"How did you end up having a Salvage Yard in your salvage yard?"
Hazel found herself back again at the Lunchbox in Upper Sharon, sitting across from Nicholas at a booth where this time she (and he) were first in and tucked into the wall, with the mostly younger students from Cyrus College and elsewhere filling in and hanging off the end.
They'd ended the service and piled into an assortment of cars, including her Prius, and driven back up the road to what was clearly this fellowship's home away from home. They'd come in together and immediately taken the last four booths and adjoining small tables, with the obvious assent of the hostess, who was the senior of the two waitresses moving back and forth from tables to the grill and back again, with loops past the coffeemaker.
Nicholas smiled and looked up somewhere over Hazel's head. "Yeah, that's a funny sort of thing. It's not what I had . . ." He looked directly at her. "You've heard, probably, that my wife died last year."
"Yes, I'd heard some sort of strange, horrible accident. I'm sorry to hear it, of course."
"Strange, horrible, all those adjectives. She was darting back into the house: we have these three girls (he pointed generally towards enough girls to add up to more than three, but she assumed they were somewhere among them), and they were always forgetting things, and Natasha went to get something, slipped and fell backwards, hit her head, and laughed, got up, came back to the van -- we took the girls to school, I dropped her off at work and told her to be careful, and two hours later the hospital calls to tell me she's gone."
"Oh." There was a great deal of shock, sympathy, and felt pain in Hazel's small exclamation."
"Exactly," Nicholas answered with gentle acceptance. "It took me days to just get past the unreality of it all. I'm still not sure I really understand that she's gone. But it had been just a few weeks before that she'd run into some of the folks (and he gestured towards the booths filled in behind them, the older half of the group from the Salvage Yard) from an AA group that used to meet at the Memorial Church."
"You mean the one next door to here?"
"That's the one," Nicholas said wryly. "There was some sort of problem, a clogged toilet or something of that type, and next thing they knew, they'd been asked to meet somewhere else."
"Oh, that's so unfortunate," Hazel said, thinking she'd seen the same sort of thinking in academia, but hoped that churches were a little less hidebound.
The wry smile grew wryer as he replied "Yes, especially since just a few years before that, your predecessor had kicked them off of the Cyrus College campus."
"Oh." It was an entirely different "oh," with a new set of meanings to the same monosyllable.
"Yes. So they weren't sure it was a good idea to go back across the creek and see if the new president was any more reasonable (could his smile get any broader, she wondered), and were simply ready to give up, when one of their number mentioned their dilemma to Natasha. And that night, she came home and told me we were having an AA meeting in the shop."
"The shop?"
"Sharon Architectural Salvage, to be precise. Or the shop, as I usually call it."
"Oh."
They reflected together for a moment on the many uses of that term, then Hazel went on, a tiny bit uncomfortably: "So this was an AA meeting? Should I have been there? Because I . . ."
"No, no -- the church came later. It began with the AA group, and they still meet there. Tuesdays. Then NA, Thursdays. And then Al-Anon on Mondays. Which somehow became a group that was made up of a number of Memorial Church castaways who asked if they could use the chairs and space and coffee machine on Sunday mornings, and we'd done that all of twice when Natasha . . . died."
"Has it helped, this group, or does it . . .?"
"It does help. It hurts, not infrequently, but it hurts sometimes in the morning to see the girls coming out to the van, but that doesn't change how much I love them. The Salvage Yard is something that Natasha didn't know she was leaving me, but it's become like my fourth child."
"And your children are adopted?"
"Yes, we had been foster parents, and then we became foster parents who just couldn't let go, and the Children's Services folk couldn't have been happier. They helped with everything, and the adoption was final almost two years ago. This adoption, the church . . . I don't know if it's really a church, but the group, the community, it . . . well, my family has been, really, I guess blessed by it. And we want to find ways to bless others, and that's what our reason for getting together is. That, and remembering that we should be thankful, and remembering who to be thankful to."
"God, you mean."
"That's the name. If you aren't a God person, we're okay with that, you can probably tell. But most of us think God's a pretty important part of how we understand ourselves."
"Oh, no, I didn't mean to imply; I mean, God is . . . this isn't something I guess I've given much thought to. I'm a scientist and an academic, and Sundays stopped being something I spent in a big room singing in the morning back when I was in high school. Other than the stray wedding, or funeral . . ."
A particular funeral, one Hazel had not seen but could readily imagine, hung in the air between them. As if they'd spoken out loud, Nicholas said "Yes, we did her funeral right there in the shop. It seemed right. The funeral home was very helpful, if quite confused when they first showed up. But once we got them used to the idea, they were fine. I hope it's a long, long time before we use what we learned that day again to hold one of those."
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Chapter Six
After steering her Prius the next morning into the parking area in front of Sharon Architectural Salvage, Hazel sat a moment behind the wheel drumming her fingers along its curve.
The radio still played, since she hadn't popped the door open yet. Krista Tippett was interviewing a spiritual leader of some sort on NPR, as she did pretty much every Sunday morning. When Hazel had listened to her before, it had been with a sort of academic detachment, not in the sense of prelude to actually having a spiritual experience, or whatever was going to happen inside.
She had loaded the keyboard into the hatchback trunk on her way down here, having forgotten how heavy it was, or really more unwieldy than weighty. She'd practiced a bit last night, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the rust fell away rather quickly. A few old show tunes, some light Beethoven, and an Ellington rendition of "Sophisticated Lady."
Now she was here, where she'd be expected to play . . . what? There were snatches of old hymns caught back in her head somewhere, pieces and parts but no full songs, not this long removed. And is that what they sang at the . . . Salvage Yard?
With a snap of the head, she swung out the door and marched to the rear, plucking the keyboard out and thinking she might ask for a hand in coming back to get the ironing-board-type stand. Tucked under her arm, she crunched across the gravel and to the fairly uninviting door with a very friendly looking sign on it, hung in an obviously "not all the time" fashion across it, hand-painted with "The Salvage Yard - Visitors Expected!"
As she approached the door, it swung out and Priscilla from yesterday stood there with a manic wave of her free hand, and warm greetings mixed with a grab for the handles of the carry-bag of the keyboard. Priscilla levered it neatly around the door frame, and as Hazel held onto the door, Cicely stepped through and gave her a hug.
"We're so happy you decided to come and play! This is going to be . . . do you need help with anything?"
"Well, there's still a stand in the car, but I have all the other cords in the carry-all, unless we need an extension . . ."
Cicely had already darted on past to the car, so Hazel returned with her, helped her lift the heavy metal stand and swing it up and over the sill of the trunk, then plucked a reel of extension cord out of its depths just to be on the safe side. Heading back (again) this time she entered and passed through the front door, yet another new face smiling and holding the door open for her.
Inside, the broad room across the front of the big block building was a step up, concrete floored and drop-ceilinged, with plenty of strong florescent light fixtures overhead. Some display tables and tall barrister bookcases lined the walls, with another step up on the other side to yet another large, solid door; as she and Cicely headed for it, she noticed a counter and office area off to her left.
Up through the next doorway, simply open and staying that way (the front door had some sort of automatic closer on it), they entered a wide and very deep room, the whole of the arched ceiling's trusses visible above, and the far wall barely visible beyond various objects and tall divider walls ahead.
In the middle, with a large life-size trio of statues dotted around as if they were part of the growing circle of chairs, was the . . . worship space? A ring of folding chairs, at any rate, in two concentric circles, and an opening on the opposite side, where a music stand of indeterminate but rustic vintage stood in the middle of the break in the circle, a guitar leaning against it with a cord running on over to an amp and a pair of speakers. Priscilla had already staked out a spot to one side of the music stand, and was animatedly waving at the area while talking to a tall man with longish, dark brown hair liberally streaked with grey, a long rugged face, and a very worn denim jacket against what was definitely some remaining chill in the room.
"Hazel, meet Nicholas," said Priscilla.
"How do you do, hello."
"Welcome to our little gathering here. We're honored to have you, and to play . . ."
"We'll see how honored you are after you've heard me."
The semi-formal pleasantries continued as they looked to the plugs and connections and set-up, and when they were done, Hazel was startled to find herself looking at a roomful of seated, friendly faces, and having Nicholas at her elbow swinging his guitar strap over his shoulder. In almost a stage whisper, he asked her "What do you know that you're comfortable with?"
Hazel answered, with a joking intent, "'Sophisticated Lady' sounded good when I was practicing last night, but . . ."
Nicholas beamed and replied "Perfect. Let's start with that, and see where we go." It was clear he was entirely serious.
Bemused that she would be starting a . . . worship service? . . . with a jazz tune of uncertain intent, Hazel shrugged in a "sure, why not" fashion, and began to play. As she glanced up, it was clear that of the students and adults in the circle of chairs, those who didn't obviously already know the song were clearly welcoming it, and she lost herself then completely in the playing of it.
The radio still played, since she hadn't popped the door open yet. Krista Tippett was interviewing a spiritual leader of some sort on NPR, as she did pretty much every Sunday morning. When Hazel had listened to her before, it had been with a sort of academic detachment, not in the sense of prelude to actually having a spiritual experience, or whatever was going to happen inside.
She had loaded the keyboard into the hatchback trunk on her way down here, having forgotten how heavy it was, or really more unwieldy than weighty. She'd practiced a bit last night, and was pleasantly surprised to find that the rust fell away rather quickly. A few old show tunes, some light Beethoven, and an Ellington rendition of "Sophisticated Lady."
Now she was here, where she'd be expected to play . . . what? There were snatches of old hymns caught back in her head somewhere, pieces and parts but no full songs, not this long removed. And is that what they sang at the . . . Salvage Yard?
With a snap of the head, she swung out the door and marched to the rear, plucking the keyboard out and thinking she might ask for a hand in coming back to get the ironing-board-type stand. Tucked under her arm, she crunched across the gravel and to the fairly uninviting door with a very friendly looking sign on it, hung in an obviously "not all the time" fashion across it, hand-painted with "The Salvage Yard - Visitors Expected!"
As she approached the door, it swung out and Priscilla from yesterday stood there with a manic wave of her free hand, and warm greetings mixed with a grab for the handles of the carry-bag of the keyboard. Priscilla levered it neatly around the door frame, and as Hazel held onto the door, Cicely stepped through and gave her a hug.
"We're so happy you decided to come and play! This is going to be . . . do you need help with anything?"
"Well, there's still a stand in the car, but I have all the other cords in the carry-all, unless we need an extension . . ."
Cicely had already darted on past to the car, so Hazel returned with her, helped her lift the heavy metal stand and swing it up and over the sill of the trunk, then plucked a reel of extension cord out of its depths just to be on the safe side. Heading back (again) this time she entered and passed through the front door, yet another new face smiling and holding the door open for her.
Inside, the broad room across the front of the big block building was a step up, concrete floored and drop-ceilinged, with plenty of strong florescent light fixtures overhead. Some display tables and tall barrister bookcases lined the walls, with another step up on the other side to yet another large, solid door; as she and Cicely headed for it, she noticed a counter and office area off to her left.
Up through the next doorway, simply open and staying that way (the front door had some sort of automatic closer on it), they entered a wide and very deep room, the whole of the arched ceiling's trusses visible above, and the far wall barely visible beyond various objects and tall divider walls ahead.
In the middle, with a large life-size trio of statues dotted around as if they were part of the growing circle of chairs, was the . . . worship space? A ring of folding chairs, at any rate, in two concentric circles, and an opening on the opposite side, where a music stand of indeterminate but rustic vintage stood in the middle of the break in the circle, a guitar leaning against it with a cord running on over to an amp and a pair of speakers. Priscilla had already staked out a spot to one side of the music stand, and was animatedly waving at the area while talking to a tall man with longish, dark brown hair liberally streaked with grey, a long rugged face, and a very worn denim jacket against what was definitely some remaining chill in the room.
"Hazel, meet Nicholas," said Priscilla.
"How do you do, hello."
"Welcome to our little gathering here. We're honored to have you, and to play . . ."
"We'll see how honored you are after you've heard me."
The semi-formal pleasantries continued as they looked to the plugs and connections and set-up, and when they were done, Hazel was startled to find herself looking at a roomful of seated, friendly faces, and having Nicholas at her elbow swinging his guitar strap over his shoulder. In almost a stage whisper, he asked her "What do you know that you're comfortable with?"
Hazel answered, with a joking intent, "'Sophisticated Lady' sounded good when I was practicing last night, but . . ."
Nicholas beamed and replied "Perfect. Let's start with that, and see where we go." It was clear he was entirely serious.
Bemused that she would be starting a . . . worship service? . . . with a jazz tune of uncertain intent, Hazel shrugged in a "sure, why not" fashion, and began to play. As she glanced up, it was clear that of the students and adults in the circle of chairs, those who didn't obviously already know the song were clearly welcoming it, and she lost herself then completely in the playing of it.
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Chapter Five
As their booth and the booth across the aisle that was with them settled into eating, the voices around them and occasionally among them began to weave themselves into a running chorus.
"As if! She didn't even know."
"I'm not going to have that man mow my lot this year. I'm not interested in all the complications."
"Mickey Power will be dead by Christmas."
"Do you see her often, or did you just run into her?'
"We'd best get some rain, or I'm going have to start buying hay again."
Hazel picked at her salad, just letting herself listen and pick out the various statements floating around her, feeling the sense of life and community around these tables. Around the formica and tubular steel and naugahyde, people whose lives were all different from hers, and from each other, had in common a need to eat, a desire to find listening ears, and a hope to catch a response to their words that confirmed they were being heard themselves.
