The Man He Never Was

by James L. Rubart

  “I’m not going anywhere with that guy. I’m going somewhere with Levi.”

  “Where are you going with Levi?”

  Sloane shifted her weight. “I told Colton and Callie about the birdhouses. Callie seems more excited about them than Colton, but I still think he’s secretly looking forward to seeing what you come up with.”

  “Tentative plans, huh? Isn’t that what you said? Not so tentative now, are they?” Toren ground his teeth together. “You and him and my son and my daughter, huh?”

  “Do you really want to get into this right here? Right now?”

  Toren stared over her shoulder at Levi as the man seemed to be teaching Callie a new handshake that involved fist bumps and making their hands into birds. Her laughter sliced across Toren’s heart like a serrated blade.

  “Often? The four of you? You go out often together?” Both hands inside his jeans turned into fists.

  “Thanks again for building them, Toren. We’ll be back in about three hours.”

  With that, Sloane turned and sauntered to her car. The one he’d bought for her and surprised her with four years ago on a wet Christmas morning.

  By noon he’d finished the first of three two-story birdhouses. By one the second was finished. At this pace he’d have the third done by the time Sloane and the kids and the guy stealing his family got back from wherever they’d gone to. What had Sloane said? Three hours? Half an hour to go before he’d watch the four of them shatter his life into even more pieces than it already was.

  Do not go there!

  He pushed the thoughts from his mind and focused on the final birdhouse. No one said reentry would be easy. She didn’t love the guy. She couldn’t.

  Toren centered the roof of the final birdhouse on its four walls and set the first nail. On the second smack of the hammer the wood split. Ruined. A moment later, thoughts of Sloane with Levi overwhelmed him, and the darkness lurking inside him erupted.

  A guttural scream roared out of him as he swung the hammer in a wide arc and brought it down on the birdhouse with all his strength. The wood splintered as he brought the hammer down on the house again. And again. And again.

  Seconds later the rage had vanished and Toren slumped to the floor of the garage, head in hands, willing himself to forget what had just happened. It wasn’t real. It was a dream. He hadn’t lost it. That was impossible. He was the man he’d discovered at the octagon.

  He shifted onto his knees and reached for the pieces. Had to clean up before Sloane and the kids and Levi got back. Couldn’t let her see this and start asking questions. As he reached for the piece closest to him, a low sigh split the air. He looked up.

  Sloane.

  Standing just inside the garage door, her eyes not angry, but unquenchably sad.

  “How long?”

  “Plenty. Long. Enough.” She raised her head to the ceiling, gave a tiny shake of her head, and walked back into the house.

  CHAPTER 37

  “Let it go, Toren.”

  “How can I let go of the fact I blew up any progress, any chance I had with Sloane?”

  “You can’t be certain of that,” Eden said.

  “The look in her eyes told me everything I need to know.” Toren pressed his knuckles against his forehead. “I want to kill that part of me. I have to. Show me how. If you know, you have to show me how.”

  Toren sat with Eden in the northwest side of the octagon, gazing out over the water. A hard wind kicked up whitecaps, and few boats had ventured out.

  “What is love, Toren?”

  “What does that have to do with Sloane and me?” He scowled.

  “I won’t mock your emotional or intellectual intelligence by answering that question.” Eden glared at him. “What is love, Toren?”

  “God.”

  “Love takes no offense at one’s actions. If something is done wrong, no account of it is recorded. Can love ever be provoked? Impossible. Love is kind. Always. Love is patient. Always. Love believes all things, endures all things, hopes for all things. Always.”

  Eden leaned in toward Toren. “You cannot overcome evil with evil. The only way to overcome evil is with good, with love.”

  “Yeah, sure, ’cause that’s such a gosh darn easy thing to do.”

  “It will not be possible for you to love Sloane until you love the person you find the most impossible to love.”

  “You’re talking about the degenerate who held the greatest three people he’s ever known in the palm of his hand and lost them because he’s an idiot of epic proportion.”

