He looked about him at the sun-filled room. This was his favorite haunt in the residence. It was where he enjoyed his morning coffee, sitting in an armchair by the windows. The size and contents of the room appealed to him. It was not one of those cramped and dusty spaces, half-lit and stuffed with books, and smelling vaguely of mildew and old paper; nor did it consist of sparkling, orderly rows and gleaming bookshelves that spoke of lack of use. This was a library to sit and get lost in on a lazy afternoon. It stretched out in an oval, with walls of books, and several seating areas arranged variously throughout. Stairs led to a gallery where one could browse a second level of books. And sunlight filled the room by way of large bay windows.
Father Norwood chose a writing table within comfortable distance of the door, sat down and started to write in flowing script:
The LifeGame of Father Roland M. Griffith, S.J.
He dated the paper, and addressed it to the superior general of the Society of Jesus:
June 24
Very Rev. Sebastian Guerrero Vives S.J.
General Curia Society of Jesus
Dear Father General: Pax Christi
Father Norwood paused, listening to footsteps in the hall outside. He heard voices. Familiar voices. He listened to laughter.
May the Lord be with you, Roland. May He give you strength and a clear mind this afternoon…
*
It was the first board of the game and Father Griffith was seated across from Bruce at table 2. I remember the last time we sat like this, Mr. Saber, thought Father Griffith, glancing at his partner. I recall the last round of the second game. The game that we both lost.
What I remember most clearly, though, thought Father Griffith as they waited for Peter to bring the first board to the table, is the last hand of that round, partner. I remember how you bid, without missing a beat, without hesitation, and with your usual confidence. It was the correct bid, but you could easily have misled me. You could have easily misbid, for you had a lot to lose. Had I won the last game, we would not be sitting here today. And I could have won, on that one hand. You knew you had lost anyway, at that point, and you would not have had a chance to play again – had I won. That I lost was entirely my own fault.
“Good luck, Mr. Saber,” Father Griffith smiled.
“Thank you, partner,” Bruce grinned. “We rise or fall together on this round!”
The measure of a man is to be found everywhere he walks, thought Father Griffith, looking at Bruce appraisingly. As much as at the card table as in the courtroom.
I trust you, partner, with my life.
Bruce thought of the taste of blood in his mouth. He recalled the tension and the fear in the taste of metal, of a cutting blade on his tongue as he reached for the cards on the first board of the game.
The judge, sitting to the right of Father Griffith, was thoughtfully silent. She stared unseeingly towards her partner, Danny, who slouched carelessly while the fingers of his right hand drummed a repeating complex pattern on the table.
We rise or fall together… Father Griffith considered the truth of Bruce’s words. Yes, partner, you are right, and I have to do better, as much for your sake as mine. He refrained from glancing at the judge to his right. This was not the time to dwell on certain things…
*
…I write this letter in accordance with your wishes, and in the fullness of knowing that you will accord these words their due weight. As I write, I am aware of the meanness of my understanding, and the limits of my reasoning.
As you read these words, I urge you to consider, and reconsider, that I may, and most probably am, incorrect in my analysis, for I am neither equipped nor worthy to judge the strength of a man’s heart, and the vagaries of his soul. Moreover, these things that I have observed, I have seen through the eyes – old and shortsighted as they are – of a humble, limited man. My observations are perforce constrained by the experiences of my life and the limitations of my senses.
Besides, please remember that I am writing on a topic, and about a person, whose experiences I will never share. For, at the very least, I do not play bridge!
Father Norwood paused. Writing was a laborious process, which should not, and could not, be rushed. He thought of the last sentence he had written. I do not play bridge, he thought. That is not strictly speaking true, he corrected himself. Father Norwood, for all his training, had a forthright soul. I have sought to learn since … the invitation. At least, since Father General informed me of the invitation.
I have sought knowledge, not for my own sake, but to better understand the journey of the one who would be sent…
He chuckled out loud at the memory of his attempts, or rather, the increasingly exasperated attempts of a certain lady at the Manhattan Bridge Club to teach the basics of bidding. He had no doubt she was an able bridge player herself, but patience had not been her strongest suit, it seemed, when faced with a group of octogenarians whose ability to grasp the foundations of this devious game was directly correlated to their varying degrees of mental degeneration. And really, who could get the hang of all those conventions? More than once he had been prompted to inform his lesson partner in perfectly ordinary English that he was, for instance, holding fourteen points and four hearts, at the risk of bringing forth the wrath of that certain lady, who was as formidable, say, as any Sara or even Judith of Old Testament fame. Indeed! The recollection still had him feeling like a small boy caught sticking live insects into his pockets. It was not a feeling to which he was accustomed, of late. Humility, he thought philosophically, is a truly Christian sentiment.
“Really, Father!” Her words reverberated in the recesses of his mind as he cast his memory back to that hapless moment … when he had looked into his hand, counted his fourteen points and determined how, if given the option, he would start the bidding. Drawing comfort from his decision, he had sat back and allowed the auction to proceed, and all of a sudden, to his – at first – great delight, discovered that his partner had opened first with a bid of one heart! How fortuitous, he thought, that I am holding four cards in hearts in my hand and many points for our side! Drawing closer to the table and beaming at his partner, he readied to bid … until it dawned on him that he really did not know how to respond. The usual two or three hearts would have been too low, he decided. It was a conundrum of the first order, but he could not let this contract get away from his side. They had most of the points, and a good fit in one of the major suits for God’s sake.
