The Music Teacher
Gabriel Milton was one of the most well-liked teachers at Holy Trinity High School. Not only was he an excellent music instructor, but he also conducted the school choir and led the marching band to several state championships. Moreover, since he was one of the few secular teachers at the Catholic high school, many students preferred seeking his advice on personal matters to confiding in Father O'Rourke or one of the nuns.
In late September, shortly after the beginning of the school year, Kurt Monahan was taken out of a public high school and enrolled in Holy Trinity after he was picked up for shoplifting at the Riverside Mall. Since it was his first offense, Kurt was able to get off with only six months' probation. However, like many parents, the Monahans feared that their son was being adversely influenced by his friends and hoped that the good sisters of Holy Trinity could set their son on the right path.
When the moody fourteen-year-old boy walked into the music room of his new school, he was surprised to see a long-haired, bearded man—a throwback to the Sixties, no doubt.
"You must be Kurt," the teacher said with a welcoming smile. "I'm Mr. Milton, head of the one-man music department."
"You don't look like a Catholic school teacher," the boy noted.
"Oh? What is a Catholic school teacher supposed to look like?"
"I don't know—like a priest, I suppose."
"Some people have said that with the beard and long hair, I look like Jesus Christ."
"Nah. I think you look more like that guy in The Lord of the Rings. You know, the king, Aragorn."
Other students came into the room, and class soon began. Kurt, who had always liked music, found Mr. Milton's lessons both educational and entertaining.
A quiet, shy boy, Kurt was slow to make friends in his new school. The music teacher sensed this and thus took an interest in him. The two began spending time together after school, and once Kurt's parents assured themselves that the teacher was not a child molester, they allowed their son to go to sporting events and music concerts with Mr. Milton. On several occasions, the teacher even invited Kurt to his home where he gave the boy guitar lessons.
Milton's house was not remarkable, just a three-bedroom bi-level commonly seen in suburban communities across America; but the overcrowded living and dining rooms housed a grand piano, a full set of drums, a large xylophone, a full-size harp and all forms of string, brass, woodwind and percussion instruments.
"How did you ever learn to play all these?" the boy asked. "You don't look that old. What were you, some kind of child prodigy like Mozart?"
"I'm older than I look," the teacher laughed as he played an old Celtic folksong on the guitar.
"You really like music, don't you?"
"It's my life," Milton admitted.
"Then how come you didn't join an orchestra or a band? Why did you become a teacher?"
"I wanted to do something constructive, something useful. As a music teacher at a Catholic school, I can serve both man and God through my love of music."
"You certainly have a lot of instruments. What's downstairs, a pipe organ like in The Phantom of the Opera?"
The teacher abruptly stopped playing.
"You ask a lot of questions."
"I'm just curious," the boy said apologetically. "You've got all these instruments upstairs. I figure you must keep more in the basement."
"There's nothing down there," Milton declared emphatically. "Nothing at all."
* * *
As Kurt got to know Mr. Milton better, he learned that music was not the man's only love. The teacher also had an intense interest in politics and current events. He read the newspapers faithfully every day and was an avid viewer of CNN. His students could always tell by the grim look on their teacher's face when there was trouble in the Middle East, a civil war somewhere in Africa or political unrest in the former Soviet Union.
"He's like one of those peace-loving hippies," a student joked one day at lunch. "I can just picture him in bellbottoms and a Nehru jacket."
Kurt jumped to the music teacher's defense.
"Mr. Milton's a nice guy. He's also the best teacher in this school."
His classmates exchanged knowing smiles. They had speculated about the close relationship between the teacher and the new student and were fairly certain there was something inappropriate about it.
* * *
One Saturday afternoon Kurt was supposed to meet Mr. Milton at his house for another guitar lesson, but when the boy got there, no one was home. Unbeknownst to the student, his teacher had gotten a flat tire on his way back from the grocery store. However, Kurt knew Mr. Milton would be there soon, so he sat down on the front steps to wait for him.
