Godchild (26 page)
Chapter 72
Val and I walked arm in arm up the worn marble stairs of Saint Mary’s Cathedral. The night was mild but breezy, the sky clear and black, with the white lights of the city drowning out nearly all the starlight.
Val went ahead and opened the heavy wooden door for me.
Together we walked in.
The cathedral was immense.
With a marble floor and a sea of wooden pews.
A giant altar was lit up in flickering candlelight, which came from the racks of white candles positioned along the tall stone exterior walls with the angel faces carved into the polished marble pilasters. Dozens of wildflower arrangements had been laid out for Easter Sunday, the celebration for which was only hours away.
The church was empty.
Val walked ahead of me down the length of the aisle, the sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor. When she reached the front of the church she slipped into the first pew on the right. She was already kneeling by the time I slipped in beside her.
She made the sign of the cross, prayed for maybe a minute, then repeated the sign once more, pushing herself away from the kneeler and sitting back onto the bench.
For a while the two of us just sat there staring up at the dimly lit altar, as though waiting for something to happen.
“When I was a kid,” I whispered after a time, looking not at Val but at the statue of the crucified Christ suspended high above the altar, “I would turn to my mother during Sunday mass and ask her why I had to be quiet in church.”
“What did she tell you?” Val asked, her voice low, monotone, but still echoing in the wide-open cathedral.
“ ‘Because this is God’s house,’ she’d say.”
“And what would you say?”
“I’d say, ‘So what if it’s God’s house? We don’t whisper in our house. So why should we whisper in God’s house?’ And she’d bend over with her black prayer book in one hand and a rosary in the other and she’d give me this stern-as-all-hell look and tell me, This is Sunday morning. And God likes to sleep late on Sunday morning because He’s been up all night with Saint Peter and all the saints playing cards, just like Dad. Now, if you want to be the one to wake Him up, be my guest. It’s your soul.’ ”
“Cute,” Val said. “But what’s the point?”
“I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s just that every time I go into a church I think about it.”
“You don’t go to church, Keeper,” Val reminded me.
“Maybe I’m still afraid I’m going to wake up God.”
She laughed a little while I felt the soreness in my legs and the dull throb in my shoulder where the drain had been inserted. I went on staring at the altar.
“How are we, Val?” I asked.
“If that’s your way of re-proposing, forget it.”
“I mean it.”
All around us there was the flickering of candles and soft yellow light that shone against the tall stone walls and stained glass and the black cathedral ceiling. There was the perpetual crucified Christ and the silence of it all. I turned and stared at Val’s profile. Her full lips, little nose, the triangular corner of her brown eye.
“Let’s just say for now that I love you, but I cannot be with you,”
I turned back to the altar.
I don’t know what the hell it was, but after a time my eyes filled up and I began to feel a little dizzy. I kept my eyes focused on the altar. But instead I saw myself as a little boy. I could see myself as clear as day, like I was watching an old Super8 my grandfather had filmed of me with his handheld camera. I was this scrappy kid again, all dressed up in some red hand-me-down jacket with torn sleeves and a matching baseball hat. I don’t know what had come over me, but I saw myself running awkwardly in a field behind the split-level house my father built himself. An empty field covered for as far as the eye could see with tall, golden grass. There was the warm sun at my back and a set of heavy black clouds that filled up most of the sky in front of me. I was just this silly little kid with no clue in the world, and I saw myself waving to my mother while a distinct rumbling came from the black clouds. She was standing outside the back door to our home, calling for me to come in, not able to see me because I was hidden inside the grass. But I could see her, as small as she was. I actually felt myself smiling at her, knowing there was this storm brewing but also having the good feeling of knowing she was there. I saw it all happening again inside that church with Val at my side, inside the span of a few seconds.
But then I heard the telltale squeak that told me the massive wood door to the cathedral was opening up. I heard the sound of footsteps on the marble floor. Two different pairs of footsteps, actually. The first quick and light, the second weighted and slow. Before long I saw a little boy all bundled up in a navy blue pea coat and matching wool hat. I saw him run past me, past the farthest pews, past the altar to the rows of offertory candles that were stacked up against the walls on their ornate, black metal racks. He reached inside the cup that contained the waxy wick-starters, placing the tip of the starter into the flame of a candle that was already burning strong in its colorful red glass. But not before the man in the shiny waist-length leather blazer was standing over him, his hand on the boy’s hand, helping him light not one but two separate candles. When the candles were lit, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a dollar bill. He gave the money to the boy to deposit into the metal collection box, which he did.
When it was over, the two turned and faced me as if on cue, as if I’d been the reason for their visit in the first place. And maybe I was. Of course, had they not turned to face me, I might have altogether missed Detective Ryan and his secretly adopted son. I may never have known who the boy was had he not come to me where I was seated in the pew beside Val. The
godchild
himself, with his round face, rosy cheeks, and striking blue eyes just like his mother’s. Ryan stood silent in the near distance. No longer the same Ryan who was partners with Barnes on one hand and law and order on the other. But the new Ryan, who had a little boy to watch over and raise. He came up behind the boy, took hold of his hand, and led him back down the aisle toward the wooden doors.
Maybe a second or two passed before Val took hold of my hand.
She held it hard while I cried.
* * *
About the Author
Vincent Zandri, the bestselling author of THE REMAINS, MOONLIGHT FALLS, and THE INNOCENT (Part I of the Jack Marconi Series). He lives in New York and Florence, Italy. For more information on the author, please visit his official website: www.VincentZandri.com
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