Reuben only smiled. He couldn’t quite bring himself to answer.
“Well good night, dear boy,” said Felix. “And I should take this glass to the kitchen, shouldn’t I? I am so annoyed when people litter this house with cups and glasses!”
“And things go well with my father in the woods?”
“Splendidly,” said Felix. “But it’s good he had the Twelfth Night Feast. Morphenkinder by instinct want to hunt humans. I don’t think the forest is appreciated until that innate desire has seen some fulfillment.”
“Thank you, Felix,” Reuben said. “Thank you for everything.”
“Not at all. Don’t say another word,” said Felix. “I think I’ll walk down the hill and visit with your father.”
For a very long time, Reuben sat there, thinking, reflecting. Then he brought up a new blank page in his word processing program, and began to type.
“I died at the age of 23, in the season of the year which the church calls ‘Ordinary Time,’ ” he wrote. “And as we come once again to ‘Ordinary Time,’ I want to write the story of my life since that moment.”
And for another hour he wrote, stopping only now and then for a moment or two, until finally he had filled some fifteen double-spaced pages. “And so I went from being ordinary, terribly ordinary, shamefully ordinary—out of ‘Ordinary Time’—into a world of exceptional expectations and revelations where miracles abound. And though my place has been given me in this new realm, my future is in my hands, and must be shaped by me with infinitely more care and thought than I ever gave before to my actions.”
He broke off finally, and stared at the distant window with its inevitable silver spatters of rain. And he thought with a sigh, Well, that didn’t take my mind off anything. And if he’s dead somewhere on a motel room floor, well, I know I killed him. I killed him. I killed his soul before I killed his body. And he’s the first casualty among my family of what I have become. And if I ever breathe this secret to another living being who is not one of us, well, I will probably become the murderer of that one too. And that cannot ever happen.
If he didn’t stop thinking about it he’d go crazy. Better to go upstairs and pack a bag for tomorrow.
Three a.m.
Something had awakened him.
He turned over and reached for his iPhone.
E-mail from Jim.
He sat up, quickly scrolling through the writing.
“Back at my apartment. Just got in. Can I see you tomorrow after nine a.m. Mass at St. Francis? And thank you for sending Elthram. God only knows how he found me, but until he tapped on my window, I had no idea anybody was looking for me!”
32
MASS WAS WELL UNDER WAY when Reuben slid into the third pew.
He’d dropped off Lorraine and the children with his mother, doing his best to fend off interrogation as to why Phil had not come down with them, and promising to bring Jim to the house on Russian Hill just as soon as he possibly could.
He was so relieved as he watched Jim on the altar that he almost started to cry.
Jim wore his splendid white and gold vestments for the special Feast of the Baptism of Our Lord, and he seemed utterly calm as he went through the liturgy, coming at last to the sermon, and stepping down to walk back and forth before the pews as he spoke. His small clip-on mike amplified his voice perfectly, as always, in the vast crowded church. Only a deep redness in his eyes and a distinct paleness to his face revealed that the past few days might have been a trial.
At once he took up the very theme that Felix had mentioned the night before.
This was, though many did not know it, the last day of the Christmas season and tomorrow would be the first day of what the church so poetically called “Ordinary Time.”
“What is a baptism?” he asked the congregation. “What was baptism for Our Blessed Lord? He was sinless, was He not, so He didn’t need to be baptized. But He did it for us, didn’t He? To set an example, just as His entire life on earth was an example—from His birth amongst us as a baby, through boyhood and manhood amongst us, until He died as each and every one of us dies, to His resurrection from the dead. No, He didn’t need to be baptized. But it was a turning point for Him, a rebirth, the end of His private life and the beginning of His ministry, and He went out into the wilderness to confront the temptation of Satan as a ‘new’ being. Okay, so what is a turning point? What is the meaning of rebirth or renewal? How many times do we experience this in our own lives?”
At once he went into the theme of Christmas, of Midwinter, and of all the age-old ways in which the Church and people of all nations in the West celebrate the Feast of Christmas.
“You know, for centuries, we’ve been criticized for grafting our sacred feast on a pagan holiday,” Jim said. “I’m sure you’ve heard the charges. Nobody knows the actual day on which Christ was born. But December twenty-fifth was a great feast to the pagans of the ancient world, the day when the sun was at its lowest ebb and people would gather in the fields, in the villages, and in the depths of the forest to beg for the sun to come back to us at full strength, for the days to lengthen once more. And for warmth to return to the world, melting the deadly snows of winter, and gently nourishing the crops of the field once again.
“Well, I think it was a stroke of genius to put these two feasts together,” said Jim. “Christ, born into this world, is a magnificent sign of transformation—of complete renewal, renewal of the physical world and the renewal of our souls.”
It was remarkably—though not surprisingly—like what Felix had said about Christmas and Midwinter, and Reuben loved it. He was lulled by Jim’s voice as with ease and authority his brother went on talking about the capacity for renewal being the very greatest gift we have been given in this life.
“Think about it for a minute,” Jim insisted. He stopped with his arms slightly raised, hands gently appealing to the congregation. “Think about what it means to renew, to repent, to start all over again. We human beings always have that capacity. No matter how badly we stumble, we can get up and try again. No matter how miserably we fail ourselves and God and those around us, we can get up and start all over again.
