Meanwhile, the April sun poured down its benison. It was the sixteenth of the month: a Sunday. That conjunction defined Saint Toribio’s Jubilee Year, an especially propitious time to visit the Lignum Crucis. Woody had planned his whole European trip around this day. Chartres, Lourdes, Santiago de Compostela—all the other sites he had wanted to visit had been aligned on his itinerary to ensure his arrival now.
He coveted a moment of grace, an epiphanic instant to redeem and transfigure his life. And this place, he believed, offered the most potent possibilities.
Nothing in Woody’s life currently discomfited him. His health was fine. He had a fairly satisfying job, his own home, and access to many of the amusements offered by modern American culture: sports, film, music. He attended church regularly. (St. Jude’s, where Father James Tierney presided.) His parents, still alive and hale, exhibited all the signs of continuing so for many years.
But, at age thirty-three, Woody felt a persistent unease. His life struck him as circumscribed and unfulfilled. He had no romantic partner or any immediate prospects. High callings had eluded him; boyhood dreams of glory had faded; life stretched ahead as a long vista of unchanging days till the grave. A voice inside him demanded more, that he do something to tap and channel the limitlessness of God’s creation.
Thus, this pilgrimage.
With the help of a pretty travel agent—whom he had failed to ask for a date—he had composed this itinerary culminating at Saint Toribio in Lebanon.
The procession shuffled forward, and Woody, parch-mouthed, wished that he had bought a bottle of water before joining it. However, the stooped woman in front of him turned and, smiling, offered Woody a swig from her bottle. He accepted gratefully, and the line lurched forward.
At length, Woody passed through the Forgiveness Door and stood inside the church. Buttery light melted through the high windows, filling the capacious interior with a welcoming radiance. The unadorned stone pillars running in parallel rows led the eye upward to the cross-ribbed vaults. The air was infused with a sempiternal scent of incense and lost days. Murmurs from hundreds of souls made a muted cacophony that the vaults easily absorbed.
Inside the church the pilgrims had diffused—some to the apse containing the ancient wooden statue of Saint Toribio, others to the side chapel that held the True Cross, where they bunched eagerly outside the entrance.
Woody hesitated before heading toward them. Now that he was nearly in the presence of the True Cross, his hoped-for miracle awaited him. Or did it? What if he offered himself before the relic and received nothing? Where did such an outcome leave him: hopeless, with his life irrefutably barren? Or could he survive this disappointment and resume his old existence with only a mild pang?
Praying fervently, he walked toward the side chapel.
This piece of the True Cross allegedly derived from the left branch of the instrument of the Lord’s torture. Discovered by Saint Elena, the mother of Emperor Constantine, it had come under the care of Saint Toribio during his sojourn in Jerusalem. Fearing for the relic’s safety, he spirited it away to this mountain fastness in Spain, where millions had since venerated it. Nowadays it was plated in gold, but the darkened nail hole remained exposed.
Edging into the massed worshippers, Woody noticed the odor of many anxious, excited bodies, a scent that floated above the churchly musk. The crowd circulated forward slowly, as the people nearest the relic yielded to those behind. As he shuffled ahead, Woody intuited the carved ceiling of the chapel, a large hanging light fixture, and the larger reliquary containing the Lignum Crucis. Now only half the original distance separated him from the object of his veneration. He sought to calm his mind, to open his heart and soul for the descent of some celestial leavening—
Shouting. Improbably, someone was shouting harshly. Shouting strange words: an ancient invocation, anathema to this place.
A swarthy mustached man wearing a bulky jacket had bulled past a rope barrier and onto the raised, off-limits area of the reliquary. For one timeless moment, the man stood alone there, shouting, shouting—
“Allahu akhbar! Allahu akhbar—”
Several men rushed the terrorist, and women screamed, stampeding. The woman who had shared water with Woody went down as if under a juggernaut.
His mind blank, Woody stood transfixed.
And the universe exploded.
