went to school. He complimented her on her long red hair, making a reference to being ten percent Irish but not being so lucky to get any red hair. He told her about how wonderful Mrs. Meyers was and how they had been friends for many years.

The young girl let out a muffled sob and ran out of the room. The clock continued to tick. Tim took a deep breath and began to wonder exactly what was going on. He waited for nearly ten minutes until a middle aged man entered the room, grabbed the syringe and quickly injected Tim with the concoction that would stop his higher brain activity, his heart, and the rest of his organs. 

Timothy took a big, deep breath and breathed no more. Another nurse entered the room and felt for Timothy’s pulse. “Record the time as 6:20 pm,” he said. “Wait a minute. Why do I smell flowers? Is that flowers? It’s… what is that?” he asked.

Several people entered the room and marveled at the undeniable and powerful smell of flowers. Pulling the sheet over Timothy’s now lifeless body, the gurney was rolled out of the room and into the morgue. 

“Uh, sir, you need to come see this,” the young nurse said. Leading the head physician into the morgue, he pulled the sheet back from Timothy’s corpse. 

“So, what’s the problem here,” the doctor asked.

“Well, sir, he has been here for three days and his body is still warm and supple,” the nurse answered.

“Nonsense,” the doctor ordered. “You must have this body confused with someone else. That is impossible.”

“No, sir, I don’t,” he answered. “I’ve double checked everything  and even had a blood test run. This is who the paperwork says it is. Timothy Johnson died three days ago by lethal injection but… well, you can see. Something is going on and no one can figure it out.”

The head physician sat at his desk, looking out the window as the small group of priests carried the plain, black coffin out of the building and placed it in the back of the truck they had arrived in.