Free Read: Elijah’s Coin

ELIJAH’S COIN

PART ONE

So I chided the old man ’bout the truth that I had heard.

He just smiled and said— “Reality is only just a word.”

—HARRY CHAPIN, “COREY’S COMING”

 

 

 

CHAPTER 1

One hour from now I am going to change my life forever.

I am lying on my back with my fingers intertwined behind my head. I wait.

One hour from now I am going to be in charge of my life.

I glance to my left and my digital clock clicks from 12:59 to

1:00 A.M. I smile. One hour from now I am going to do something I’ve never done before.

I’m going to take what I want, when I want it. I’m going to enrich myself. I’m going to set myself on the path to instant riches. The future will be mine. I will be in control.

You see, one hour from now I will be a criminal.

I am not one of those down-on-my-luck, need-a-break career criminals. No, I am more of a freelancer or hobbyist criminal. I’m a college freshman at Tech in Blacksburg, Virginia, with no real need to commit crimes. It is very simple: I am doing this because I can. That’s the only reason I need.

On the way to my prospective crime scene, I am dressed all in black. It is kind of an “in” thing for us criminal types. Adrenaline is surging through me as I contemplate going through with this or not. When the time comes, will I do it? Will I chicken out? I’m sure all criminals go through this self-doubt just before their first big job.

I had “cased the joint” as they say. I had done my homework. Cashion’s Sporting Goods was going to be my first mark. It was about a mile and a half from my dorm, so about fifteen minutes by bike. No need to take my car as the bike will give me more options and be easier to hide. The drive-thru bank on the corner will be the perfect spot to stash my bike during the break-in. I had been in the store and viewed the exits. I had been outside during the day and at night. I knew how to get in and how to get out and, most importantly, there were no dogs, no watchmen, and no alarms.

I am on this mission alone. Come to think of it, everything I’ve done the last few years of my life has been alone. I’m not much of a joiner. For the most part, I’ve learned if you trust someone you’ll be disappointed. Anything I do, I do by myself. Anything I want, I get for myself. I’m my own rock. I can count on me; I can’t count on anyone else.

My dad called my cell phone earlier in the evening. I let the phone ring. He didn’t leave a message. He was finally getting the point.

Being away at college was the break I needed. Classes were mostly lame, filled with freshman overachievers. Many were so avid to make an impression on professors that it was embarrassing to watch. Some were actually pretty smart; others should avoid the expense and just move home to work in gas stations and beauty parlors. Homework was easy. Much of the assigned work was easier than high school. Humanities and writing? Boring. Accounting? Nearly indecipherable as the TA was Japanese or Chinese or some­thing like that. Calculus? A re-run of senior year.

The only course that held my attention at all was something called “The Theory of Knowledge.” It was taught by an aged elf of a man named Dr. Summerlin. He started teaching here about the time the Appalachian Mountains were forming. The class was more about logic, thought, and debate than the title let on. He would state a problem. Half the class would write a short article to defend the stated position; the other half would attack the position. His classes were less like lectures and more like Socratic discussions. He would never answer a question or give evidence that he sup­ported any particular opinion; he would only pose more questions.

Many of the “sheep freshmen” in my class were terrified. There was no textbook; there were only assigned readings, sometimes an op-ed piece in The New York Times, sometimes an article in the latest Rolling Stone. You couldn’t really take notes because it was a meandering conversation, not a lecture. One of the more coura­geous sheep asked how the class was going to be graded and whether there was a final exam or a term paper. Dr. Summerlin only smiled and said, “I will grade you on what you learn and how you apply yourself. This is ‘The Theory of Knowledge,’ not some mundane collection of facts that you can memorize and spew back on a test. This class is about learning to learn and understanding to under­stand.” About a quarter of the class bailed after that little announcement and dropped the class in favor of art appreciation or geography or some other “safe A.”

I really didn’t care what grade I got from him. I enjoyed the way he thought and the way he could move a discussion. He would listen to one student ardently defending a position and with a wave of his hand ask a question that so stumped and repudiated the ad­vocate that it left others breathless. It was never done in an intimidating or threatening fashion. The counter was quick, effi­cient, and intellectually deadly. It was like a jujitsu move on a street thug. It was over before the thug knew what had happened, and there was no reason to think it would go differently if repeated. He would also praise original thought. In an odd way I think he en­joyed being surprised by random ideas and probing and pondering the extension of the ideas. This wasn’t a class with a lesson plan or a series of tidy lectures. It was free-form intelligence flowing through the room. Were it not for Dr. Summerlin’s class, I could have skipped the whole semester and never left my dorm room.

