The Sin of an Angel

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September 1984

Victor Lawson wore his new blue corduroys with pride.  They were the first pair of pants he’d had in over a year that didn’t come used from a thrift store.  He even liked the way the legs went “zip zip zip” as they rubbed against each other when he walked.  He was sure his first-grade teacher, Mrs. Chambers, would like them too.  She was the only good thing about first grade at Watson Elementary School.  She knew everything, unlike the kids in his class.  They didn’t have much interesting to say, and they all seemed particularly bad at math, even addition and subtraction.  No one seemed to know what multiplication and division were, and a few kids were even still learning how to count past twenty.  That amused him to no end, but he had to be careful about expressing his delight.  One time Brett Meyers had counted, “twenty-nine, twenty-ten, twenty-eleven,” before Mrs. Chambers could stop him, and Victor had laughed out loud.  That got him a punch in the gut during recess.  Brett got away with hitting a lot of kids because he was the biggest in the class.  

Today, Victor learned that new corduroys could also get him beat up.  It wasn’t so much the pants themselves–other kids had similar trousers–but rather the way he wore them.  To Brett and his buddies any boy that was too proud of anything had to be put in his place.  Victor made it through lunch before the pack descended on him behind the gym annex during outside play.  He found himself staring into a circle of angry blue and green eyes filled with a mixture of menace and glee.

“I like your pansy pants,” Brett spat out.

Victor didn’t know that word.  “No.  They’re corduroy,” he said.

“They’re pansy.  You don’t want to be a pansy do you?”

Victor shook his head.  

“Then give them to me.”

“What?”

“You heard me.  Take them off.”

Victor looked for a way to run, but the five boys closed around him.  “No, I won’t,” he protested with as much authority as he could muster, but the words only seemed to squeak out.

“No, I won’t,” someone behind him mocked.  

Before Victor could turn around to see who it was, he felt a hard shove just above his waist that knocked him face-first onto the ground.  Then two or three kids landed on top of him.  He felt his shoes come off.  Fists and feet pummeled his sides and back.

“Turn him over!” Bret ordered.

Two hands shoved his shoulder, forcing him to roll on his back.  Victor squinted through pools of tears at Brett staring down at him.  “Look.  He’s got brown, Jew eyes.”

Now someone pulled off his socks, exposing his bare feet.  Victor clenched his toes, but the flaps of webbing were still visible.  He felt fingers wrenching his toes apart.

“Crap, look at that!  Look at his toes!  He looks like a frog!”

The group fell silent for a moment.  He felt hands releasing.

“It’s the mark of the Devil,” someone said.  “Don’t touch them.”

Everyone let go.  Victor saw them back off.  He lifted himself to his knees.  The boys eyed him suspiciously.  He lunged forward in mock attack, raising his hands up, palms down like claws.  The group scattered, except for Brett, who circled him slowly.  Victor pulled his knees to his chest to try to stand, but Brett came from behind and kicked him hard in the back, sending him flat on his face again.  The pain and humiliation were too much, and he began to cry.  He clenched his muscles for the imminent pounding, but it didn’t happen.  He could hear kids laughing in the distance.  He opened his eyes and turned his head both ways.  He was alone.

Victor heard the end-of-lunch bell ring, and he knew he would be late if he didn’t hurry.  But the thought of going back to class now was too scary.  What if Brett and the others found him before he could find Mrs. Chambers?   

He gathered his socks and put them on, but his shoes were nowhere around.  One of the boys must have stolen them, he realized.  His new stepfather, Walter, wasn’t going to be happy about that.  After the pounding he’d just had, he didn’t want to get hit again at home.  Maybe he could hide somewhere, he thought.  But then he realized how futile that would be.  The teachers and principal would come looking for him, and they must know all the hiding places better than he did.  Besides, he’d have to go home sometime.  His stepfather usually didn’t get really mean until late in the afternoon after he drank the honey-colored juice from the heavy glass bottle–the stuff that smelled like medicine.  If Victor could get home before that happened, maybe he could explain things and beg for mercy.

