Toby Strader was pert near twisted when he remembered he'd promised to bring her the diapers. That was on Tuesday night, and this being Thursday sometime after three in the morning, he hoped she'd figured it out. But he couldn’t go home empty-handed.
Toby awoke an hour earlier, choking on the stench of Meth Melissa's breath. She'd been hanging at his cousin Donnie's dope trailer going on three weeks now, and just as that last gram began to shrink sometime on Wednesday, they started making eyes at each other. That was really about the last thing old Toby remembered before waking up in the side room with sweat sticking his body to hers and his nose way too close to her mouth.
He ditched her and searched for his clothes. He grabbed a half-pack of Pall Malls from Donnie's counter before heading out.
Donnie's dope trailer was at the bottom of a mostly black neighborhood called The Circle because of the way Wentworth Circle ran in a crescent down off the main street and back again. Only the lowest form of white trash dared come down here anymore, but that was the Straders. His great uncle Thomas had begun selling plots to the local bank back in the 1930s, and they, in turn, worked with the city to build these millworker houses on narrow, rectangular plots leading down to the bottomland near Buffalo Creek. White folk had mostly moved before Toby's daddy was born, but the family kept the bottomland trailer. Sometime after Obama's re-election, Donnie came back from Iraq and set up down there.
Toby tried not to think about all the times Melinda had told him to stay away from Donnie. He could hear her now in his head telling her mama how sorry he was and how he couldn't keep a job. She'd probably be packed and gone when he slithered in, but he had to try something.
When he crossed Wentworth Street itself to the west side to go north toward Scales Street, he was finishing a Pall Mall. Toby flicked the butt into the street and remembered the old Reidsville Christian Church building up at the corner. Donnie's daddy had been a deacon at the church for quite a few years. He'd told over time of the windows that wouldn't lock or the gym door that refused to latch. Toby heard all this at family gatherings his entire 26 years. He figured tonight to take advantage of his local roots.
The church stood silent in the moonlight, its steeple throwing shadow over the aged sidewalk. Toby approached with stealth from some unkempt boxwood, scanning the area for any signs of life. The windows glinted with the streetlight reflections, and he tested one, finding it unlatched just as Donnie’s daddy had said. He slid it open and climbed through, landing softly on the musty carpet inside.
The sanctuary was dark, the stained-glass windows casting muted hues across the pews. Toby’s footsteps were muffled as he made his way down the aisle, the smell of old hymnals and polished wood filling his nostrils. He thought about what he could take—something to pawn, something to show Melinda he was trying. Maybe the silver communion trays, or the children’s offering box if it was still on the counter in the lobby.
As he approached the altar, a soft sound caught his attention. He froze, ears straining. It was an imperceptible murmur, like someone deep in prayer. He crept closer, peeking around the corner of the last pews.
There, sitting alone in the second pew from the front, was a man. He was hunched over, hands clasped together, and muttering softly. Toby's breath caught in his throat. The man’s presence was unsettling, and for a moment, he considered slipping back out the way he came. But Straders were known all across the county for their curiosity.
"Hey," Toby called out, keeping his voice low. “What you doin’ in here?"
The man looked up, unfazed. His eyes were a deep, piercing blue, and his face was framed by long, dark hair. He looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept in ages. "I could ask you the same," he replied, his voice gentle but firm.
Toby stepped closer, squinting at the man. There was something familiar about him, something that tugged at the edges of his memory. "I’m just... lookin’ for somethin’," Toby said, his tone defensive. "You don’t look like you belong around here."
The man sighed, leaning back against the pew. "I’m hiding," he said simply.
"Hiding?" Toby echoed, incredulous. "From who?"
The man’s gaze shifted to the altar, and he looked up to the stained glass window, backlit by moonlight. Sadness crossed his features. "From my Father," he said softly. "He wants me to come back, but I’m not ready."
Toby frowned, trying to make sense of the man’s words. "Your father? What, he kick you out or somethin’?"
