The Illumination_ A Novel Part 5

Eventually he realized that the poking and shouting had stopped. His pretend dad was gone, and he was alone again. His forehead hurt with the sting of a hundred taps. His bruises were glowing, beating like hearts through his clothing.

The sun vanished in a pool of thick red light. He went back inside, and he slipped into his bedroom. The diary he had taken was lying on his dresser. He sat down and opened the cover and began reading.

I love the way chocolate makes your eyes light up.

I love hearing you try to defend Hall and Oates.

I love your compa.s.sionate heart-your big, sloppy, sentimental heart.

The pages looked just as sensitive as they always had. They were like a giant mosquito bite, infected from scratching. Chuck closed the diary and tucked it under his pillow. He lay down, patting the sad square lump it made. He wanted to heal the book, to make it better. If he tried hard enough, maybe he could do it.

In the morning, when he woke, his muscles were sore. The light of his wounds had spread across his body. His bruised places were dimmer and hurt a little less. The rest of him was what hurt a little more. He had a hard time waking up and getting dressed. His mom had to yell his name three different times. His pretend dad had to throw a shoe at him. The shoe thunked against the wall, leaving a black scuff.

Chuck decided to take the diary to school with him. He spent the day petting its cover under his desk. He ma.s.saged the wave, smoothing it down with his hand. Maybe he was imagining things, but it seemed to help. The pages still shone, but not as brightly, he thought. Not as brightly and not with the same awful pain. The book rested a little more comfortably in his hands. He began carrying it around with him wherever he went. People whispered about it for a while and then stopped. It was one of the many weird things Chuck did. He never said anything, and he laughed at stupid jokes. He couldn't reach the basket when he threw the basketball. Now he liked to stroke a book under his desk. No surprise, and who cared, and what else was new?

Todd Rosenthal had been suspended from school for the week. On Monday, when he returned, he avoided looking at Chuck. He stomped past his chair without even kicking the legs. His hair had grown up in a soft-looking brown fuzz. He kept rubbing it with the palm of his hand. Chuck bet it would feel the way a peach felt. Or slightly fuzzy, but also firm, like a tennis ball. Or p.r.i.c.kly like Velcro, the side with the plastic bristles. He wanted to run his fingers over it but didn't. Some things were so obvious that they weren't even rules.

For the next two weeks, everything was good for Chuck. School was a paradise where no one noticed he existed. His bruises went away, and his scabs began to peel. Todd Rosenthal ignored him, sitting quietly next to the window. He did not step on Chuck's shoes in the recess line. He did not ask him to be his gay boyfriend.

Then one morning Ms. Mount stayed home with a cold. They found a subst.i.tute-a man-sitting at her desk. He was Mr. Brady, he said, "but call me Felix." He was skinny like Chuck, and short, and wore gla.s.ses. He forgot to collect their homework after he took roll. He didn't understand what the bell meant when it rang. Worse, he began allowing the cla.s.s to vote on everything. "Who votes we line up by height today?" he asked. "Who votes that we read out loud from the textbook?" "What would you like to study next: science or history?"

At the noon bell, Mariellen Chase asked him a question. "Is it okay if we eat lunch in cla.s.s today?"

"Let's put it to a vote," Mr. Brady-Felix-said. "All in favor of eating in cla.s.s, raise your hands."

Fifteen hands shot up immediately, and only five stayed down.

"Okay, then," he said, dropping his fist like a hammer. "By a count of fifteen to five, eating here wins."

He spent the next half hour working on a crossword puzzle. He kept rolling a cough drop around in his mouth. Now and then he looked up, saying, "Quiet down, guys." But everybody was too busy talking, and no one listened.

Chuck finished his bologna sandwich and his pack of Twinkies. He put his lunch box away and took out the diary. He stroked the cover, trying to brush its pain away. He pretended it was a cat, purring in his lap. He wished that he could feed it a cat treat.

Lunchtime was nearly over when Nathan Chowdhury grabbed the book. He caressed it and kissed it, murmuring, "Oh, baby, baby."

Todd Rosenthal said to him, "Nathan, man, chuck it here." Chuck's heart beat faster at the sound of his name. (It wasn't really his name-he knew that-but still ...) He watched the diary's pages flutter apart in the air. Todd caught it, smiled at Chuck, and cracked it open. Right away, without a thought, he tore a page out. The light was terrible and made Chuck's stomach go tight. His mouth tasted bitter, and his hands began to sweat. To see all that love and sadness destroyed was agonizing. Todd Rosenthal noticed his reaction, laughed, and tore another page. The whole cla.s.s turned around to watch what was happening. The sound of ripping paper was louder than their conversations. They looked at Chuck, at Todd, then at Chuck again. They wanted to see if he had started crying yet.

