Gordon wraps his arms around the boy. “This is Peter,” he says. “Named after the apostle, because he is my rock. Peter’s mother died in childbirth in France, where I had fled to escape from those whom I had disappointed. Peter has the intelligence of a much younger child, but the gentleness and kindness of a Saint. What he lacks in mental ability, Peter makes up for in spirituality.”
He stops to wipe his eyes, then continues. “In some ways, he is a painful reminder of my sweet and loving wife and the transgressions for which I will never atone. In other ways Peter is my mentor, for he possesses such a pure heart and forgiving nature that I find myself continually striving to achieve his virtues. Now that Peter is twelve years old—his birthday was just three weeks ago—he is the same age as the boy I betrayed once in Persia, and again in England many years ago.”
Ollie is now bathed in Alice’s warmth, but the swaggering demons still groan and strut, unwilling to depart after so many years with their gracious host. Though stunned by the appearance of Gordon’s son, and moved by his dramatic tale, Ollie clings to the motivating purpose of his life. He will not let God, the Selfish One, alone have the pleasure of punishment.
And then it occurs to Ollie that Gordon has removed his ability to embarrass the man in front of his admirers by the very act of Gordon’s public confession. The humiliating truth has been turned to Gordon’s advantage.
The demons stir and begin to chatter. The man is clever, they say. Do not trust him. He deserves your vengeance—did he not agree? He has beaten you for now, but humiliation has always been too kind a punishment.
Ollie tenses as he realizes that, for the first time, he has imagined Gordon’s death. His hand jerks, and Alice senses his struggle. She grasps his hand now with both of hers and prays, prays hard. “I forgive you,” she says quietly.”
“What?” Ollie whispers.
“I forgive you.”
“For what?”
Alice looks at him. He has not felt loved since Mary Rogers, but through Alice’s gaze he feels love again—the embrace of her eyes, the kindness of her voice.
“I forgive you,” she says, “for whatever you are about to do, unless it is to forgive, because for this you need not be forgiven.”
The warmth from Alice’s hands is almost unbearable. He feels as if he is burning up. He must be ill. A fever!
Gordon whispers something to Peter, then hands the book to his son. The boy looks out at the sea of faces, then cautiously navigates the steps to the sawdust floor and begins walking down the center aisle. “Ali, I don’t know where you are,” Gordon says, “and I am not sure I would recognize you now that you’re a man. But I offer you my son. The sins of the father have been visited upon the son. Forgive my son and you shall forgive me.”
The crowd is silent, absolutely captivated, unable to guess what will happen next. All eyes watch the boy as he slowly makes his way down the aisle, kicking up clouds of dust, surveying the faces with heavy-lidded eyes.
Ollie watches Peter intently, and on the screen of the boy’s face he sees the countenance of a young Jalal, and Tim Shaw, and his son Isaac, and then astonishingly his own face appears, as if reflected in a mirror, and he realizes at last that through forgiveness he can be forgiven, by accepting the Son he accepts the Father.
The demons groan and Ollie understands now that his dizzying fever was in truth the fires of hell, but now the fever has broken and the demons are fleeing. A great earthquake of revelation overtakes him, with Alice’s hands at the epicenter, and he feels a kind of peace and joy that he has not felt since he was twelve and the world was a spiritual place of great expectation and prophets appeared in the clouds.
Peter stops at the twelfth row and closes his eyes. The crowd gasps, wondering what is about to occur. Peter turns to his right and looks into Ollie’s eyes and Ollie stands, not consciously, but drawn to his feet by some unseen force. He simply finds himself standing and facing the boy. Alice releases Ollie’s hand and the sudden disconnection shocks him, makes him feel like a man who cannot swim and is suddenly cast into deep water. He desperately reaches for Alice’s hand, understanding that they are meant to be together, that she completes him in some mystical way.
And then he looks at Peter who says, simply, “Forgive me.”
He is falling—no, flying; weightless and calm, able to see the distant horizon and the sun which is beginning to rise—and he reaches out to Peter. He embraces the boy.