That's what these students were telling her they hadn't found on campus, she thought. Our food might be better, the buildings designed for communal living, with each lodge meant to be a sort of family the students would be part of for their whole time at Cyrus College, but there wasn't that much going on to promote people coming together for simple communication. Or for caring, for that matter.
Those women behind her, talking about Mickey Power. Who was she? Why would she be dead by Christmas? Should Hazel care, or is her situation no different than fifteen other global tragedies on the TV too distant to care about?
The younger woman, the girl really, who had wedged in last on Hazel's side of the booth, awkwardly turned her head and asked "Would you like to join us tomorrow?"
"Join you?"
"Come, I mean. To the Salvage Yard. I think you'd like it."
"So this is that warehouse building down at the crossroads, towards Newark, right?"
"That's it. We have a few of us who drive, maybe eight or ten of us who go. It's probably about forty people, mostly from Upper Sharon and the area, a few who come up from Newark."
"And what's a service like?"
The young woman directly across from them both chimed in: "They usually start with some songs; Bobby plays guitar, and sometimes there's a dulcimer or a bass and a keyboard. Cicely plays keyboards, but it depends on if someone brings out the Fender Rhodes from the storeroom."
"No," said Cicely, "Nicholas sold the Fender Rhodes. So we don't have anything but that giant out of tune upright piano, and I don't think it sounds right."
"Oh, I didn't realize. I missed a month when I was in England." The girl across from her turned to Hazel. "I got an award from the Linnean Society to study lichens in Syria, but since you can't go there, they let me use the funds to look at their archives and do a cross-referencing with the British Museum."
"I'm sorry, help me with your name?"
She smiled without any suggestion that Hazel should already have known it, putting her at ease before hearing "I'm Priscilla," and stretched her hand out across the table. They shook and nodded to each other, with Priscilla adding "I really do hope you'll come join us. Maybe you play keyboards?"
"As a matter of fact . . . " All three women smiled broadly. Hazel went on ". . . I have an electric keyboard in my hall closet that might just need some dusting off, literally and musically."
"As if! She didn't even know."
"I'm not going to have that man mow my lot this year. I'm not interested in all the complications."
"Mickey Power will be dead by Christmas."
"Do you see her often, or did you just run into her?'
"We'd best get some rain, or I'm going have to start buying hay again."
Hazel picked at her salad, just letting herself listen and pick out the various statements floating around her, feeling the sense of life and community around these tables. Around the formica and tubular steel and naugahyde, people whose lives were all different from hers, and from each other, had in common a need to eat, a desire to find listening ears, and a hope to catch a response to their words that confirmed they were being heard themselves.
That's what these students were telling her they hadn't found on campus, she thought. Our food might be better, the buildings designed for communal living, with each lodge meant to be a sort of family the students would be part of for their whole time at Cyrus College, but there wasn't that much going on to promote people coming together for simple communication. Or for caring, for that matter.
Those women behind her, talking about Mickey Power. Who was she? Why would she be dead by Christmas? Should Hazel care, or is her situation no different than fifteen other global tragedies on the TV too distant to care about?
The younger woman, the girl really, who had wedged in last on Hazel's side of the booth, awkwardly turned her head and asked "Would you like to join us tomorrow?"
"Join you?"
"Come, I mean. To the Salvage Yard. I think you'd like it."
"So this is that warehouse building down at the crossroads, towards Newark, right?"
"That's it. We have a few of us who drive, maybe eight or ten of us who go. It's probably about forty people, mostly from Upper Sharon and the area, a few who come up from Newark."
"And what's a service like?"
The young woman directly across from them both chimed in: "They usually start with some songs; Bobby plays guitar, and sometimes there's a dulcimer or a bass and a keyboard. Cicely plays keyboards, but it depends on if someone brings out the Fender Rhodes from the storeroom."
"No," said Cicely, "Nicholas sold the Fender Rhodes. So we don't have anything but that giant out of tune upright piano, and I don't think it sounds right."
"Oh, I didn't realize. I missed a month when I was in England." The girl across from her turned to Hazel. "I got an award from the Linnean Society to study lichens in Syria, but since you can't go there, they let me use the funds to look at their archives and do a cross-referencing with the British Museum."
"I'm sorry, help me with your name?"
She smiled without any suggestion that Hazel should already have known it, putting her at ease before hearing "I'm Priscilla," and stretched her hand out across the table. They shook and nodded to each other, with Priscilla adding "I really do hope you'll come join us. Maybe you play keyboards?"
"As a matter of fact . . . " All three women smiled broadly. Hazel went on ". . . I have an electric keyboard in my hall closet that might just need some dusting off, literally and musically."
Friday, March 28, 2014
Chapter Four
Hazel and about half of the students from the meditation circle walked from the mill along Upper Sharon Road to the Lunchbox.
Wedged between Cunningham Hall and the Community Church, the Lunchbox was a diner that was open for breakfast and lunch, but occasionally was open well into the dinner hour, just not on any regular basis. The owner was also the short order cook, and some mix of where the supply levels were at in the walk-in cooler and his own energy level determined where between 2:00 pm and evening the Lunchbox closed.
The lights were on, the vent fan was pushing grill scents out onto the sidewalk, and the half-dozen or so of them went in the door and turned to fill the large booth in the front of the long, narrow restaurant.
Once Hazel had realized that things were not quite as she had assumed, her diplomatic instincts had kicked in quickly, and she meant to offer coffee or tea all around, and some conversation. During the short walk over, this had turned into a purchase of dinner, which she'd decided not to contest but instead pretend that it had been her intention from the outset.
"How did you all start meditating together?" she asked after they all got settled into their positions around the table. "Is this a club, or some other activity?"
"A bunch of us go to the Salvage Yard," said one young woman who hadn't said much so far. "That's where we started talking to each other."
"The Salvage Yard?" asked Hazel; "The junk shop down near the crossroads?" she went on.
They all smiled a variety of smiles. "No," said the first girl, "that's what we call our fellowship group, our church. But it meets in the Sharon Architectural Salvage building."
The young man who had said he was the "convener" of the group spoke up, no longer sounding as wary and defensive as he had back in the mill; "The Salvage Yard is a group of community members including some students who meet for worship and prayer. It started with an AA group that got kicked out of the Community Church, and started meeting down at Nicholas' warehouse, and just grew from there after Natasha died."
Hazel could tell the students all assumed she knew who Nicholas and Natasha were, and felt obscurely guilty about never having encountered the names before. The only reasonable response seemed to be a brief nod of the head, and when she had, the first young woman added "They just started welcoming people, and it turned into a church. Nicholas doesn't really like calling it that, but it's what people are familiar with. He calls it a meeting for worship, it's kind of a Quaker thing."
"So you're all Quakers?" asked Hazel.
"Oh, no" said two or three of them. Someone over to one side of her down the side of the booth said "Sort of, but..."
The young man leaned into the table and looked over at Hazel. "We're just a supportive community. Some of us are Christians of different sort, and some not sure what they are. But we just needed to find a place to get some reassurance. You know, about what we're doing, where we're going."
There was just a hint of "and we don't get that at the college" in both the statement and the look he gave her, to which Hazel felt it prudent to just nod. As she did, the other students nodded with her. They were all agreeing to something, she just wasn't sure what.
And then the waitress came with two arms full of plates, and everyone started sorting out whose was whose.
Wedged between Cunningham Hall and the Community Church, the Lunchbox was a diner that was open for breakfast and lunch, but occasionally was open well into the dinner hour, just not on any regular basis. The owner was also the short order cook, and some mix of where the supply levels were at in the walk-in cooler and his own energy level determined where between 2:00 pm and evening the Lunchbox closed.
The lights were on, the vent fan was pushing grill scents out onto the sidewalk, and the half-dozen or so of them went in the door and turned to fill the large booth in the front of the long, narrow restaurant.
Once Hazel had realized that things were not quite as she had assumed, her diplomatic instincts had kicked in quickly, and she meant to offer coffee or tea all around, and some conversation. During the short walk over, this had turned into a purchase of dinner, which she'd decided not to contest but instead pretend that it had been her intention from the outset.
"How did you all start meditating together?" she asked after they all got settled into their positions around the table. "Is this a club, or some other activity?"
"A bunch of us go to the Salvage Yard," said one young woman who hadn't said much so far. "That's where we started talking to each other."
"The Salvage Yard?" asked Hazel; "The junk shop down near the crossroads?" she went on.
They all smiled a variety of smiles. "No," said the first girl, "that's what we call our fellowship group, our church. But it meets in the Sharon Architectural Salvage building."
The young man who had said he was the "convener" of the group spoke up, no longer sounding as wary and defensive as he had back in the mill; "The Salvage Yard is a group of community members including some students who meet for worship and prayer. It started with an AA group that got kicked out of the Community Church, and started meeting down at Nicholas' warehouse, and just grew from there after Natasha died."
Hazel could tell the students all assumed she knew who Nicholas and Natasha were, and felt obscurely guilty about never having encountered the names before. The only reasonable response seemed to be a brief nod of the head, and when she had, the first young woman added "They just started welcoming people, and it turned into a church. Nicholas doesn't really like calling it that, but it's what people are familiar with. He calls it a meeting for worship, it's kind of a Quaker thing."
"So you're all Quakers?" asked Hazel.
"Oh, no" said two or three of them. Someone over to one side of her down the side of the booth said "Sort of, but..."
The young man leaned into the table and looked over at Hazel. "We're just a supportive community. Some of us are Christians of different sort, and some not sure what they are. But we just needed to find a place to get some reassurance. You know, about what we're doing, where we're going."
There was just a hint of "and we don't get that at the college" in both the statement and the look he gave her, to which Hazel felt it prudent to just nod. As she did, the other students nodded with her. They were all agreeing to something, she just wasn't sure what.
And then the waitress came with two arms full of plates, and everyone started sorting out whose was whose.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
Chapter Three
The door slowly swung in.
"Uh, yah?"
"May I come in?" asked Hazel.
"Sh-sure. C'monin."
The student looked vaguely familiar to her, as they all did one way or another. Sophomore, she guessed. He didn't quite seem to have recognized her as president of the college, but that wasn't the point. A non-stoned, non-student adult person meant trouble, or maybe they didn't see it that way.
Or see her that way.
"Is this a party? Can anyone come?" she asked brightly.
"Uh, sure. Sure, yeah. C'mon."
The young man walked, not too unsteadily, down a long rough paneled hallway to another unfinished, aged-to-grey door, and stopped to hold it open for her. As she walked through, the room opened up to a high ceiling and a breadth over to a wide pair of windows looking out onto the downstream gully of the creek.
About a dozen students, some looking more familiar than others, sat in a circle. Most all of them were sitting on mats, some with extra wedge or roll-shaped cushions. A few sat cross-legged, others back on their haunches, and a very few in what Hazel recognized as the actual lotus position. They were all looking up at her, looking quite un-stoner-ish, whatever that was.
A taller, older, more intent looking student leaning forward said "Did you come to join us in today's meditation session, President Doone?" The name Pilkington came to mind.
"No, Mr. Pilkington, I appreciate the invitation," Hazel answered, thinking that there wasn't really an invitation in the question, but it seemed wise to treat it as one. "I'm here because someone nearby called me with a concern over loud parties in this mill, which is not college property."
"Mrs. Finnerty." The compact young woman across the room from her said it as a statement of fact, not as a question. "She tried coming over and telling us we were trespassing. I started to show her our letter of permission from the historical society, but she just tried to grab it, so I put it back in my backpack."
The young man next to her, the intent looking one, asked "You knew we had permission to be here, correct, ma'am?"
Hazel thought. She did not know about it, but their story and the suggestion of a letter led her to expect that their story was a true one. "Yes, but when I get a community complaint...."
"She thought we were worshiping the devil or something like that." This from the young woman.
"And the music?"
"None. We just hit the bowl twice to start, and a third time when we're ready to close."
"The bowl? asked Hazel.
"Yes. We could . . . " The tall intent young man leaned forward, stretched himself further to reach a pen, and relaxed back into position.
With a fluid movement, he reached down next to him, and struck a silvered object sitting on the floor next to him, and the wood framed room began to hum with a bright, vibrant tone that seemed to sustain itself for a time, then slowly eased down into a softer, deeper ring.
"Uh, yah?"
"May I come in?" asked Hazel.
"Sh-sure. C'monin."
The student looked vaguely familiar to her, as they all did one way or another. Sophomore, she guessed. He didn't quite seem to have recognized her as president of the college, but that wasn't the point. A non-stoned, non-student adult person meant trouble, or maybe they didn't see it that way.
Or see her that way.
"Is this a party? Can anyone come?" she asked brightly.
"Uh, sure. Sure, yeah. C'mon."
The young man walked, not too unsteadily, down a long rough paneled hallway to another unfinished, aged-to-grey door, and stopped to hold it open for her. As she walked through, the room opened up to a high ceiling and a breadth over to a wide pair of windows looking out onto the downstream gully of the creek.
About a dozen students, some looking more familiar than others, sat in a circle. Most all of them were sitting on mats, some with extra wedge or roll-shaped cushions. A few sat cross-legged, others back on their haunches, and a very few in what Hazel recognized as the actual lotus position. They were all looking up at her, looking quite un-stoner-ish, whatever that was.
A taller, older, more intent looking student leaning forward said "Did you come to join us in today's meditation session, President Doone?" The name Pilkington came to mind.
"No, Mr. Pilkington, I appreciate the invitation," Hazel answered, thinking that there wasn't really an invitation in the question, but it seemed wise to treat it as one. "I'm here because someone nearby called me with a concern over loud parties in this mill, which is not college property."