Steve Dresser ran the Grafton Center, a school for children suffering from autism and other learning disabilities. He found it hard to hire and retain teachers and aides for the demanding, frustrating, low-paying work. He hurried to land any skilled workers he could and then did all he could to retain them. Still, he had his doubts about bringing this particular teacher back onboard.
Dresser supposed that if the fellow was willing to exert himself to handle the job, he deserved a chance. If he failed, Dresser could dismiss him gently later, and he would still have his permanent disability stipend.
A knock sounded on the office door, and Dresser called, “C’mon in.”
Dresser hardly recognized his former employee. He walked with a cane. His face had been hollowed and sharpened with pain—grief— bafflement. One side of his skull, near his temple, bore a slight hairless depression. His gaze, once mild and lackadaisical, now had a piercing intensity.
Dresser stood and shook his hand. “Woody, have a seat. How’re you doing?”
Woody Payne sat down, his cane across his lap. A small St. Jude medal pinned to his sweater vest caught Dresser’s eye.
Woody fixed his old boss with a forthright look. “Just fine, Steve. I had my last scheduled surgery six months ago. Nothing but physical therapy from here on out. The doctors say I might be able to shuck the cane, eventually. I’m down to four meds, and I gave up my afternoon naps last week. I’m almost ready for a triathlon.”
Dresser smiled. “Hey, no Iron Man just yet. Take things slow, right?”
Woody’s own smile contained complex depths. “That’s just what I can’t do. If this experience has taught me anything, it’s that life’s too short to procrastinate. I need to make the most of the time given to me.”
“And this job’s what you want, even in light of your bmsh with death? I mean, it’s important, but it’s hardly saving the world.”
Woody leaned forward. “Saving the world isn’t in the cards for me. I realize that now. I couldn’t save anyone at Saint Toribio—not even myself. It was only chance or divine intervention that spared us survivors. I know some people change radically after undergoing something like that. But I just want to pick up the pieces of my old life, go back to what I was good at—but more intensely. I can’t just sit around the house. I need to get back to my kids.”
“Okay—I guess. You can have your old class back on Monday. There are a few new faces, but you’ll recognize most. They remember you. The higher-functioning ones have been asking for Mister Payne for months.”
With the aid of his cane Woody rose. “I really appreciate this, Steve. I won’t let you down.”
Dresser accompanied Woody to the door. “One last thing, Woody—”
Woody fingered the depression in his skull. “No need to be embarrassed. You’re wondering about my mental abilities, right? Never fear. I’ve got some shrapnel up here. The docs didn’t want to operate to remove it—too tricky. Said it was fine where it was. All the tests agreed: nothing but a splinter. You know those clumsy carpenters who shoot themselves in the head with a nail gun and survive? That’s me! Still the same old Woody.”
Dresser touched his shoulder. “Okay, then. Welcome back.”
The classroom smelled of chalk, paste, and pencil shavings, as well as of vomit and urine. The children, ranging in age from five to twelve, often had accidents. Most were boys. Many could perform none of the traditional classroom activities. Others could do some. A few could do more. Being with these children, tending to their needs, pushing them to fulfill their potential, required a special kind of person.
As soon as he limped through
the door, Woody felt at home.
A blond boy with a large, lopsided head tore himself from a young aide named Holly Cupp and dashed over to clutch Woody’s leg.
“Missa Payne! Missa Payne!”
Woody patted his head. “That’s my name, Cole—don’t wear it out”
Cole cackled at the familiar joke. Woody gently disengaged and went over to Holly Cupp.
Holly favored patterned clothes: stripes, dots, paisleys, checks, pineapples and cows. Woody had rarely seen her wear a monochrome garment She dressed her brown hair into a floppy fountain perpetually geysering atop her crown. Her glasses resembled those worn by Woody’s octogenarian Aunt Helen.
Holly beamed. “Good to have you back, Woody.”
“It’s good—no, it’s great to be back. How’s everything?”