”It is finished,” Gordon says. “I can go about my mission now. Who among you has the courage to forgive? Stand up. Stand up now. Join Ali and Alice and my beloved son in releasing yourself from the bondage of hatred and retribution.” The piano begins to play. “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Cleanse yourself, throw off your shackles, and soar into the clouds of your reunion with Christ.”
Hundreds rise to their feet, many of them sobbing and holding hands. Gladys races from the back of the tent to her sleeping husband, kneeling by his side in tears. Gordon begins to walk down the aisle toward Peter. He turns to his left, facing a forest of standing people and shouts, “Forgive!”
And suddenly many of them fall to the ground, perhaps a hundred, as if in a trance. Gordon turns to his right and again shouts “Forgive!” and another hundred go down like trees in a great wind, Jonathon among them. On both sides of the aisle, the still-conscious begin to lift the sleeping ones up and carry them to the front of the tent, laying them down in rows like corpses after a battle, removing benches to make room for the stream of incoming bodies. Gordon marches through the great tent; hundreds more fall to the ground. “Take them to the front where they can bury their grudges and awaken fresh in the Lord.”
The crowd begins to sing as Gordon returns to the pulpit. Ollie, pulling Alice behind, pushes through the crowd and finds Jonathon unconscious and lying on his back. He kneels down by his friend and says, “Forgive me, please.”
As thousands of voices rise in song, the sleeping ones begin to awaken.
“It’s like resurrection morning,” Alice says, awestruck as the corpse-like bodies begin to stir and sit up, confused at first but soon joining the chorus.
Jonathon awakens and looks up at Ollie. “Are you all right?” Ollie asks.
Pulling his knees to his chest, Jonathon sits up and looks around. He does not answer.
He is too embarrassed.
Chapter 31
The Rochester train station is spare, with just one large enclosed room and a worn platform that leans to the west. With a loud series of asthmatic huffs that wheeze out dark clouds of coal-stained smoke, the train groans to a halt.
Through a smeared window, Isaac can see a crowd of about fifty gathering on the platform. C’mon grandma, he yells. Mrs. Rogers plucks a fully stuffed bag from beneath her seat and stiffly follows Isaac down the aisle to the end of the cramped passenger car. Feeling the fresh slap of October air in his face, Isaac clambers down the folding stairs, frantically looking for his father.
An excited voice: Isaac, over here. A whiplash turn of the head. A broad grin like a glint of sunlight. Running. Arms wrapped around him. You’ve grown, son—three inches at least. A massive outpouring of words and laughter. I hope you haven’t forgotten this old woman, Mrs. Rogers says, letting her stuffed bag thud to the platform. Of course not, can’t you tell how much I’ve missed you both?
A feminine clearing of the throat. Oh yes, Ollie says, let me introduce my fiancée Alice Crenshaw. Mrs. Rogers faces the beaming woman and says, Ollie’s written so much about you dear. Thank you, Alice replies, and I feel like I know both of you as well.
There is movement, everyone walking, and then Isaac is in a carriage and Ollie drenches him with news and information about his new home town. The Rochester Daily Advertiser was the first daily paper not only in Rochester but in all the United States west of the city of Albany, Ollie explains, and this is important because newspapers chronicle the ever-advancing civilization. Essential work. Nearly twenty-five thousand people l
ive here, so while it’s not New York City, it’s a thriving metropolis with twenty-two flour mills. And look, right now we’re riding over the aqueduct, stupidly built of soft local stone that melted away but now is refurbished, the largest stone arch bridge in America as far as I know, at least that’s what the locals boast.
Back in New York City Isaac had started wondering if Ollie had abandoned him. Wasn’t that the story of Isaac’s life? As if he should expect his good fortune to last. Oh, there had been a river of letters from Ollie describing the exciting new land west of the big city, and tents full of gullible sinners ripe for “saving,” but Isaac believed that each day of separation had eroded his tenuous connection to Ollie. Fortunately, with each passing day, Phebe Rogers had become more of a grandma, filling Isaac’s parental void with her aromatic cooking and funny stories. She had become the one constant in his life—always there when he had come home from school to ask about his adventures and soothe his frayed nerves.
