“When will that be?”
“I wish I knew.”
She got up from the sofa and went to him, took his hand. “I’m glad you came,” she said.
“I had to tell you something,” he said, and gave her hand a squeeze. “A couple of things, actually. First, I love you, honey.”
“I know.”
“Maybe you do, but I should have said it in person a lot sooner than now.”
“I love you too.”
He cleared his throat. “I should have told you this next thing a lot sooner too.”
“What?”
“I think Ethan may be alive.”
She couldn’t speak. She could barely believe her ears. Her head was spinning. She would have fallen if her father hadn’t caught her.
“Here, honey, you’d better sit down.”
He led her back to the sofa.
“What . . . what do you mean he’s alive?”
He squatted down, bringing his eyes level with hers. “I don’t know if he is or not. But I think he might be.”
“I don’t understand. How . . . ?”
“The last time I was home on leave, Papa Jim called me in to his office for a meeting. He wanted me to run for governor. Said I’d be a shoo-in.” He rolled his eyes. “I told him I was finished with politics. Anyway, during our talk, he was called away for a while. That’s when I found a letter on his desk. I don’t know what made me look at it. I don’t normally read other people’s mail. But, well, this was open already, and I’m always curious about what your grandfather is up to. I swear, that man makes Machiavelli look like Andy of Mayberry.”
“What . . . what did it say?”
“It was a report about a boy. A boy named Ethan.”
“A report?”
“The boy’s the right age. And he’s being raised by foster parents somewhere in Kansas. There was a lot of stuff in the letter I didn’t understand, and I didn’t have time to more than glance at it before I heard Papa Jim coming back. Since then, I’ve gone back and forth about whether to mention it to you. I don’t want to get your hopes up. It’s not as if there’s any evidence. But finally I decided to do it. You have the right to know.”
With a great effort, Sister Elena gathered her wits together and spoke. “Are . . . are you saying that Papa Jim faked Ethan’s death? That he and Father Rinaldi lied to me, brought me the corpse of a dead baby to grieve over, and meanwhile stole my real son away? And took him to Kansas?”
Her father blinked nervously. “Er . . . yeah. Maybe.”
She stood up angrily. “You’re crazy!”
He stood as well, reached for her arm. “Kate, please listen. I—”
She brushed him off. “It’s Sister Elena! And I’m not going to listen to this kind of sick insanity. I don’t know what your problem is, Dad. Posttraumatic stress disorder, maybe. But you should see a shrink. Or a priest.” She was so angry that she was trembling, her hands clenched into fists and pressed against her sides.
“I know how this must sound. I can only imagine what you’re feeling. But I promise, as soon as I’m back from Iraq, I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”
Sister Elena shook her head grimly. “I won’t be involved in your delusions, Dad. It’s too painful. I hope you get the help you need. Until then, good-bye.”
Her eyes brimming with tears, she turned and made for the door.
Her father didn’t try to follow. He just called after her, his voice cracking. “I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have said anything. I take it back, honey. I take it back!”
The slamming of the door behind her was her only answer.
Seated at a wooden desk in an adjoining room, Father Rinaldi winced sharply as the door slammed and yanked the headphones from his ears. He sighed heavily, drumming his fingers on the desktop, gazing out the window at the same picturesque view that Sister Elena and her father had seen.
After a moment, he picked up the phone.
“Get me Mr. Osbourne,” he said.
CHAPTER 10
2006
When Reverend Ballard called his name, nine-year-old Ethan rose to his feet and exited the pew to the encouraging smiles of his parents. The slender boy, somewhat tall for his age, wore a new dark suit, freshly shined shoes, a clean white shirt, and a bright red tie. His brown hair had been trimmed the day before and then fussed over by his mother this morning before they left for church; not a hair was out of place.
Clutching in his hands the folded printout of the speech he had painstakingly composed and rehearsed with the help of his parents, Ethan walked slowly up the aisle to the pulpit, where Reverend Ballard was waiting, a smile on his round red face.