Mrs. Chambers would be looking for him soon, he knew, so he ran as fast as he could wearing only his socks.  If he headed straight out from the gym, no one could see him from the school building until he was almost at the bushes in the yard of the house next door.  He headed to them and dove to the ground on the far side.  He glanced back through the loose branches to the school, but no one was coming after him.  He could see the other kids lined up and filing through the back door and into the school building.  In a minute, the playground was empty.  Victor then started the quarter-mile walk to his house. 

By the time he arrived, his socks were mostly worn through, and his feet bled from cuts and abrasions on his heels and insteps.  He opened the front door slowly and stuck his head in.  It was quiet.  He stepped inside and shut the door behind him.  Now he could hear a voice in the kitchen.  It was his mother, and that made him feel better.  Then he heard his stepfather as well.  Walter wasn’t usually home at lunchtime.  Frightened, Victor ran up the carpeted half-flight of stairs to the hallway to his room.

He shut his room door softly, sat on the floor and removed the shreds of sock that still clung to his feet.  He used them to wipe his cuts; then he threw them under his bed where no one would ever look.  He softly opened his dresser drawer and took out a fresh pair that he slipped on gingerly.  The soft cotton made him feel a little better.  He decided to wait there till he knew his mother was nearby.  Then he would go to her and tell her what happened.  He hoped she could protect him from Walter.

“Oh Christ!  Look at this!”  It was his stepfather’s voice, coming from the base of the stairs.  “Mary!  Did you get blood on the carpet?”

He heard a muffled, “What?  No.”

“Come out here and look at this God-damn mess.”  He could hear footsteps on the stairs.  “They lead straight to Victor’s room.  Why the hell didn’t you clean this up earlier?”

“Clean what up?  Oh.  That wasn’t here this morning.”  His mother’s voice was clearer now.  “Oh my God.  Is Victor OK?”  She must be on the stairs, he realized.  But that meant his stepfather would get to him first.  In a panic, he tried to crawl under the bed, but he only got his head and torso under it before he heard the door open.  He steeled himself for the onslaught.  Giant, vice-like hands grabbed his ankles and dragged him out from his intended refuge.  “What the fuck did you do?  Why aren’t you in school?”

“Don’t hurt him!” his mother pleaded.  “For God’s sake, please don’t hurt him.”

Victor tried to curl up in a ball to protect his face and stomach, but Walter Lawson rolled him onto his back.  Victor squinted through half-opened eyes and saw his stepfather crouched in front of him, rage in his eyes, and Victor smelled the medicine on his breath.  His mother cowered in the doorway, her hand over her mouth and fear in her eyes.  “Answer me, you little bastard.  What have you been doing?”

Victor stayed mute.  Walter’s hand rose in a rigid salute and then swung down at him.  The blow wrenched his head sideways, and he closed his eyes, steeling himself for the next strike.  Then he heard his mother scream, and he felt his stepfather tumble forward on top of him.  He opened his eyes and saw his mother pulling his stepfather back by his collar.  Victor squirmed out from under the melee and crawled completely under the bed this time.

“Let me talk to him,” his mother sobbed.  “Let me find out what happened.”

His stepfather shrugged Mary off.  “What the fuck!” he said.  Then he stood up and stormed from the room.

Mary immediately shut the door behind her and leaned against it for additional protection.  

“Victor, honey.  Please come out and tell Momma what happened.”

“I got beat up,” Victor sobbed, still wedged between the floor and box spring.

“Walter didn’t mean it,” she said.

“No.  At school.  They took my shoes.”

“Who beat you up?”

“Kids.”

“What kids?”

“Just kids.”

“Come on out, and let’s talk about it.”

Victor listened.  It was quiet, and the immediate threat seemed to have passed.  Slowly he crawled out and into his mother’s waiting embrace.  She clutched him to her chest.

