Then Brie and Connor both contracted the Peruvian flu, which had swept through their school. “I’m sorry, Paul,” Jae told him. “I want so much to go to the ceremony. But I can’t see leaving the kids with someone else when they’re this sick.”
Paul pretended disappointment. “What should I do with the extra ticket?”
“Go with Koontz.”
“He’s already there. He had to go early for a conference.”
“Well, we don’t have to use it. I can take you to the airport, and the airline will get you on and off the plane. Daddy will pick you up on the other end.”
Paul had failed to consider the logistics. Could he really manage by himself? He recalled anxious days in the hospital room when he didn’t know who was entering. Flying alone, feeling his way to the washroom, all eyes on him—even imagining it was painful.
“Maybe I just won’t go,” he said.
“Of course you’ll go.”
“Hey, you know Straight said he had family in D.C.”
“So take him, Paul. He’d love it.”
Straight thought it was as great an idea as Paul did. Paul would stay with his inlaws, and Straight would stay with his own relatives.
Paul was surprised how jumpy he was on the plane, though the flight was smooth. With his heightened senses, he heard every whine and knock, wriggled when the landing gear was raised and lowered, and started with every spot of turbulence. By the time they landed, he felt wrung out and disgusted at his own fear and helplessness. All the hopes he had recently entertained of leading a seminormal, somewhat independent life seemed ridiculous.
As they drove from the airport to the Decentis’, Paul became newly aware of the acuteness of his sense of smell. “Cherry blossoms, Straight. Tell me what they look like.”
“Like you remember them,” the older man said. “Cherry trees everywhere, busting out with pink-and-white blossoms. The festival must have been spectacular this year.”
Paul lowered his window and the fragrance washed over him. “That aroma almost makes up for not being able to see them,” he said. “Actually that’s not true. I’m having trouble getting used to this.”
“To what?”
“To life with only four senses. I’d almost trade these four for the one I lost, but—”
“Don’t give up hope, Paul. The doctor just said the time wasn’t right, not that it would never be right.”
“It’s getting to me, Straight. I thought I’d feel good being out, but I don’t. I just feel like more of the world is passing me by. My kids don’t respect me anymore. I’m some invalid they have to treat kindly. Jae can’t accept that I’m blind. She’s always pushing to talk to the doctor, as if she could wring some magic out of him. Life just goes on around me, without me, in spite of me. It’s like I’m a trespasser in my own home. That makes me furious, and when I blow up, I’m just pushing Jae and the kids farther away. I feel worthless and hopeless, and I’m so helpless I can’t even fly on a plane. I was actually scared today, Straight.
“Even this honor is depressing. It’s like a last handshake before the government throws me overboard. They might keep me afloat for a while, but it will be out of charity and, come the next budget crunch, I’m gone. ‘You’ve done enough’—that’s what a medal means.”
Straight let out a huge sigh. “Oh boy, have you got a bona fide case of the blues! Have faith, man. What about all that stuff you’ve been quoting about blindness from that ancient book? Didn’t that healer touch two blind men’s eyes and say, ‘According to your faith let it be to you,’ and their eyes were opened?”
“Yeah, so where’s my healer, Straight?”
“The point of the story is to have faith. Without it, they wouldn’t have been cured.”
Paul didn’t remember quoting Straight that particular passage, but thinking about it cut into his melancholy. For a moment he actually wondered what it would be like to be a Christian. He’d been obsessing about the subversives, listening to his New Testament over and over, trying to penetrate their thinking. What was it that made a person reach toward God? Adversity—well, he had that in spades—though for people like Andy Pass and Paul’s father there was no excuse. Now, as an exercise, he tried to put himself in their shoes.
If I were my father, reaching toward God, what would I expect to get? What would be in it for me? Sullenly, feeling foolish, Paul invoked the words of the letter, If I am seeking the truth, what will I find? Will God show himself to me? Will I experience a love transcending all earthly gifts? Will accepting it be the most fulfilling decision of my life?
