Before I Wake

by Robert J. Wiersema

  “They would have been ready for you.”

  “I suppose they would. Still—”

  “I’ve long wondered,” Tim said, pointing at the coin in Father Peter’s hand. “Is that one of them?”

  Father Peter nodded, looking at the coin. “I spent a lifetime trying to find this,” he said. “Do you have any idea how hard that was? Searching an empire for a single piece of silver?”

  “How do you know you found the right one?”

  “Well, there were a number of them.” Father Peter smiled, showing his teeth. “But I could tell, right away. It burns. From the first moment I picked it up, it has burned me. But I can’t put it down.”

  Tim looked in my direction, then away. Had he seen me? I crouched lower behind the bookshelves, but it was like he knew I was there, listening.

  After a second, Father Peter said, “You can’t keep up this fight forever.”

  “And you can?” Tim smiled. “How many times have we two met? How many alleys? Hillsides? Libraries? Sewers? A wise man once said that the best definition of insanity was performing the same action over and over again, expecting different results.”

  Father Peter stopped smiling. “The same could be said of you. What makes you so sure you’re right? And so sure I’m wrong?”

  “The difference is that I made a mistake once, out of ignorance,” Tim said. “Everything I’ve done since then has been to try to make amends.”

  “To earn forgiveness.”

  “To protect the innocents.” Tim smiled. “And yes, to earn forgiveness.”

  “Some of us have a higher calling,” Father Peter said. I had heard him say those words dozens of times. “There are things more important than oneself.”

  “But that’s your failing,” Tim said. “You made a mistake a long time ago, and you think you’ve spent that time trying to make amends, but you just keep making the same mistake again and again.”

  “It’s not a mistake. It’s you who doesn’t see. Who doesn’t understand. I made a mistake, yes. I failed Him. But I have been given the chance to make amends.”

  “By killing children?”

  “By keeping the way clear for His return. By dealing with those pretenders and false prophets who draw people away from the true savior. I stand by my judgment.”

  “You always have,” Tim agreed. “But has it ever occurred to you that one of those false prophets you destroy could be Him? That you’re killing Him all over again?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I would know Him.”

  “You didn’t before.”

  He frowned. “There were other factors.”

  “How many times can you hang for that handful of silver?”

  Handful of silver?

  “Is that really what you think?” he asked. “I thought you were too smart to believe the slander, especially considering everything that’s been said about you over the years. Do you honestly believe that I hanged myself out of guilt? Surely you know me better than that.”

  And throwing down the pieces of silver, he went and hanged himself…

  It couldn’t be…

  “Then why did you?”

  Father Peter shook his head. “I hanged myself to try to find Him. He was always talking about the life everlasting. I thought that if I died, I might find Him there. I thought I would be able to ask for His forgiveness. Instead”—he shook his head—“I had to find another way to atone.”

  Tim looked my way again. “And how do you think you will be judged, on the day the trumpet sounds? You who have caused so much pain, so many deaths.”

  “I have been true to Him. I have stood up for His name when all around me—”

  “For His name,” Tim said. “But what of what He taught? What of the innocents you have killed in His name?”

  “I’ve only known one miraculous innocent,” Father Peter said.

  “And you’ve spent your lifetimes trying to atone for your betrayal, to protect His memory. A memory that doesn’t need your protection.”

  “You’re not going to change my mind.”

  “I know,” Tim said. His voice was sad. “And my work here is done.”

  Father Peter nodded. “So what now, Ahasuerus?” he asked.

  “Now we move on.”

  “I thought so. When?”

  “Tonight. Right now. We’re all ready. I was just waiting to tie up a couple of loose ends. Waiting for you, for one.”

  “As usual.”

  “As usual.”

  “Are you going to wait for Henry Denton?”

  Tim shook his head. “He’s gone. He’s got a rough road ahead of him, but I think he’ll find his way. He’ll be able to find us if he still needs us.”

  “And where are you headed to this time?” Father Peter asked.

  “I’m not sure. We’ve been trying to figure that out. You?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll drift a bit. More of the same.”

  They stared at each other for a long silent moment.

  “I’d like this to be over,” Father Peter said quietly. It didn’t sound like his voice.

  He started to walk away, then turned back toward Tim again. “Do you think we’ll ever be able to sit down together, you and I? Have a drink? Eat? Breathe?”

  Tim smiled, but his eyes looked sad. “Next year in Jerusalem?”

  He shook his head and turned away with his hand still raised. “Good night, Ahasuerus,” he said, but he didn’t look back.

  The dark of his coat looked like wings as he walked away.

  “Goodnight, Judas,” Tim whispered, standing there alone in the darkness, watching him go.

  Judas.

  The name seemed to rip something inside me.

  Judas.

  My knees felt like rubber, and I had to grab the shelf to keep from falling over.

  Tim turned to look right at me. I took a step back, trying to hide in the dark.

  “Mr. Tanner, I presume?” he said. “Please come out from the shadows. Time is growing short, and we have much to talk about.”

  SIMON

  “I’m not sure about this,” Karen whispered as we crept down the stairs.

