Felix laughed good-naturedly. He was absolutely undeterred.
“And I must say,” he went on, raising his glass once more, “that this, our first Christmas season at Nideck Point, has been exceptional. We have given gifts and received gifts that we could not possibly have anticipated. Our old and dear friend Hockan is once again with us. And Jamie, Christine, and Lorraine, you come to us as gifts—and you too, Berenice—gifts to our beloved Reuben and his beloved father Philip, and to our entire household. We salute you. We welcome you.”
Clapping, cheering, with embraces and kisses for Lorraine and Jamie and Christine.
“And a prayer for James,” said Felix lastly. “That James will come home safely very very soon.”
And then the company broke up for dessert and coffee buffet style in the great front room.
An hour or so later, just about everyone had gone off to sleep, read, watch TV, who knows what? And the house suddenly seemed dark and empty, though its fires roared as always. Felix came to find Reuben in the library, where Reuben was at the desk computer searching for the numerous motels and guesthouses he meant to visit personally tomorrow.
“Don’t worry about your brother,” said Felix with an easy smile.
“And what in the world makes you say that?” Reuben asked gently. “For you—of all my beloved friends—never say anything that doesn’t mean something.”
“I know he will be all right,” said Felix. There was a light in his dark eyes. “I simply know. I have a feeling.” He drank the last of his wine and put the glass on the edge of the desk. “I have a feeling,” he said again. “I can’t say more, but I know your brother is all right now. And whatever happens when he knows about the children, well, he will be all right. And they are infinitely better off just now than they ever were before, without the loving knowledge and support of your family.”
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.