“There is no midwinter so cold and so dark that we can’t reach for the shining light with both hands.”
He paused for a moment as if he had to check his own emotions, and then he resumed slowly. walking up and down and speaking again.
“That’s the meaning of all the candles of Christmas,” he said, “the bright electric lights on our Christmas trees. It’s the meaning of all the celebrations throughout the season, that we have the hope always and forever of being better than we are, of triumphing over the darkness that might have defeated us in the past, and realizing a brilliance never imagined before.”
He paused again, his eyes moving over the congregation, and when he saw Reuben sitting there looking at him, there was a faint flicker in his eyes of recognition, but then he went on.
“Well, I’m not going to hold you here in the pews with a long exhortation to repentance. We all need to reflect every day of our lives on what we are, what we’re doing, what we ought to do. We need to make that part of the fabric of our lives. And that’s why I want to talk now about the curious phrase in the church calendar, ‘Ordinary Time.’ There is a simplicity and brilliance to that title. When I was a boy and I first heard it, I loved it: ‘This is the first day of “Ordinary Time.” ’ But the reason I love it is that every season, every celebration, every defeat, and every hope and aspiration that we have is rooted in time, dependent on time, revealed to us in time.
“We don’t think about that enough. We spend too much time cursing time—time waits for no man, time will tell, oh, the ravages of time, time flies! We don’t think about the gift of time. Time gives us the chance to make mistakes and correct them, to regenerate, to grow. Time gives us the chance to forgive, to restore, to do better than we have ever done in the past. Time gives us the chance to be sorry when we fail and the chance to try
to discover in ourselves a new heart.”
His voice had grown soft with emotion, and pausing again, he faced the congregation and said, “And so with the Christmas cribs dismantled, and all the Christmas trees taken down and the lights packed again in the attic, we find ourselves, at the end of this Christmas season and once again in the glorious miracle—I mean the pure and glorious miracle—of ‘Ordinary Time.’ How we use this time means everything. Will we take the opportunity to transform ourselves, to admit our hideous blunders, and to become, against all odds, the people of our dreams? That’s what it’s about, right?—becoming the people of our dreams.”
Now when he stopped, he appeared to be reflecting, and slightly undecided, and then he went on.
“There was a point in my life when I wasn’t the man I wanted to be. I did something unspeakably cruel to another human being. And very recently I found myself in the grip of a temptation to be cruel once again. I succumbed to that temptation. I lost my battle with anger, and with rage. I lost my battle with love, with the solemn and inescapable commandment: Thou shalt love!
“But this morning, as I stand here, I’m grateful with all my heart that time is once more stretching out before me, providing me again with the chance to somehow—somehow—make amends for the things I’ve done. God puts in our path so many opportunities for that, doesn’t He?—so many people out there who need so much from each and every one of us. He gives us people to help, people to serve, people to embrace, people to comfort, people to love. As long as I live and breathe, I am surrounded by these limitless opportunities, blessed by them on all sides. So I come away from Christmas—and that great shining banquet of riches—thankful once more for the absolute miracle of ‘Ordinary Time.’ ”
The sermon was over; the service moved on. Reuben sat there with his eyes closed, offering his prayers of thanks. He’s whole again, he’s here again, he’s my brother, he thought. And opening his eyes, he let the intense colors of the church with its grand Tuscan murals and painted saints penetrate him and warm his soul. I don’t know what the hell I believe, he thought. But I am grateful, grateful that he is on that altar again.
When Communion time came, he slipped out of the pew and went outside to the fresh cold air of the courtyard to wait for Jim.
Very soon the congregation began streaming out, and finally his brother appeared in his long white and gold chasuble, to clasp hands, and give greetings and to accept thanks.
Clearly Jim saw Reuben waiting patiently for him, but he did not rush. And it was a good twenty minutes or more before they were finally alone. The courtyard was cold and wet but Reuben didn’t care.
Jim was smiling radiantly when Reuben embraced him.
“I’m so glad you could come,” he said. “You know when I e-mailed you, well, I forget it takes a full four hours for you to get down here. I forget you can’t hop on a monorail and doze till you arrive.”
“Are you kidding?” said Reuben. “We were so worried about you!”
“But tell me, how in the world did Elthram find me?” Jim asked. “I was in the middle of the woods outside Carmel Valley. I was in a little Buddhist retreat place that doesn’t even have a phone.”
“Well, someday I’ll fill you in on Elthram,” said Reuben. “Right now, I’m just so glad you’re back I can’t tell you. And if you think Mom was out of her mind, well, what do you think was going on in my head?”
“That’s what Elthram said. You were so worried. I should have figured. But Reuben, I needed that time to think.”
“I know you did, and I know you’re all right. The minute I sat down in the pew in there, I knew you were all right. That’s all anybody wanted to know, that you’re all right.”
“I’m all right, Reuben,” he said. “But I’m going to be leaving the priesthood.” He said it simply, without emotion or drama. “That is inevitable now.”
“No—.”