"Mrs. Finnerty." The compact young woman across the room from her said it as a statement of fact, not as a question. "She tried coming over and telling us we were trespassing. I started to show her our letter of permission from the historical society, but she just tried to grab it, so I put it back in my backpack."
The young man next to her, the intent looking one, asked "You knew we had permission to be here, correct, ma'am?"
Hazel thought. She did not know about it, but their story and the suggestion of a letter led her to expect that their story was a true one. "Yes, but when I get a community complaint...."
"She thought we were worshiping the devil or something like that." This from the young woman.
"And the music?"
"None. We just hit the bowl twice to start, and a third time when we're ready to close."
"The bowl? asked Hazel.
"Yes. We could . . . " The tall intent young man leaned forward, stretched himself further to reach a pen, and relaxed back into position.
With a fluid movement, he reached down next to him, and struck a silvered object sitting on the floor next to him, and the wood framed room began to hum with a bright, vibrant tone that seemed to sustain itself for a time, then slowly eased down into a softer, deeper ring.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Chapter Two
If Hazel had to respond to one more party across the river, she was going to...
She'd had this conversation with herself often enough, and there were many answers to that proposition, none of which she would follow through on.
The two hundred some odd students at Cyrus College (and yes, the joke was made and made often) were a complicated group, united mainly by their lack of fear over a lack of accreditation, and mostly by their unwillingness or inability to go through an admissions process at other post-secondary institutions, ones with extras like a grounds department (the students took turns mowing and trimming and not picking up the trash around the lodges), a reliable wifi system, or accreditation.
They also were very close to united around their passion for horticulture, with a practical interest in marijuana. This crop was still illegal in Ohio, and schemes to use the college as the basis for getting permits to grow legally usually sounded scholarly and feasible until running up against the problematic lack of accreditation.
So the students tended to get their weed the way most college students anywhere did, albeit a bit more out in the open. Upper Sharon was unincorporated, and Concord Township was not well-off enough to have their own law enforcement (especially given that so much of their real estate was tax exempt what with Cyrus College, St. Fiacre's, and the Brotherhood of Rustic Pioneers, the Public Library, the Community Theatre, and both churches in town being non-profits). The County Sheriff's office responded to 911 calls, and the volunteer fire department kept busy enough, but there just weren't many reasons for anyone to come through to make a bust for a baggie.
When the more prosperous (and accredited) college to the south had students wanting to obtain some herb for happiness, they just told friends "Goin' up to Cyrus. Need any?" And the rest was understood.
Some of those transactions were drawn out enough that the students would mix, and the mixing might become a party, and when a party got big enough that the resident lodge wardens had to take notice, the usual practice was to cross Auter Creek and duck into the Wyandot Mill. Owned by the state, noted in local history, but secured lightly, the large open spaces within were ideal for college parties. The few windows were, ironically, barely visible within Upper Sharon, but clearly to be seen from the office and apartment of the Master of St. Fiacre's, which is to say, Hazel, who was also president of the college, an arrangement that had been true since 1954.
In all fairness, the students, local and commuting, who partied inside the mill were scrupulous about cleaning up and not doing damage; it was part of the "close to the land" ethos of Cyrus, and even the students from down the road knew that keeping things cool was essential to being able to keep holding their gatherings there. Hazel marveled that, considering how much smoking was going on in and along the porch above the mill run, the aged wooden structure hadn't long ago burned to ashes.
But if Mrs. Finnerty across the creek saw lights on after dark, and more importantly could hear the music from an "event," she would call Hazel. How the angry old woman had gotten her cell number she wasn't sure; she might have given it to her in a moment of weakness, at some community gathering when she'd been buttonholed about "you must do something about your students, Mrs. Doone."
Never mind that she was not and had never been a Mrs., and was generally Dr. something when she wasn't just Hazel (Cyrus being a very egalitarian place, St. Fiacre's just a touch less so), but Mrs. Finnerty had been on a rampage last night, even going out onto her porch to wave her arms at St. Fiacre's across the valley as she vented to Hazel about what was, and what she imagined was going on in the mill.
So, lacking also a security service (fascist, she'd heard one of her handful of faculty say when the subject came up), she put on a coat and marched grimly down the stairs to Cyrus, across The Range (the well trodden path between the two rows of lodges), onto the cast iron bridge across Auter Creek, and down and around a footpath just below the curve of Upper Sharon Road to the side door of the mill, where she stopped, collected herself, stood up a bit straighter, and knocked loudly on the door.
She'd had this conversation with herself often enough, and there were many answers to that proposition, none of which she would follow through on.
The two hundred some odd students at Cyrus College (and yes, the joke was made and made often) were a complicated group, united mainly by their lack of fear over a lack of accreditation, and mostly by their unwillingness or inability to go through an admissions process at other post-secondary institutions, ones with extras like a grounds department (the students took turns mowing and trimming and not picking up the trash around the lodges), a reliable wifi system, or accreditation.
They also were very close to united around their passion for horticulture, with a practical interest in marijuana. This crop was still illegal in Ohio, and schemes to use the college as the basis for getting permits to grow legally usually sounded scholarly and feasible until running up against the problematic lack of accreditation.
So the students tended to get their weed the way most college students anywhere did, albeit a bit more out in the open. Upper Sharon was unincorporated, and Concord Township was not well-off enough to have their own law enforcement (especially given that so much of their real estate was tax exempt what with Cyrus College, St. Fiacre's, and the Brotherhood of Rustic Pioneers, the Public Library, the Community Theatre, and both churches in town being non-profits). The County Sheriff's office responded to 911 calls, and the volunteer fire department kept busy enough, but there just weren't many reasons for anyone to come through to make a bust for a baggie.
When the more prosperous (and accredited) college to the south had students wanting to obtain some herb for happiness, they just told friends "Goin' up to Cyrus. Need any?" And the rest was understood.
Some of those transactions were drawn out enough that the students would mix, and the mixing might become a party, and when a party got big enough that the resident lodge wardens had to take notice, the usual practice was to cross Auter Creek and duck into the Wyandot Mill. Owned by the state, noted in local history, but secured lightly, the large open spaces within were ideal for college parties. The few windows were, ironically, barely visible within Upper Sharon, but clearly to be seen from the office and apartment of the Master of St. Fiacre's, which is to say, Hazel, who was also president of the college, an arrangement that had been true since 1954.
In all fairness, the students, local and commuting, who partied inside the mill were scrupulous about cleaning up and not doing damage; it was part of the "close to the land" ethos of Cyrus, and even the students from down the road knew that keeping things cool was essential to being able to keep holding their gatherings there. Hazel marveled that, considering how much smoking was going on in and along the porch above the mill run, the aged wooden structure hadn't long ago burned to ashes.
But if Mrs. Finnerty across the creek saw lights on after dark, and more importantly could hear the music from an "event," she would call Hazel. How the angry old woman had gotten her cell number she wasn't sure; she might have given it to her in a moment of weakness, at some community gathering when she'd been buttonholed about "you must do something about your students, Mrs. Doone."
Never mind that she was not and had never been a Mrs., and was generally Dr. something when she wasn't just Hazel (Cyrus being a very egalitarian place, St. Fiacre's just a touch less so), but Mrs. Finnerty had been on a rampage last night, even going out onto her porch to wave her arms at St. Fiacre's across the valley as she vented to Hazel about what was, and what she imagined was going on in the mill.
So, lacking also a security service (fascist, she'd heard one of her handful of faculty say when the subject came up), she put on a coat and marched grimly down the stairs to Cyrus, across The Range (the well trodden path between the two rows of lodges), onto the cast iron bridge across Auter Creek, and down and around a footpath just below the curve of Upper Sharon Road to the side door of the mill, where she stopped, collected herself, stood up a bit straighter, and knocked loudly on the door.
Monday, March 24, 2014
Part Two - Chapter One
Hazel was the president of Cyrus College. It sounded impressive that way, but given that her institution had no more than fourteen faculty counting herself, it meant less than it might have elsewhere.
Her authority, in fact, was less as president of the post-secondary educational establishment than it was in her second but more significant role as chief librarian of St. Fiacre's Residential Library.
St. Fiacre's was an imposing neo-Gothic quasi-Tudor melange of a pile modeled in part on the English manor house of its benefactor, Victoria Woodhull Martin. Mrs. Martin had an earlier career as the first woman to run for President of the United States in 1871, but later had come to London, continued her career as a public speaker and spiritualist medium, and ended up marrying a banker (her sister managed to marry a Lord, but the Lord was nearly broke while John Biddulph Martin had, as noted, a bank).
After Mr. Martin's death, Mrs. Martin nee Claflin aka "The Woodhull" retired to the countryside above Tewkesbury Abbey in the west of England, but never ceased to think about the Ohio countryside that gave her birth. She had wanted to do some good for young women like she had been, without family support or financial prospects, but whose talents and energy fitted them for finer things. Victoria's daughter Zula was sent back to New York and on to Ohio in hopes of establishing something grand in the town of her birth, but Homer, Ohio had sent Zula May Woodhull packing.
So she went a little ways south, came to Upper Sharon, and found township trustees and local leaders a bit more malleable, so it was that a rough replica of Mother's manor house was built in central Ohio, overlooking Auter Creek. Mrs. Martin and her daughter had visited St. Deiniol's in Wales the year before, a library established by former Prime Minister Gladstone before his death, and was inspired to do something similar, but in her former home country.
St. Fiacre's was a library designed for research and endowed for perpetuity, with a later development, the college, attached on less grandiose outward lines, but with the same burning passion to help mold young lives. In the case of Cyrus College, its roots were in horticulture, a plan to create a school for young women to learn to work the land in ways that cared for the earth and gave career prospects to the students; the humble ranks of simple structures looked more like an overgrown Civilian Conservation Corps camp than a college campus, but as the last bequest of Victoria Claflin Woodhull Martin, the hope was that the program would reach out to underprivileged women and men in the rural Midwest. Zula May had purchased a defunct college with an 1859 "Old Main," the administration building, and gone on to erect a large greenhouse and other housing and classroom structures, in a rough hewn timber-heavy style. There the young students, especially the women (Mrs. Martin had considered making it women only, as the establishment in Bredon's Norton had been back in England) would learn a trade, and there would be means by which the families and humanity involved could be bettered through attention to genetics, husbandry, and nurserymanship, skills that those learning there could take home with profit to their hometowns around the state.
Cyrus College was down closer to Auter Creek, and indeed many of the overgrown cabins, or "lodges" that made up campus had been flooded repeatedly since the founding back in the 1920s; they were built up on short stilts, which kept the damage from the waters to a minimum inside the structures. Old Main, the original Halcyon Christian College, was on an island of raised earth just back from the two rows of lodges running along the creek, built back in 1859 and on the inside, looking every year of it.
St. Fiacre's sat atop the bluff above, looking north across the deep valley of the creek to the protruding ridge end on which Upper Sharon was arranged. Hazel's office in St. Fiacre's gave her a near panoramic view of Upper Sharon, from Cunningham Hall and the Memorial Church in lower town, and the tiers of homes rising to the conical Native American mound crowing upper town, fifteen feet tall and surrounded by two hundred some year old gravestones.
At the edge of her window, from where she sat, down in the lower right, the dark red walls and rusting green roof of the Wyandot Mill sat down hunched into the waters of Auter Creek. The state had once again asked Cyrus College if they would take on the care of the Wyandot Mill as a "management partner" for interpretation and education: Hazel had replied with a "no" that was less abrupt and more open to some possibilities than her last few, but she knew their budget and personnel only had so much stretch left after a weekend of unauthorized parties like the one now past.
Her authority, in fact, was less as president of the post-secondary educational establishment than it was in her second but more significant role as chief librarian of St. Fiacre's Residential Library.
St. Fiacre's was an imposing neo-Gothic quasi-Tudor melange of a pile modeled in part on the English manor house of its benefactor, Victoria Woodhull Martin. Mrs. Martin had an earlier career as the first woman to run for President of the United States in 1871, but later had come to London, continued her career as a public speaker and spiritualist medium, and ended up marrying a banker (her sister managed to marry a Lord, but the Lord was nearly broke while John Biddulph Martin had, as noted, a bank).
After Mr. Martin's death, Mrs. Martin nee Claflin aka "The Woodhull" retired to the countryside above Tewkesbury Abbey in the west of England, but never ceased to think about the Ohio countryside that gave her birth. She had wanted to do some good for young women like she had been, without family support or financial prospects, but whose talents and energy fitted them for finer things. Victoria's daughter Zula was sent back to New York and on to Ohio in hopes of establishing something grand in the town of her birth, but Homer, Ohio had sent Zula May Woodhull packing.
So she went a little ways south, came to Upper Sharon, and found township trustees and local leaders a bit more malleable, so it was that a rough replica of Mother's manor house was built in central Ohio, overlooking Auter Creek. Mrs. Martin and her daughter had visited St. Deiniol's in Wales the year before, a library established by former Prime Minister Gladstone before his death, and was inspired to do something similar, but in her former home country.
St. Fiacre's was a library designed for research and endowed for perpetuity, with a later development, the college, attached on less grandiose outward lines, but with the same burning passion to help mold young lives. In the case of Cyrus College, its roots were in horticulture, a plan to create a school for young women to learn to work the land in ways that cared for the earth and gave career prospects to the students; the humble ranks of simple structures looked more like an overgrown Civilian Conservation Corps camp than a college campus, but as the last bequest of Victoria Claflin Woodhull Martin, the hope was that the program would reach out to underprivileged women and men in the rural Midwest. Zula May had purchased a defunct college with an 1859 "Old Main," the administration building, and gone on to erect a large greenhouse and other housing and classroom structures, in a rough hewn timber-heavy style. There the young students, especially the women (Mrs. Martin had considered making it women only, as the establishment in Bredon's Norton had been back in England) would learn a trade, and there would be means by which the families and humanity involved could be bettered through attention to genetics, husbandry, and nurserymanship, skills that those learning there could take home with profit to their hometowns around the state.