"Hey, what's going on back there?" the subst.i.tute teacher asked. Suddenly he crossed the room, stopping next to Todd Rosenthal. "That's enough monkey business," he said, and took the diary. He handed it back to Chuck, torn pages and all. Then he brought him the Scotch tape from his desk. "It could be worse, right?" he said, squeezing Chuck's shoulder. "Tape it back together and it'll be good as new."

Apparently, Mr. Brady didn't know that he should punish Todd. He didn't seem to understand how the check system worked.

Carefully, Chuck repaired the book, ignoring the whispers he heard. He slid the loose pages into place, squaring their edges. He fastened them together with long strips of invisible tape. He made sure all the broken words lined up correctly. When he was finished, he let the book fall shut.

It wasn't wasn't as good as new-it was nowhere close. It shone like a man whose bones had been broken. as good as new-it was nowhere close. It shone like a man whose bones had been broken.

The rest of the afternoon pa.s.sed slowly for Chuck, hazily. At recess, he spotted Todd Rosenthal climbing the wooden tower. It was freezing cold, and everyone had a sore throat. A few kids were playing soccer in the parking lot. A pale light flickered over their tongues as they shouted. Chuck saw the light but did not hear the words. He approached the tower and went up the ladder. It seemed that he was riding the gla.s.s elevator again. He felt tall and powerful and nothing whatsoever like himself. He rose quietly into the clear blue sky like Superman. Far below him, the kids turned into little moving dots.

He found Todd Rosenthal standing at the platform's open edge. He was dangling a cord of spit from his mouth. Chuck shoved him and watched his body hit the ground.

In seconds, everything was over, and the teachers came running. The fall had wrenched Todd's shoulder out of its socket. His arm had snapped with a sound like breaking chalk. His teeth had pierced the flesh of his lower lip. Blood, thick and shining, was already spilling from the wound.

The teachers bent down over him, trying to soothe him.

"Don't worry," they said, and, "Cry it all out, honey."

"Mr. Kaczmarek is calling the doctor for you right now."

"Your mom and dad will meet you at the hospital."

Todd rolled onto his back and twisted his eyes shut. He moaned, "Why does this s.h.i.t always happen to me?" No one said anything to him about the curse word.

The teachers were trying hard not to look at Chuck. They seemed embarra.s.sed by him-even the subst.i.tute, Mr. Brady. He marched Chuck inside, leaving him in the secretary's office. Chuck sat on the couch listening to the clock tick. After a while, the princ.i.p.al summoned him to her desk. He could see the ambulance pulling away through the window. Its flashing red lights dipped like fish across the wall. The princ.i.p.al kept snapping her fingers and saying, "Pay attention." And, "I must say your behavior surprises me, Mr. Carter." And, "You realize this will go on your permanent record." Her lipstick had leaked into the cracks between her teeth. Finally, she shook her head and turned away from him. She picked up the phone to call his pretend dad. And then it was Chuck's turn to be in trouble.

The school punished him with two full weeks of suspension. His parents punished him by taking away his stuffed animals. "Plus no c.o.kes, TV, or comic books," his mom said. His pretend dad even got her permission to spank him. He gave Chuck ten whacks with a wooden cutting board. Afterward, Chuck noticed him smothering the expression on his face. He looked like he did after he mowed the lawn. He was satisfied with the hard work he had done.

"This was for your own good now," he told Chuck. "It's a lesson I can just about guarantee you'll remember."

"This family doesn't even believe in spanking," his mom added. "You have no idea how disappointed I am in you. I always said I would never hit my child: ever ever. But this-oh, Chuckie, you broke that poor boy's arm."

She was standing at the kitchen counter tapping her feet. The heels of her shoes stabbed the floor like knives.

The days of Chuck's suspension pa.s.sed like a long dream. Because both his parents had jobs, he stayed home alone. He imagined he was an orphan without the sad parts. Over and over again, he walked through the empty house. He made little teepees-dominoes-out of his playing cards. He spent a while tossing beanbags at his tic-tac-toe game. (The spotted beanbags were his, the solid ones Todd Rosenthal's.) He stood at the window looking out over the yard. Cars and trucks and bicycles drifted slowly down the street. Squirrels crossed the gra.s.s, their tails jerking on invisible wires. He could see the yellow bricks that lined the porch. As usual, they looked like something he would enjoy tasting. If he was a r.e.t.a.r.d, then he was a r.e.t.a.r.d. He had become too old to do anything about it.