“Wait. Hear me out before you begin objecting. Nobody will ever know the full reason why, but you know why, and I want you to keep that secret for me as I’ve kept yours.”
“Jim—.”
“Reuben, a man cannot be a murderer and a priest,” he said. His tone was patient and resigned. “That is simply not possible. Now years ago, I was accepted in spite of what I did to Lorraine, as I told you. But I was a drunkard when I beat Lorraine. I had that excuse. Not a very good excuse, mind you, in fact, it was an appalling excuse, but still a form of excuse. It hadn’t been cold-blooded murder, what I did to that child. It was another kind of sin, but not cold-blooded killing, no.” He paused. He lowered his voice as he leaned closer to Reuben. “But this time I had no excuse, Reuben. I asked you to kill Fulton Blankenship and his cohorts; I told you where to find him; I provided you with a map.”
“Jim, you are not a killer, and these men—.”
“Stop. Now look. We have to go see Mom. And I have to somehow endure all her questions about where I’ve been. Now you must promise me: don’t say a word to her about this ever as long as you live. I keep your secret as I’m bound to do, sworn to do, and you must keep mine.”
“Of course,” Reuben said. “This goes without saying!”
“I’m going to see the archbishop this week and explain why I’m asking to leave. And when the time comes the official announcement will be made. I cannot tell him the full story of how Blankenship and company departed this world, but I don’t have to. I only have to tell him what I myself willed to happen and that I asked others to make it happen. And beyond that, I will say nothing more. I can tell him that I sent people to murder Fulton Blankenship and they weren’t officers of the law. And when I do, I’ll tell him this in Confession, binding him to keep the circumstances secret, but to act upon the information as he sees fit.”
Reuben sighed. “Jim, they had marked you for death. They might have killed your family!”
“I know that, Reuben,” he said. “I’m not as hard on myself as you might think. I saw that wounded priest being carried out of my apartment on a stretcher. And I’d just seen the corpse of the boy they’d killed. I’m no saint, Reuben, I told you that. But I’m not a liar either.”
“And what if the archbishop gets carried away, thinks you hired some mercenaries or something and he calls the police?”
“He won’t do that,” Jim said. “I’ll handle it. I’ll tell the truth. But never the whole truth. I know what I have to do.” He smiled. In fact, his entire manner was almost cheerful and certainly resigned. “But if by some miracle he allows me to stay, well, then, I’ll stay. That’s what I want, to stay, to work right here as I’ve been doing for years, to make amends here. But I don’t think that’s going to happen, Reuben. And I don’t think it should.”
Suddenly he stopped and reached beneath his chasuble for his phone. “That’s Mom calling. Listen, come into the sacristy with me while I change. We’ve got to get over there. And let me tell you what I plan to do.”
They hurried back into the church and up through the nave and into the back sacristy, where Jim quickly peeled off his vestments, and put on a fresh clean white shirt. Then came the Roman collar with the black clerical shirtfront and his always impeccably pressed black coat.
“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, Reuben,” he was saying. “I’m thinking that perhaps I can somehow quietly run this rehab center here as a layman. I don’t know if you know about the rehab center.”
“Everybody knows about it, Jim,” said Reuben. “Two million dollars in donations so far, probably more.”
“Yes, well, if I can’t be the steward of this project, there are others. After all, I don’t deserve to be the steward of it and if the archbishop sends me away from this parish, well, that’s what I deserve. So what I’m thinking is, I’m thinking that maybe with some donations from you perhaps, little brother, and from Mom and Dad, who knows, and maybe from Felix too perhaps, maybe I can start a Delancey Street–type of operation of my own.”
“Absolutely,” said Reuben. “That’s entirely pos
sible. Jim, that might be better than anything.”
Jim paused, looking into Reuben’s eyes. And only then did Reuben sense the pain there, just the faintest glimpse of the pain Jim was feeling at leaving the priesthood.
“I’m sorry,” Reuben whispered. “I didn’t mean to make it sound so simple.”
Jim swallowed, and forced a little accepting smile. He put his hand on Reuben’s hand as if to say, It is all right.
“I want to keep working with addicts and alcoholics, you know that,” Jim said.
As they walked back through the church, he went on talking about it, about the months he’d spent working at Delancey Street, studying their famous program, and about what he would do if he did get to be captain of his own little ship. They walked through the courtyard and out the gate.
“But you know, Mom and Dad are going to take it hard if you leave the priesthood,” said Reuben.
“You think so? When have Mom and Dad ever been proud of me for becoming a priest?”
“Maybe you’re right about that,” Reuben mumbled. “But I’ve always been proud of you and so was Grandfather Spangler. And I’ll be proud of you no matter what you do.”
“Look, I’m thinking I can volunteer for a while at Delancey Street again, or somewhere. There is so much opportunity, and this is all going to take time—.”
They were almost to Reuben’s car, when Reuben put his hands up and demanded to be heard.
“Now just wait a minute!” he said. “You’re telling me that after all these years, you’re just going to be shoveled out of the priesthood because you told me about that scum, that unspeakable scum, that scum that murdered that young priest, that scum that murdered the kid at the Hilton, that scum that targeted you for death …”