Cyrus College was down closer to Auter Creek, and indeed many of the overgrown cabins, or "lodges" that made up campus had been flooded repeatedly since the founding back in the 1920s; they were built up on short stilts, which kept the damage from the waters to a minimum inside the structures. Old Main, the original Halcyon Christian College, was on an island of raised earth just back from the two rows of lodges running along the creek, built back in 1859 and on the inside, looking every year of it.
St. Fiacre's sat atop the bluff above, looking north across the deep valley of the creek to the protruding ridge end on which Upper Sharon was arranged. Hazel's office in St. Fiacre's gave her a near panoramic view of Upper Sharon, from Cunningham Hall and the Memorial Church in lower town, and the tiers of homes rising to the conical Native American mound crowing upper town, fifteen feet tall and surrounded by two hundred some year old gravestones.
At the edge of her window, from where she sat, down in the lower right, the dark red walls and rusting green roof of the Wyandot Mill sat down hunched into the waters of Auter Creek. The state had once again asked Cyrus College if they would take on the care of the Wyandot Mill as a "management partner" for interpretation and education: Hazel had replied with a "no" that was less abrupt and more open to some possibilities than her last few, but she knew their budget and personnel only had so much stretch left after a weekend of unauthorized parties like the one now past.
Chapter Eighteen
Al-Ghazzali had written "The Alchemy of Happiness" a thousand years ago, a long pamphlet or short book that a Sufi friend had asked her to read. Abigail was awake now, and knew she wouldn't fall asleep easily if at all, and there were four hours to go before landing at Heathrow.
Her neighbor in the aisle seat was contorted around away from her, which seemed fine except that it meant that, in her sleep, she kept kicking back at Abigail's ankles. That alone meant she wasn't going to try and doze again.
The extended essay was on her Kindle now, and she idly tapped it open. "Knowledge of self," "knowledge of God." The section headings were not encouraging.
Abigail had many friends, or at least recurring acquaintances from her time in Pakistan. She had made all of one venture into Afghanistan, and felt no need to return: that wasn't where this story, or the action was. If her reporting had told her anything as she inquired and appealed and asked questions across the various women and a few men she had interviewed, it was that Afghanistan may have been the hinge of Islamic extremism over a decade ago, but today the activity and education and motivation for radical Islam was all rooted deeply in Pakistani soil.
The men, so typically, always asked if she had a husband, a fiance, a suitor (or if she wanted one). Even the most liberal, enlightened, progressive Paki men would go to that subject the moment business ended and the conversation became more personal. And conservative men simply would not talk to her.
Among women, it was more complicated, but still marriage and the need to have a clear attachment to a male was still the heart of things for them. It was a fun-house mirror version of Jane Austen, she thought for the twenty-ninth time. Her marriageability, her prospects, her plans -- it was the same as talking to an American male during football season and everything was about their teams and the upcoming game of the decade.
Or century. Anyhow.
She knew she was not happy, but she was profoundly skeptical that it was a man who would make her so. But the subject of happiness was certainly of interest to her. Opening the first section, Abigail read:
"KNOWLEDGE of self is the key to the knowledge of God, according to the saying: "He who knows himself knows God..."
She had read the Qur'an, in various English translations as well as in Arabic, and had dealt directly with the reality that the Arabic of the Qur'an made Shakespearean English seem like a mere shimmer on the face of clear, easily plumbable language. The ancient, classical Qur'anic Arabic shone and reflected and redirected the reader to where it was understandable only that you needed a guide, an imam, to help you read it with understanding. No doubt somewhere in the Qur'an was a statement that could, with a little effort, be read as "He who knows himself knows God." Or she.
A little further down: "The first step to self-knowledge is to know that thou art composed of an outward shape, called the body, and an inward entity called the heart, or soul."
The outward shape she had, if not as in shape as she would like. A few weeks back in London, with gyms and weights and some yoga at hand, would return most of that shape to where she thought it belonged. But the "inward entity." The heart, the soul. Did she have one?
With that question turning over and over in her mind, Abigail fell asleep. Until her neighbor kicked her again.
Her neighbor in the aisle seat was contorted around away from her, which seemed fine except that it meant that, in her sleep, she kept kicking back at Abigail's ankles. That alone meant she wasn't going to try and doze again.
The extended essay was on her Kindle now, and she idly tapped it open. "Knowledge of self," "knowledge of God." The section headings were not encouraging.
Abigail had many friends, or at least recurring acquaintances from her time in Pakistan. She had made all of one venture into Afghanistan, and felt no need to return: that wasn't where this story, or the action was. If her reporting had told her anything as she inquired and appealed and asked questions across the various women and a few men she had interviewed, it was that Afghanistan may have been the hinge of Islamic extremism over a decade ago, but today the activity and education and motivation for radical Islam was all rooted deeply in Pakistani soil.
The men, so typically, always asked if she had a husband, a fiance, a suitor (or if she wanted one). Even the most liberal, enlightened, progressive Paki men would go to that subject the moment business ended and the conversation became more personal. And conservative men simply would not talk to her.
Among women, it was more complicated, but still marriage and the need to have a clear attachment to a male was still the heart of things for them. It was a fun-house mirror version of Jane Austen, she thought for the twenty-ninth time. Her marriageability, her prospects, her plans -- it was the same as talking to an American male during football season and everything was about their teams and the upcoming game of the decade.
Or century. Anyhow.
She knew she was not happy, but she was profoundly skeptical that it was a man who would make her so. But the subject of happiness was certainly of interest to her. Opening the first section, Abigail read:
"KNOWLEDGE of self is the key to the knowledge of God, according to the saying: "He who knows himself knows God..."
She had read the Qur'an, in various English translations as well as in Arabic, and had dealt directly with the reality that the Arabic of the Qur'an made Shakespearean English seem like a mere shimmer on the face of clear, easily plumbable language. The ancient, classical Qur'anic Arabic shone and reflected and redirected the reader to where it was understandable only that you needed a guide, an imam, to help you read it with understanding. No doubt somewhere in the Qur'an was a statement that could, with a little effort, be read as "He who knows himself knows God." Or she.
A little further down: "The first step to self-knowledge is to know that thou art composed of an outward shape, called the body, and an inward entity called the heart, or soul."
The outward shape she had, if not as in shape as she would like. A few weeks back in London, with gyms and weights and some yoga at hand, would return most of that shape to where she thought it belonged. But the "inward entity." The heart, the soul. Did she have one?
With that question turning over and over in her mind, Abigail fell asleep. Until her neighbor kicked her again.
Chapter Seventeen
Goodge, Tottenham, Leicester; Charing Cross, his station to get off.
Father Will had drawn him up a rough map, and Todd had his Oyster card in his pocket. He'd wanted a walk in London, and the plan was for him to stroll up the Strand, around the edge of Ludgate Hill, and to St. Paul's.
"The Cross and Orb atop the dome will guide you."
Getting off the train, the routine of looking for escalators and exits was similar if no less baffling than Washington's Metro system. Up on the surface, he was no more guided by a cross and orb than he was the pencilled map crumpled in his hand (Todd feared the first time someone would turn and ask him "are you lost?"); his furtive glances at the lines and letters on it were uninstructive at first, but then he rounded a corner on a multi-branched intersection, and then he saw it.
A dome, hovering above the cityscape, two lower towers to the front, closer to him but of course equally distant. In the grey milky light the bulk of the cathedral looker further off than a mile, but not forbiddingly distant. Turning left, he walked east, still feeling odd about the traffic nearest him on the street flowing with him, and not coming at him.
Now the jottings on the torn sheet from the pub's placemat started to make a regular, progressive, advancing sort of sense. Street by street (Strand, Fleet, Newgate), landmark after landmark (St. Bride's, Old Bailey, Paternoster Square), he made his way along first the Strand's broad path and then into a brief tangle of streets that weren't quite alleys, but didn't feel like what Todd was accustomed to call a street.
The age of the buildings was steadily older, with the occasional burst of modernity and glass erupting into the rows across the way, or along his left hand. Glancing up, which he tried to do as infrequently as possible ("are you lost?"), he saw a mix of three and four story frontages with a looming bulk of taller buildings peering over their shoulders from the block behind.
At a last marked turn on his sheet, he came out into an open area, a last street crossing, and then the two towers were high above him, with broad stairs before him. The dome loomed beyond, impossibly wide and curving into invisibility, the curves pointing his eyes up to the Cross and Orb that Father Will had promised him.
Up the stairs, through the door already open just to the right of a wide rank of vast doors, and inside to find he needed to pay to go beyond a chapel open to the public on his left. The cost was just enough to make him pause a moment. He pulled out his international Visa, tapped it on his left knuckle twice, then handed it to the brisk looking lady at the register.
A brochure in hand he already knew he wouldn't look at until back in his room tonight, if then, he wandered up the center aisle, and hesitated on seeing a phalanx of children in grey skirts or slacks and maroon sweaters or jackets moving towards him at what couldn't quite be accurately described as a run. He turned right, and saw two elderly tourists moving his way, and swiveled back to the left, and slid along the rows of chairs to the left-hand aisle.
Here, the ceiling was lower, which meant it was only amazingly high and not incredibly so. The windows were, to him, surprisingly lacking in stained glass. He'd imagined they would be rich and full of image and color. Instead they were mostly clear, or at least translucent with light coming through directly. The color was in the gold and grey and dark contrasts all along the ornate carvings and reliefs and ornamentation from the floor to the vaults above.
It was still early enough in the morning that most light was angling across above his head, and on the ground level shadow and dimness were the rule. The high arches framed his views, and occasionally were themselves blocked, a huge monument with a man on horseback atop one such, the statue in clear illumination even as the floor around it was still dark. Todd found himself walking along towards the heart of the cathedral, towards the emptiness under the great dome, but with only occasional glimpses of just how large and open the central space was, let alone forward beyond the center of the church. Just as he came even with that area, and thought about turning back to the main aisle, there was a shuffling of feet or something like that off to his left, and so he thought to take a look into this arm of the church, before heading on into the main course.
Around a stately pillar, he saw before him another cluster of chairs in neat and regimented rows, a table or altar just beyond them, and behind it, a sort of tall, towering cabinet. The giant doors were open, and from somewhere behind him just enough light shone to illuminate was was a tall, life-size painting, the portrait itself enclosed in an even larger gold frame.
The man, who was obviously Jesus, was looking directly at him. Todd could not recall ever having had such a sensation of being observed when looking at a picture ever before. Not like one of those movie gags where holes behind the eyes had a person looking through, but this whole painting, right down to the eyes as depicted, was looking at him, considering him.
He stood at a door, his hand up to knock, and all around grasses and weeds grew up as a dark, tangled background was behind him. In his other hand, Jesus held a lantern, almost lifting it up towards Todd more than he was using it to shine on the door. There was an evening light behind his crowned head, and the lamp's glow shone off of a simple robe with a more ornate, jeweled piece of drapery around his shoulders and hung down behind him. And he was looking at him as if to say "will you help me knock?"
The point of the painting, Todd knew, was not just the knocking on the door; he remembered his grandmother having a painting, less decorated, more simple in outline, of Jesus knocking on an old-fashioned door not unlike this one, but gazing closely at the window in the timbers waiting for someone to slide the peep-hole and look back at him. This version of Christ knocking at the door drew him into the action, with Jesus wanting someone to answer, but also wanting you, the viewer, to join in the conversation somehow.
Todd stepped over, without looking down, and sat down in one of the first row of chairs. He had to look at this picture a little bit longer. He ended up sitting there for the next few hours, walking away as a group entered with a guide, and then coming back for a bit longer after they left. As he sat there, he thought about many things, and about what he needed to do next. It wasn't clear, but he knew his thoughts, at least, were clearer about the future than they'd been in some time.
http://www.stpauls.co.uk/Files/downloads/Light_of_the_world.jpg [To see the painting Todd is looking at, click the link.]
Father Will had drawn him up a rough map, and Todd had his Oyster card in his pocket. He'd wanted a walk in London, and the plan was for him to stroll up the Strand, around the edge of Ludgate Hill, and to St. Paul's.
"The Cross and Orb atop the dome will guide you."
Getting off the train, the routine of looking for escalators and exits was similar if no less baffling than Washington's Metro system. Up on the surface, he was no more guided by a cross and orb than he was the pencilled map crumpled in his hand (Todd feared the first time someone would turn and ask him "are you lost?"); his furtive glances at the lines and letters on it were uninstructive at first, but then he rounded a corner on a multi-branched intersection, and then he saw it.
A dome, hovering above the cityscape, two lower towers to the front, closer to him but of course equally distant. In the grey milky light the bulk of the cathedral looker further off than a mile, but not forbiddingly distant. Turning left, he walked east, still feeling odd about the traffic nearest him on the street flowing with him, and not coming at him.
Now the jottings on the torn sheet from the pub's placemat started to make a regular, progressive, advancing sort of sense. Street by street (Strand, Fleet, Newgate), landmark after landmark (St. Bride's, Old Bailey, Paternoster Square), he made his way along first the Strand's broad path and then into a brief tangle of streets that weren't quite alleys, but didn't feel like what Todd was accustomed to call a street.