Chuck began visiting Dr. Finkelstein on both Mondays and Thursdays. His mom said she was having concerns about his psychology. (That was a big word for his personality: his psychology.) The doctor kept rubbing his forehead, his three red sunspots. He wondered what Todd Rosenthal could have done to Chuck. Why had Chuck gotten angry enough to break his leg?

Chuck took out a note card and wrote his answer down. Who told you I broke his leg, because I didn't Who told you I broke his leg, because I didn't.

"But why did you push the boy off the tower?"

He did something bad, Chuck began, then crossed it out. He tore something of mine apart and hurt its feelings He tore something of mine apart and hurt its feelings.

"But only people have feelings," Dr. Finkelstein said, "not objects."

This was the most ridiculous thing Chuck had ever heard. Objects were quieter than people, maybe, but no less sensitive. The one big difference was that objects could not move. They weren't able to fake their feelings or hide them. It was people who could lie, people who could pretend. People could laugh like friends and then beat you up. People could say they were your dad and hit you. Sometimes the faces of people seemed unreal to Chuck, inhuman. They were like masks they wore over their real faces. Masks to show how old or how young they were. Masks to show how healthy or how sick they were. People could cry out of sadness or happiness or anger. But then they could smile for the exact same reasons. The strangeness of people went on and on and on. Objects, on the other hand, were mostly simple and good. Chuck was always kind to them-it was a rule. They needed his help to make it in the world. They had no one else to look out for them. That was why he was so upset about the book. He had tried fixing it and had let it down. It gave off more light now than it had before. Why, then, had he taken it at all, he wondered? He was no more than a thief and a kidnapper. The book would be better off with anyone but him. He might as well give it away to a stranger.

A week into his suspension, someone knocked on the door. Chuck was not supposed to answer it, but he did. A tall man in church clothes stood on the porch. He stooped over the way that grown-ups without kids do. "Why, h.e.l.lo there," he said, his hands on his knees. "Can you tell me if your parents are at home?"

Chuck shook his head no and began shutting the door.

"Wait," the man said, and reached into his leather satchel. "Will you give them this flyer when you see them?" He pa.s.sed Chuck a slip of paper, yellow like b.u.t.ter. The paper read, "For the Lord G.o.d will illumine them." Beneath that was the name and address of a church. And beneath that was a cross surrounded by tiny lines. And beneath that were Chuck's fingers reaching from his hand. And beneath that was his hand sticking from his sleeve. He was reading the flyer when he had an idea. He held up his palms to say, Wait right here Wait right here. Then he went to his bedroom and got the diary. He came running back across the living room with it. He turned it over to the man in the suit.

Aloud, the man wondered, "What's this you have for me?" He looked slightly confused, but fanned through the book's pages. He tried to return it, smiling encouragingly, his hand outstretched. Chuck backed away, and the man's smile tightened in confusion. He was about to speak when Chuck shut the door.

The man wasted a few minutes knocking and shouting h.e.l.lo. The doorbell rang nine times, though Chuck imagined a tenth. Finally the noise fell away, and he looked outside again. There was only the empty porch and a fraying spiderweb. The man must have moved on to the next house. Chuck had been worried he would leave the book behind. But, his worries aside, it was no longer there. It wasn't on the doormat, wasn't poking from the mailbox. It wasn't leaning against the stairs or the brick wall. Obviously, he had given up and taken it with him. Chuck hoped that he would give it a loving home.

It was a Thursday, which meant one thing: Dr. Finkelstein. Chuck's appointment was supposed to last from four to five. His pretend dad had to drive him to the office. "I'm missing two hours' pay for this c.r.a.p," he complained. "That's two hours of food coming straight from our refrigerator. Two hours of working lights, two hours of running water. Two hours of G.o.dd.a.m.ned gasoline for the G.o.dd.a.m.ned Plymouth Reliant." He kept honking the horn and shouting "Jerk!" at people.

The doctor was still in another session when they arrived. They lived in the waiting room for a few minutes. Both of them sat down, Chuck and his pretend dad. Chuck skimmed a news magazine he found on the table. Someone, a Chinese soldier, had been shot in the head. Light was gushing from his temple in a sideways fountain. Some children were starving, their stomachs glimmering like crystal b.a.l.l.s. Their pain had made them simple, honest, candid, like objects. Chuck had seen it happen many times in his life.

