Before I Wake by Robert J. Wiersema Page A

afterward, and I ate at the table.
    Every so often, though, I looked at the empty place across from me, the empty chair. These chairs were the first pieces of furniture we ever bought new, for the kitchen of our first house. This house. The house where I live alone with my silentdaughter, where the man who used to be my husband visits twice each day, knocking on the door like a salesman.
    We had lived here together for five years; I had been alone here for five months. Lifetimes.
    Â 
    When he went to the daily Masses at the cathedral, the stranger kept the collar and his Bible in the pocket of his coat. He sat near the back, in a pew of his own. He paid little attention to the sermons and homilies—what interest had he in the purported wisdoms of some provincial priest?
    He was there to watch the congregation.
    He knew the sort of people he was seeking. They would be there most days. They would be devout, building their lives around their faith rather than paying lip service with once-weekly observances. They would sit close to the front, close to the altar, close to the aisle. They would carry their own Bibles with them. They would be the first to their knees when told to drop.
    Soldiers. He was looking for soldiers of the Lord. There were many candidates, as he knew there would be. As there always were. They would come to him when he called. They would serve.
    But there had to be a first, and he knew who it would be.
    He was a huge man, nearly six and a half feet tall, and solid through the body. He carried his Bible like a shield. His face, though, was soft, open. Malleable.
    The man brought his mother to Sunday Mass. They walked slowly, her arm looped in his, his Bible in his other hand. He bowed his head as he walked with her, listening to the old woman, nodding. For several weeks, the stranger walked behind them. His mother called her son Leopold, but the priests at the cathedral called him Leo.
    Weekdays, Leo came to the early-morning services alone. He always smiled, and as he walked up the aisle he raised his eyes to the stained glass. A little simple, perhaps, but the stranger knew there was an inner steel in the big, soft man that the stranger could shape to his purpose.
    Leo was always the first to his knees, dropping with a purity of faith and a fervor no one else matched. His belief burned in him like a torch, and the stranger could feel himself warmed by the flames.
    MARY
    Most days, we had dinner after our run. It helped us work up an appetite, and by the time we got to the restaurant there wasn’t much of a lineup.
    We had started running together not long after Simon moved in. I used to do aerobics in the afternoons, and Simon would run every morning with his male colleagues and play racquetball or squash a couple of times a week. After we moved in together, though, his friendships started to fall apart. At first people came up with excuses—The kids were sick. Sorry, slept in—but then they didn’t even bother. And Simon gave up, both on them and on exercise.
    After a couple of weeks of Simon being surly from the lack of exercise, I suggested that we should start running together.
    â€œYou don’t run,” he said, lying in bed and staring at the ceiling.
    â€œNo, but I’ve always wanted to try it.”
    â€œReally?” He turned to look at my face.
    â€œReally.”
    â€œThat’d be great, Mary. It’s always better if you’ve got someone to run with. When do you want to start?”
    â€œHow about tomorrow?”
    He was reaching for the alarm clock as I interrupted him. “No way. I’m not getting up at some insane hour to run. Let’s go after work. You know, when I usually go to aerobics.”
    He withdrew his hand from the alarm clock, sliding it instead over my hip. “Thank you,” he said, after a moment, his voice a mere whisper.
    The tone of relief, and of appreciation, warmed me.
    It took a little while before I was able to