But then the Letter had arrived, and in it Ollie had told of his spiritual reawakening, his newfound love, his desire to put down roots in a clean city on a freshwater lake. He had apologized for his misleading advice about God and begged Mrs. Rogers—whom he had started calling Mum in his writings—to forgive him; he had not meant to replace Mary in his heart, but Alice Crenshaw had just happened to him, as if it were God’s will, and Mum, I know you will love her when you meet, because you have such a generous heart. And you’ll meet her soon, because I want all of you to be with me here in Rochester where I’ve rented a house until Alice and I are married next year.
The carriage takes them out of the city and up into the surrounding hills. From this elevation Isaac can see the gently curving Genesee River, sparkling in the afternoon light, and beyond the sloping fields a forest of church steeples rising upward like saplings full of promise. The carriage turns sharply onto a winding road that approaches a magnificent Greek Revival farm house, the centerpiece of a fifty acre estate complete with its own barn, smithy, and orchard.
A whitetail buck, its dinner of fallen apples interrupted by the clattering carriage, leaps across the road and is almost struck by the horses.
Is this your home, Isaac asks Ollie. No, it’s our home, yours and Mum’s as much as mine, Ollie says. I bought the property from a man who was down on his luck, as they say, for a fair price—the Christian thing to do—and renamed it Chillington-hall. An odd name, Isaac thinks, but he likes it. Formal. Foreign sounding—English, perhaps.
The carriage pulls up in front of the farm house. This is it, Ollie says, your new home. Let’s get your things put away. The trunks are pulled off the carriage by two hired hands, young men in their twenties who seem used to rough and heavy work.
Grinning manically, Ollie ushers Isaac to a bedroom at the top of the stairs containing a narrow bed, a writing desk, a night stand with an oil lamp, and a wooden den chair. You’ll have to help me make this into a comfortable room for you, Ollie says, anything you need you let me know. Ollie hugs the boy, runs his fingers through Isaac’s coarse mop of hair and says, I’m so glad you’re here.
Ollie closes the door behind him and Isaac looks out the window at the vast field behind the house. Small mounds of snow glitter like diamonds waiting to be picked. The sun is low and the edge of the mysterious woods beyond the field casts a deep shadow. Three deer munch grass in the field just one leap from the protection of the forest. Isaac feels at peace here, decides to lie down on the bed. So soft, like a cradle. His head sinks into the pillow.
A loud rap on the door startles Isaac. It is very dark in the room, the moon now the only source of light. How long has he slept? The door opens a crack and Lucas, one of the hired hands, peers through, his face in shadows. Dinner is served, Lucas says.
Leaping out of bed, shaking his head to whisk away the cobwebs. He throws on his clothes and opens the door. The hallway is dim but he can smell food and follows the scent down a creaking staircase to a landing.
Voices.
He moves to their source and finds an entrance wide as a double door into the dining room. Standing there, unnoticed at first, he can see a large dining table covered with a familiar cream-colored table cloth, the one that Mrs. Rogers often used in the boarding house. Imagine! She had thought to bring her own table cloth. The old woman sits at the head of the table with Ollie to her left. An empty chair sits between Ollie and Alice Crenshaw. Across the table from Isaac’s father, beyond a gleaming silver candelabra and the china bowls of yellow squash, mashed potatoes and beef gravy, is Jonathon Fury and, to his right, closest to the doorway, an unfamiliar man who looks almost as old as Phebe Rogers. The man has a Santa Claus belly and a ruddy complexion.
Jonathon is the first to see Isaac standing in the doorway. Isaac my boy, do come in. Yes, thank you. Ollie looks up at his son, grinning. Right over here, son, between us. Ollie gestures to the empty chair and it is soon occupied by a famished twelve-year-old. I would like to present my son, Isaac, Ollie says proudly to the unfamiliar man across the table. Ollie, this is Alice’s father, the Reverend Theodore Crenshaw. Really, Oliver, the boy can call me Ted.
Ollie pats the boy on the shoulder. I’m sorry I was late, Father, Isaac says, and his words cause everyone at the table to stop what they are doing and stare at the boy because his words are giberrish to their ears. Maybe he speaks in tongues, Reverend Crenshaw suggests, knitting his brows into a look of extreme consternation. No, explains Ollie, he spoke to me in Farsi.