He willed himself to believe it, to surrender—just for an instant. Then he snapped himself out of the spell, feeling impossibly foolish. His face felt so hot he believed it would look bright red in the mirror. If he could see.
He cleared his throat to shake his embarrassment. “Uh, Straight, you know I could still get you a ticket to the ceremony. You’d like to see the White House, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, no, no. Now you just have a wonderful time with your father-in-law. I’ve got plenty of things to do.”
At the monthly event where the regional governor bestowed various awards, Paul sat on the platform with his father-in-law on his left and Bob Koontz on his right.
Following nearly a dozen awards to athletes, young people, and citizens’ groups, the governor said, “We have saved our most prestigious honor for last. In March, Dr. Paul Stepola, an operative with the National Peace Organization, was severely injured in the line of duty, requiring skin grafts for his burns and costing him his sight. He was charging into a fire set by terrorists, giving no thought for his own safety, to rescue one of Gulfland’s most prominent citizens. An explosion nearly killed him.”
Beside Paul, Ranold stirred, as if jutting out his chest. Then when his father-in-law was introduced and asked to bring Paul to the lectern, he could feel the older man quiver.
“For valor in the face of danger, it is my great honor to present to Dr. Paul Stepola the Pergamum Medal.”
Paul heard cameras clicking and basked in the applause and cheering. Ranold led him back to his chair, where Paul listened to the governor finish the festivities with a ten-minute speech on the supremacy of the state. He concluded: “For generations the world lauded people, personalities, individuals. Some were deified. We should rejoice that we live in a world that has evolved intellectually to where we recognize that the state reigns. Long live the United Seven States of America! Long live the Columbia Region! Long live the free state!”
After the festivities Ranold took Paul’s arm and steered him to the Rose Garden. It was as if Ranold wanted to be seen with him, to show him off. So it was never the letter at all. He really thought I had proved myself. Still feeling useless, Paul marveled again at the new respect his injury had kindled in his father-in-law.
“I don’t think it ever impressed me how this place smelled,” Paul said. “I can point to the flowers from here, just from the fragrance. Tell me how the rest looks.”
Ranold didn’t answer except to say, “Oh, good.” Then he pulled Paul close and whispered, “There’s someone here I want you to meet.”
He moved ahead a little too quickly, and Paul nearly stumbled. He was just regaining his balance when Ranold introduced him. “Paul, here’s a rising star at the Washington NPO bureau. Agent Balaam has been coming on strong with the Zealot Underground task force.”
A large bony hand gripped his. Paul was astonished when the voice was a woman’s. Her warm breath hit him full in the face, so she had to be at least his height.
“Congratulations on your award, Agent Stepola.”
“I’ve come to appreciate Agent Balaam for the creative interventions she’s come up with to cripple the leadership of our local Christian terrorists.”
“Interventions?”
“You wouldn’t believe how much ground that movement has gained,” the woman said. “Your Gulfland fires, I’m sorry to say, have helped them recruit.”
&
nbsp; My Gulfland fires?
“So we’ve been training our sights on the heads of local cells. In some cases we’ve sent a signal that it’s unhealthy to be a Christian.”
Paul hated her voice. Am I threatened that she’s a woman? jealous that she’s working when I can’t? envious that she’s Ranold’s protégé? No, it was her smug self-satisfaction that got under Paul’s skin.
“This will make you feel good,” Ranold whispered. “Last week we had an accident at Asclepian Zoo. An after-hours visitor on some kind of a drug trip happened to climb the wrong fence and was killed by a giant python.”
“That’s horrible,” Paul said.
“Normally it would be, except in this case it meant one less terrorist. The occasional well-timed accident can be a very effective tool. This one’s thrown a scare into plenty of believers, according to our moles.”
“We’ve got operatives planted at both the Smithsonian and the Library of Congress,” Ms. Balaam said. “It won’t be long before we get a grip on the terrorist cells there. They’re not going to gain a foothold.”