A patient came out, and Dr. Finkelstein called Chuck's name. He asked Chuck to join him in his office, please. A surprise was waiting on top of the doctor's desk. He had gotten one of those clacking metal desk toys. It looked exactly like the one Ms. Derryberry had owned.

The doctor set it in motion, and Chuck immediately relaxed. The V-shaped threads rocked back and forth, back and forth. Again and again the silver b.a.l.l.s fell tapping into place. The sound filled Chuck with a gentle, swaying, hammocky feeling. "A neat little gadget, this, isn't it?" Dr. Finkelstein said. He cracked his knuckles and continued. "So let's get started. On Monday we were talking about your ch.o.r.es at home. Will you write down your least favorite ch.o.r.e for me?"

The only one I really hate is cleaning the tub.

"The tub!" Dr. Finkelstein said, rolling his eyes in exasperation. "Yes, there's nothing worse than having to clean the tub. Is there anything else you dislike about living at home?"

When my pretend dad yells at me or my mom.

The doctor's face became animated as he read the note. He was interested, but he tried to pretend he wasn't. Unless he was only pretending to be pretending he wasn't. Sometimes people played elaborate games to hide their true feelings. The doctor jotted something down on his pad of paper. "Your pretend dad?" he prompted, reaching for the desk toy. He pinched hold of one of the hanging metal b.a.l.l.s. When he let it go, the toy rediscovered its rhythm.

Chuck explained the difference between real dads and pretend dads. He wrote down some of the clues he had uncovered. How real dads never filled the house with their shouting. How they didn't twist the hair on their sons' necks. How they ate dinner without flicking their food at anyone. How they didn't secretly wish that their sons were dead. Or not dead, exactly, but that they'd never been born. Chuck filled card after card explaining things to Dr. Finkelstein. Most dads were real dads, but Chuck's dad was pretend. The clues, though small, all came together to prove it. The doctor kept reaching for the toy and restarting it. Before Chuck knew it, he'd used up the whole hour.

"We'll have to stop now, I'm afraid," Dr. Finkelstein said. "Can you send your mom in alone for a minute? I need to discuss something with her, something having to-"

Chuck finished his note while the doctor was still speaking. My mom couldn't take time off from work this afternoon My mom couldn't take time off from work this afternoon.

"Oh, then your dad-your pretend dad-then he's here? That's fine, just fine," the doctor said, twisting his shoulders. There was a popping noise and a b.u.t.ton of light. The light flashed open where his spine joined his neck. "Ask him to step inside for a second, would you?"

Chuck left the office and sat down on the couch. He waited while his pretend dad talked to Dr. Finkelstein. The door, a bulky oak, let hardly any sound through. Chuck heard his pretend dad shouting two words: "completely ridiculous."

He came out brushing the doctor's hand from his arm. His teeth were set so firmly his jaw was shaking. "Move," he said, stomping past, and Chuck followed him outside.

They sped home in a thick smell of burning gasoline. His pretend dad left the car slanting across the driveway. The engine continued to run after he removed the key. It rattled and coughed and then sputtered to a halt. He said, "So I understand I'm not your real dad. Imagine my surprise," and he pulled the car's emergency brake. "I guess that means you're not my real son, either."

He yanked Chuck across the bench seat by his elbow. With long, angry strides, he hauled him toward the house. He was as indignant as Chuck had ever seen him. Chuck tried to keep up, but it was too hard. His shoes kept leaving scars of dirt in the gra.s.s. The scars didn't glow, which meant the gra.s.s wasn't hurt. A root made Chuck stumble, and he tripped and fell. He became a plant, dirt, a fish in a puddle. There were bits of leaves stuck to his blue jeans. He had gra.s.s in his hair and between his lips. His pretend dad lifted him to his feet, armpits first. Chuck was sure-pretty sure-he intended to kill him. He realized it was something he had always seen coming. He wanted to have one last c.o.ke, one last cookie. He wanted to hug his elephant and all his bears. He wanted to say good-bye to everything that loved him.

His pretend dad opened the door and shoved him inside. There was his mom, standing wide-eyed and gaping at them. She was opening the mail with a miniature wooden sword. Someone must have given her a ride home from work. "What's all the ruckus, you guys?" she said to them. "Good lord, Chuck, you're covered head to toe in dirt! That's it, into the tub with you right now-chop-chop!"

Reluctantly, his pretend dad's fingers loosened their grip on him. Chuck had little doubt his mom had saved his life. He felt like he was waking from a bad dream. Miles of jagged rocks had been rushing up at him. The wind was beating like a flag in his ears. The ground was going to separate him from his skeleton. Then he was lying in bed, eyes open, wide awake.