  I don’t know who had thought of it first, but we had sat up in bed and turned on one of the lamps and talked for hours, talked in circles. We had talked ourselves out.

  “I’m not either,” I said, holding her hand.

  In the end, we had got up and pulled on our robes.

  At the doorway to the living room, I was stopped by the enormity of what we were considering. In the silvery light through the blinds I saw the shape of her body barely lifting the sheets. We couldn’t. We just couldn’t…

  “Are you okay?” Karen asked.

  “I’m not sure,” I answered. “You?”

  “I’m not sure either.”

  From the window came a light pattering, almost but not quite like rain. Without thinking, I drew the curtain aside. Karen joined me and we peered out, our breath misting against the glass.

  Outside, the world was transformed. Wet snow was falling, not yet covering the ground, but spiralling and refracting under the streetlight, shimmering like a galaxy, like a benediction in our front yard. With what we were about to do, it felt almost sacred.

  “That’s so beautiful,” Karen whispered.

  I let the curtain fall back into place, brushing the three stones that Karen kept on the sill, and turned to face our daughter, my eyes still dazzled by the snow-bright midnight.

  Turning on the lamp, I noticed, for the first time, that Sherry had grown since the accident, that her body was longer in the bed, that her hair was longer too. I wondered how long she would keep growing. Twenty years from now, would we be standing alongside the beautiful young woman we had always imagined her becoming, knowing that she would always be the three-year-old she was the day of the accident? I shook my head against the tears I could feel forming. I couldn’t cry. If I started to cry, we would never get through this.

  Blowing into my hands to w
arm them, I gently stroked her hair. “Hi, baby,” I whispered. “How are you tonight? You had a big day today, didn’t you?”

  I wanted to explain to her, to reassure her that everything was all right, but how could I do that? How do you explain to a little girl that her parents’ happiness depends on her? It was so unfair. If there was any other way, we wouldn’t even consider this.

  Instead, I started to sing, quietly, my voice tremulous and near to breaking. “Hush, little baby, don’t say a word, daddy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird…”

  Karen was fighting back tears.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” I said to Sherry as I gently drew back her covers. “I know it’s cold. It’ll only be for a minute.” As I spoke, I was praying that she understood. At the same time I was hoping that she was completely unaware.

  “Simon, I…” Karen’s fingers dug into my arm.

  “We don’t have to do this,” I said.

  She looked down at Sherry and shook her head. “No, I think we do.”

  I met her eye and nodded. “Do you want…?”

  She shook her head. “No, you. You first.”

  I knelt beside the bed, leaning my head against the cool sheets for a long moment, trying to build my courage. Finally, I straightened up.

  “And if that mockingbird don’t sing,” I shifted her hand gently to my forehead, closing my eyes. “Daddy’s gonna buy you a diamond ring,” I couldn’t stop my tears. Unlike the daddy in the song, I could do nothing to help her. Instead, she was helping me. Us.

  I kept her hand against my forehead for a full minute, holding in my mind the image of Karen’s face at the very moment of Sherry’s birth, the pure joy as the sticky, curded bundle of blood and breath was pressed into her arms, that moment when our eyes made contact over the slick head of our daughter.

  Our daughter.

  I don’t know what I was expecting: a blinding flash, perhaps; a revelation, or a healing glow. I didn’t feel anything except cold. But as I took her hand away, laying it gently on her covers, I felt comforted, as if someone had whispered to me, “It’s all right. Everything’s going to be all right.”

  I chose to believe that.

  As we traded places, Karen kissed me, quickly, full on the mouth.

  For a moment she stood uncertainly at the bedside, then she untied the loose knot of the belt of her robe and allowed it to fall open.

  “Hi, baby,” she said quietly. “Are you cold? I’m cold. I’m sorry. This will only take a minute.”

  She lifted Sherry’s hand with the tender care I remembered her using when she bathed Sherry as a baby, cradled her wrist as she turned her palm and laid it gently on the soft skin of her belly. She closed her eyes and held Sherry’s hand there for the space of several breaths, tears running in rivulets down her cheeks.

  After she laid Sherry’s arm back down and tucked her under her blankets, she threw herself into my arms, and we cried there in the pool of golden light surrounding our daughter.

  Before turning off the light, we each kissed Sherry on the forehead. So fragile. It was as if she was only sleeping, as if she might open her eyes at any moment.

  “Good night, sweetie,” I whispered, taking in the floral scent of her. “Sweet dreams.”

  I walked Karen to the foot of the stairs. “I’ll be right up,” I said. “I just want to check the doors and windows.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Not really,” I said. No secrets between us. Not anymore. “But I will be.”

  “Do you want me to wait for you?”

  I shook my head. “I’ll be right up.”

  She laid her hand over mine. “I love you.”

  “I love you too.”

  She walked back upstairs in the darkness as I methodically checked the front and back doors, as I double-checked that the windows were locked. The snow was coming down heavier, a thin crust now covering the ground.