He was there only a few minutes when an old, rusty Jeep Wrangler pulled into the driveway. Out of the car stepped a man close in age to the music teacher. Like Milton, the driver of the Jeep had long hair and a beard and looked like a refugee from Woodstock '69. Yet while the music teacher's appearance was one of a mild-mannered hippie who wanted to end the war and save the environment, the driver of the Jeep gave the opposite impression. His piercing eyes and the scar on his cheek made him look more like a member of the notorious Manson family.
"Is Gabe here?" the stranger inquired.
"If you mean Mr. Milton, no, but he should be home soon."
The stranger looked at his watch.
"I can't wait. Look, kid, will you do me a favor? Tell Gabe that Mike was here looking for him."
"Any last name?" the student asked.
"Just Mike. He'll know who I am."
The stranger then got back in his Jeep and left. Less than ten minutes later, Milton's Subaru Legacy pulled into the driveway.
"Hey, Buddy," the teacher called, "can you give me a hand with these groceries?"
"Someone was here to see you a few minutes ago," Kurt informed Milton as he took a bag out of the trunk.
"Oh, really? Do you know who it was?"
"Some guy named Mike."
Milton dropped his groceries on the driveway.
"Mike? Are you sure? What did he look like?"
"Long hair, beard, a scar on his right cheek."
The music teacher's face turned pale, and he began to tremble.
"Are you all right, Mr. Milton?"
"Y-yes, I'm f-fine," he stammered nervously as he squatted to pick up his dropped food. "I'm j-just surprised. I haven't s-seen Mike in ages."
By the time the bags were taken into the house and put away, Milton's speech was under control, but his hands still shook. Kurt was worried. His teacher seemed unduly anxious. Was he in trouble? Could this Mike character be a drug dealer? Kurt was not so naive to think that teachers—even those who taught in Catholic schools—were above using illegal substances or engaging in other questionable activities. Teachers were only human, after all, and subject to the same weaknesses as other mortals.
"So, is this Mike guy a friend of yours?" Kurt asked.
"Yes, a very old friend."
"Is he a musician, too? Is that how you know each other?"
"No, we served together," he replied and then added a moment later, "in the war. It's a subject I'd rather not talk about, okay?"
Kurt was relieved. His grandfather had been in Vietnam, and his uncle had served in the Persian Gulf War. Neither of them ever wanted to discuss their combat experiences either.
* * *
During the next several days, Kurt had no opportunity to see his music teacher. A substitute was brought in at Holy Trinity because Mr. Milton had called in sick. When his teacher did not return by the end of the week, Kurt walked over to Milton's house, anxious to learn if anything was wrong. His concern blossomed into downright fear when he saw the Jeep Wrangler parked in the teacher's driveway behind the Subaru.
The boy walked up the front steps and was about to knock on the door when he heard raised voices coming from the lower level of the house. What if Mr. Milton was in danger? Could the music teacher defend himself against Mike, who was larger and looked a good deal stronger? Kurt doubted it.
The worried student snuck around to the back of the house and peeked in the basement window. The first thing he noticed was the steel bars over the panes. The second thing was the absence of furnishing in the basement. There was nothing there, in fact, except a single glass case—similar to those in museums or jeweler's stores—in which rested a horn on a velvet pillow.
Mr. Milton and Mike stood near the case, arguing. The teacher appeared to be pleading with his old friend.
"You might be wrong," the teacher cried. "It's too early to say for sure."
"Look, Gabe, all I'm saying is to be prepared. All signs point to ...."
"No! I don't believe it; I don't want to believe it."
"We'll have to wait and see. You'll probably hear from me again—sooner or later."
"No offense, old friend, but I hope it won't be for a very long time."
After Mike left, Milton stood before the glass case, staring down at the musical instrument inside. Tears came to his eyes.
"Mike may blindly follow orders without regard to the number of people who will die, but I don't know if I can. Oh, God," he prayed, "there must be something that can be done to prevent all the bloodshed."
Suddenly, the neighbor's dog barked, and Milton turned toward the window where he caught a glimpse of his student running away.
* * *
Kurt was terrified by what he had overheard. His music teacher was a criminal, possibly even a killer, although apparently a reluctant one. It was clear to Kurt that Mike was the evil one. He was probably a sociopath, a deadly monster who had been born without a conscience.