“Well, Florence finally managed to master Legos. You should see some of the wild things she’s built Burt’s on a helpful new med. Cole here is drawing up a storm. We’ve got four new kids—I’ll tell you all about them in a minute. And oh yeah, Pawpaw had a new litter.”
Woody looked over at the terrarium sheltering the class’s guinea-pig colony. He scented the animals. “Getting kinda crowded in there, isn’t it?”
“I’m working on finding some foster homes for the new ones. But the kids really love seeing the babies.”
Woody sighed. “If you say so. Introduce me to the new guys.” The morning passed in a blur of activity. Woody had little time to think, which suited him fine. He had already thought more than enough about what had happened to him.
In the hospital, after regaining consciousness, Woody had weighed his Spanish disaster. Having gone openhearted to a new land, a holy place, following his faith and expecting a miracle, he had instead met hatred, violence, and destruction.
At first he was fiercely angry, cursing both mankind and God. After many tears and imprecations, he entered a period of feeling utterly drained and colorless. A dawning realization, however, succeeded this emotional slough.
After all, he had gotten his miracle. It just hadn’t taken the form he had assumed it would: much more cataclysmic, with daunting collateral damage and wasted lives, but a miracle nonetheless. Here the old adage, “God works in mysterious ways,” supplied the only possible comfort
Woody meditated on the bombing’s lessons and eventually, with Father Tierney’s help, reached an accommodation with his personal history. The feelings he had divulged to Steve Dresser came to dominate his outlook. He even experienced transitory twinges of forgiveness for the bomber. Nothing had happened as he had expected. This, in itself, offered immense room for growth.
By early afternoon of his first day, the children all fed and down for naps, Woody was exhausted. He ate lunch alone, distractedly mulling the morning’s activities, things he planned for later, adjustments in his approaches based on what he had encountered. When the day resumed with some mild gym activity, Woody felt sufficiently refreshed to imagine surviving to quitting time.
But as he tossed a big lightweight ball among a trio of children, Holly dispelled his calm: “Woody, quick! Josh is seizing!” He rushed over to a mat where she cradled a thrashing skinny dark-haired boy in shorts and t-shirt.
“Get the nurse!” Woody’s dashed cane clattered away as he dropped to his knees and took the boy’s galvanic body in his arms.
Instantly the boy’s spasms ceased. His egg-white eyes rolled back to normal register and focused on Woody’s face. “Mister Payne—what’s wrong?”
“Josh—you’re okay?”
Josh broke free and jumped up. He threw his arms ceilingward like a triumphant athlete, grinning broadly. “Okay? I feel great!”
Holly returned from her aborted errand.
Woody extended a hand and said, “Help me up?”
Eyes wide, Holly reached down slowly, as if fearful of his touch.
Father James Tierney loved to read. Tottering piles of books filled every flat surface in his study. Woody had to clear off a chair in order to sit.
The white-haired priest brought Woody a beer. His hand exhibited a small palsy. “Here, son. You probably need this.”
Although Woody was not supposed to mix alcohol with his meds, he slugged the beer anyway.
Father Tiemey sat. “Let’s consider this matter calmly. You seem more rational than when you called me earlier.” He tented his fingers. “You still think you performed a miracle today upon this boy? Such a claim is no small matter.”
“I don’t know. All I can say is, he’s never come out of a seizure like that before.”
“We’re not doctors, Woodrow. We don’t know what’s possible. Isn’t it plausible that some seizures could be shorter and milder than others? You may’ve intervened just as he was about to snap out of it anyway.”
“He didn’t look ready to snap out of it.”
The father shrugged. “How clearly do we see during stressful moments?”
“I—I don’t know. It’s just that—” Woody fingered the depression in his skull.
“I thought we’d worked through that idle speculation, Woodrow. There’s no way to positively identify that splinter in your brain. Out of all the flying debris that horrible day, to assume you received such a special piece—no, it’s too unlikely. And even if we could be sure that a fragment of the True Cross had lodged in your brain, what of it? The Lignum Crucis is the holiest of relics, but no more than that It’s blasphemous to imagine you could receive mystical powers from mere proximity to the holy rood. The legacy of Jesus doesn’t inhere in mere common matter.”
