“Ikea? That’s a big store to miss.”
“I know,” she laughed. “Can you tell that I’m new in town?”
“I can tell that I’d love to take you out for dinner.”
Mary gave him a smile, but not her number.
“Just head south on Columbia,” he said. “It’ll be on your right.”
“Thanks, uh . . .”
“Corwin,” he offered. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Mary. Nice to meet you, Corwin.”
As her car pulled away, Corwin rushed back under the awning where his lanky friend Josh had been waiting, sipping coffee from a paper cup and watching the scene with some amusement. Corwin didn’t stay long.
“Hey, where are you going?” called Josh.
“I just remembered that I’m urgently in need of a new end table!”
He caught up with her halfway through the labyrinthine furniture store, near where weary shoppers went to rest and recharge like families at Disney World, sating their hunger with hot plates of Swedish meatballs and chicken tenders. She was staring holes through a collection of colorful throw rugs.
“I like the green one, myself,” said Corwin. “It really brings out your eyes.”
Mary turned, her look playfully accusing.
“I’d say it’s a small world, but it’s not that small.”
“Do you like brownies—I mean the super gooey, fudgy kind—because I happen to know of this one place . . .”
Swept up in the memory, Corwin lost all track of time. A wistful smile crept onto his face. In many ways, Mary was his polar opposite. Upbeat and stubbornly traditional, she was prone to letting her emotions guide her, a trait that sometimes infuriated Corwin when he tried to talk matters of faith or lack thereof. Reckless as a wildfire, she was the kindest, most interesting and most beautiful person that he had ever met, and he missed her deeply.
“Ahem,” Ransom cleared his throat, dragging his client back to the present. “Your three causes?”
“Yes, well, they’re three hopes really,” said Corwin, regaining his composure, “and they address the question of why ordinary people pursue religious faith, not the deceitful use of religion by certain kings or clergy.”
“Misuse, I would say, but go on.”
“First, people turn to religion because they hope for knowledge. Second, people turn to religion because they hope for purpose. And third, people turn to religion because they hope for justice.”
“Knowledge, purpose and justice,” repeated Ransom. “That should give us plenty to start with.”
A driving wind, black as pitch, howled outside the glass, rattling the windows and smothering the stars. The room’s halogen lights flickered nervously.
“Now let’s go,” said the angel. “This place won’t be safe for long.”
5
The Longest Night
Beyond the classroom, the building loomed dark and deserted. Walls of stone muffled the wind and clapped with the echoes of their footsteps upon the glossy tiles.
“What do you mean ‘this place won’t be safe’?” asked Corwin as he hurried after the dim beacon that was his attorney’s cigarette. “What’s going on?”
“Never mind that,” Ransom replied without slowing. “I’m more interested in why your essay omitted the fear of death. Many atheists are happy to blame religion on man’s mortality and call it a day.”
“It’s not that they’re wrong, but endless life could also mean Hell. People want more than that. They want the things that make life worthwhile, things like peace, fulfillment and happiness.”
“And do you think that you would have been happier, had you believed in God?”
“No, I don’t,” answered Corwin, who had never held much regard for the sort of atheists who said things like “I wish I could believe” when confronted by apologists. “Ignorance isn’t bliss.”
He tensed visibly, his memory dredging up a vision long buried.
“So are you going to tell me what happened?” prodded Kevin Holiday. “Did Danny give you trouble again?”
The evening had darkened, but sitting in the car with his father, there was no hiding the puffy red welt that had formed beneath Corwin’s left eye. He still wore his cleats and uniform, his jersey damp with sweat from practice.
“He couldn’t get the ball past me all day,” boasted Corwin. “You should have seen how red his face got! In the bathroom after practice, he said he was going to teach me a lesson. I put my guard up like you told me. He still got one punch in, but I nailed him pretty hard in the nose!”
“I’m gonna have to have a talk with that coach,” said Kevin.
“No, Dad! You can’t! I can handle this.”
“You boys are supposed to be a team. If Coach Mason can’t keep you from each other’s throats, I’m pulling you out of there.”
“Danny isn’t so bad. After I hit him, he told me that I punch really good. He hopes that we’re on the same team next practice.”
Kevin suppressed a chuckle. Can’t stop boys from being boys, he figured. Beating each other up one day, best friends the next.
“Well I’ll let it go for now, but good luck explaining that bruise to your mom.”
Corwin’s spirit sank like the Titanic. Dad might understand, but stopping his mother from making a fuss would be a battle of a whole different order.
“You hungry?” his father asked.
“Starving!”
“How does a bacon cheeseburger sound?”
“And a hot fudge sundae?”
“You drive a hard bargain, Mister.”
Kevin turned towards the nearest McDonald’s and cranked up the air conditioner. Though the hour wasn’t late, the streets here were already asleep. He stopped at a needless red light, no passing traffic to be seen.
From between two buildings a woman dashed, tawny hair flying out behind her. Seeing their car, she ran out onto the road.
“Help!” she shouted, waving her hands hysterically.
Kevin lowered the windows as she pounded on the passenger-side door.
“You’ve got to help me!”