And then the fateful words had come tumbling out…‘I have four hearts and fourteen points.’ At least he had had the decency to keep his voice low, but, as is always the case in such instances, not low enough to escape the notice of that … lady.
And there she was, by his side. A looming presence casting her shadow in the manner of Lot’s wife, perhaps. A presence built of some durable material such as bronze. When she spoke, her voice dripped with authority at the end of its tether. One more thing, the voice said between the lines… just one more….
“We speak with our bidding box,” she said slowly and evenly, lifting and dropping the bidding box at his elbow for emphasis.
“I didn’t know what to bid…” he admitted bravely.
She pointed – jabbed, really – towards the board. “What is the lesson for today?” Following her cue, he had peered at the board and … “Ah yes…Jacoby Two Notrump.” He had coughed with embarrassment. Yes, that was the lesson of the day. Specifically designed for situations such as the one facing him. “I should have bid 2-notrump,” he said sheepishly. “Sorry.”
Father Norwood shook his head and smiled. Humility, indeed! All those lessons had instilled in him an even deeper respect for the priests who had come under consideration for the post of LiGa Bridge contestant…
*
The first two boards had been played, and the scoreboard reflected the current scores.
On board 3, Storm considered his partner, Sinclair’s physical and mental state critically. He’s weak
, Storm thought. He looks like shit today. Definitely looks older. And sick. He really looks sick. I noticed his hands shake before the game. They’re shaking now. He’s trying to hide it by resting his arms on the table. He’s really sagged in the past week. I bet he can’t think very well either. It’s kind of like playing with the senator: take whatever he bids with a grain of salt… or worse.
It’s a good thing this is the only round I’ll be playing with him as my partner. He can only help me by playing badly in the remaining rounds. My best bet this round is to do some damage control: try to make sure Sinclair doesn’t hurt us. How? This is not the time to try anything special. Play by the book, and hope he doesn’t panic. Looks like the type that would panic in a tight spot. With all the Life Points he’s lost, this is the time he’d panic. If he loses this game, he loses another 11 points. He’s practically dead. On the other hand, he hasn’t made any mistakes on the past two hands. Although his hands do shake a bit, I haven’t seen any errors while we were defending on the second board. He probably wouldn’t have come back for the third game if he thought he couldn’t play… would he? He probably would…Storm conceded.
Cat, also at table 1, was similarly contemplating Sinclair’s state of health. Between you and me, Storm, dear, your partner isn’t exactly the sharpest tool in the drawer today, is he? She smiled sweetly at Sinclair. Oh dear! He’s scowling and grimacing at me again. Now there’s a young man who has not taken a liking to me, and I really couldn’t care less. And he seems to have utterly lost his eyesight to aging – there he goes squinting into his hand again. Such an unpleasant young man. And getting old certainly hasn’t improved his character – or his looks. Looks quite deflated and … spreading. Peevish, spreading Sinclair. How terribly unattractive. Now I should really take my time. Time… has not been kind to you, young man. But time can take us all by surprise. She looked down at her cards held in her hands – unfamiliar, younger hands with painted nails. Those nails were mantled a deep blood red that she had chosen that morning. She called it The Reckoning. For we all face Time, she thought. In the end, we must all reckon with the truest mirror of all: Time.
And he’s only going to get worse as the game progresses, and the worst of it is that I don’t get to have him as my partner until the sixth round – the next to last round. Only Daniel Cross is unluckier than me – he gets to play with Spreading Sinclair on the last round! Well perhaps, there really is a God after all, to make the least likeable players play together in the last round… I must ask dear Roland if he thinks that’s a sign of Divine Intervention. That would be such fun!
I do hope Storm keeps his head together. It would be a shame really, to watch him go to seed like this. Someone has to lose of course, but there are plenty of undesirables in this game. The judge, for instance, even though she does grow lovely roses… There’s hope for Storm, I think. He spent half his life driving over 200 miles an hour. Round and round a track. That has got to be character-building, I have to think. I would have been bored silly after the fourth or fifth lap!
“Now where was I?” Cat asked, looking sweetly bewildered. Yes, do roll your eyes, right in front of me, she thought, catching sight of Sinclair. Stupid old woman, aren’t I?
My right hand’s shaking! Even against the table, I can feel it shaking, thought Sinclair with rising panic. Why are my hands shaking? Why am I playing this stupid game? I could leave right now if I wanted to. If I wanted to, I could leave…
And now, I must bid, Cat thought. I have to win this game, or where will I be? Not immortal, that’s for sure. Let’s see… what to bid? Oh yes, easy, as I was telling myself: 2-diamonds of course.
The contract was set at 2-notrump at table 2 to be played by Danny, as West.
At table 1, Sinclair’s three passes sealed Cat’s bid of 2-diamonds in the North seat.