“Oh, my poor little boy.  How awful.”  Victor sobbed into her shoulder.  She just cuddled him and let him cry.

In a bit, Victor rubbed his eyes and nose against her shoulder to dry them.  He looked up at his mother.  “Am I a Jew?”

“Of course not,” she told him.  “You’re a Christian.”

“What’s a Jew?”

“They’re the people who killed Jesus.  Why are you so interested in Jews?”

“A kid at school said I was a Jew because I have black hair and brown eyes.”

“Well, you’re not.  You have black hair because your father did.  He was . . . just a guy.”

“Are my feet the mark of the Devil?”

This time Victor noticed that his mother didn’t reply immediately.  “Why would you say that?  Don’t worry about things like that.”

Victor rested his cheek against her chest.   “But I thought the Romans killed Jesus.”

“The Romans did, but the Jews made them.”

“Why didn’t you try to stop them?”

She chuckled.  “I wasn’t there, honey.  It was a long time ago.”

“Oh.”  He sniffled and rubbed his nose against her shirt again.  “Then what difference does it make?”

“It’s complicated.  Just try to be a good person.”

“Or the Jews will kill me, too?”

“No.  But God will punish you.  You don’t want to burn in hell do you?”

Victor shook his head, wondering how much worse hell could be than Watson Elementary School.  “I hate it here,” he said.  “Why did we have to move?”

“I’ve told you before.  I’m married to Walter now.  Walter works here in Mansfield.  It’s where we live now.  We moved here to be a family.  Your name is Victor Lawson now.  He wants you to be his son.”

“I don’t want him to be my father.  I don’t want him to hit me again.”

“You know he doesn’t mean it, baby.  He loves you.  Besides, I think he’ll calm down after I clean the carpet and explain to him what happened.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Well, then let’s just pray again for God to protect us.”  She put her palms together and bowed her head.  Victor did the same. 

 “Dear God, please look over us and protect us, especially my son Victor.  In your name, we pray.  Amen.”  She looked at Victor, and he seemed to feel better.  “Now God will come and protect you.”

Victor thought about that for a second.  “So, when will God finally get here?”

October 1987

Victor Lawson had been the smartest child in his class since the first grade, but it wasn’t until the fourth grade that he began to suspect he might be smarter than some of his teachers.  Mr. Caldwell, his math teacher, was an early disappointment.  He was very tall, even for an adult, and he had a deep, authoritative voice.  He had introduced himself to the class on the first day and implored the students to, “Ask as many questions as you’d like.  That’s the only way you can learn.”  So Victor started asking questions.  At first, Mr. Caldwell seemed to relish Victor’s curiosity.  By Halloween, though, his enthusiasm was beginning to be fade, and, after Victor corrected his calculations in front of the class one time, Mr. Caldwell seemed to pretend not to see Victor’s raised hand most of the time.

In early November, Victor’s mother had come across an electronic calculator at a garage sale.  It was covered with more buttons than any calculator she’d ever seen, and, other than basic math signs and a percentage sign, she had no idea what the rest did.  But she did know that Victor would love it.

For Victor it was like getting a new puppy.  He took it everywhere with him, even to bed at night.  He spent hours entering numbers and pressing buttons to see what would appear on the glowing red display.  There was one button, though, that he was careful never to press.  It was labeled “sin”, and Victor knew that God punished you for sin.  

There were some instructions etched on the back, but he didn’t really understand them, so he decided he’d ask his mother.  She just smiled and shook her head.  “I have no idea.  You’ll have to ask your teacher.”  That sounded like a good idea.

The next day, Victor raised his hand right after the first bell rang.  Mr. Caldwell looked distracted.  “Yes, Victor.  What is it?”

“What is the sin of an angel?”  Some kids laughed at the oddball question.

Mr. Caldwell squinted.  “The sin of an angel?  Is this a riddle?”