When the music teacher phoned shortly after Kurt got home, the boy told his mother that he did not want to speak with him.
"Is something wrong?" Mrs. Monahan asked as she followed her son down the hall. "Did you and Mr. Milton have an argument?"
"No. I just—I just don't want to talk to him."
Warning bells sounded in the mother's head.
"Did he touch you in an inappropriate way?" she asked uneasily.
The question embarrassed her son.
"Oh, Ma," he groaned, "you sound like one of the guidance counselors at my old school."
"Well, did he?" she persisted.
"No, Mr. Milton isn't a pedophile. I just don't feel like talking to anyone right now. I've got a lot of homework to do."
Mrs. Monahan dropped the subject, preferring to let her husband speak to their son after dinner.
* * *
The following weekend Kurt spent time with several of his old friends from public school.
"I thought you were too good to hang around with us anymore," Lamont Johnson taunted. "Hey, where's your cute little school uniform with the jacket and tie?"
"Knock it off," Kurt protested. "You know I don't have any choice in the matter. My parents make me go to Catholic school."
As the boys walked to the mall, Kurt told his friends about the music teacher and the disturbing scene he had witnessed between Mr. Milton and the mysterious man named Mike.
"Why do you suppose he keeps a horn locked up in a glass case and has bars on the windows?" Lamont asked.
"I don't know. The horn's not important. It's the conversation I heard that scared me."
"To hell with the conversation. I'll bet that horn must be worth a lot of money. It might even be made of gold."
"Who cares?" Kurt asked with exasperation.
"We do, man. We could use some cash."
* * *
The following evening the peace of the Monahan house was disturbed by an urgent pounding on the front door.
"Who could that be?" Mrs. Monahan asked as her husband went to answer.
"Is Kurt home?"
It was the music teacher, and he was clearly upset.
"He's upstairs in his room. What do you want with him?" the father asked suspiciously.
"I have to talk to him. It's urgent."
"I doubt his guitar lessons constitute a matter of life and death."
"It's okay, Dad," Kurt said from the staircase. "Come on in, Mr. Milton."
"You were at my house the other night," the teacher said when they were alone in the living room. "You saw me and Mike through the window, didn't you?"
"Yes."
"How much did you overhear?"
"I know that you and your friend are a couple of criminals and that you plan on killing people."
Milton closed his eyes.
"We're not killers; we're soldiers."
"Is the government going to send you to Iraq or something?"
"I haven't got time to explain that now. I have to find the trumpet."
"I don't understand."
"The gold trumpet I kept downstairs under lock and key. It's been stolen. Tell me truthfully, did you break into my house and steal it?"
"No, it wasn't me. I didn't do it."
"But you know who did, don't you?"
"I'm not sure, but I know these kids from public school. When I told them what I saw in your basement, they thought the horn might be worth something."
"We've got to get that trumpet back. Who are those kids, and where do they live?"
As Kurt and his teacher headed toward the front door, the boy's father intercepted them.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asked.
"I have to help Mr. Milton. Some of my old friends may have stolen something from him."
"Then we'll call the police and let them handle it," Mr. Monahan suggested.
"We don't need to involve the police," the teacher said.
"Why not? Is there something you're hiding? If you've involved my son in anything illegal or immoral, I swear to God ...."
"Look," the teacher cried, "I'll tell you the truth if you help me get the trumpet back."
"That depends on what you've got to say," the father declared.
Milton nodded and began to explain.
"What I'm about to tell you will be hard for you to believe. First, I'm not really a man."
"Damn it!" the father swore. "I knew we shouldn't have put our son in a Catholic school. First child-molesting priests and now cross-dressing music teachers."
"It's not like that, I assure you. I'm an angel—an archangel, to be precise: the Archangel Gabriel."
Mr. Monahan laughed nervously, but his son stared at the music teacher with wonder, clearly believing every word he spoke.
"Who is Mike?" Kurt asked.
"The Archangel Michael."
"You said you two served together, that you were soldiers."
"We fought with God's angels in the battle against Lucifer."