Speaking of my dorm room, I’m more than happy to have it to myself. It took me about six weeks to get my assigned roommate to move out. He was a nice enough guy, but I chose not to talk to him. Ever. I think it kind of freaked him out. I ignored him totally. He tried to build a relationship with me, even invited other guys on the floor to our room to try to get me to open up, but I would have none of it. I had my world; he had his. They didn’t need to inter­sect. Eventually he couldn’t take it anymore. He went to the resident assistant and asked to be moved. The resident assistant asked me about our relationship, and I told him I thought there was some­thing wrong with the guy. The guy was obviously laboring under some form of latent “attachment issues.” Moving him might be a good thing. The next day my roommate was moved to another floor. I think his name was Brandon or Brent—something like that. Doesn’t matter. It works out much better this way. I don’t need people asking me questions about classes, and I certainly don’t need someone nosing into what I will bring home from my burglaries. No, alone is the way I want it.

It hadn’t always been like this. Only since two years ago—Sep­tember 28. My life had been a picture of normalcy. Junior year—on the varsity football team, not a starter, but, heck, I had a jersey with my name on it. Girlfriend—not the most attractive girl in school mind you, but she was smart, athletic, and well-liked. Classes were easy. College visits were on the horizon.

All that ended September 28. Coming home that crisp and clean fall evening, I coasted my bike up the driveway, slid to a stop, and headed toward the back door, like I’d done a thousand times be­fore.

The back door was open, which was odd. That became a mi­nor detail as I entered the kitchen. I knew something was wrong immediately. No sound. It was like entering a mausoleum. Then I knew instantly. We had been robbed. Everything disheveled in a random grope for valuables. It was hard to avoid the blood splatter in the hallway. I raced to the living room and found my mother curled into a ball on the floor. I guess the shape your body makes when it is resigned to death. A pool of blood surrounded her head. One arm was extended as if she were reaching out for something. Then I spotted it. Her arm was stretched out because the killer had stolen the wedding ring off her finger. I start to gag and raced to the kitchen, where the remains of my lunch hit the sink and counter.

A madman dialed 911 and screamed into the phone. Then I realized it was me. It took six minutes for the unit to respond. It seemed like seven years.

She wasn’t breathing. Her skin was cold and clammy. What should I have done? Hug her? Move her? Stay inside? I paced the floor. Where were they? It had been four seconds since I had hung up the phone.

I don’t remember crying. I’m sure I did. I know I did later. Doctors called it shock or traumatic stress disorder. I don’t care what it is; I just want to know when it ends.

The Washington Post called it a brutal killing. When you’re sev­enteen, and it involves the murder of your mother in your own home, is there another kind?

Blunt force trauma, the ME said. “Probably been dead since early afternoon.” Signs of B and E the policeman said.

My dad drove up. No one had to say a word. He collapsed on the front porch. The sight of that probably hurt me the most. He would never recover.

They say only children grow up fast. Only children whose mothers are killed in their homes on September 28 become adults instantly. Innocence, trust, kindness, and love are all stripped away and crushed under foot. You go from a devil-may-care adolescent to a hollow, emotionless human in a series of rapid heartbeats.

Never found the killer. Never found the ring or anything else for that matter. Never made an arrest. Why is it that the perfect crime is the one involving the murder of my mother on September 28?

People pulled back from me at that point, or maybe I pulled away from them. No more sports. Former friends didn’t know what to say or how to deal with this. They started avoiding me in the hallway. Who could blame them?

No girlfriend. She tried to weather it, but I couldn’t talk. It was a one-way relationship with her. She finally gave up. Who could blame her?

Dad starting drinking heavily. We had nothing to talk about. We sold the home and moved into a two-bedroom apartment. Grades slipped. Visions of UVA or Ivy League educations turned sour. I was lucky that Tech took a chance on me. One of my dad’s friends pulled some strings, told them the story, and somehow got me an acceptance letter.

I couldn’t wait to move away to college. Not like the others who wanted the freedom, the partying, and the new life. I wanted to go away just so I could be alone. So people wouldn’t stare at me with sad eyes or shake their heads like “damn shame.” I just wanted to be anonymous. I wanted to disappear. So I didn’t have to talk to anyone, especially my dad. We hadn’t actually spoken in months. Who could blame us?

Maybe I’m bitter, maybe depressed, but I’m going to take what I want. Like the burglar who killed my mom in the process of steal­ing our stuff, I’m going to take what I want. I don’t want pity; I just want people to leave me alone. Who could blame me?