Tempo do if you was gone.”
“I don’t know,” I said, unable to hide the grief in my voice.
“Why don’t you come to church with me and my mother this Sunday?” Branwyn asked, not for the first time. “I’m sure that would make you feel better.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because…,” I said. And out before me appeared a vast terrain of dread. I imagined what would happen if I showed up in the House of God alongside a mortal with whom I had fathered children. This was a forbidden act, something that I had done under the influence of a physical body and its overwhelming alchemy. I would not, I could not, go to her sacred place of worship making a mockery of her own beliefs.
“Joshua.”
I shouldn’t have ever been given this assignment.
“Joshua.”
I had failed myself, Tempest Landry, Branwyn, and our unsuspecting children.
“Joshua.”
I looked up and saw Branwyn with the phone receiver in her hand. What did she mean? Did she want me to call someone?
“It’s Tempest,” she said. “You were so deep in thought you didn’t even hear it ring.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Just about three.”
“In the morning? What does he want?”
“He’s in jail.”
—
The city courts of New York were situated just above the financial district in downtown Manhattan. I was there before four o’clock standing in front of a policeman’s high desk.
“Yeah,” the sergeant was saying, “we got him on B and E up on East Sixty-Ninth Street.”
“B and E?”
“Breaking and entering.”
“Burglary?” I said skeptically.
“Or worse.”
“Can I see him?”
“Not until eight. You can sit over on one of the benches until then.”
There were three rows of worn wooden benches to the left of the officer’s perch. A dozen or so sad looking people, alone or in small groups, sat there like the penitents waiting for St. Peter’s judgment.
I joined them, feeling the worry and trepidation I came to know as the hallmark of humanity.
—
“What’s that song, mister?” a young woman asked.
I had been in a state of deep meditation, unaware of myself or the surroundings.
I looked at the woman, who was young but haggard, innocent of ill will but versed in the ways of sin. She was white and brunette, hazel-eyed and fleshy. Her question made me realize that I’d been unconsciously humming in my transcendental condition.
“It’s called the Hymn of Forgiveness,” I said. “We used to sing it at night after something terrible had happened.”
“Something terrible happens every night,” the old young woman averred.
Without thinking I reached out and touched her brow. Sin, for an angel, feels like fever. This woman was burning under my hand.
“Oh my God!” she uttered. “It feels like a fire in my mind.”
“Let it burn,” I said. “Let it burn until you can see through it into the place you want to be.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“ ‘No one without you,’ ” I quoted from the banned Secret Bible that once proliferated in the hereafter.
She took my wrist with both hands and pressed my palm down against her flesh. We both felt the pain of otherworldly flames and the masochistic relief in the acknowledgment of that suffering.
“Excuse me,” a man said. He was standing above us at the bench where the young sinner and I sat.
I pulled my hand away and the woman groaned with the kind of satisfaction one would like to keep private. She staggered to her feet and backed away from me and the stranger. She looked around the room and shook her head as if denying a power that had once dominated her. She turned and walked ever more steadily toward the door.
“What was that all about?” the stranger asked.
He was wearing an inexpensive but well-cut suit of brown cloth.
“She asked about a song I was humming and I thought she had a fever.”
The man sat down next to me.
“I’m Detective Crowley,” he said. “Leonard Crowley.”
“Yes, officer, how can I be of
“I don’t know,” I said, unable to hide the grief in my voice.
“Why don’t you come to church with me and my mother this Sunday?” Branwyn asked, not for the first time. “I’m sure that would make you feel better.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because…,” I said. And out before me appeared a vast terrain of dread. I imagined what would happen if I showed up in the House of God alongside a mortal with whom I had fathered children. This was a forbidden act, something that I had done under the influence of a physical body and its overwhelming alchemy. I would not, I could not, go to her sacred place of worship making a mockery of her own beliefs.
“Joshua.”
I shouldn’t have ever been given this assignment.
“Joshua.”
I had failed myself, Tempest Landry, Branwyn, and our unsuspecting children.
“Joshua.”
I looked up and saw Branwyn with the phone receiver in her hand. What did she mean? Did she want me to call someone?
“It’s Tempest,” she said. “You were so deep in thought you didn’t even hear it ring.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Just about three.”
“In the morning? What does he want?”
“He’s in jail.”
—
The city courts of New York were situated just above the financial district in downtown Manhattan. I was there before four o’clock standing in front of a policeman’s high desk.
“Yeah,” the sergeant was saying, “we got him on B and E up on East Sixty-Ninth Street.”
“B and E?”
“Breaking and entering.”
“Burglary?” I said skeptically.
“Or worse.”
“Can I see him?”
“Not until eight. You can sit over on one of the benches until then.”
There were three rows of worn wooden benches to the left of the officer’s perch. A dozen or so sad looking people, alone or in small groups, sat there like the penitents waiting for St. Peter’s judgment.
I joined them, feeling the worry and trepidation I came to know as the hallmark of humanity.
—
“What’s that song, mister?” a young woman asked.
I had been in a state of deep meditation, unaware of myself or the surroundings.
I looked at the woman, who was young but haggard, innocent of ill will but versed in the ways of sin. She was white and brunette, hazel-eyed and fleshy. Her question made me realize that I’d been unconsciously humming in my transcendental condition.
“It’s called the Hymn of Forgiveness,” I said. “We used to sing it at night after something terrible had happened.”
“Something terrible happens every night,” the old young woman averred.
Without thinking I reached out and touched her brow. Sin, for an angel, feels like fever. This woman was burning under my hand.
“Oh my God!” she uttered. “It feels like a fire in my mind.”
“Let it burn,” I said. “Let it burn until you can see through it into the place you want to be.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“ ‘No one without you,’ ” I quoted from the banned Secret Bible that once proliferated in the hereafter.
She took my wrist with both hands and pressed my palm down against her flesh. We both felt the pain of otherworldly flames and the masochistic relief in the acknowledgment of that suffering.
“Excuse me,” a man said. He was standing above us at the bench where the young sinner and I sat.
I pulled my hand away and the woman groaned with the kind of satisfaction one would like to keep private. She staggered to her feet and backed away from me and the stranger. She looked around the room and shook her head as if denying a power that had once dominated her. She turned and walked ever more steadily toward the door.
“What was that all about?” the stranger asked.
He was wearing an inexpensive but well-cut suit of brown cloth.
“She asked about a song I was humming and I thought she had a fever.”
The man sat down next to me.
“I’m Detective Crowley,” he said. “Leonard Crowley.”
“Yes, officer, how can I be of
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