He went to the bathroom and took off his clothes. The chafed skin of his armpits shone in the mirror. He filled the tub with water and heaps of bubbles. He could hear his parents arguing, that awful tumbling noise. The running water made it impossible to recognize the words.

In the tub, the bubbles shifted every time Chuck moved. They were like clouds changing their shape in the sky. A little rhinoceros rose up inside them, then knelt over. It seemed to lift its horn before it was overwhelmed. Its life was short, temporary, just a few seconds long. There were flies that hatched and died in a day. Chuck had seen a program about them on TV once. He turned the faucet off and heard his parents shouting. His pretend dad was saying, "Don't give me that business. He gets it into his head to push some kid-"

"Who was picking on him, don't forget," his mom interrupted.

"And we get stuck with a thousand-dollar hospital bill."

"Which means you get to knock him around why why again?" again?"

There was a pause while his pretend dad punched something. "You cannot-cannot-ask me to justify myself to you."

Chuck turned the faucet back on to m.u.f.fle their argument. It was just him and the water and the bubbles. Blowing on the bubbles made a cave appear inside them. Waving his feet made the heat roll through the tub. Eventually, his parents' voices grew too loud to be camouflaged. His mom's came first, sharp and full, like a siren. "If that's the way you feel, why don't you leave?"

Then he heard his pretend dad saying, "Maybe I will!"

Finally the door slammed shut like a paper bag exploding.

Chuck stayed in the warm water for a long time. The bubbles slowly swallowed one another, sinking and spreading open. Eventually, they were just a few islands of white film.

After the heat vanished, he climbed out of the tub. The house was so still he heard the air conditioner ticking. The silence seemed too big, too eerie, and he shivered. He wasn't sure he wanted to open the bathroom door. The thought of what he might find made him afraid. He pictured his mom lying in a pool of light. A pool of white light, a pool of red blood. He imagined his pretend dad speeding away in the car. Chuck would be an orphan with the sad parts included.

He ran to his bedroom and crawled under the covers. He wished his mom had given his stuffed animals back. At last, though he wasn't sure when, he fell asleep.

He woke much later, in the darkness of early morning. It was 5:52, according to the clock, and then 5:53. He got up and walked quietly into the living room. Both his parents were there, lying senseless on the couch. They were hugging, their bodies curled together like two tadpoles. His pretend dad must've come home while Chuck was sleeping. He must have kissed his mom and apologized to her. How had Chuck ever convinced himself that anything would change? He tiptoed back to his room, but he wasn't sleepy. He lay on his side, his hand beneath the pillow. Soon, bit by bit, the dawn began filling the curtains. He thought that his heart would stop beating from sadness. There it was, the sun, coming up just like always.

Ryan ShifrinAs one has to learn to read or to practice a trade, so one must learn to feel in all things, first and almost solely, the obedience of the universe to G.o.d. It is really an apprenticeship. Like every apprenticeship, it requires time and effort. He who has reached the end of his training realizes that the differences between things or between events are no more important than those recognized by someone who knows how to read, when he has before him the same sentence, reproduced several times, written in red ink and blue, and printed in this, that, or the other kind of lettering. He who does not know how to read only sees the differences. For him who knows how to read, it all comes to the same thing, since the sentence is identical. Whoever has finished his apprenticeship recognizes things and events, everywhere and always, as vibrations of the same divine and infinitely sweet word. This does not mean that he will not suffer. Pain is the color of certain events. When a man who can and a man who cannot read look at a sentence written in red ink, they both see the same red color, but this color is not so important for the one as for the other.-Simone Weil

Judy was coughing up blood again. He held a tissue to her mouth, watched it darken, then replaced it with another. For a moment, as her stomach rose and fell beneath the covers, everything was quiet. From out of the lull she asked, "Is it May already?" and then, "Who brought the garden inside?" and in a sunburst of intuition he realized that she saw the seven stained tissues on her bedside table as roses, the same l.u.s.trous red as the apothecaries their mother used to cultivate when they were kids. It was another five minutes, another handful of roses, before one of the tissues came out speckled a watery pink. At last she was able to close her eyes and rest. He left her to her garden dreams, slipping out into the daylight.