I wanted to surprise you, Father. Do you like hearing your native language? Isaac says in Farsi.
The unexpected blessing overcomes Ollie and his eyes well up with tears. I do like it, especially from my son’s lips. But how—? Mrs. Rogers waves her hand to interrupt. The boy is absolutely incorrigible, she says with a warm smile, then adds, He made a new friend, a merchant from Persia who sells rugs—I think he sought the fellow out—and the man agreed to give him some lessons in exchange for help in the store.
Four roasted grouse are delivered to the table, and Reverend Crenshaw says the blessing. Oh God, bless this food for our use, we give thanks for the bounties you bestow upon us. It takes a full three minutes—which is what happens when a preacher is allowed to say the prayer, for they never seem to be able to say goodbye to God, Ollie tells Isaac later—and then the bowls and platters are emptied onto plates and scooped into hungry mouths.
I’m not used to being waited on, Mrs. Rogers says—a timid complaint—and Ollie just laughs. You must get used to it, Mum, he says. The food and the laughter and the hugs are so wonderful that Isaac wants the meal to never end. Heaven can be no better than this, he thinks. Maybe this is heaven.
At last, though, weary and with a full belly, Isaac climbs the stairs carrying a lit candle and a handful of matches for the oil lamp. He stumbles into bed and almost immediately awakens with the sharp glare of sunlight in his eyes. He sits up—for a moment he cannot remember where he is—and then sinks again into his bountiful pillow.
He is home.
Chapter 32
The homemade ice cream is exquisite. Everyone groans from the stuffing that their bellies have endured on this last night of 1842. Only three hours until the new year—a most auspicious year, for Jesus will interrupt the calendar sometime in the next 365 days to restore his Kingdom on earth, or so some believe. A fire crackles in the fireplace around which are gathered those closest to Ollie: Alice and the Reverend Theodore Crenshaw, Isaac, Phebe Rogers, Jonathon Fury, and a man recently arrived from London for the holidays, Herbert Eaton.
The Reverend, glancing at Mrs. Rogers, wonders if she notices that he has taken off some of his girth. She is quite a handsome woman, he thinks, even though she is six or seven years his senior. And this kind-hearted woman is a sorceress in the kitchen, too. Who can blame an old preacher from dreaming of a wife?
Herbert Eaton and Ollie murmur quietly to each other, apparently sharing with each other an unending supply of news from their months apart. During a pause i
n Ollie’s conversation with the man he calls his stepfather, Isaac looks up at Herbert and says, “Did you know Ollie’s real father?”
“I did, yes,” comes the reply.
“I didn’t know my real father, or what happened to him.”
“Well, I had an opportunity to meet Oliver’s father one evening in London,” Herbert says. “I found him to be a rather disagreeable fellow, not at all like Oliver, whom I had come to know and love as a son, the same way I’m sure that he came to know and love you.”
“And what happened to him? Ollie’s father?”
“The truth is, we will probably never know for sure. He returned to Persia after refusing to divorce Oliver’s mother, the woman I hoped to marry. After some time I decided to travel to Persia myself, perhaps to reason with him, to convince him to grant a divorce. But while I was there I learned that he had been murdered in some kind of Persian court intrigue.”
Herbert turns to Ollie, who is startled by the news; obviously, despite their many words, they have not talked of this.
Isaac remembers meeting Anne, of course, and can still see her radiant features surrounded by the foam of the incoming sea. “Such unusual timing,” Isaac says.
“I don’t quite follow.”
“That Oliver’s father should be killed during your visit to Persia.”
Herbert looks away sadly, rubs his palms together nervously, and replies, “I have experienced my share of guilt over that same irony, you can be sure.”
Ollie studies his mentor with kind eyes. “You should set it behind you.”
The Reverend, who has slid into a semi-reclining position in his soft chair, straightens himself and says, “Fortunately, God is merciful.”
“How is that?” Herbert asks. “I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but I fail to see how these acts of violence that separate us from our loved ones can be an act of mercy.”
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