"Like in Paradise Lost?" Mr. Monahan asked.
"That's right. Since our victory against Satan's forces, Michael and I no longer have to fight, but we're being held in reserve just in case we're needed again."
"My uncle was in the reserves," Kurt said. "His unit was called up when the U.S. invaded Iraq."
"Same thing. Michael and I will be called up should God need us."
"What does any of this have to do with my son and a horn being stolen?" Mr. Monahan demanded to know.
"That's no ordinary horn; that's my trumpet. It is the one I must use to herald the Day of Judgment."
"What's that?" Kurt inquired.
"It's the day when all mankind will be called before God to be judged."
"You mean the end of the world?"
"Yes. That's why we have to find the trumpet. I've been keeping a constant check on the pulse of the world for centuries. Now is a critical time. Armageddon could occur any day. If I don't have the trumpet to signal the final judgment, billions of souls will be lost forever."
"Do you really believe you're an angel?" Mr. Monahan asked.
Obviously, he thought the music teacher was a few cards short of a full deck.
"I am Gabriel, the angel of mercy."
"Where are your halo and your wings then?"
"I don't normally resort to such theatrics, but I need your help, so here it goes."
A heavenly aura began to form around Gabriel's head. There were no actual wings—not like those of a bird or insect—but when the archangel spread his arms, he levitated into the air with ease. Kurt and his father stared in awe at the magnificent creature that hovered above them.
"Now do you believe me?" Gabriel asked. "And will you help me recover the trumpet?"
Unable to speak, Mr. Monahan nodded his silent approval.
* * *
As Mr. Milton drove the Subaru, Kurt sat in the passenger seat giving directions.
"I'm pretty sure that if my friends did take the horn, they'd keep it at Lamont Johnson's house since Lamont's the ring leader."
When they pulled up in front of the Johnson home, Kurt jumped out of the car and ran up to the front door.
"What do you want?" Lamont asked warily when he saw the teacher walk up the driveway.
"Did you take it?" Kurt asked. "The horn you said must be worth money."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Lamont replied and tried to close the door.
Mr. Milton, however, had stepped from behind his student, pushed on the door and stepped inside.
"Hey, you can't come in here."
Gabriel walked past the boy, paying no heed to his objections. The angel closed his eyes and listened for a sound neither of the boys could hear.
"It's upstairs," he announced with a beatific smile of relief.
The teacher ran up to Lamont's bedroom where he found the trumpet hidden on the bottom of the closet beneath a pile of dirty clothes.
"It wasn't me. I didn't steal it; I swear," Lamont cried.
Gabriel collected his trumpet and left without as much as a glance at the thieving boy.
When they got back to his house, Milton saw the Jeep Wrangler in the driveway. He clutched the trumpet to his breast, fearful that Michael's news would not be good. The archangel, followed closely by his young student, entered the house and went down to the basement where Michael stood beside the empty case. He was greatly relieved to see his old comrade return.
"I was worried when I saw that you were gone and the case was empty. I feared that Lucifer had ...."
Gabriel silenced him with a wave of his hand.
"Everything's fine. Some local kids broke into my house and stole the trumpet, but I got it back, as you can see."
He placed the trumpet on the velvet pillow, closed the lid of the glass case and locked it with a golden key.
"Hopefully, I won't need this for many centuries yet," he said.
"That's what I came here to tell you—that all hope is not lost. There is still a chance for mankind to redeem itself."
"Thank God!" Gabriel cried.
* * *
The faculty and students of Holy Trinity High School were baffled when Mr. Milton, their beloved music teacher, vanished without a trace. No one knew what had become of him, not even Kurt Monahan, who had no memory of either Gabriel's or Michael's true identity. The police found the teacher's house empty, and all attempts to trace him met with failure. Eventually, a new music teacher was hired and Mr. Milton became an unsolved mystery.
Meanwhile, in a small town in northern France, a long-haired, bearded man walked into the music room at St. Therese's Catholic School, ready to begin teaching his new class.
No, that awful sound isn't signaling judgment day. It's just Salem trying to tell me it's time to feed him.