The age of the buildings was steadily older, with the occasional burst of modernity and glass erupting into the rows across the way, or along his left hand. Glancing up, which he tried to do as infrequently as possible ("are you lost?"), he saw a mix of three and four story frontages with a looming bulk of taller buildings peering over their shoulders from the block behind.
At a last marked turn on his sheet, he came out into an open area, a last street crossing, and then the two towers were high above him, with broad stairs before him. The dome loomed beyond, impossibly wide and curving into invisibility, the curves pointing his eyes up to the Cross and Orb that Father Will had promised him.
Up the stairs, through the door already open just to the right of a wide rank of vast doors, and inside to find he needed to pay to go beyond a chapel open to the public on his left. The cost was just enough to make him pause a moment. He pulled out his international Visa, tapped it on his left knuckle twice, then handed it to the brisk looking lady at the register.
A brochure in hand he already knew he wouldn't look at until back in his room tonight, if then, he wandered up the center aisle, and hesitated on seeing a phalanx of children in grey skirts or slacks and maroon sweaters or jackets moving towards him at what couldn't quite be accurately described as a run. He turned right, and saw two elderly tourists moving his way, and swiveled back to the left, and slid along the rows of chairs to the left-hand aisle.
Here, the ceiling was lower, which meant it was only amazingly high and not incredibly so. The windows were, to him, surprisingly lacking in stained glass. He'd imagined they would be rich and full of image and color. Instead they were mostly clear, or at least translucent with light coming through directly. The color was in the gold and grey and dark contrasts all along the ornate carvings and reliefs and ornamentation from the floor to the vaults above.
It was still early enough in the morning that most light was angling across above his head, and on the ground level shadow and dimness were the rule. The high arches framed his views, and occasionally were themselves blocked, a huge monument with a man on horseback atop one such, the statue in clear illumination even as the floor around it was still dark. Todd found himself walking along towards the heart of the cathedral, towards the emptiness under the great dome, but with only occasional glimpses of just how large and open the central space was, let alone forward beyond the center of the church. Just as he came even with that area, and thought about turning back to the main aisle, there was a shuffling of feet or something like that off to his left, and so he thought to take a look into this arm of the church, before heading on into the main course.
Around a stately pillar, he saw before him another cluster of chairs in neat and regimented rows, a table or altar just beyond them, and behind it, a sort of tall, towering cabinet. The giant doors were open, and from somewhere behind him just enough light shone to illuminate was was a tall, life-size painting, the portrait itself enclosed in an even larger gold frame.
The man, who was obviously Jesus, was looking directly at him. Todd could not recall ever having had such a sensation of being observed when looking at a picture ever before. Not like one of those movie gags where holes behind the eyes had a person looking through, but this whole painting, right down to the eyes as depicted, was looking at him, considering him.
He stood at a door, his hand up to knock, and all around grasses and weeds grew up as a dark, tangled background was behind him. In his other hand, Jesus held a lantern, almost lifting it up towards Todd more than he was using it to shine on the door. There was an evening light behind his crowned head, and the lamp's glow shone off of a simple robe with a more ornate, jeweled piece of drapery around his shoulders and hung down behind him. And he was looking at him as if to say "will you help me knock?"
The point of the painting, Todd knew, was not just the knocking on the door; he remembered his grandmother having a painting, less decorated, more simple in outline, of Jesus knocking on an old-fashioned door not unlike this one, but gazing closely at the window in the timbers waiting for someone to slide the peep-hole and look back at him. This version of Christ knocking at the door drew him into the action, with Jesus wanting someone to answer, but also wanting you, the viewer, to join in the conversation somehow.
Todd stepped over, without looking down, and sat down in one of the first row of chairs. He had to look at this picture a little bit longer. He ended up sitting there for the next few hours, walking away as a group entered with a guide, and then coming back for a bit longer after they left. As he sat there, he thought about many things, and about what he needed to do next. It wasn't clear, but he knew his thoughts, at least, were clearer about the future than they'd been in some time.
http://www.stpauls.co.uk/Files/downloads/Light_of_the_world.jpg [To see the painting Todd is looking at, click the link.]
Friday, March 21, 2014
Chapter Sixteen
That night, as the older two girls were heading up to bed, Susie stayed curled up on the big old leather sofa nearest the fire. Nicholas breathed a silent prayer of thanks from his recliner opposite, then cleared his throat.
Susie looked up. "Is this where you tell me why you were at school today?"
"I didn't know you'd seen me."
"Friend of mine was working as an office aide. She told me."
"Ah. Well. So, tell me what Instagram is. This is not one of the . . . programs? that I've used. Is it like Facebook?"
She rolled her eyes. "Noooo. Not even."
"What would you compare it to?"
"It's, it's Instagram. It's what it is. It's pictures, mostly."
He thought about asking "So it's like Picasa, or Flickr, or a photo sharing site?" but decided it was just going to start a non-productive conversation going. "How did you get picked on with it, then?"
Another eye roll. "Dad, it's not picked on stuff. It's stupid. Just some girl wanting to be important, and making some of us feel bad so she can feel good."
"Do you know who this girl is?"
"Prolly."
"What?"
"Probably. It's stupid. Don't worry about it."
"Well, the school is worried about it."
"Oh, jeez Dad, if being called a slut was a real problem, then we'd be really bad off. Worse gets said every day in the cafeteria."
"Great," he thought, but did not say. "Apparently some girls, or at least their parents, feel differently."
"I know. Some take it seriously, but it's just like a joke. A mean joke. Let it go, Dad."
"Alright. It . . . it makes me sad to know you got called names, and to know you got . . . tagged in a . . . . folder? called 'sluts' makes me sad for you, and sad for the young woman or young man who did this."
She smiled at him. "Dad, you're sad for all of us. It's okay, it really is. Remember, we were in foster care before you and Mom got us. We know what people say. We got called sluts just for being foster kids, and that was in grade school when we didn't know what a slut was."
"Which means you do know now," he thought, but did not say.
She went on, uncoiling off of the sofa and stretching in front of the fire. "People like putting people in categories. That's part of what some girls like about Instagram and Pinterest. You can put everything in a category. And you can make up a category." Susie came over to Nicholas, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "And I'm not a slut. A blurry pic of me in the hall at school with a tag on it doesn't make me one. Good night; love you."
"Love you," said Nicholas to her back as she trotted up the stairs. He looked into the fire as the logs shifted, crinkled, and burned down to ash. It was an hour later before he pulled the wire screen across more firmly in the middle and went to bed.
Susie looked up. "Is this where you tell me why you were at school today?"
"I didn't know you'd seen me."
"Friend of mine was working as an office aide. She told me."
"Ah. Well. So, tell me what Instagram is. This is not one of the . . . programs? that I've used. Is it like Facebook?"
She rolled her eyes. "Noooo. Not even."
"What would you compare it to?"
"It's, it's Instagram. It's what it is. It's pictures, mostly."
He thought about asking "So it's like Picasa, or Flickr, or a photo sharing site?" but decided it was just going to start a non-productive conversation going. "How did you get picked on with it, then?"
Another eye roll. "Dad, it's not picked on stuff. It's stupid. Just some girl wanting to be important, and making some of us feel bad so she can feel good."
"Do you know who this girl is?"
"Prolly."
"What?"
"Probably. It's stupid. Don't worry about it."
"Well, the school is worried about it."
"Oh, jeez Dad, if being called a slut was a real problem, then we'd be really bad off. Worse gets said every day in the cafeteria."
"Great," he thought, but did not say. "Apparently some girls, or at least their parents, feel differently."
"I know. Some take it seriously, but it's just like a joke. A mean joke. Let it go, Dad."
"Alright. It . . . it makes me sad to know you got called names, and to know you got . . . tagged in a . . . . folder? called 'sluts' makes me sad for you, and sad for the young woman or young man who did this."
She smiled at him. "Dad, you're sad for all of us. It's okay, it really is. Remember, we were in foster care before you and Mom got us. We know what people say. We got called sluts just for being foster kids, and that was in grade school when we didn't know what a slut was."
"Which means you do know now," he thought, but did not say.
She went on, uncoiling off of the sofa and stretching in front of the fire. "People like putting people in categories. That's part of what some girls like about Instagram and Pinterest. You can put everything in a category. And you can make up a category." Susie came over to Nicholas, leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "And I'm not a slut. A blurry pic of me in the hall at school with a tag on it doesn't make me one. Good night; love you."
"Love you," said Nicholas to her back as she trotted up the stairs. He looked into the fire as the logs shifted, crinkled, and burned down to ash. It was an hour later before he pulled the wire screen across more firmly in the middle and went to bed.
Chapter Fifteen
Who uses these things, these gadgets?
Why am I reading this magazine?
I brought books with me, and my phone has books on it. "Tales of the Alhambra" and stuff by the last Booker short list. I'm reading this stupid, silly magazine. Something about Ashley Judd, and style. I spent most of the last month wearing a tent for my everyday clothing, and I'm using up part of my life to read about style.
Kentucky, though.
What country am I over? Islamabad to London, probably . . . so, wide berth south of China and Russia. Are we over Iran? Do they allow that? I should know this. I'm a journalist.
What journalist has done what I'm doing? But they have insurance. They write up the combat in the trenches in front of zoning boards, and here I am just leaving a place where angry is a grenade, but happy means shooting your rounds up into the air.
This is really an old magazine. My seat mate on the aisle has a . . . right, slowly edge it out, and . . . same as mine. Of course. It slides back into place.
Tray table down, tablet out. What's going on, to . . . that's not good. Plus Israel. Too many countries. The world just needs mine, and about a third less of the rest. Plus we have some meteorological factors. What if I land and . . . no. We'll get there late, and I have to go right into the clubhouse.
Sleep. Too little, too much, nod, doze . . .
Light outside the cabin windows, nothing but clouds beneath.
I guess I'll know where I end up when the money for engineering and construction dries up. For now, let's build. Let's write the story, let's go as many stories up as we can. The foundations are strong.
Again sleep.
Why am I reading this magazine?
I brought books with me, and my phone has books on it. "Tales of the Alhambra" and stuff by the last Booker short list. I'm reading this stupid, silly magazine. Something about Ashley Judd, and style. I spent most of the last month wearing a tent for my everyday clothing, and I'm using up part of my life to read about style.
Kentucky, though.
What country am I over? Islamabad to London, probably . . . so, wide berth south of China and Russia. Are we over Iran? Do they allow that? I should know this. I'm a journalist.
What journalist has done what I'm doing? But they have insurance. They write up the combat in the trenches in front of zoning boards, and here I am just leaving a place where angry is a grenade, but happy means shooting your rounds up into the air.
This is really an old magazine. My seat mate on the aisle has a . . . right, slowly edge it out, and . . . same as mine. Of course. It slides back into place.
Tray table down, tablet out. What's going on, to . . . that's not good. Plus Israel. Too many countries. The world just needs mine, and about a third less of the rest. Plus we have some meteorological factors. What if I land and . . . no. We'll get there late, and I have to go right into the clubhouse.
Sleep. Too little, too much, nod, doze . . .
Light outside the cabin windows, nothing but clouds beneath.
I guess I'll know where I end up when the money for engineering and construction dries up. For now, let's build. Let's write the story, let's go as many stories up as we can. The foundations are strong.
Again sleep.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Chapter Fourteen
Anne and the two children were playing on the floor of the pub, along with another child who just seemed to have appeared out of somewhere. They were pushing some kind of large wheeled cars around, except when they were flying them in and out of the seat backs of the now empty chairs at their table, and around some of the neighboring tables. No one seemed to mind, or notice other than a beaming glance from time to time, especially from the women.
Most of the pub crowd were couples, but they were far from the only family group. Not that I'm a part of this family, thought Todd, while feeling very comfortably included. He and Father William were sitting side by side, he in a collared shirt that drew a regular series of grave nods from certain passers-by, and a tall broad glass of stout before him. Todd was working on something more reddish amber from the tap that Father Will, as everyone here called him, had recommended.
"You haven't been to the city, yet, then?"
"You mean downtown?"
"Yes, that. The City of London, the heart of it all; Londinium, the City, Charles Williams' image of the kingdom itself."
Father Will kept making comments like that which implied that Todd was not only as well read as the priest clearly was, but that he was fully a communicant of the same church. On the walk to the pub, Anne had asked if he was C of E, and then caught herself and asked "or Episcopalian?" When Todd said, somewhat accurately and mostly with guilt, "no, Methodist" Father Will laughed and said "Ah, our separated brethren! God bless John Wesley." The subject had not come up again.
C.S. Lewis came up a number of times, and Todd was fairly certain Father Will had discerned that his knowledge of Oxford and the Inklings was not extensive, or even much more than an awareness that the author of the Narnia books knew the writer of "The Lord of the Rings."
Christianity, Old St. Pancras style, was also something he didn't know as much about as it seemed they were assuming he did. The evensong service didn't involve communion, which was both a relief and a disappointment. A relief, because he was afraid that he'd do something wrong while everyone else was doing the right thing, which he obscurely felt would be worse during the serving of communion than it was when he stood up instead of sitting down or vice versa during the rest of the prayers and responses and readings.
He was disappointed because he'd started almost anticipating the one thing that would be familiar to him, at least in part, and what he had some sense was where he was going to be welcome, stranger or not. Yet the service never even made a nod to the altar at the front of the church, some distance behind where Frederick with his guitar and Father Will stood in the aisle.