“Calm down,” urged Kevin. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Someone’s chasing me! Please, just get me out of here!”
Peering past her, back towards the alley, Corwin’s father searched for some sign of her assailant, but if he was out there, he wasn’t showing himself. The night was still, the shadows silent. Kevin popped the locks.
“Climb in the back. We’ll take you someplace safe and you can call the cops.”
“I don’t think so,” rumbled a harsh voice.
Kevin’s gaze snapped to his left, finding the barrel of a revolver pointed straight at him. Poised outside his window was a man with chrome teeth and a headscarf.
“Get out of the car!”
“Alright,” said Kevin. “Just take it easy.”
A thousand thoughts and fears raced through his mind as he unbuckled his seatbelt, looked at his son and opened the door. The woman had dropped the act and Corwin was shocked silent.
“Don’t worry, Corwin. It’s going to be okay.”
Jittering impatiently, the thug thrust his gun closer.
“Get the fuck out!” he hollered. “Now!”
His accomplice grabbed Corwin’s hair and dragged him from the car. She held him at a distance with one arm wrapped around his neck.
“Just let the boy go!” pleaded Kevin as he stood, his hands raised.
In response, the carjacker pistol-whipped him across the jaw.
“Dad!” cried Corwin.
“Give me your wallet!” the thug demanded. “And your phone!”
With blood’s coppery taste on his lips, Kevin reached into his pocket. Got to keep it together. The barrel came level with his forehead, the gun’s owner glaring.
“I don’t think I like the way that you’re looking at me.”
A frightful rage seized Corwin. Tucking his chin, he bit the woman’s arm. Her
grip flew loose with a scream.
“You little shit!”
As Corwin sprinted towards his father, the anxious carjacker panicked. His revolver swung in the boy’s direction—a sight Kevin couldn’t abide.
“Corwin, no!”
Even with Corwin’s enhanced memory, the next moment was hard to picture. There was a shout, a twisting blur of bodies, and a gunshot.
“Carlos, what the fuck are you doing!?” yelled the woman.
Pale-faced, the thug withdrew a step, eyes flitting, hunting for witnesses that he hoped not to find. His accomplice was already fleeing the scene. Abandoning all thought of the car or the wallet, he turned and ran.
Corwin’s father lay on his side, a scarlet blotch forming around the place where he clutched his stomach. Corwin flung himself down beside him.
“Dad! Dad!”
Several windows in the surrounding buildings brightened. Soon Corwin heard the sirens, saw the red and blue flashing of emergency lights.
“If anything else comes to you, just give us a call,” said the officer, an Asian woman whose face was easy to trust. “Every little detail helps.”
The police departed, giving Corwin and his mother some time alone. His father had been rushed down the hall to the ER. All they could do now was pray. But was God really listening? Maybe his mother knew. Maybe that’s what she was doing as she stared mutely into her lap, her body and mind drawn inwards like a turtle retreating behind its shell.
Corwin slid one of his hands towards her and she took it without a word or a glance. It crossed his mind that he ought perhaps to say something, but he didn’t know what. The past hour of questioning had left him mentally exhausted.
On the hospital waiting room’s TV, two talking heads bloviated over the latest piece of controversial legislation. Corwin didn’t understand the politics, but he understood the hurling of blame, and his mind began to play a cruel game of if-onlys.
If only I hadn’t wanted to stop for dinner . . . If only I hadn’t broken free from that woman’s grasp . . . Dad’s life might not be in danger right now.
A doctor with dark circles under his eyes stepped into the room.
“Mrs. Holiday?”
Eager for news, Corwin and his mother quickly stood to join him.
“Is Kevin going to be alright?” asked Samantha.
“Fortunately the bullet missed your husband’s stomach. We were able to remove it and stop the bleeding. His condition is stable.”
The doctor’s words were encouraging, but his expression severe.
What is he not saying? wondered Corwin.
“Thank God!” Samantha squeezed her son’s shoulder. “When can we see him?”
“He’s still under anesthesia, but you’ll be able to talk to him soon. Before that, there’s something else you need to know.”
Corwin’s mother picked up on the note of apprehension in his voice.
“Was there some problem?”
“When we went in, the bullet wasn’t the only thing that we found.” The doctor paused for a breath and his weary eyes softened. “Mrs. Holiday, I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but your husband has pancreatic cancer.”
6
When Science is Silent
“My dad was a good man, a good father,” said Corwin. “The cancer took everything from him. It tore at him from the inside, until even the simplest tasks were so painful that he couldn’t get out of bed. He couldn’t eat without vomiting. His skin lost its color and he became so thin that you’d think he was a prisoner at Auschwitz. What did he ever do to deserve a death like that?
“It hurts to think that he’s gone and not in some better place, but when I do think back, at least I don’t have to tell myself that it was all part of some vain deity’s twisted plan.”
“So instead of a heartless God, you chose a heartless universe,” surmised Ransom. “And that made you happy?”
“I never said I was happy.”
“It is well that you didn’t.” The angel took one last drag and flicked his cigarette, its twirling filter burning down to a solitary ember before meeting the floor. “No sane man comes to the conclusion that there is no Heaven and is happy about it.”