*
…I write of our mutual friend, Father Roland Griffith. May our Lord give him strength…
Father Norwood laid down his pen again.
Father Roland Griffith. That is how you are known now. A mature, respected priest. But I remember you as you were even before you entered the novitiate, Father Norwood thought and a tender smile suffused his elderly face, softening the blue marble of his eyes. Mr. Roland Griffith. Such an intense young man. A boy really, of eighteen: decided in his convictions, and doing his best, his very best to control his unruly emotions. A boy whose intelligent eyes shone with the brilliance of black diamonds…
Mr. Roland Griffith, who worked hard – harder than any other novice I have known. Worked hard at his studies and outside the classroom.
Maybe it was because you were an orphan, Roland. Your mother’s death left you alone in the world, and it was her last wish that you join the Society of Jesus. And it was our good fortune that she died while visiting distant relatives in New York. Our good fortune that you were eighteen and felt the calling. You were a headstrong boy and I doubt any of your relatives could have dissuaded you. But still I told you to finish your studies first. And you did, reluctantly.
After your novitiate, I saw you seldom. Our paths were not to cross until that day in May… in Rome.
You were grown. A man, now. You had left behind the childish things of your boyhood: your convictions had grown as hard as diamonds, and as transparent; you were no longer headstrong, but had learned determination in the face of grave adversity, and you had Grace. You have Grace. It was not simply the passing of the years. No. Life had happened to you, for you had seen the face of Death and taken it in your stride.
There was Life in the orphanages of Bolivia, and death in the tiny cribs of the children who were beyond medicine. You stared down death in the barrels of countless guns pointed at you and your church, and you saw Life in the people who huddled there.
And you are highly resourceful. Sometimes, Father, one has to consider the greater good and that the ends may at times justify the means, you said to me during one of our many, many conversations in Rome. You said it without regret and without remorse, and without rationalizing. You said that when it is a matter of someone’s life or death, the means are, at times, malleable.
I think you are right. You were referring to the monies funneled from the drug cartels into your church, which you helped distribute to the local community – to build schools, and hospitals. Many a child has been spared malnourishment as a result. Many have received education.
What about the other children, I asked you, the ones from whom the money was taken? The ones who were the victims of drugs? Many of them probably did not survive.
It was a very difficult decision, you replied. The drug cartels wanted to give back to their community – perhaps to atone for their sins – and children were dying daily. I did what I thought best under those circumstances.
What if it had been your life that needed saving, would you have taken the money then? I believe not, for you are one of those who hold themselves to a higher standard than that to which you hold others. Unfortunately. Sometimes, we all need a little compassion.
Including you, Roland.
*
At table 2, the judge laid out her hand as dummy, and her gaze shifted from the cards and the table to the clouded wall beyond her partner, Danny’s head. Behind that wall…
She recoiled from the recollection that was like a blast of cold acid. In the sanctity of her home, it had been possible to block the vision and tend to the roses without remembrance… But the reality lay behind these clouded walls. The reality of Silver Dawn in someone else’s garden, growing all that time outside her knowledge. Ignorance had been bliss.
Lord, I cannot afford to give into the temptation of my own heart, thought Father Griffith, sitting South to the judge’s left as his thoughts wandered to a certain flower in LiGa’s garden. Give me the strength to concentrate fully.
Merciful Queen, you are the one true rose. True and steadfast.
The judge cleared her throat, “Are you all right, Father?”
“Yes,” the p
riest replied with a serene smile. “Just thinking.”
“Very well,” nodded the judge, as the tip of her index finger tapped rhythmically on the table.
The sound of the judge’s tapping brought the memory of another hand…
Rapping on the door of his room at St. Francis Xavier. “Roland–” The voice called out. “Roland,” it continued, gaining strength in resolve. “May I come in?” It was an announcement. The voice was not seeking permission.
The door opened. “Roland. My son…” Said the man gently. Father Adam Norwood. Provincial Superior.
Compassion and warmth in the calm blue eyes. A man leaning over him.
“Hello Roland.”
Father Norwood motioned with a twig-like hand. “Come with me, Roland. It’s time you got yourself out of bed.”
But I am tired, Father Griffith thought. Had it only been two days? His left hand lay by his side. He raised it slowly. Palm. Far enough to see …
“Come, Roland,” repeated Father Norwood, a note of urgency in his voice. “Leave your hand alone. It will keep.”
Roland Griffith sighed. The left hand fell to his side. But the lines, those red capillaries were burned into every inch of the room.
Father Norwood was waiting for him by the door patiently. He smiled as Roland Griffith raised his body from the narrow bed – feeling thick and bloated, and tired. Father Norwood smiled and nodded encouragement.
“I know it’s early but have you eaten this morning?”
Roland Griffith shook his head slowly. It was early. He still had … Time left.
“They tell me you haven’t been eating,” Father Norwood continued solicitously. “You need to eat more. You know they will cook whatever you want.”
“Yes, Father. I am sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I am not here to admonish you,” he said gently.
“Thank you, Father. I’ve been a little tired. That’s all… A few days’ rest should be enough–”
“Let’s pray together, Roland,” Father Norwood said. “Let’s pray before breakfast.”
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