That slight sense of loss was washed away entirely when they'd come, Todd and the family he'd been swept up into, to this table in the back of the pub and when Father Will had offered up a prayer before they began their evening meal. Was this celebration of baskets of battered fish and glasses of foamy beverage a sort of communion? It certainly was starting to feel that way.
Yet he was awkward in conversation, especially when church affairs and matters of belief came up, about the latest doings of the Synod and bishops and women and the Government's nominations and more that slipped by him in the give and take that somehow he felt part of even as Anne and Father Will carried the bulk of the load.
Now that it was just the two of them, sitting side by side, he turned to Todd and said "You really should visit St. Paul's."
"Is that a church downtown?"
The smile was almost on the edge of making him feel as if he'd said something wrong. But Father Will went on "No, it is not. Not A church. It is THE church. The cathedral, Christopher Wren's masterwork, the cross and orb over the city and the river and over men's and women's lives, no matter how tall the Shards and slivers and towers might be builded."
"So it's old?"
Another smile. "Some say that our fabric here is older by centuries at St. Pancras Old Church. And there are foundations that go back into Roman times beneath her. But Old St. Paul's was burned down in the Great Fire of 1666; this cathedral was begun after and took nearly a century to complete. So you could call it new, but mighty indeed."
Todd took another long sip from his... ale? Lager? Another thing he didn't quite know for sure. He'd like to work his way through all those levers behind the bar, and know exactly the right name for each type and brand. And as for churches . . .
"You think I should see it, do you?"
"See it, feel it, immerse yourself in it. I'd tour you about myself, but there's a parish retreat coming and too much here in Camden Town just now, but you don't need to wait for me. St. Paul's will tell you her own story. Here . . ."
Father Will flipped over a nearby unused coaster, and began to draw a rough map of routes and stops to show Todd how to get there. "And then at Ludgate Hill . . . oh, Lud. There's a tale. And Paternoster Row. But here, you go . . ."
Todd took another pull. Tomorrow he had time, and to follow this cleric's advice felt right and just. St. Paul's he would see, and there he would see what he could see. The Tower of London could wait for another day.
Most of the pub crowd were couples, but they were far from the only family group. Not that I'm a part of this family, thought Todd, while feeling very comfortably included. He and Father William were sitting side by side, he in a collared shirt that drew a regular series of grave nods from certain passers-by, and a tall broad glass of stout before him. Todd was working on something more reddish amber from the tap that Father Will, as everyone here called him, had recommended.
"You haven't been to the city, yet, then?"
"You mean downtown?"
"Yes, that. The City of London, the heart of it all; Londinium, the City, Charles Williams' image of the kingdom itself."
Father Will kept making comments like that which implied that Todd was not only as well read as the priest clearly was, but that he was fully a communicant of the same church. On the walk to the pub, Anne had asked if he was C of E, and then caught herself and asked "or Episcopalian?" When Todd said, somewhat accurately and mostly with guilt, "no, Methodist" Father Will laughed and said "Ah, our separated brethren! God bless John Wesley." The subject had not come up again.
C.S. Lewis came up a number of times, and Todd was fairly certain Father Will had discerned that his knowledge of Oxford and the Inklings was not extensive, or even much more than an awareness that the author of the Narnia books knew the writer of "The Lord of the Rings."
Christianity, Old St. Pancras style, was also something he didn't know as much about as it seemed they were assuming he did. The evensong service didn't involve communion, which was both a relief and a disappointment. A relief, because he was afraid that he'd do something wrong while everyone else was doing the right thing, which he obscurely felt would be worse during the serving of communion than it was when he stood up instead of sitting down or vice versa during the rest of the prayers and responses and readings.
He was disappointed because he'd started almost anticipating the one thing that would be familiar to him, at least in part, and what he had some sense was where he was going to be welcome, stranger or not. Yet the service never even made a nod to the altar at the front of the church, some distance behind where Frederick with his guitar and Father Will stood in the aisle.
That slight sense of loss was washed away entirely when they'd come, Todd and the family he'd been swept up into, to this table in the back of the pub and when Father Will had offered up a prayer before they began their evening meal. Was this celebration of baskets of battered fish and glasses of foamy beverage a sort of communion? It certainly was starting to feel that way.
Yet he was awkward in conversation, especially when church affairs and matters of belief came up, about the latest doings of the Synod and bishops and women and the Government's nominations and more that slipped by him in the give and take that somehow he felt part of even as Anne and Father Will carried the bulk of the load.
Now that it was just the two of them, sitting side by side, he turned to Todd and said "You really should visit St. Paul's."
"Is that a church downtown?"
The smile was almost on the edge of making him feel as if he'd said something wrong. But Father Will went on "No, it is not. Not A church. It is THE church. The cathedral, Christopher Wren's masterwork, the cross and orb over the city and the river and over men's and women's lives, no matter how tall the Shards and slivers and towers might be builded."
"So it's old?"
Another smile. "Some say that our fabric here is older by centuries at St. Pancras Old Church. And there are foundations that go back into Roman times beneath her. But Old St. Paul's was burned down in the Great Fire of 1666; this cathedral was begun after and took nearly a century to complete. So you could call it new, but mighty indeed."
Todd took another long sip from his... ale? Lager? Another thing he didn't quite know for sure. He'd like to work his way through all those levers behind the bar, and know exactly the right name for each type and brand. And as for churches . . .
"You think I should see it, do you?"
"See it, feel it, immerse yourself in it. I'd tour you about myself, but there's a parish retreat coming and too much here in Camden Town just now, but you don't need to wait for me. St. Paul's will tell you her own story. Here . . ."
Father Will flipped over a nearby unused coaster, and began to draw a rough map of routes and stops to show Todd how to get there. "And then at Ludgate Hill . . . oh, Lud. There's a tale. And Paternoster Row. But here, you go . . ."
Todd took another pull. Tomorrow he had time, and to follow this cleric's advice felt right and just. St. Paul's he would see, and there he would see what he could see. The Tower of London could wait for another day.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Chapter Thirteen
"Come on in, Nicholas."
There's a nervousness you never lose when you come into a principal's office, even an assistant principal's office.
Especially the assistant principal's office.
"This really is not anything I wanted you to worry about, but it is about your daughter Susan."
So, Susie.
"She is one of four girls who ended up being mentioned on a social media site that was created by someone we believe is associated with our school, a student or a former student. A parent contacted me last night, and today I've been calling in the girls named to find out what they know. Only one of them was aware of the posting, the girl whose mother contacted me, and the others either didn't know about it or only heard about it this morning and hadn't seen it yet."
Nicholas groped to get clear in his mind about what they were talking about. "So, this is that sexting I keep hearing about?"
For the first time, the assistant principal smiled. "No, nothing like that. This was a different social media site, and there are some pictures posted there, but nothing inappropriate. At least, nothing sexual, nothing of private parts."
"That's good, then, but you . . ."
"Right. The problem is that the site is titled 'Sluts,' and that's what we would consider abusive language. There are other things said in that vein, along with fairly innocuous pictures of some girls here, including your daughter."
"My daughter is called..."
"Right. Or at least, she is included on this page that was set up by someone which calls those named there 'Sluts." It is so carefully on the side of what can't be called illegal, it almost makes me wonder if it is a student who did this; we're in the middle of asking for a charge to be filed so we can get a detective to investigate who can then, in turn, get a subpoena to request of the internet service the IP number of the computer user who set up the page."
"And my daughter already knows about all this?"
"Yes. She took it well, but we're contacting each parent just to keep them in the loop and encourage them to stay in touch with me as this develops, if it does. We don't think she is in any way to blame or involved, but she is an affected party. Just remind her that this is not her fault, not to let it get her down, and that the school is actively pursuing the people who put this out there."
"Wow. I just . . . we didn't have to worry about stuff like this in high school. Every time something happens with the kids, my first thought is to ask how I handled that in high school myself, and this . . ."
The assistant principal leaned back in his chair. "You want to know the truth? If we could just ban social media until they graduate, we'd do it in a heartbeat. But we'd be stupid to do that, because it just delays the day they go out and have to jump in the deep end. This is part of how the world works now, and we have to help them through the bumps and roadblocks and hijackers on this level, because the stakes for posting the wrong image of yourself or saying the wrong thing on a page or in a comment are going up in a hurry, and they don't believe us. It's still just a game, like Mario or Halo or Assassin's Creed. Don't even get me started with boys and porn."
Nicholas leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you think this is a boy who's getting even with girls who won't date them, or is it something else?"
"Honestly, I think it's another girl. They probably know who it is, but they might be surprised when they find out who, because it won't be who they think. That's just how these jealousy and revenge deals work."
They shook hands as both stood up.
"Is it time for me to get my daughter? I'm not sure where the class hours go on the day; what time is it?"
"Actually, she should have one more full class period ahead. If you want to wait in my office, I don't have any more appointments."
"No, I'll just go home as if I'd never been here, and see what I learn from Susie this evening."
"I like how you think, Nicholas. Thinking like a dad."
No, thinking like a mom, he reflected on the way back to the van. This never came easily to him, these parental situations, and he only felt like he was on the right track when he asked himself what Natasha would do. Waiting for her to take the next step felt right. How long he would wait to ask if she didn't mention it, he couldn't say.
There's a nervousness you never lose when you come into a principal's office, even an assistant principal's office.
Especially the assistant principal's office.
"This really is not anything I wanted you to worry about, but it is about your daughter Susan."
So, Susie.
"She is one of four girls who ended up being mentioned on a social media site that was created by someone we believe is associated with our school, a student or a former student. A parent contacted me last night, and today I've been calling in the girls named to find out what they know. Only one of them was aware of the posting, the girl whose mother contacted me, and the others either didn't know about it or only heard about it this morning and hadn't seen it yet."
Nicholas groped to get clear in his mind about what they were talking about. "So, this is that sexting I keep hearing about?"
For the first time, the assistant principal smiled. "No, nothing like that. This was a different social media site, and there are some pictures posted there, but nothing inappropriate. At least, nothing sexual, nothing of private parts."
"That's good, then, but you . . ."
"Right. The problem is that the site is titled 'Sluts,' and that's what we would consider abusive language. There are other things said in that vein, along with fairly innocuous pictures of some girls here, including your daughter."
"My daughter is called..."
"Right. Or at least, she is included on this page that was set up by someone which calls those named there 'Sluts." It is so carefully on the side of what can't be called illegal, it almost makes me wonder if it is a student who did this; we're in the middle of asking for a charge to be filed so we can get a detective to investigate who can then, in turn, get a subpoena to request of the internet service the IP number of the computer user who set up the page."
"And my daughter already knows about all this?"
"Yes. She took it well, but we're contacting each parent just to keep them in the loop and encourage them to stay in touch with me as this develops, if it does. We don't think she is in any way to blame or involved, but she is an affected party. Just remind her that this is not her fault, not to let it get her down, and that the school is actively pursuing the people who put this out there."
"Wow. I just . . . we didn't have to worry about stuff like this in high school. Every time something happens with the kids, my first thought is to ask how I handled that in high school myself, and this . . ."
The assistant principal leaned back in his chair. "You want to know the truth? If we could just ban social media until they graduate, we'd do it in a heartbeat. But we'd be stupid to do that, because it just delays the day they go out and have to jump in the deep end. This is part of how the world works now, and we have to help them through the bumps and roadblocks and hijackers on this level, because the stakes for posting the wrong image of yourself or saying the wrong thing on a page or in a comment are going up in a hurry, and they don't believe us. It's still just a game, like Mario or Halo or Assassin's Creed. Don't even get me started with boys and porn."
Nicholas leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Do you think this is a boy who's getting even with girls who won't date them, or is it something else?"
"Honestly, I think it's another girl. They probably know who it is, but they might be surprised when they find out who, because it won't be who they think. That's just how these jealousy and revenge deals work."
They shook hands as both stood up.
"Is it time for me to get my daughter? I'm not sure where the class hours go on the day; what time is it?"
"Actually, she should have one more full class period ahead. If you want to wait in my office, I don't have any more appointments."
"No, I'll just go home as if I'd never been here, and see what I learn from Susie this evening."
"I like how you think, Nicholas. Thinking like a dad."
No, thinking like a mom, he reflected on the way back to the van. This never came easily to him, these parental situations, and he only felt like he was on the right track when he asked himself what Natasha would do. Waiting for her to take the next step felt right. How long he would wait to ask if she didn't mention it, he couldn't say.
Monday, March 17, 2014
Chapter Twelve
Again with the delay.
Abigail's flight was still listed on the board, but she had now been more than twelve hours at the airport, and the sign said "Delayed" which was more information than the counter agents had.
Various surges of passengers for flights to Dubai, Jeddah, Kabul, Sharjah, Riyadh, Bangkok. London not yet. Maybe not ever.
That's foolish, she reminded herself. It will just mean she makes the flight tomorrow; a flight left Islamabad pretty much every day late morning, then flew with the sun to make it to London before dark. Who knows what storm, what typhoon, what mechanical error had stalled her designated flight. She had spent so much time watching clouds for oncoming weather systems, seen so few rainstorms or thunderheads, struggled forward through so many windstorms alway blowing against the direction she or her mule was heading, that she'd forgotten the usual, everyday challenges of moving planes around the globe. But it was coming back to her.
Tapping around a bit on her phone, the bright spiral swirl of a storm across the eastern Mediterranean became as much of a reason for the delay as she wanted to know, along with the still vivid wonder at how she, a woman with little or no technical understanding, could poke with her finger at a slice of glass and plastic and summon up images from deep space and of the earth's surface in all her wonder.