One Sunday each month, Reverend Ballard set aside a few moments toward the end of the service for a student from the Bible study classes to address the congregation on a subject of their devising, usually a brief text taken from one of the gospels. The students selected for this honor ranged in age from seven to eighteen and were recommended by their teachers on the basis of classroom participation. Today marked the first time Ethan had been chosen.
“Come on up, Ethan,” Reverend Ballard said as he approached. “Don’t be shy.” He reached out a big hand to assist Ethan in climbing onto the raised platform, and Ethan took it, although he didn’t need any help.
“Ethan’s topic is from John 14:2,” said the reverend. “In my Father’s House are Many Mansions.” He stepped back from the podium, gesturing Ethan forward. “I don’t know about you, but I’m eager to hear what young Ethan has to say.” Of course, Reverend Ballard knew perfectly well what Ethan was going to say; he had reviewed and approved the boy’s remarks, as he always did in these situations.
Ethan stepped up, unfolded the printout, and laid it across the pages of the open Bible that rested atop the podium. He looked out over the sea of faces watching him with expressions that ranged from polite interest to unfeigned boredom. Some of the other kids from Bible study were surreptitiously making goofy faces at him, trying to crack him up, but he ignored them.
Seconds passed. Silence stretched. There were coughs from the pews.
“A little case of stage fright,” said Reverend Ballard with a chuckle from behind him, and the audience laughed.
Ethan felt himself blushing. But it hadn’t been nervousness or fear that had kept him quiet. No, it was something else entirely.
The moment he’d laid down the folded sheet of paper and looked out over the congregation, the words he’d labored over so diligently and then rehearsed again and again in front of his mom and dad until he knew them all by heart, the printout not even necessary anymore, had simply deserted him. They were gone. In their place, new words filled his head, seemingly out of nowhere. Or no—a voice was speaking them . . . a voice only he could hear.
Although he couldn’t remember anything like this ever happening to him before, Ethan wasn’t frightened by it. In fact, the voice seemed familiar somehow. It was a voice he could trust, as if it were coming from somewhere inside himself. Yes, that was it. Like finding a part of himself he’d somehow forgotten about. A part of himself that was older and wiser than a nine-year-old could be. It was, he thought, the voice of his soul.
“Ethan?” prompted Reverend Ballard.
Ethan glanced at him and smiled reassuringly. Then he looked down at the words on the printout and for the first time recognized them for what they were: a collection of bland, superficial phrases and clichés. He couldn’t believe he’d written them. He would not speak them now. Raising his eyes to the congregation, he gave voice to the words still echoing softly in his head.
“How can a house have many mansions? I wondered about that. A mansion is a big house; is there a house so big that it contains other big houses? A house whose rooms are so huge that every single one of them might as well be a mansion? The answer is yes. There is a house like that. It’s the house of God.
“My father’s house . . . that’s what Jesus called it. But it’s my father’s house too
. It’s your father’s house. And yours. Because God is our father. ‘Our father which art in Heaven . . .’
“God is in Heaven . . . but what about His house? Where’s that? Is it in Heaven too? I don’t think so. At least, not all of it. I think Heaven is another room in God’s house. For sure it’s the best room, but there are other rooms too. We’re in one of them right now. This church is part of my father’s house. How could it not be? Think about how peaceful it is here. How safe we feel inside. That’s because we’re home. That’s how I feel, anyway. I don’t even have to come inside. Just walking by makes me feel good.
“But you know what? That’s how I feel when I ride my bike past the Baptist church on the way to the pool. And the Catholic church too. I feel the same way when I walk past the synagogue. And that mosque over by the library. Those are all my father’s houses. And all of us are His children.