  “That’s quite a descriptive self-assessment.”

  “The shoe fits nice and snug.”

  “We’ll see.” Eden sat back in her chair and took a sip of the hot tea she’d prepared. “Yes, Toren, we will see.”

  “Then who am I if not the person I just described?”

  Eden turned back to him, her eyes bright. “That is the good news. You are dead. As am I. We have been crucified with Christ, and we no longer live, but Christ lives in us. The life we now live in this flesh?” Eden plucked her arm and frowned. “We live it by faith in the Son of God.”

  “You have something against yourself?”

  “This body?” Eden laughed and plucked at her arm again. “This isn’t me. It’s decaying. Soon it will be dust.”

  “What do you mean it’s not you? Looks exactly like you.”

  “These are just molecules formed in a particular way for an infinitely short amount of time that we call a body. Paul called them tents.” Eden patted her knees. “So temporary! Just costumes we put on for a flash till we take them off forever. You are not your body at all.”

  “Yeah, I kind of get it, but if I’m not this”—Toren thumped his fists against his chest—“then what am I?”

  “Think of a jar of peanut butter. The jar isn’t the peanut butter, is it? When someone says, ‘I think I’m going to make a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, I’d better get the peanut butter,’ they’re not really thinking about the jar. Yes, the jar holds the peanut butter, so they might picture the container in their mind, but what they really mean is they’re going to get what’s inside the jar and spread it on their multigrain bread. So when you ask what you really are, don’t think about the container, then ask yourself the question again.”

  “I’m . . .” Toren couldn’t find the words. “This jar seems pretty important while we’re here.” He flexed his arms. “A lot of who I am. Pretty solid.”

  “Actually, there’s very little that’s solid about you. You’re almost completely made up of space.”

  “Oh really?”

  “If all the space were taken out of all the atoms in the eight billion people who live on this planet, we would fit into a rather small area.”

  “Like the size of a small country?”

  “Smaller.”

  Toren peered at her. “Tiny like the size of Washington state?”

  “Think tiny.”

  “Seattle?”

  “Tiny like inside one cube of sugar.”

  “You’re not serious.” Toren stared at her, dumbfounded.

  “Yes.” Eden’s eyes sparkled. “I am. The molecules we’re made up of are not us. The teachings of Jesus and Paul are true. This”—she patted her arms—“is a shell. We are far, far more than our containers.”

  Toren sat stunned.

  Eden folded her hands, brought them to her face, and bumped her fingers against her lips as if trying to decide how to continue.

  “Will you take my hand, Toren?” She didn’t wait for an answer and took his fingers in hers. “Close your eyes.”

  “Do you feel my fingers touching yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “And yet your eyes cannot see this. So is it still real? Of course. What if you lost your sense of touch? Would we still be holding each other’s hands?”

  “Yes.”

  “So even though you can’t see it, and wouldn’t be able to feel it, would it be true that I was touching you
r fingers?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then is it possible that your true self, your authentic self, your eternal self, is not the one you’ve thought of as your body, but one that will go on forever? One that perhaps you’re not in concert with as much as you thought you were?

  “Can you consider the possibility that these senses are lying dormant within you, the eternal you, just waiting to be awakened? Ask yourself if it is possible that there are things all around you, right now in this moment, that you can’t see or touch or feel or perceive in any way.”

  “You’re saying I can do that if I have faith.”

  “No. It is not a matter of faith. It is a matter of science. This is not a new idea. Any high school graduate who took a rudimentary physics class knows that anything we see, taste, touch, feel, and hear is only a small part of reality. There is a far greater reality that exists right now, not in the words of the poets and dreamers of this world, but in actual fact.”

  “What are you driving at?”

  “You’re trying to fix something about yourself, Toren, through limited physical means, by doing. More prayer. More worship. More meditation. More study. More duty. Memorizing a set of truths. These are not bad things. In truth they can bring life if used correctly, but if they are done without love . . .”