A click, and weather systems vanished; a tap, and the last book she had been reading on her phone swung into view. "David Copperfield," for some reason. She had read a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, which along with who knows what other data had led her phone to suggest that she wanted to read Dickens' masterwork and semi-biographical narrative. She'd left David with the Murdstones, as she recalled.
Looking at her phone as the page of a book, a magenta ribbon suddenly appeared across the top of the white screen. An incoming call, from an unknown caller, the number from Dusseldorf, Germany. Hmmm, she thought, and tapped the ribbon to answer and held the phone to her ear.
"Abigail, yes?"
"Ah, yes. Yes you are. Hello, Abigail."
It was Kyle's voice, the voice of Sulaiman al-Idris. Her . . . quarry? Her goal these last three years, the point of her journey, the hook for so many stories never written, the motive force behind all the ones that had been.
"Hello, Kyle. Should I call you Kyle, or...?"
"No, Kyle is fine. Although I understand your Urdu is getting quite good."
"Thank you. Your English is still just fine, but I imagine you've learned more than Urdu these last few years."
She could hear him smile through the connection. "Yes, I surely have. And I'm flattered to learn my old classmate has been seeking me. You are a journalist these days?"
"That's right. Your . . . your picture, Kyle. The one that had you against a blue sky, with that old green sweater on?"
"I've seen the photo. Still have the sweater."
"That's where I learned your Islamic name, and you looked . . ."
"Happy?"
"Yes."
"I am."
The silence was actually filled with the faint hums and buzzings of a satellite call. Abigail broke it by saying "I assume you are not calling me from Dusseldorf?"
Again, the smile was palpable across the circuit. "That would be correct. And I regret that we can't talk very long. You don't seem to be with intelligence services, but those agencies could be tracking you, to see if you lead them in their ineptitude to contacts like me."
"All the more reason for me to appreciate your reaching out to me. I've been looking for you to meet, and ask a few...."
"We will never meet. I am sorry to say that, but it must be so."
"And this call?"
"A courtesy. A friend of a friend had a capacity, and your number, which you left so considerately all across the Hindu Kush, was already in hand. I wanted to thank you for your interest, and apologize for not welcoming you to my land. You have come far, and what you have written, has been fair."
"And you have come far, Sulaiman, Kyle. You are no more at home here than I am, are you?"
"Ah, that is where we must part." For a moment, she thought he was hanging up, then he went on. "I never felt at home in high school, as you knew. College was worse. But there was something out there for me, and when I heard... forgive me, I cannot be candid. It is not you I mistrust. But there was teaching, and a vision, and a world where I could find a place. Here, I am at home, and striking at that which would give me no home. You know this, I think. But you cannot accept it, and are at home nowhere."
"That's not quite true, Kyle. I wander, but in a way my world allows, and your world...."
"You are not happy with your place as a woman. You are intelligent, and discontented. This is hard."
"Are you married, Sulaiman?"
"Are you making an offer?" he chuckled.
"No, asking a question as a reporter."
"Yes, a reporter. Of course. I am married."
"Once?"
"Perhaps my candor, again, cannot be complete. But I am not unfamiliar with the struggles of intelligent women. In fact.... no. I wanted to call, and thank you for trying to tell my story. My story is, I am at peace, and that is why I am happy."
"Yet you are a man of arms."
"The world is not at peace, and that holds me back from complete contentment. That is true. But my heart is in submission to Allah, and my work is in keeping with his will. Insha'Allah."
Abigail's mind tumbled about as she tried to think what her next question should be. So many questions, and so many obvious points of hesitation. She asked "Is your work still ongoing?" and immediately cursed the awkwardness of what she'd meant to try to learn.
"My work on this earth continues to my last breath, as God wills. May you find your peace, my friend of youth." He seemed to be wrapping up the conversation.
"Can I call you at this number later with new questions?"
"Alas. This number will do you nor anyone else any good. It is a tool to be laid aside after this use. If it seems right, I may call you again, but please let my former homeland and antagonistic people know: I am well, I am at peace, and I bear no one person any ill will. In Allah is peace. Good bye."
The silence was distinct, and final. She clicked off her phone, and sat back, realizing she'd been sitting forward on the very edge of her seat in the CIP lounge. Leaning back, and making a conscious effort to relax her still bowstring tight back muscles, she looked into the facets of the chandelier overhead.
Light, sparkling, and reflected, springing from a bulb deep within the assembly, and bouncing from surface to surface to the point of relative freedom where it shot towards her eye, and into her brain saying "light." So was this call. Kyle, Sulaiman, could have been in the Arrivals lounge of the Benazir Bhutto Airport just a few dozen feet away, or he could have been in the Swat Valley of Afghanistan. The signal that gave their conversation light and life had bounced from satellite to ground station through a course that meandered who knows where until reaching a node in Dusseldorf where it reached out to ping her phone's system, and to the device in her pocket, through which she heard sound waves melted down digitally and remade time and time again . . . but still carrying the intonations of a witty, sardonic, often wistful boy in the drama club back in high school.
And like a light switch across the room being flipped, the breaking of the signal meant an end to the connection. For now. What she knew for certain was that whatever she wrote about this conversation would ultimately be read by him, and would be part of what determined whether or not they would ever talk again.
Abigail's flight was still listed on the board, but she had now been more than twelve hours at the airport, and the sign said "Delayed" which was more information than the counter agents had.
Various surges of passengers for flights to Dubai, Jeddah, Kabul, Sharjah, Riyadh, Bangkok. London not yet. Maybe not ever.
That's foolish, she reminded herself. It will just mean she makes the flight tomorrow; a flight left Islamabad pretty much every day late morning, then flew with the sun to make it to London before dark. Who knows what storm, what typhoon, what mechanical error had stalled her designated flight. She had spent so much time watching clouds for oncoming weather systems, seen so few rainstorms or thunderheads, struggled forward through so many windstorms alway blowing against the direction she or her mule was heading, that she'd forgotten the usual, everyday challenges of moving planes around the globe. But it was coming back to her.
Tapping around a bit on her phone, the bright spiral swirl of a storm across the eastern Mediterranean became as much of a reason for the delay as she wanted to know, along with the still vivid wonder at how she, a woman with little or no technical understanding, could poke with her finger at a slice of glass and plastic and summon up images from deep space and of the earth's surface in all her wonder.
A click, and weather systems vanished; a tap, and the last book she had been reading on her phone swung into view. "David Copperfield," for some reason. She had read a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, which along with who knows what other data had led her phone to suggest that she wanted to read Dickens' masterwork and semi-biographical narrative. She'd left David with the Murdstones, as she recalled.
Looking at her phone as the page of a book, a magenta ribbon suddenly appeared across the top of the white screen. An incoming call, from an unknown caller, the number from Dusseldorf, Germany. Hmmm, she thought, and tapped the ribbon to answer and held the phone to her ear.
"Abigail, yes?"
"Ah, yes. Yes you are. Hello, Abigail."
It was Kyle's voice, the voice of Sulaiman al-Idris. Her . . . quarry? Her goal these last three years, the point of her journey, the hook for so many stories never written, the motive force behind all the ones that had been.
"Hello, Kyle. Should I call you Kyle, or...?"
"No, Kyle is fine. Although I understand your Urdu is getting quite good."
"Thank you. Your English is still just fine, but I imagine you've learned more than Urdu these last few years."
She could hear him smile through the connection. "Yes, I surely have. And I'm flattered to learn my old classmate has been seeking me. You are a journalist these days?"
"That's right. Your . . . your picture, Kyle. The one that had you against a blue sky, with that old green sweater on?"
"I've seen the photo. Still have the sweater."
"That's where I learned your Islamic name, and you looked . . ."
"Happy?"
"Yes."
"I am."
The silence was actually filled with the faint hums and buzzings of a satellite call. Abigail broke it by saying "I assume you are not calling me from Dusseldorf?"
Again, the smile was palpable across the circuit. "That would be correct. And I regret that we can't talk very long. You don't seem to be with intelligence services, but those agencies could be tracking you, to see if you lead them in their ineptitude to contacts like me."
"All the more reason for me to appreciate your reaching out to me. I've been looking for you to meet, and ask a few...."
"We will never meet. I am sorry to say that, but it must be so."
"And this call?"
"A courtesy. A friend of a friend had a capacity, and your number, which you left so considerately all across the Hindu Kush, was already in hand. I wanted to thank you for your interest, and apologize for not welcoming you to my land. You have come far, and what you have written, has been fair."
"And you have come far, Sulaiman, Kyle. You are no more at home here than I am, are you?"
"Ah, that is where we must part." For a moment, she thought he was hanging up, then he went on. "I never felt at home in high school, as you knew. College was worse. But there was something out there for me, and when I heard... forgive me, I cannot be candid. It is not you I mistrust. But there was teaching, and a vision, and a world where I could find a place. Here, I am at home, and striking at that which would give me no home. You know this, I think. But you cannot accept it, and are at home nowhere."
"That's not quite true, Kyle. I wander, but in a way my world allows, and your world...."
"You are not happy with your place as a woman. You are intelligent, and discontented. This is hard."
"Are you married, Sulaiman?"
"Are you making an offer?" he chuckled.
"No, asking a question as a reporter."
"Yes, a reporter. Of course. I am married."
"Once?"
"Perhaps my candor, again, cannot be complete. But I am not unfamiliar with the struggles of intelligent women. In fact.... no. I wanted to call, and thank you for trying to tell my story. My story is, I am at peace, and that is why I am happy."
"Yet you are a man of arms."
"The world is not at peace, and that holds me back from complete contentment. That is true. But my heart is in submission to Allah, and my work is in keeping with his will. Insha'Allah."
Abigail's mind tumbled about as she tried to think what her next question should be. So many questions, and so many obvious points of hesitation. She asked "Is your work still ongoing?" and immediately cursed the awkwardness of what she'd meant to try to learn.
"My work on this earth continues to my last breath, as God wills. May you find your peace, my friend of youth." He seemed to be wrapping up the conversation.
"Can I call you at this number later with new questions?"
"Alas. This number will do you nor anyone else any good. It is a tool to be laid aside after this use. If it seems right, I may call you again, but please let my former homeland and antagonistic people know: I am well, I am at peace, and I bear no one person any ill will. In Allah is peace. Good bye."
The silence was distinct, and final. She clicked off her phone, and sat back, realizing she'd been sitting forward on the very edge of her seat in the CIP lounge. Leaning back, and making a conscious effort to relax her still bowstring tight back muscles, she looked into the facets of the chandelier overhead.
Light, sparkling, and reflected, springing from a bulb deep within the assembly, and bouncing from surface to surface to the point of relative freedom where it shot towards her eye, and into her brain saying "light." So was this call. Kyle, Sulaiman, could have been in the Arrivals lounge of the Benazir Bhutto Airport just a few dozen feet away, or he could have been in the Swat Valley of Afghanistan. The signal that gave their conversation light and life had bounced from satellite to ground station through a course that meandered who knows where until reaching a node in Dusseldorf where it reached out to ping her phone's system, and to the device in her pocket, through which she heard sound waves melted down digitally and remade time and time again . . . but still carrying the intonations of a witty, sardonic, often wistful boy in the drama club back in high school.
And like a light switch across the room being flipped, the breaking of the signal meant an end to the connection. For now. What she knew for certain was that whatever she wrote about this conversation would ultimately be read by him, and would be part of what determined whether or not they would ever talk again.
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Chapter Eleven
Todd was not sure how his editor was going to feel about a feature piece on "Atheism in Islam," and he was sure this wasn't the story he'd been sent to gather.
Tariq had been emphatic: "This is the wave of the future."
Todd's editor said, on the phone, "Who in America is going to want to read about Arab atheists? They don't want to read about American atheists!"
Todd's response was "My contact, which you and Quentin recommended, is very certain, very passionate, that a free thought movement among Muslims is picking up speed and many adherents, and that western support is critical for their viability." He said that last in the tones of someone trying to repeat verbatim what he'd been told.
The reaction was, very simply, "Are you kidding me?"
Walking around the Old St. Pancras' grounds, where he'd drifted back to simply because he knew how to find it without asking anyone any questions, Todd looked at the markers in the remaining cemetery space.
Apparently, there had once been a much larger burial ground here, and over behind the church building was a tree with an odd arrangement of weathered and mostly illegible tombstones in circles around it, edge on to the trunk, and in many cases the tree growing around them. A nearby plaque explained something about an author who had been a surveyor or something and had put these in place over a hundred years ago, when the train station next door went in.
From that oddity, he strolled in no particular pattern past monuments that looked like English phone booths, ancient markers with only the outline of an urn in relief on top and a few letters still readable, and newer stones with fresh carving that must be replacements, since the years indicated were much older than the sharp edges would indicate.
He stopped near a tall monument near the gate back towards the church. It was one of those things that made him realize, on a deeper level, that he was in a strange place, English aside. The structure was of a design and construction like nothing he knew back home. Sure, there was a tower and a bell and a long roofline and pointed-top windows, but the arrangement of the stone and the various elements seemingly stuck together with something that wasn't quite concrete: it was different. As was the interior.
His editor still wanted an interview with the Somali preacher, but finally switched course and said "Fine. You're there, the source is pushing for a new angle, and maybe it can be a sidebar. Go talk to a few of his people, take some notes, and tell him your crazy boss is only letting you do this as LONG AS you interview Hasseem, or whatever his name is. And ask him what he thinks of Buckeye football."
Todd had to stop a moment and realize what Buckeye football had to do with anything, long enough for the editor to bark "I'm KIDDING. But anything he says about what he learned, or learned to despise back in America: there's your hook. Go get it." And there was the noiseless end of their conversation.