The man shook his head. "No, it’s more complicated than that. He wants me to return here, to the realm of man, to fulfill a prophecy I’m not certain I can face."
Toby’s eyes widened as realization dawned. "Wait a minute," he said slowly. "Are you sayin’ you’re... Jesus Christ?"
The man nodded, a faint, weary smile touching his lips. “I am who I am."
Toby laughed, the sound harsh and disbelieving in the quiet church. "You expect me to believe that?"
Jesus looked at him, his expression serene despite the turmoil in his eyes. "I don’t expect anything from you, Toby. I’m just telling you the truth."
Toby stared at him, his mind reeling. "How do you know my name?"
Jesus chuckled. "I know a lot of things. It’s part of who I am.”
Toby felt a shiver run down his spine. "If you’re really Him, why you hidin’? Ain’t you supposed to be, I dunno, savin’ people or somethin’?"
Jesus’s smile faded, replaced by a deeper look of sorrow. "I’ve tried, Toby. But the world is so different now. People are different. There’s so much pain, so much anger. I’m not sure the world is ready for me again."
Toby felt a pang of sympathy despite himself. He knew about pain and anger, knew how it could twist a person until they didn’t recognize themselves anymore. "So what you gonna do?" Toby asked.
Jesus looked down at his palms, calloused and worn, each with a round scar. "I don’t know. But I can’t stay here forever. Eventually, my Father will find me, and I’ll have to come again.”
Toby nodded slowly, understanding dawning. "Maybe you should come back," he said. "Maybe people need to hear you, even if they ain’t ready."
Jesus looked up, his eyes reflecting the centuries of pain and compassion. "It’s not that simple, Toby. Let me tell you a story."
Toby shifted, intrigued. "A story? What kinda story?"
Jesus leaned back in the pew, his gaze distant as if looking back through time. "It was during the Middle Ages, during the time of the Inquisition. There was a man named Brother Anselm, a monk who lived in a small village in Spain. He was a kind man, devoted to helping others, but the Inquisition brought fear and suspicion to even the most peaceful places.
"Brother Anselm was accused of heresy for simply questioning the harsh methods of the Inquisitors. They imprisoned him, and in the darkness of his cell, he prayed for deliverance. I heard his prayers, Toby. I wanted to help him, but my Father had different ideas.”
Jesus paused, his eyes filled with remembered pain. "You see, Toby, my return is not just about saving people. It’s about timing, about when humanity is ready to accept the truth of compassion and forgiveness. Brother Anselm’s suffering delayed my return because it showed how far humanity had strayed from those principles. His story was a lesson in patience, a reminder that change comes slowly, painfully."
Toby’s brow furrowed. "So you’re saying you couldn’t help him?"
Jesus shook his head. "I helped him in the only way I could—by giving him strength to endure, to face his tormentors with dignity. In his final moments, Brother Anselm’s faith never wavered. His spirit became a beacon of hope for others, a quiet rebellion against the cruelty of his time."
Toby was silent for a moment, absorbing the weight of Jesus’s words. "But what about now? People are still suffering. Look at this world—addiction, greed, hate. Ain’t it the same as back then?"
Jesus’s eyes softened. "It is, Toby. And it isn’t. Mankind has made progress, but it’s still struggling with the same fundamental issues. Take Camus’ 'The Plague,' for instance. In it, Father Paneloux delivers a sermon saying that the plague is a punishment for sin. But later, he’s confronted with the suffering of innocent children, and he begins to question his own beliefs."
Toby nodded, having heard about the novel in Mrs. Matherly’s high school English class, but being a Strader, he never read it. "What’s that got to do with you?"
Jesus smiled. "The plague in Camus’ novel is a metaphor for the absurdity of suffering, the randomness of pain. But it also highlights the resilience of the human spirit, the capacity for love and harmony even in the face of inexplicable hardship. Like Father Paneloux, people are grappling with their understanding of faith, of justice, of forgiveness."
Toby scratched his head. "So, you’re sayin’ you been waitin’ for folks to figure it out on their own?"
