do it for an entire nation?"
"Dad--"
"Give me a
year, Charlie. One year of prayer and therapy. That's all I ask. You're young.
One year out of the rest of your life is not too much for your father to ask,
is it? If there's been no change at the end of that time, and if I see you've made a sincere effort, then I'll accept your . . .
the way you are and never bother you again about it."
Charlie was
staring at him. "Accept me? I don't think you can."
"If you
can try, I can try. One year." He thrust out his hand. "What do you
say?"
"One year
. . . that's too long."
"Half a year then. Six months. Please!"
Charlie
hesitated and Arthur sent up a prayer: Please make him accept, Lord. Between
the two of us I know we can make him normal.
Tentatively
Charlie reached out and grasped his father's hand.
"All
right. Six months. As long as you understand that I'm not promising you
results, just to give it the old college try."
Arthur blinked
back the tears that surged into his eyes. He pulled Charlie close and embraced
him.
"That's
all I ask, son. That's all a father can ask."
Thank you,
Lord, he said in silent prayer. I know this is going to work. If I can teach my
boy to pray, if he can learn as I have learned, if he can find for himself just
one tenth of the peace I find in you, he will be saved. I trust in you, Lord,
and I know that you will help me in this.
But as he held
his son, Arthur was alarmed at how frail he seemed. He could feel the corduroy
ridges of ribs through Charlie's sweatshirt. Weight loss, night sweats . . .
Charlie couldn't possibly have . . .
No. That was
impossible. God wouldn't do that to him. Arthur didn't know if he could handle
that. Not after Olivia. He was strong, but he had his limits. He wasn't cut out
to be a modern-day Job.
He cast the
thought from his mind and held his son tighter.
"Everything's
going to be all right, Charlie. God will make it so."
I swore to all present that I would guard her until my last
breath. I told the brother, I will kill to keep her safe.
But he said to me. No,
you must not kill.
And then I swore I
would die to keep her safe. But within I promised that if the need arose I
would gladly kill to keep her secret. It is the least I can do.
I do not fear killing.
I have killed before, slipping through the crowds in Jerusalem, stabbing with
my knife. And I fear not damnation. Indeed, I am already thrice-damned.
from the Glass scroll
Rockefeller
Museum translation
9
Manhattan
As Sister
Caroline Ferris reached behind the scratched and dented dresser in her room at
the Convent of St. Ann, she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall
behind it.
You're
twenty-eight, she thought, and you still look like a child. When are you going
to get wrinkled so men won't stare at you?
Maybe if she'd
spent her teenage years worshiping the sun instead of God, she'd have at least
a few wrinkles to show. But she'd entered the convent at fourteen, and as a
result her skin was pale and flawlessly smooth. She kept her thick, dark, hair
cut in a bob---straight, functional, easy to care for. She wore no makeup--never
a trace of mascara or shadow for her large blue eyes, never even a touch of
color to her thin lips, and when out in public she tried to look as serious as
possible. Yet despite her shapeless clothing and carefully cultured Plain Jane
look, men still approached her. Even in habit!
Maybe I should put on forty or fifty pounds. That would stop
them.
But no matter
how much she ate, her body burned it off. She seemed doomed to remain 120
pounds forever.
She removed the
compact-like case from under the rear lip of the bureau top and opened it.
Inside was a foil and plastic card with twenty-one clear bubbles, one for each
of the contraceptive pills the pack contained. The label inside the lid read Ortho-Novum 7-7-7 and gave the patient's name
as Margaret Jones. Half the pills were gone. Quickly Carrie pushed the next
light-peach tablet in line through the foil and
"Dad--"
"Give me a
year, Charlie. One year of prayer and therapy. That's all I ask. You're young.
One year out of the rest of your life is not too much for your father to ask,
is it? If there's been no change at the end of that time, and if I see you've made a sincere effort, then I'll accept your . . .
the way you are and never bother you again about it."
Charlie was
staring at him. "Accept me? I don't think you can."
"If you
can try, I can try. One year." He thrust out his hand. "What do you
say?"
"One year
. . . that's too long."
"Half a year then. Six months. Please!"
Charlie
hesitated and Arthur sent up a prayer: Please make him accept, Lord. Between
the two of us I know we can make him normal.
Tentatively
Charlie reached out and grasped his father's hand.
"All
right. Six months. As long as you understand that I'm not promising you
results, just to give it the old college try."
Arthur blinked
back the tears that surged into his eyes. He pulled Charlie close and embraced
him.
"That's
all I ask, son. That's all a father can ask."
Thank you,
Lord, he said in silent prayer. I know this is going to work. If I can teach my
boy to pray, if he can learn as I have learned, if he can find for himself just
one tenth of the peace I find in you, he will be saved. I trust in you, Lord,
and I know that you will help me in this.
But as he held
his son, Arthur was alarmed at how frail he seemed. He could feel the corduroy
ridges of ribs through Charlie's sweatshirt. Weight loss, night sweats . . .
Charlie couldn't possibly have . . .
No. That was
impossible. God wouldn't do that to him. Arthur didn't know if he could handle
that. Not after Olivia. He was strong, but he had his limits. He wasn't cut out
to be a modern-day Job.
He cast the
thought from his mind and held his son tighter.
"Everything's
going to be all right, Charlie. God will make it so."
I swore to all present that I would guard her until my last
breath. I told the brother, I will kill to keep her safe.
But he said to me. No,
you must not kill.
And then I swore I
would die to keep her safe. But within I promised that if the need arose I
would gladly kill to keep her secret. It is the least I can do.
I do not fear killing.
I have killed before, slipping through the crowds in Jerusalem, stabbing with
my knife. And I fear not damnation. Indeed, I am already thrice-damned.
from the Glass scroll
Rockefeller
Museum translation
9
Manhattan
As Sister
Caroline Ferris reached behind the scratched and dented dresser in her room at
the Convent of St. Ann, she caught sight of herself in the mirror on the wall
behind it.
You're
twenty-eight, she thought, and you still look like a child. When are you going
to get wrinkled so men won't stare at you?
Maybe if she'd
spent her teenage years worshiping the sun instead of God, she'd have at least
a few wrinkles to show. But she'd entered the convent at fourteen, and as a
result her skin was pale and flawlessly smooth. She kept her thick, dark, hair
cut in a bob---straight, functional, easy to care for. She wore no makeup--never
a trace of mascara or shadow for her large blue eyes, never even a touch of
color to her thin lips, and when out in public she tried to look as serious as
possible. Yet despite her shapeless clothing and carefully cultured Plain Jane
look, men still approached her. Even in habit!
Maybe I should put on forty or fifty pounds. That would stop
them.
But no matter
how much she ate, her body burned it off. She seemed doomed to remain 120
pounds forever.
She removed the
compact-like case from under the rear lip of the bureau top and opened it.
Inside was a foil and plastic card with twenty-one clear bubbles, one for each
of the contraceptive pills the pack contained. The label inside the lid read Ortho-Novum 7-7-7 and gave the patient's name
as Margaret Jones. Half the pills were gone. Quickly Carrie pushed the next
light-peach tablet in line through the foil and
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