“See, Paul, there will definitely be work for you in the agency,” Ranold said, “whether or not you regain your vision. The battle is heating up. These people have been proliferating right under our noses.”
Despite the law, despite the dangers . . .
On the way to the airport, as planned, Straight took Paul to the Dover Inn, one of Paul’s favorite lunch places. Paul waited on a wooden bench while Straight parked. He smelled Angela before he heard her—rainwater and lavender.
She took his hand. “I’d have recognized you anywhere,” she said.
He was struck by the lyrical quality of her voice. “What would you have done if I had not been the only blind man here?”
“Well, this is the first time I’ve seen you in wraparound shades, but the rest of you is memorable enough.”
The three enjoyed a casual lunch, laughing and reminiscing about Angela’s father. She discreetly waited to bring up the letter until it was time to leave for the airport and Straight had gone to get the car. “Here’s that ink sample,” she said. “Though I don’t suppose you’ve been able to do much more with that memorial project since you’ve been hurt.”
“No, but I’ve been giving it a tremendous amount of thought. I really appreciated your analyst’s report. It opened my eyes—pardon the expression.” Angela giggled and brushed his hand. Paul turned up his palm and clasped hers. “That’s probably my first blind joke. But seriously, it’s been a great morale booster, as well as a pleasure, to be with you today.”
“The pleasure is mutual. It’s been a while since I’ve been out to lunch with an attractive man.”
“I want to tell you something.” What am I doing? “Is there anyone within earshot or am I talking too loudly?”
“There’s no one nearby. I’m the only one who can hear you.”
“This is highly irregular for me,” Paul said, “but I just want to mention that government agencies sometimes scrutinize their own backyards just as closely as they do the general public.”
“Is that right?”
“Some even plant moles at places like the Library of Congress. A subversive cell would have difficulty thriving too close to Big Brother.”
Angela sounded amused. “So if I’ve been using my lunch hour to plot the overthrow of the government, I’d better be careful—is that what you’re saying?”
“Well—”
“Don’t worry.” She gave her musical laugh. “Here comes your friend. Hi, Mr. Rathe!”
14
PAUL DECIDED ADRENALINE must have kept him going through his first full day out of the house. Waiting for takeoff in a first-class aisle seat next to Straight, he was exhausted and claustrophobic. It didn’t help that Straight mentioned the plane was full. Paul turned down a preflight drink and sat with his chin tucked to his chest, trying to doze. His reverie was interrupted by an announcement that weather in Chicago would delay their departure.
“Daley International is experiencing heavy thunderstorms,” the captain reported. “So, folks, let’s just relax. We want to see which way the front’s going to move. Then we’ll file our flight plan and get cleared for takeoff.”
Relax? Paul felt his pulse and respiration increase. He tried to slow them by rehashing the visit in his mind—the awards ceremony, Ranold’s pride, meeting that up-and-coming Washington agent in the Rose Garden—but that just boosted his anxiety. His fear returned, and he had to stay focused—on Angela’s fragrance, her voice, her touch. Keep calm. Have faith.
But what was faith? Paul couldn’t deny the New Testament was having an effect on him. Jesus urged people to have faith, to believe in Him. Most atheists chose to believe He was a fictitious character, but Paul’s professors had been more generous. They allowed that He was a historical figure and perhaps a wise teacher, but needless to say, they scoffed at any claims of deity. He couldn’t be the Son of a God who did not exist.
And yet Paul had found Jesus’ teachings revolutionary, His pronouncements paradoxical. If you want to be exalted, humble yourself. If you want to be rich, give your money away. If you want to lead, serve. Somehow Paul was finding it harder and harder to dismiss the man as just a teacher. He claimed to be the Son of God, said He was sent by His Father and would return to His Father. He also said He would come back. The letters of the apostle Paul argued for the real reasons behind His death on the cross and treated the Resurrection—long since decried by skeptics—as historical fact.