  “They’re worthless.”

  “Yes, dear brother. The way of love, true love, is a narrow path, and few find it. You must open your eyes.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “Your time is coming.”

  “Explain that.”

  “I think you know.” Eden’s face grew earnest. “Do not rush this. The moment will soon be here for you to choose the narrow path of love.”

  “No, I don’t know,” Toren said, frustration mounting inside him. “What moment?”

  “The moment you need to choose to do what you need to do.”

  “Could you be any more cryptic?”

  She smiled.

  “When is the moment coming? I’m losing Sloane. I need answers now.”

  Eden’s eyes were on fire now. She clapped her hands together three times, the sound like tiny firecrackers going off.

  “I know you do. I understand that. But trust your perfect Father. Trust his perfect timing. You can’t force this.”

  Toren gritted his teeth as he rose to his feet and shuffled toward the door.

  “Toren?” Eden’s voice floated over his shoulder as he reached for the doorknob.

  “Yeah?”

  “Be careful. Be on your guard. The enemy prowls like a lion, out to shred you.”

  CHAPTER 38

  On the ferry ride back to Anacortes, Toren did nothing but stare at the dark water of the Sound and try to figure out Eden’s words about love. Yes, he knew what Eden was steering him toward. He couldn’t love Sloane truly until he loved himself. But what did that look like? And what did she mean his time was coming?

  As he walked off the ferry forty-five minutes later and up the long asphalt walkway toward his car, he was still wrestling with the questions and couldn’t pin anything to the mat. He hadn’t driven onto the ferry this trip. Wished he would have. Something about the air made him feel uneasy. Only a few cars in the lot. Shadows filled the concrete, the last vestiges of day slinking away into dusk. And the man Toren was beginning to hate more than anyone else in the world stood beside his car once again. This was getting ridiculous.

  “Hey, pal.”

  Toren stared at Letto, the sinister sensation that emanated from the man snaking along his back.

  “How was your trip to the islands this time? Same place? Whaddya got going on up there? Ready to tell me?”

  “Get away from my car.”

  “Learning how to get Sloane back? Is that it?”

  Toren’s hands formed into fists.

  “You need me.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yeah. You do.” Letto jabbed a finger at him. “You want Sloane back, you gotta change. How do you do that? You dig in. Work it, baby, work it. Focus. Discipline.”

  “I tried that.”

  “Yeah, did you? With who, Toren? Who was beside you challenging you, encouraging you, pushing you hard? Huh? Give me their names. Or did you work it all out on your own? There’s a reason you have coaches. There’s a reason people get personal trainers. You know this stuff. You’re an athlete, for crying out loud.”

  “I don’t need help from you.”

  “It must be a shredded mess inside your soul.” Letto shook his head and sniffed out a laugh. “Brutal. You show up after eight months, and not only does she not want anything to do with you, but she’s seeing someone else. Not fun, is it? That has to get the heat going, yeah? Tick you off to high heaven? Want to punch something? Huh?”

  Toren stepped toward Letto. “I’m going home.”

  Letto pushed off Toren’s car and paced back and forth as he jingled his keys at the end of his forefinger. After six paces to his right and six back to his left, he stopped and jabbed his finger at Toren.

  “You are a cockroach.”

  “Who?”

  “You are, brother.” Letto grinned. “Learning the way of love, but the way you treat me? An old friend trying to get on the straight and narrow. Yeah, cockroach. The only thing I could think of that can survive a nuclear blast and keep going, same way you survived going to that Center place, learning the truth in the Scriptures, then seeing it wear off like a bad paint job seconds after it went on. You come away after eight months of work as much of a disaster as when you went in.”

  “What is your problem?”

  “Mine? My problem is you. You need me, I need you, and it’s really ticking me off that you think you’re too good for me.” Letto stopped pacing and grinned. “So because I love you, I’m going to help you out.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Yeah. Right here. Right now. You. Me. No one else, just one brother to the other, speaking truth and helping him grow.”