Woody frowned: proximity was an awfully bland word for the intimacy of the contact between his brain and the unknown splinter.
The week after Josh’s seizure, Cole had a birthday party. Everyone, even the most severely impaired children, sensed the day’s excitement. Cake and juice awaited them after naptime.
Cole could not stop exclaiming, “Cake’n hoose, cake’n hoose!”
Woody had provided all this fare himself. Such out-of-pocket expenses marked the teacher’s life.
Holly tied on bibs. She shuffled paper plates and sippy cups as Woody sliced and poured. After some confusion, they had all the children served and enjoying their treats. Holly dabbed spills and cleaned faces. Woody turned back to the desk where the cake rested, to clear away the leftovers.
The cake remained whole, uncut. The plastic juice jug showed full.
Woody pushed everything off the desk and into the trash. He shoved the cake box atop the mess to hide it.
Would the cake reform intact beneath the box? Would it, in fact, remain pristine in the landfill, ready to be excavated a thousand years hence?
Holly approached Woody. “Got a slice for me?”
“Sorry—nothing left.”
Holly stood dumbfounded. “But I thought—’’
Something in Woody’s expression stayed her tongue.
On this weekday, the interior of St. Jude’s church held no one but Woody. Father Tierney had let him in and, at his request, departed.
Woody knelt in a pew and prayed. There was a cross on the wall, of course, but a thoroughly modem one. The atmosphere carried no scent of antiquity.
He prayed for many hours, the light growing dim, darkness flooding in, then light returning, until at last he knew.
“Holly, would you run this form to the front office?”
“Sure.”
Once Holly had gone, Woody gathered the children on the floor around him. In the knot of warm bodies, some contorted, he spread his arms as if to embrace them all. The children sat unmoving during this strange new ritual.
“Dear Lord,” he prayed aloud, “please drive the demons out of these children.”
From the guinea pig cage arose a commotion. Furry bodies thumped against the glass. One wall of the terrarium shattered, sending glass to the floor. The agitated guinea pigs, young and old, ran en masse down the countertop toward the open window, crashed through the screen, and plummeted three stories.
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br /> Woody looked back at the stunned children, their eyes bright and focused, their crazed limbs, if any, now whole.
“Mister Payne,” said Cole. “The guinea pigs all jumped. Shouldn’t we go see about them? They could be hurt.”
“No, Cole,” Woody said. “I’m not done yet.”
Common wisdom has it that a beginning writer seeks to emulate his literary favorites. Only by so doing can he or she ultimately achieve a unique voice. While this observation is certainly, demonstrably true, it is also false, insofar as it seems to imply that there comes a point where a “mature” writer no longer has any models uppermost in his mind when starting a new story. Each writer is supposed to be a nonpareil, guided only by his unexampled vision.
If so, then I am far from a “mature” writer. For I often choose to be inspired by the writers whose work I admire, deliberately modeling a story on what I perceive to be their style and virtues and concerns. (Heck, that’s what my entire collection titled Lost Pages is all about!) Like an evangelical wearing a “What Would Jesus Do?” wristband, I don and remove similar invisible wristbands all the time. “What Would Pynchon Do?” “What Would Faulkner Do?” “What Would Heinlein Do?” And so on.
Anyway, aside from the obvious inspiration to be found in the Hurricane Katrina/New Orleans disaster, the impetus for this story stems from wanting to emulate or borrow the admirable mind of Lucius Shepard.
As I once titled a review of Lucius’s work, “The Shepard is my Lord!”
FEMAVILLE 29
La Palma is a tiny mote in the Canary Islands, a mote that had certainly never intruded into my awareness before one fateful day. On La Palma, five hundred billion tons of rock in the form of an unstable coastal plateau awaited a nudge, which they received when the Cumbre Vieja volcano erupted. Into the sea a good portion of the plateau plunged, a frightful hammer of the gods.
Harsh Oases Page 26