Could it be? Paul had a vague recollection of a truth postulated by C. S. Lewis, a twentieth-century atheist scholar turned Christian. Something about how Jesus had to be one of three things: a liar, a lunatic, or who He claimed to be. You couldn’t have it two ways. You could not call Him a wise teacher unless you believed His claim to be the Lord of all.
Again Paul found himself playing at the edges of belief, ruminating on the what-ifs. His own father had clearly been a believer. Paul thought he knew enough of his dad’s character through his mother’s recollections. She never said he was stupid. And Paul knew beyond doubt that Andy Pass had been no intellectual lightweight. But when Paul allowed himself to consider that Jesus might have died for his sins, he found himself over-whelmed with grief.
Was he a sinner? He had been unfaithful to his wife. He had lied. He had been selfish, caring more for himself than for his family. He had killed people. The weight of it was too much. He did not remember suffering guilt before; he hardly even knew what it was.
Until now. He wanted to shake himself back to reality, to get out from under the awful shame by reminding himself that these were myths, fairy tales. Maybe this project, this new study for the sake of his NPO mission, had been a terrible mistake.
The plane had sat on the runway for more than an hour, making Paul even more agitated. He couldn’t mention any of this to Straight. Besides, from the sound of his breathing, the big man was dozing. Must be nice. Delays were unusual in the age of supersonic travel. Paul decided on a walk in the first-class section, counting the seats to keep his bearings.
The Smithsonian’s old National Air and Space Museum was Angela’s sons’ favorite place to visit. They spent many rainy Saturdays marveling at the Wright brothers’ boxy spruce-and-muslin plane—which the pilot had to fly lying flat on his belly—and the ancient Spirit of St. Louis, with its gas tanks up front so Lindbergh had to peer through a periscope to see ahead. At least the first manned spacecraft from eighty years before had windows so the astronauts could see where they were going. Angela’s favorite flying machine was the scarlet Breitling Orbiter balloon, the first to fly nonstop around the world just before the turn of the century, about six years before she was born.
She made her way past the quaint moon-rocks display and upstairs to the Albert Einstein Planetarium, which still boasted the old-fashioned Sky Vision shows. The shows made her sons impatient, accustomed as they were to the Spacetime Astronomy Center’s telescope turrets, made of
powerful magnifying lenses that seemed to thrust you physically into the cosmos. But she loved the digital-projection surround-sound system that was state of the art before the war, which gave the illusion of flying through an outer space echoing with dramatic music and swirling with supersaturated colors.
She bought a ticket for the three o’clock show and chose a place in an empty section. At that hour on a weekday, the theater was only half full—mostly tourists, she guessed. The magical star field was projected on the ceiling—inaccurate, they knew now, but still fascinating. It was no wonder that, from earliest times, human beings had looked for God in the heavens.
A couple entered, taking seats on each side of her. The three clasped hands and, as the powerful bass line of the soundtrack boomed, shared a silent prayer.
Angela whispered, “There may be a bust soon. That death at the zoo may be the beginning of a purge.”
“Who’s behind it?” the woman said. “Balaam?”
“I don’t know. But they’ve infiltrated.” Angela revealed Paul’s oblique warning.
“This guy pops up and warns you out of the blue?”
“He served under my father. He was in Washington to receive an award for being injured in the line of duty.”
“He’s got to be NPO. Angela, you need to get out of town. They may be watching you because of your father, but clearly you’re on their radar. Even this could be some kind of a trap, to see who you’ll try to warn.”
“I doubt that, but it makes sense for me to leave.”
“Get your kids and head out today,” the man said. “We’ll handle the school and work arrangements and make sure Detroit is ready for you.”
“And the book-drop operation . . . ?”
“Maybe we should hold off awhile—just till we see what this heat seems to be about. Whenever it’s safe to move, don’t worry about your part of it. We’ll get it covered.”
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