"Not entirely," Jesus replied. "I’m here to guide, to inspire, but not to force change. People have to reach a point where they can experience grace without coercion. That’s when my second coming will truly make a difference."
Toby looked down at his hands, the hands he’d just used to break into the church, a lump forming in his throat. "I ain’t no saint, you know. I’ve done things, bad things. How can someone like me change like that?”
Jesus reached out and placed his pierced hand on Toby’s shoulder. "It starts with you, Toby. Every kindness, every moment of understanding, contributes to the larger tapestry of this life. Your struggles, your pain—they make you human. And it’s through that Dasein that you connect with others, help them see the light."
Tears pricked Toby’s eyes. "I don’t know if I understand what you’re talking about. I don’t know if I’m the one.”
"You are," Jesus said. "Strength isn’t about never falling; it’s about getting back up if you fall down. Remember, Toby, the smallest light drives out the darkness."
Toby felt a warm sense of hope grow within. "Alright," he said slowly. "I’ll try."
Jesus smiled. "That’s what faith is, my child.”
Toby stood, feeling lighter than he had in years. He made his way back to the open window and glanced back at Jesus, who sat at peace in the pew, alone again in the pale moonlight of the sanctuary. For the first time he could remember, Toby felt like he wasn’t walking alone.
As he slipped out into the night, the stars above twinkled a little brighter, and the darkness didn’t feel overwhelming. The autumn Piedmont air, crisp and biting, carried the faint scent of the tobacco plant uptown. Toby’s footsteps fell quiet on the sidewalk, and he contemplated the possible with each stride.
The walk back to his house on Redd Street was quiescent but for the occasional wind disturbing the trees. The few men left pulling shifts at the tobacco plant made their way past him along Scales Street. Toby’s mind numbed by the encounter he’d just experienced. Jesus Christ, in the flesh, sitting in a Restoration Movement church in Reidsville, North Carolina. It was too much to believe. Yet, there was a fullness within him now, a sense of purpose that moved him forward.
As he approached the small clapboard house just off Scales Street, Toby lost faith, not wanting to face Melinda’s wrath empty-handed. He thought about what Jesus had said, about small acts of kindness making a difference. He felt the worn-out half-pack of Pall Malls in his pocket, suddenly aware of how little he had to offer.
With resignation, he stepped up to the screened porch door, pushing it open. The rusted hinges whined and he pushed on. The inside was dark, save for the glow of a nightlight in the corner. The smell of stale smoke and sweat hit him at once, a sharp reminder of his life’s addictions. He moved through the cluttered front room, hoping to find something, anything, that might appease Melinda.
As he reached the back rooms, he stopped short. There, sitting in the middle of the hallway, was a case of diapers. Toby blinked, wondering if his eyes were playing tricks on him. Atop the diaper case, neatly arranged, was a crisp fifty-dollar bill with a small note attached.
Toby picked up the note, his hands trembling. The handwriting was simple, yet elegant, and the words brought another lump to his throat: "For groceries. J.C."
Toby sank to his knees, clutching the note to his chest. Tears fell in great drops to the rental house’s worn hardwood floor. Finally, at that moment, Toby Strader believed. Jesus had given him a new life, a chance to find hope and compassion, if it still existed in this world.
He took a deep breath, steeling himself for the confrontation with Melinda. He gathered the diapers and the money, feeling renewed. He would make things right, starting with this small act of kindness. As he stepped into the bedroom, he saw Melinda stirring on the bed.
“Toby, where the hell have you been?” she demanded, her voice thick with sleep and anger.
“I got somethin’ for ya,” Toby said softly, holding out the diapers and the fifty-dollar bill. “For the baby. And some money for groceries.”
Melinda’s eyes widened, her face confused. She took the items from him, her eyes darting between the diapers and the money. “Where’d you get this?” she asked, her tone softening awake.
Toby hesitated, unsure how to explain. “I had a little help,” he said finally, a wry smile gracing his cracked lips.
Melinda sighed, but she didn’t press further. She rolled over and returned to her dream.