An Easter Story – George Yandell
In memory of Debbie Micklus
Billy and his mother moved into a sixth-floor apartment. It was one of those massive gray New York City buildings. It dwarfed all other apartment buildings Billy had seen before. When moving in, Billy’s mom’s friends helped carry their odds and ends up the six flights of stairs—Billy stood at the top of the stairs and watched—his mattress, his toy chest, now filled with comic books.
Behind him Bill heard a door open; turning, he saw an old gray-haired man look gloomily out at him and the moving procession. He croaked to Billy, “You my new neighbor?” “Yup,” said Billy. Then Billy asked, “What’s wrong with you?” The wizened old man stared, then barked out, “I’m old and alone and I drink too much. What’s wrong with you?’ the old man asked.
“I’m young and moving and I’ve got cystic fibrosis. I’m eleven. My name’s Billy,” he responded, offering his small hand to the old man. The old man replied, “My name’s Bill, same as yours. How long you had cystic fibrosis,” his voice softening.
Billy replied, “All my life. How long you been drinking too much?”
Old Bill laughed and said, “Seems like a long time.”
Then Billy’s mother staggered up the stairs. Billy introduced her to Old Bill. “Mom, I want you to meet my new friend. His name’s Bill too. He’s old and he drinks too much.”
Billy’s mother blanched, put down her load and said, “I’m sorry, Mr… Mr..” “Bill,” the old man replied, “What you sorry for?” Billy’s mother gave Bill and Billy each a glance, smiled, and said, “I guess I’m not sorry at all—Glad to meet you, Bill. I’m Sarah.”
Sarah and her husband had just divorced, and she and Billy had lived with friends until she could get the money for their own place. It was a Saturday when they moved in, and she started to work on Monday. She hailed a cab, rode Billy to his school, and then rode on to work. She had arranged for Billy to go with one of the teachers to an after-school program, where Sarah picked Billy up at 5:30 each evening. The routine began to settle in—up at 5:00, beat on Billy’s back for an hour to dislodge the accumulated mucous—then carefully prepare a special breakfast, then off to work and school—Home at night and after another back-beating session, Billy using his inhaler, dinner, homework, T.V. and sleep. Sarah and Billy grew happy in their new home. Old Bill came over for dinner once a week. Almost every afternoon after school, Billy would go and talk with Old Bill. They became fast friends. One day Old Bill asked Billy, “Billy, you’re a pretty sick boy. How come you’re happy all the time?”
Billy said, “Well, I’m not happy all the time. Sometimes my back hurts so much, I think I’d rather die than go through treatment… but then, I like the days. I like the city. School is fun, and I’m a lot better off than most of the sick kids I see at the clinic. Some of them are paralyzed and some have brain injuries. I’m lucky, I guess. Mom loves me, and I like living here. Bill, how come you’re sad most of the time?” Billy asked hesitantly.
“Well,” said Bill, “I’ve done most of what I set out to do and found it wasn’t so important. My wife died 14 years ago, my friends are mostly dead, and those that aren’t dead are boring. I drink to add some color to my life—but all it does is deaden the pain.”
Billy piped up, “Mom and I go to Church every week. She sings in the choir, and I listen and watch and pray. Just a month ago, they asked me to join the acolytes- it’s OK if some Sundays I’m too sick. You know what? Jesus came to heal people like you and me. But sometimes healing isn’t to our bodies so much— Healing is for our friendship with God.”
Old Bill started and pressed Billy, “What do you mean our friendship with God?”
“Bill, it’s not what we do that heals us so much as what we allow God to do. Mom cries sometimes because she knows I hurt, and she knows I’m going to die. I figure God felt the same way about Jesus on the cross. Jesus’ father probably cried in heaven. But God and Jesus both knew something. Their love for each other could squish death for good, like a penny on the subway tracks. So Jesus loved all those people who hurt him, and followed God’s lead- and God healed him through dying. Jesus was healed into resurrection.”
Old Bill’s eyes glistened. He sat there, looking at Billy; skinny, pale Billy, wheezing out the words. Sarah came to the door, and Billy left old Bill sitting there; and Old Bill cried quietly by himself, looking out over the Good Friday evening, the city lights shining in the New York spring night.
As the weeks and months went on, Billy was sometimes too sick to go to school. Sarah had to work to be able to pay their bills, and a nurse was out of the question. One day Old Bill offered to stay with Billy. Sarah was almost late for work. She was torn but accepted Bill’s offer, rushing out.
Every sick day after that, Old Bill stayed in with Billy. He quit drinking, for fear he’d miss something Billy needed. He enjoyed sitting with Billy. He often thought of Billy’s words, “We have to allow God to heal us.”
Billy died just after his fifteenth birthday. Sarah and Old Bill cried at the grave, and they took the cab home together. Sarah looked at Old Bill at the top of the stairs and said, “Bill, I need a drink.”
Old Bill said, “I’ll make one for you.” They sat down, Bill with coffee, Sarah with gin. “You’re not drinking?” she asked.
“Billy helped me, Sarah. He helped me to quit deadening my pain and sadness. He once told me, ‘Bill, we have to allow God to heal us.’ He said Jesus had to trust God completely, even though it led to his death. And that God healed Jesus through dying and being raised up. Sarah, I think Billy was right.” Sarah said, eyes welling up with tears “Bill, what are we going to do without him?” Old Bill said, “Sarah, we’re going to make it through together. I’m going to cry and laugh with you at all our memories of Billy, and I’m going to live fully until I’m completely healed like Billy taught me.”