“The Kingdom of God is at hand. Jesus said that. At hand. That means it’s right here, right now, all around us, if only we are open to it. It’s in this church and in the other churches. But it’s not only there. God’s love is infinite, and so is His Kingdom. So is His house. The whole world is His house. And the different countries, the different religions, they’re all rooms in that house. They’re all mansions.”
Ethan paused and let his gaze move over the congregation. Everyone was gazing at him raptly, hanging on his words . . . except for his parents. His mom and dad had turned pale as ghosts and were clutching each other by the hand. They looked as if they were afraid of what might come out of his mouth next. Ethan couldn’t understand their reaction. He gave them a smile, trying to let them know that everything was all right, that they didn’t have to be afraid. Then he continued speaking.
“When I think about what’s going on in God’s house today, I feel sad. I feel sad because some of the mansions are fighting each other. Do you think it makes God happy when the people living in His house fight like little children? In school this year we learned about Abraham Lincoln. He said that a house divided against itself cannot stand. You know who else said that? Jesus. It’s right there in Matthew 12:25: ‘Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation, and every city or house divided against itself shall not stand.’ Think of what happened the last time God decided to put His house in order. That was the Flood. He promised Noah never to flood the earth again, but there are other ways of cleaning house. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather clean my room myself than have my dad come in and do it for me!”
This elicited some laughter from the congregation. But not everyone laughed, and many faces were glaring back at him. Ethan took a deep breath. He knew that what he was about to say was not going to be popular. But he also knew that he had to say it. To keep silent would be to betray the part of himself that was whispering these truths to him: his immortal soul, which came from God and would one day return there.
“We have to stop fighting each other,” he said. “Don’t you see? We have to stop it ourselves . . . or God will stop it.”
“They started it!” yelled someone from one of the back pews.
“An eye for an eye!” cried someone else.
“What about turning the other cheek?” Ethan asked in turn. “Are we following in the footsteps of Christ when we kill? Didn’t Jesus tell Peter to put up his sword? Are we following Christ when we torture? Did Jesus whip others and force them to wear crowns of thorns? Did he crucify people? No. He was whipped. He was crucified. ‘As you do unto the least of these, so you do unto me.’”
A man in one of the middle pews shot to his feet. “America doesn’t torture!” he declared angrily. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to our soldiers insulted by some snot-nosed, unpatriotic brat!”
“You tell him, Sam,” said a woman behind him.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, young man,” chastised an elderly woman in thick glasses, shaking a finger in Ethan’s direction from the front row. “And so soon after that brave congressman gave his life to keep us safe!”
At this, Reverend Ballard, who had been listening with an expression somewhere between horror and wonderment, collected himself and stepped forward. “Hold on now,” he said, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “I assure you all, those weren’t the remarks that I approved, and I apologize for them. Of course we don’t torture. Everybody knows that. The president himself said so, and we all know that he’s a God-fearing man. This church will always honor the men and women in uniform who serve our country so bravely and selflessly, fighting them over there so we don’t have to fight them over here.”
“He’s the one who should apologize,” Sam replied testily, glowering at Ethan, arms crossed over his chest.
Reverend Ballard looked at Ethan. “Well, Ethan?”
Ethan swallowed. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. His parents looked as if they wanted to crawl under the nearest rock, and there was a part of him, and not a small part, that would have gladly joined them there. But though the voice that had whispered to him was silent now, he could still sense its presence within him.
“Everything I said was true, Reverend Ballard. I can’t apologize for the truth. But I’m sorry if I disappointed you or upset anybody.”
“You call that an apology?” snorted Sam.
“Now, now,” said Reverend Ballard, raising his hands again. “Freedom of speech is one of the things we’re fighting for, isn’t it? Ethan is young and idealistic. That’s nothing he has to apologize for. Not in my book. Yes, he went too far, but he had a lot of good things to say as well. And he stuck up for what he believes. Whether you agree with him or not, that takes guts. So I’m asking you to give Ethan the same round of applause that we give to all our student speakers.”