  I was about to let the curtain fall back into place when I saw the figure under the streetlight, silhouetted in the falling snow. He was pudgy, in a too-large coat that nearly dragged on the ground. The smoke from his cigar pooled upward with the snow. Another man, taller, broad across the shoulders in a blue ski jacket, followed him. Then another, similarly ill-kempt, then another, and another all walking past the house. The last man, huge and gangly, stared into the yard as he passed. He looked almost like the false Father Peter’s assistant, but I couldn’t quite see him in the dim light, and he disappeared into the dark before I could be sure. In the end, more than a dozen men passed. Street people, I thought. Rousted from somewhere they had been sleeping, searching for another resting place out of the cold.

  It occurred to me to call after them, to invite them in, to give them shelter for the duration of the storm, but by the time the thought had fully formed, they had gone, slipping from the pool of the streetlight back into the shadows.

  I made my way silently up the stairs, past the closed door of Sherry’s old room, through which I could hear the snoring priest, and into the bedroom. Gently draping my robe over the chair, I slid into bed and pressed myself against Karen.

  She moaned a little as my cool body came into contact with her warmth. “Where did you go?” she asked slowly, in a drawl that was more asleep than awake.

  “I was checking the windows and doors.”

  “Mmm. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Hey, listen…It’s snowing harder now.”

  “Sherry’ll like that,” she replied drowsily. “Maybe we’ll go for a walk in the morning, make angels.”

  I thought that I had cried myself out downstairs, but hot tears coursed down my cheeks, spilling into her hair. I wished for sleep. I wished that I could meet Karen wherever she was, in that world where our daughter was whole, where in the morning they would be making snow angels in the yard.

  The Price of Miracles

  December 27

  FATHER PETER SHAUGHNESSY

  I was awakened by a soft tapping at the door. “Father Peter?” asked a male voice.

  At first, I didn’t recognize the tiny bed, the animal-print wallpaper, the mobile slowly spinning above my head. Then it all returned to me. “Yes, Simon,” I answered. “I’m awake.”

  “Do you prefer coffee or tea?”

  I had fallen asleep with the window open a crack, and the air was cold on my face, but I was very comfortable under the weight of Sherilyn’s quilt. “Coffee, please, Simon,” I answered. “I’ll be right down.”

  His footfalls faded as I swung my legs out of the bed. Something was different from the day before, something subtle. The air seemed brighter, cleaner.

  Snow had fallen overnight, blanketing the yard in several inches of thick, heavy white. Snow was still falling, large wet flakes the size of silver dollars, plummeting, rather than drifting, toward the ground. The street was unplowed, bisected by a single set of tire ruts, the sidewalk marred only by a few sets of footprints.

  I dressed quickly, checking my watch as I put it on. It was just before nine. I was not accustomed to sleeping in.

  Simon was sitting at the kitchen table reading the local paper. He looked up as I came into the room. “Well, I don’t think we’re off to a very auspicious start for you,” he said.

  “I’m sorry?”

  Karen was bustling around the kitchen, and I wasn’t quite sure what to do with myself.

  She waved me to the chair across from Simon, setting a cup of coffee on the place mat in front of it. “Simon’s worried that with the snow we won’t have many people out today.” She gestured toward the chair again. “Go ahead, sit. Did you look outside? Ruth and Stephen already called to say they wouldn’t be able to make it in.”

  I nodded from the chair. “It’s still really coming down. I don’t think you have to worry, though. I think people will come through…well, snow or high water.”

  Karen smiled.

  By the time I had eaten some fruit and cereal for breakfast, there was a line of about ten people waiting in
the front yard, pressed against the house under the eaves.

  “Should we just send them home?” Karen asked.

  Simon shook his head. “No,” he said. “We can’t do that. We can’t just send them home after they’ve come through the snow.”

  “We can’t just leave them outside either.”

  “No,” he stretched the word out as he shook his head. “There probably won’t be that many people today. We can have them wait in the family room.” He glanced at me. “Father Peter will be with Sherry, so you and I can trade off. Whoever’s looking after the people in the family room can check the front every so often in case more arrive. How does that sound?”

  So Karen and I stood in the living-room doorway as Simon showed the pilgrims into the house. They left their wet coats and shoes in the foyer. A few of them craned their necks, trying to look past us to see Sherry, but most of them just followed Simon, their eyes on the floor in front of them. They all seemed to be both optimistic and embarrassed, as if they were ashamed at being forced to seek out such help, but unable or unwilling to not take the risk. I had seen it before.

  Karen had already taken care of Sherry’s needs: she had been fed and her diaper and bedding were clean, her hair was combed back and she was wearing a clean gown in pink flannel. Karen very carefully pulled back the covers, folding them near Sherry’s waist, as I sat down in the chair nearest the window, opening my notebook onto my lap and taking my pen from my pocket.

  “So this is what you do?” Karen asked as I was organizing myself. Leaning behind the chair, she plugged in the lights and the dark Christmas tree in the corner burst into life.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Your job. It’s to go around, collect evidence, disprove reports of miracles.” Her tone was maybe a little critical, but mostly curious.

  “Or to prove them.”

  “Does that happen often?” she asked, turning the rod for the blinds, the bright, clear winter light spilling through the sheers into the room.

  “That I get a chance to prove that a miracle has actually happened?”