A half hour later, distributing his leaflets, he came to a house where a dog began to bark, its chest concussing against a frosted gla.s.s door. For an instant he was eight years old again and Judy nine, facing the old bull mastiff that used to lunge at them from behind Mr. Castillo's chain-link fence, listening as he called out, "Max! Leave those children alone! Heel!" Except that Mr. Castillo's dog's name was not Max, it was Duke, maybe, or Buster.

Was there anyone else who had been there and might remember, anyone but him and Judy?

He backed away and continued down the block.

Every day was the same: young parents and vacationing students, the elderly and the unemployed, all answering their doors to him with open stances and quizzical eyes, as if he might be delivering something they would only then realize they had always secretly desired. Then he would ask them if they had heard the Good News, and their postures would stiffen, their features grow hard. G.o.d G.o.d was a word that embarra.s.sed people. He knew missionaries who were able to use it without sounding pushy or insincere, letting it shine in their voices like some small, familiar object, not the sun but a nail head, a key ring, a strand of silk-something that reflected its light rather than generated it. But he was not one of them. He had seen too many people retreat behind their faces as he spoke, and now he found it nearly impossible to open his mouth without steeling himself for rejection. was a word that embarra.s.sed people. He knew missionaries who were able to use it without sounding pushy or insincere, letting it shine in their voices like some small, familiar object, not the sun but a nail head, a key ring, a strand of silk-something that reflected its light rather than generated it. But he was not one of them. He had seen too many people retreat behind their faces as he spoke, and now he found it nearly impossible to open his mouth without steeling himself for rejection. G.o.d G.o.d-his timidity had stripped all the grace from the word. So instead it was Good News Good News he said. And he smiled like he thought a man filled with peace might smile. And though most of the people he met were polite enough to accept a leaflet from him, he had learned not to expect anything more. he said. And he smiled like he thought a man filled with peace might smile. And though most of the people he met were polite enough to accept a leaflet from him, he had learned not to expect anything more.

Only twice that day did someone actually engage him in conversation. The first was a woman who saw the Bible he was carrying and asked, "Jehovah's Witness?" and when he shook his head asked, "Mormon?" and when he shook his head again asked, "Methodist?" When he told her the name of his church, Fellowship Bible, she pointed to herself and repeated, "Methodist," shutting the door. The second was a man who took a flyer and read it out loud: "'1 John 1:5: This then is the message which we have heard of him, and declare unto you, that G.o.d is light, and in him is no darkness at all.'" He was one of those people who did not fold or crumple the page but laid it gently on a table, as if he were attempting to balance a coin on the surface of a puddle.

"What's your name, son?" the man asked.

"Ryan Shifrin, sir."

"Ryan Shifrin. I want you to promise me something. Can you do that?"

"I think so."

"I want you to promise me that you'll never darken my door again. And I want you to promise me that you'll tell your buddies to stay away, too."

It was not the promise Ryan had been hoping for, and at the end of a long day of no thank you no thank you's and not interested not interested's, he had just enough billy-goat tenacity to ask why.

"Because you're making a grand mystery out of total horse-s.h.i.t," the man answered, "and don't get me wrong, that's your const.i.tutional right as an American, but I resent you bringing it into my home."

What could Ryan say? That he apologized? That he understood? It was Judy who had always been the diehard, the true believer, praying that it would not snow on her birthday, that Wheaton College would pluck her from its waiting list, that the cancer would not spread to her lungs and afterward, when it did, that her suffering would be bearable, but always and only if it be G.o.d's will. Their shared childhood of bedtime prayers and family devotionals had carried Ryan to church nearly every Sunday of his life, but it had carried Judy much further, into a world of praise music, revival meetings, and mission work. She was a Christian by const.i.tution, whereas Ryan was merely a Christian by inertia. Or he very nearly was, he would have been, if not for the occasional moment waiting at a stoplight or pushing a shopping cart with a floating front wheel through the supermarket when, despite the fact that everyone was in pain and everyone was dying and no one knew what they were or where they came from, an inexplicable sense that it would all be okay washed over him like a wave. It was the same feeling that Wittgenstein had found so curious, the one that had convinced him of the existence of G.o.d. A hint, a clue. Not a burning bush or a disembodied hand marking out letters in plaster, but the slight breeze He left as He brushed past the world.

That evening, when Ryan got home, Judy was still sleeping. A new stain had appeared on her pillow, a spatter of blood, already dried to rust along the edges. He could hardly bear to see it there, grazing her lip like the plume of a long red feather.

He cradled her head while he replaced the pillow, trying not to disturb her, but she woke anyway. She blinked and recognized him, gave a teetering smile. "Ryan," she said, "you're back."

"That's right. Home again."