Without waiting to see if anyone would start off, the reverend brought his meaty palms together resoundingly. Most of the congregation followed suit, if somewhat grudgingly and tepidly, but Sam and a number of others pointedly did not. Ethan’s parents, he was both proud and embarrassed to see as he made his way back to his seat, clapped loudest and longest of all.
As soon as they got home after the service, Gordon and Lisa sat Ethan down for a serious talk.
Lisa glanced at Gordon, then began. “Honey, before we say anything else, I want you to know that your father and I are proud of you for saying what you did.”
Gordon nodded. “Reverend Ballard was right. It took guts.”
“It was the truth,” Ethan said.
“We know,” said Lisa. “Only, why didn’t you tell us you were going to say those words instead of the ones we worked on?”
Ethan shrugged. “Until I got up there, I didn’t know.”
“What happened when you got up there, Son?” his father asked.
Ethan shrugged again. “It was like a voice started talking to me. A voice from inside.”
“And that voice told you what to say?”
“Sort of,” he said. “It’s hard to explain.”
“Try,” said Lisa.
Ethan thought for a moment. “It was like a part of me that had been asleep suddenly woke up. I looked at the words we’d written down, the words I was supposed to say, and, well, they were stupid. They didn’t really mean anything.”
His parents exchanged a glance.
“Go on,” Gordon said.
“Instead, I thought of other words to say. Better words. You know, truer ones. It was like they’d been there all the time, waiting for me to notice them.”
“And then what?”
“Then I said them. I didn’t mean to make anybody mad, Dad.”
“I know that,” his father said.
“People get mad sometimes when they hear the truth,” Lisa added. “Especially when it’s a truth they don’t want to hear.”
“And especially when it comes from a kid,” Ethan said.
“Yeah, that too,” Lisa said with a smile.
“But does that mean I shouldn’t say anything?”
“That’s
a hard question,” Gordon admitted.
“You have to respect other people’s beliefs, Ethan,” Lisa said.
“Even if they’re wrong?”
“Even then. There’s a saying, ‘actions speak louder than words.’ I think that’s the best way to communicate the truth to others. Make sure it’s there in your actions.”
“Think of it as practicing what you preach,” Gordon said. “Only without the preaching.”
Ethan thought for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”
“And Ethan, that voice of yours? It’s probably better if you don’t mention it to anyone.”
“I kind of figured that,” Ethan said. “I don’t want to freak anybody out. Or make them think I’m crazy. ’Cause I’m not, you know.”
“We know,” Lisa said.
“But there are people out there who wouldn’t understand,” Gordon said. “People like Sam Wiggan. And worse than Sam. Much worse. People who hate and fear what they don’t understand.”
“I’ll be careful, Dad,” Ethan said. “I just hope I didn’t stir up a hornet’s nest today.”
“I’m sure it’ll blow over,” Lisa said reassuringly.
But it didn’t. The next day, Sam and other like-minded parishioners circulated a petition demanding that Reverend Ballard expel the Browns from the church in the absence of a more satisfactory apology from Ethan. This the reverend refused to do, and Sam’s family and a number of others were absent from services the following Sunday, attending a rival church. Some parishioners seemed to blame Ethan and his parents for the schism. Nothing was said to their faces, but there were plenty of nasty looks and whispers.
After the service, Ethan went to Reverend Ballard and offered to apologize.
“For what?” the reverend asked. “You only said what you believed.”
“But look at the harm it’s caused. I never meant for that to happen.”
“Son, you didn’t cause anything. The good Lord gave us free will, didn’t He? I’m not going to lie to you. I wish you hadn’t said what you did. I don’t agree with it. But I don’t hold with expelling people from this church just because I don’t agree with ’em about everything. If I did that, this would be a congregation of one.” He gave Ethan a wink. “Besides, if Mr. Wiggan and the others feel more at home in another church, why, God bless ’em. It doesn’t matter what room we’re in, does it, as long as we’re under the same roof.”
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