“Though he might take some consolation in the thought of no Hell,” Corwin retorted.
He glanced back at the classroom’s lonely glow. The hallway stretched farther than it had any right to. More than once, he felt as though unseen eyes were watching him. A chill prickled the back of his neck and a scratch sounded from the shadows. His gaze swung to the windowed door of Room 213. Something flitted past the desks, or perhaps it was nothing, a sputtering cough of his dying mind.
“Care to tell me where we’re headed?”
“We’ve got a long journey ahead, and it begins where your essay begins: with knowledge.”
“As long as knowledge takes us someplace else,” Corwin said anxiously. “There’s just something about an abandoned school . . .”
“Schools, like temples, are places of culture and ritual,” spoke Ransom. “In these halls, the young undergo rites of passage. And just as sound may leave an echo, or light an afterimage, the spirit, too, can linger in its way.”
“Next you’re going to tell me that ghosts are real.”
“Heights, hospitals, abandoned buildings . . . For a materialist, you certainly have a lot of phobias. Why should mere bricks and mortar invoke any feeling in you at all?”
“Even I have an imagination!” protested Corwin. “Nobody thinks empirically all the time.”
“Sadly, there are those pitiable souls who, looking at the world, see only math and never magic. Such an existence sounds dreadfully dull.”
“Not so dull as living under the medieval edicts of an anal-retentive god.”
Accepting the barb with a grin, Ransom let the matter drop.
“You say that man hopes for knowledge. What kind of knowledge?”
“Knowledge about our world, about the universe.”
“You mean the physical universe?”
“I know of no other universe,” attested Corwin. “Man seeks to understand why the sun rises and sets, why lightning strikes, why droughts or floods ruin the harvest. When primitive peoples desired such knowledge, but lacked the scientific means to grasp it, they turned to religion. God conveniently fills in the gaps.”
“Fair enough, but must it be either-or?” pressed Ransom. “Can not both gravity and God’s will account for why a tree falls in the forest?”
“Believers like to say that, but they’re quick to forget should the tree happen to fall on their house. And the point is that god isn’t necessary. We can explain the universe without him. With each step forward that science takes, religion’s absurd claims are forced to retreat further.”
“As is proper. Barring the miraculous, to clash with proven science is a sure sign of false religious thought.”
“But can’t you see the writing on the wall? The gaps that your god fills grow ever smaller and more insignificant.”
“You misunderstand. The Father is not a God of the gaps. He is not some invisible actor in nature, but rather the reason why nature exists at all—why there is something rather than nothing.”
“The ultimate retreat!” declared Corwin. “But if god is beyond nature, then he cannot be observed or studied. He is unknowable, and therefore irrelevant.”
“You speak as if science is man’s only means to gain understanding.”
“All true understanding is scientific understanding.”
“I wonder,” mused Ransom, his thoughts drifting off.
At the gloomy hallway’s end, Corwin squinted to make out an oddly-fashioned door. Instead of a doorknob, an iron wheel protruded from its center. The angel gave it a firm twist. Metal squeaked, the wheel locking soundly into position with a clunk. As Ransom pried the heavy door open, pale light poured into the corridor. He motioned to Corwin.
“After you.”
The passage on the other side was scarcely
wide enough to fit one man abreast, and so they proceeded in single file. Steel walls were interrupted by hatch-like doors with cables and pipes hugging the ceiling. Corwin felt a subtle sway in the floor and heard Ransom’s voice over his shoulder.
“Our destination is straight ahead.”
“Where are we?”
“A nuclear submarine in the North Pacific. You could say we’re surrounded by twenty-thousand tons of science.”
A crewman approached from one of the side passages. Seeing Corwin and Ransom, he halted and snapped a salute.
“Captain,” came the man’s greeting.
It was only then that Corwin noticed the stripes on his sleeve. His cashmere coat had been replaced with a beige suit jacket. For a confusing moment he stood slack-jawed, but a nudge from Ransom prodded him onward.
“Me? I’m the captain?” he asked in a panicked whisper.
“Sounds like a lot of responsibility.”
“But this isn’t reality!”
“It may not be your reality, but that doesn’t mean that this world isn’t real.”
Corwin regarded his attorney, who was now his first mate, with a puzzled look.
“We can discuss reality later,” said Ransom. “Right now, it seems that your presence is urgently required in the control room.”
The narrow passage let out into a chamber with a low ceiling and instrument panels crowding the walls. A half-dozen officers manned their stations, one of them with a low-frequency radio in hand.
“Captain, it’s Admiral Harrison.”
Corwin stepped around the periscope that plunged through the center of the room and hesitantly took the brick-shaped radio piece.
“Hello?”
“The President has authorized the strike,” informed a gravelly voice on the other end of the line. “You should be receiving the launch codes now. Proceed immediately with operation Overkill.”
“Wait, what?”
“You have your orders, Captain.”
With a click, the admiral was gone. A bewildered Corwin stood staring into space, radio static droning in his ear. As the terminal beside him spat out a string of letters and digits, his first mate sprang to action.
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