  “You want to tell me how you’re going to do that?”

  Without a hint of warning, Letto thrust his hand toward Toren’s face, far too fast for Toren to move, and ripped his keys across the back of Toren’s neck. Then Letto danced back on his toes like a pro boxer, a grin splashed on his face.

  Toren staggered, put a hand to his neck, and felt blood.

  “Like that, buddy? Huh? Feel good? It should. Now you and Sloane can relate, something to compare notes on, yeah? Matching scars will be really cool.”

  Toren wiped the blood from his neck on his jeans as a flamethrower deep inside ignited a rage stronger than any he’d ever known. He fixed his gaze on Letto’s dark eyes and strode toward him.

  “Yeah, buddy. That’s it. That’s it. I’m giving you the chance. Fight it, Toren. Right now. I can see the rage. I feel it. I feel it deep in my gut. Now is the time. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Let’s end this, douse the anger in love. Don’t give in. Be stronger, you can do it. I believe.”

  The words registered in the most distant parts of Toren’s brain but slipped out of his consciousness. He’d never experienced a loathing like this. A thought flitted through his mind that he could kill Letto, but he brushed it aside as he reached the smaller man.

  Toren swung for Letto’s nose, but he ducked faster than Toren thought possible, then slugged Toren on his right side, just under his ribs. Toren had tensed at the last second, and while the blow shot pain through his chest, he didn’t lose his wind. Or his sense of attack.

  He launched an elbow that grazed Letto’s ear and his enemy danced back.

  “Nice, Toren. Really, really nice. Felt the wind of that one.” Letto gestured toward himself. “Come on, you want more? Or is Mr. Cockroach going to take the path of love instead? Time to choose . . . tiiiimme to choose.”

  Toren stepped back, hands still raised. Everything in him wanted to grind Letto into the ground. Yes, the man was quicker, but Toren was far bigger and far stronger. All he needed to do was get one grip o
n the man and the fight would be over. But Letto was right. That was not the way of love. He did need to choose. Choose life. Choose love. Chose patience, kindness, not the way of offense. Not the way of provocation.

  Toren took another two steps back and dropped his hands.

  “Well done,” Letto said as he continued to dance in a slow circle. “Couldn’t have been easy to make that choice. I mean, think how many times you weren’t able to make it, like when you shredded Sloane’s heart again and again and again before you went away. Hundreds of times. Right? And then just when you’re seeing hope . . . boom! You detonate right in front of her once again.”

  Letto snickered as the rage Toren had subdued began to rise again.

  “Yeah, but it’s all good now, oh yeah, nothing to worry about. I’m sure she’s getting a lot of love right now, all snuggled up in Levi’s tender, loving arms.”

  Full-out laughter burst out of Letto’s mouth at the same moment the rage inside Toren took over. His feet pushed off the concrete and he sprinted toward Letto. The man mocked Toren even now, his fingers wiggling as if to beckon Toren closer. With a primal scream he slammed his shoulder into Letto’s chest and they both went down, rolling, punching, tearing at each other.

  Toren wound up on top of Letto and rained blows at the man’s midsection, but Letto fought back with a ferocity Toren had only seen on the field in men who seethed fury out of every pore of their being. And he was skilled, more than Toren had imagined. If he didn’t have the weight and strength advantage, this fight would have been over seconds after it started, with Letto the victor.

  He drove his hands through Letto’s flailing arms, grabbed hard on the man’s throat, and began to squeeze. Knock him out, render him unconscious. Had to do it before his strength ran out.

  “You like that?” Toren clamped down harder. “Huh, you like that?”

  A stupid grin appeared on Letto’s face and he rasped out an answer. “Yeah, I do. I love it.”

  Toren dug his thumbs deeper into Letto’s throat and at the same time slammed his knees into the man’s stomach. Letto gasped and air whooshed out of his lungs. His arms went limp. Toren’s gaze flickered to Letto’s face, but the man had closed his eyes. It was almost over.