“No.  I have a calculator.  It has a sin button.”

“A sin button?  Really?  What does it do?”

“I don’t know.  I don’t want to press it.”  That got more guffaws from his classmates.  

“There’s no such thing as a sin button.  Now let’s begin class.”

Victor quit listening.  He lifted the lid of his desk and felt around in his backpack for the calculator.  Finding it, he pulled it out.  He looked at it again to make sure there really was a sin button.  It was still there.  He flipped the calculator onto its back.  Yes, there were the words he remembered.  He raised his hand again.  Mr. Caldwell didn’t notice.  Victor waved it from side to side.  Mr. Caldwell glanced over at him and seemed to decide he couldn’t just ignore him forever.    “Yes, Victor.  Now what is it?”

“Here, look.”  He held out the calculator with his finger pointing to the words on the back.  Mr. Caldwell walked over and looked at the spot.  He smiled, then he laughed out loud.  “That’s not the sin of an angel.  It’s the sine of an angle.”  Now the whole class roared with laughter.  They didn’t know what that meant, but they could tell Victor had just said something foolish, and that was always funny.  Even Mr. Caldwell seemed pleased at Victor’s mistake.

“What’s that?”

Mr. Caldwell stumbled over the words.  “Well, an angle is like this . .  .”  He walked to the blackboard and drew a sideways “V” with chalk.  He pointed to it.  “That’s an angle.”

“Then what’s the sine?”

Mr. Caldwell’s face flushed.  He mumbled something to himself, then blurted out, “It’s a measure of the angle.” 

That seemed like a vague answer.  “You mean how big it is?”  

“Yeah.  That’s right.”  Victor could sense Mr. Caldwell’s hesitation.

“So what’s the sine of that angle?”

“It’s this,” Mr. Caldwell said, drawing an arc between the two lines.  Victor noticed sweat forming between his teacher’s eyebrows.  “Now let’s move on.”

“Show me.  Show me on the calculator.  What do I do?”

“I’ll do it later,” Mr. Caldwell said.  Now his frustration was visible to everyone.

Victor looked around.  Some kids were still totally bored by the whole conversation, but he could see that a number of students were looking at him with newfound respect.  Victor went for the kill.  “You don’t know.  Do you?”  The gasps of the children around him told him he had done something really impressive.

“Of course I know.  Who the hell are you to tell me what I do and don’t know?”

“I think you’re lying.”  The chance to be the challenger instead of the challenged gave him an exhilarating feeling of power he’d never felt before.  “If you know, then show me.” 

Mr. Caldwell marched right up to Victor’s desk, fists clenched and jaw jutting forward.  At home, that would mean a beating was coming, but Victor wasn’t worried.  This was school, and he knew that teachers had different rules from parents.  They got in trouble if they hit kids.  So, this was more like taunting the leopard behind the glass at the zoo, and twice as much fun.

“OK.  That’s it.  Victor, I’ve had it with you.  You switch seats with Brett in the back row.  And I don’t want to hear another word out of you all day.”

Victor picked up his notebook and slid out of his chair.  He marched triumphantly toward his victory seat.  He gave Brett a smug smile as he approached and looked for some hint of reciprocation, but Brett just stared dully at the floor.  Just as Victor passed Brett, he heard Mr. Caldwell clear his throat.  “Thanks to this little ruckus, you’re all going to take a pop quiz.  Now put away your books and take out a pencil.”  

A jarring elbow to his side let Victor know what Brett thought about that.  “You’re dead, butt-hole!” Brett hissed.  “Just wait till recess at ten.”  

“Can you actually count that high?” Victor snickered, when he was out of fist range.

Of course he got pummeled at recess, but he didn’t care.  He knew now that his power was his mind.  It’s what made him superior to the other children, and even to his teachers.  It gave him the ability to manipulate others.  His bruises would heal, but their stupidity would stay with them for the rest of their lives.  And one day he would get his revenge on all of them.