He walked through the wrought-iron gate, and back around to the front of the church, and saw that people were coming up the path in more than just the pairs and singles of tourism. "Must be some sort of evening service," he thought to himself, and let his steps wander along with the groups entering the building.
It all seemed somewhat informal, and after standing in the back uncertainly, loosening his scarf, Todd slid along the left hand side of the seats, just past where he and Tariq had talked the other day. Or where Tariq had talked to him, and he had nodded a great deal. Sitting down on the end, a woman a few seats closer to the center aisle turned and smiled at him. He nodded, she nodded back, and went back to rummaging in her bag.
From the front, up near the altar, a robed man came out trailed by another man in casual clothes carrying a guitar case. The apparent priest grabbed a light podium with one hand while carrying a book and a tablet in his other, and came down the center aisle to where the first row of seated people were in place, swinging the podium to rest in the aisle. Next to him, the fellow with the case opened it up and took his guitar out and began laboriously tuning it. Looking around, Todd could tell this was not yet the signal for people to quiet down; in fact, the conversations among clumps behind him almost got louder.
As he had been looking over his shoulder, suddenly he heard a voice to his left say "Greetings; are you new in the neighborhood?" Turning back, he realized the bearded and robed priest had come up the side aisle and was standing there with his hand extended.
Shaking it and starting to stand, Todd said "oh, no, sorry, I'm . . ."
"Ah, you're an American. Are you here on business or as a tourist?"
"It's that obvious, is it?" Todd smiled at the obvious good humor of his greeter. "I'm here on business, but also getting in a little look around."
"Yes, of course. So you've seen the Hardy Tree and the Soane monument and all? We'll have to show you our Roman building materials set into the walls, after Evensong is over. It's more of a "folk Evensong," I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all," Todd replied, wondering what an evensong was.
"Well, Frederick may be tuned finally, so we'll begin, but would you be my guest for dinner with me and Anne?" As he said this, the woman on the other end of his row turned and smiled at both of them, and said "Oh, please do."
"I'm Father William, and if you stand or sit at the wrong time, don't give it a thought. We're used to tourists at this service." With that, and a swirl of long, floor-sweeping brown robes, he moved back around through the rows to the center aisle, and with a wave of his hands and a wink to Todd, he said "Shall we all rise?"
Tariq had been emphatic: "This is the wave of the future."
Todd's editor said, on the phone, "Who in America is going to want to read about Arab atheists? They don't want to read about American atheists!"
Todd's response was "My contact, which you and Quentin recommended, is very certain, very passionate, that a free thought movement among Muslims is picking up speed and many adherents, and that western support is critical for their viability." He said that last in the tones of someone trying to repeat verbatim what he'd been told.
The reaction was, very simply, "Are you kidding me?"
Walking around the Old St. Pancras' grounds, where he'd drifted back to simply because he knew how to find it without asking anyone any questions, Todd looked at the markers in the remaining cemetery space.
Apparently, there had once been a much larger burial ground here, and over behind the church building was a tree with an odd arrangement of weathered and mostly illegible tombstones in circles around it, edge on to the trunk, and in many cases the tree growing around them. A nearby plaque explained something about an author who had been a surveyor or something and had put these in place over a hundred years ago, when the train station next door went in.
From that oddity, he strolled in no particular pattern past monuments that looked like English phone booths, ancient markers with only the outline of an urn in relief on top and a few letters still readable, and newer stones with fresh carving that must be replacements, since the years indicated were much older than the sharp edges would indicate.
He stopped near a tall monument near the gate back towards the church. It was one of those things that made him realize, on a deeper level, that he was in a strange place, English aside. The structure was of a design and construction like nothing he knew back home. Sure, there was a tower and a bell and a long roofline and pointed-top windows, but the arrangement of the stone and the various elements seemingly stuck together with something that wasn't quite concrete: it was different. As was the interior.
His editor still wanted an interview with the Somali preacher, but finally switched course and said "Fine. You're there, the source is pushing for a new angle, and maybe it can be a sidebar. Go talk to a few of his people, take some notes, and tell him your crazy boss is only letting you do this as LONG AS you interview Hasseem, or whatever his name is. And ask him what he thinks of Buckeye football."
Todd had to stop a moment and realize what Buckeye football had to do with anything, long enough for the editor to bark "I'm KIDDING. But anything he says about what he learned, or learned to despise back in America: there's your hook. Go get it." And there was the noiseless end of their conversation.
He walked through the wrought-iron gate, and back around to the front of the church, and saw that people were coming up the path in more than just the pairs and singles of tourism. "Must be some sort of evening service," he thought to himself, and let his steps wander along with the groups entering the building.
It all seemed somewhat informal, and after standing in the back uncertainly, loosening his scarf, Todd slid along the left hand side of the seats, just past where he and Tariq had talked the other day. Or where Tariq had talked to him, and he had nodded a great deal. Sitting down on the end, a woman a few seats closer to the center aisle turned and smiled at him. He nodded, she nodded back, and went back to rummaging in her bag.
From the front, up near the altar, a robed man came out trailed by another man in casual clothes carrying a guitar case. The apparent priest grabbed a light podium with one hand while carrying a book and a tablet in his other, and came down the center aisle to where the first row of seated people were in place, swinging the podium to rest in the aisle. Next to him, the fellow with the case opened it up and took his guitar out and began laboriously tuning it. Looking around, Todd could tell this was not yet the signal for people to quiet down; in fact, the conversations among clumps behind him almost got louder.
As he had been looking over his shoulder, suddenly he heard a voice to his left say "Greetings; are you new in the neighborhood?" Turning back, he realized the bearded and robed priest had come up the side aisle and was standing there with his hand extended.
Shaking it and starting to stand, Todd said "oh, no, sorry, I'm . . ."
"Ah, you're an American. Are you here on business or as a tourist?"
"It's that obvious, is it?" Todd smiled at the obvious good humor of his greeter. "I'm here on business, but also getting in a little look around."
"Yes, of course. So you've seen the Hardy Tree and the Soane monument and all? We'll have to show you our Roman building materials set into the walls, after Evensong is over. It's more of a "folk Evensong," I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all," Todd replied, wondering what an evensong was.
"Well, Frederick may be tuned finally, so we'll begin, but would you be my guest for dinner with me and Anne?" As he said this, the woman on the other end of his row turned and smiled at both of them, and said "Oh, please do."
"I'm Father William, and if you stand or sit at the wrong time, don't give it a thought. We're used to tourists at this service." With that, and a swirl of long, floor-sweeping brown robes, he moved back around through the rows to the center aisle, and with a wave of his hands and a wink to Todd, he said "Shall we all rise?"
Friday, March 14, 2014
Chapter Ten
Nicholas was back at the house, at "Plumfield" as Natasha had insisted on calling it, from the moment they first opened the front door and saw the long narrow staircase and the cherry handrail with the elegant curl at the bottom. If he had read "Little Men," he would have had a sense of what implications that name carried, but he said yes to Plumfield even before they told the realtor they'd take it.
Furnished with cast-offs and the occasional actual antique, it was filled with light on this spring day around noon. In the middle of the week, no one came by the salvage yard until late afternoon or evening, and their official hours were weekends, with various private contractors who just knew to call Nicholas and arrange a time to come look for or just get what they already knew they wanted. He was home for a leisurely lunch, since he didn't tend to keep much food in the little fridge back at the office except the coffee supplies for AA & church.
So when the phone buzzed, he didn't check the number, assuming it was one of his now numerous builder friends looking for a mantelpiece or big gilt-framed mirror or some other item only available around here at the shop.
"Nicholas speaking."
"Nicholas, Mr. Barkley calling. Your daughters are fine, everything's fine..." said the high school principal in a rush, "...but there's something I'd like to talk to you about in the office if I could. It's regarding Susie."
Nicholas paused a moment, letting the surge of anxiety and relief and now worry wash back and forth until he reached a moment of calm, or at least equillibrium. "Certainly. When should I..."
"Oh, Nicholas, there's no rush. It's not something all that problematic, just that I'd rather not talk about it over the phone."
"I can be there in five minutes, though, if you..."
"That would be great. Thanks; I'll see you shortly."
They hung up after the usual stuttered pleasantries of ending a call. Nicholas looked out the window, made certain the world was not spinning un-naturally, and then thought "it's not all that problematic." And then "but I'm going in to the principal's office." And then "why didn't he..."
All the way back out the door, down through Upper Sharon, and on to the turn onto Welsh Hills Road toward the high school, Nicholas kept trying to finish that thought. The principal should have... something. Something other than how he.... right. Until he met with him, and found out what the situation with Susie was, he couldn't answer the question of how the principal should have handled that call. Which he probably did as well as could be expected, but still.
Navigating the curves through the trees, heading toward the school, he kept rumbling about in his worries and potential concerns: grades? No, that's not it. A fight? She's just not the type. Is there such a thing as a type for -- of course there is. Did some other girl, some "mean girl," hit her? That wouldn't be the way a principal would address that, would it?
The ruminations and stomach twisting continued until he parked; as he walked up to the door of the high school, the ruminations stopped and the stomach twisting doubled. Like when he drove up to the county hospital, when... stop it. This is not that. This is definitely not that.
Nicholas pressed the security buzzer, and heard the click as the secretary activated the lock from her desk; he pulled the door open, and went on inside.
Furnished with cast-offs and the occasional actual antique, it was filled with light on this spring day around noon. In the middle of the week, no one came by the salvage yard until late afternoon or evening, and their official hours were weekends, with various private contractors who just knew to call Nicholas and arrange a time to come look for or just get what they already knew they wanted. He was home for a leisurely lunch, since he didn't tend to keep much food in the little fridge back at the office except the coffee supplies for AA & church.
So when the phone buzzed, he didn't check the number, assuming it was one of his now numerous builder friends looking for a mantelpiece or big gilt-framed mirror or some other item only available around here at the shop.
"Nicholas speaking."
"Nicholas, Mr. Barkley calling. Your daughters are fine, everything's fine..." said the high school principal in a rush, "...but there's something I'd like to talk to you about in the office if I could. It's regarding Susie."
Nicholas paused a moment, letting the surge of anxiety and relief and now worry wash back and forth until he reached a moment of calm, or at least equillibrium. "Certainly. When should I..."
"Oh, Nicholas, there's no rush. It's not something all that problematic, just that I'd rather not talk about it over the phone."
"I can be there in five minutes, though, if you..."
"That would be great. Thanks; I'll see you shortly."
They hung up after the usual stuttered pleasantries of ending a call. Nicholas looked out the window, made certain the world was not spinning un-naturally, and then thought "it's not all that problematic." And then "but I'm going in to the principal's office." And then "why didn't he..."
All the way back out the door, down through Upper Sharon, and on to the turn onto Welsh Hills Road toward the high school, Nicholas kept trying to finish that thought. The principal should have... something. Something other than how he.... right. Until he met with him, and found out what the situation with Susie was, he couldn't answer the question of how the principal should have handled that call. Which he probably did as well as could be expected, but still.
Navigating the curves through the trees, heading toward the school, he kept rumbling about in his worries and potential concerns: grades? No, that's not it. A fight? She's just not the type. Is there such a thing as a type for -- of course there is. Did some other girl, some "mean girl," hit her? That wouldn't be the way a principal would address that, would it?
The ruminations and stomach twisting continued until he parked; as he walked up to the door of the high school, the ruminations stopped and the stomach twisting doubled. Like when he drove up to the county hospital, when... stop it. This is not that. This is definitely not that.
Nicholas pressed the security buzzer, and heard the click as the secretary activated the lock from her desk; he pulled the door open, and went on inside.
Thursday, March 13, 2014
Chapter Nine
"What?'
"No, I'm done trying to find him."
"Yes, I appreciate all you've done to help me. Don't you appreciate all the great stories you've gotten out of me while I've been here?"
"Yes, yes, I know you've paid me well, but not well enough to stay here."
"Arnie, no. No. No."
In the international lounge of United at the Islamabad airport, no one was gauche enough to act like they were listening to her conversation with her editor back in New York, but she assumed they all were. Never mind, even if a Taliban informant was in this room, he wouldn't be able to get the gist of this argument from one side.
"You don't owe me anything, I don't owe you anything. So what do you want next, or are we just done?"
"Of course I want to write for you. I just don't want to sleep on mats in dusty high altitude compounds any more, wondering if my ride the next day is going to get hit with a drone."
"No, but good isn't perfect. Plus I don't always know who the heck is driving, and if their name is on a CIA list [now that's going to make people listen in, Abigail thought] then I can't really complain if the van I'm riding in gets hit, can I?"
"Right, I'm gonna write that story. Maybe someday, but not this month. Not next month."
"THANK you. Seriously, Arnie, thank you. I'll see you in New York. I'm stopping in London first."
"Why? Because the plane goes there first anyhow, and I don't want to bust my tailbone flying straight through. And I have friends in England. Maybe a story."
"Sure. Thanks. Hey, I'm not mad. Take care. Bye."
She tucked her phone into her purse, and leaned back into the seat. It was too early for a glass of white wine, and she couldn't recall if the departures lounge here would do that, anyhow. On the plane.
It had been her longest trip up into the North West Province, and too many overnight lodging changes to count. Camping would have been more comfortable than all the various "women's quarters" she'd stayed in, few of which offered enough camaraderie to be worth the time spent in the evening being civil. Some women were willing to struggle along with her Urdu, which usually was a second language for them, as well; once she shared a room with a woman who knew British-accented English, but who never volunteered a hint of how she'd come by it.
Now, in a long dress with a modest neckline and sleeves, she was unveiled, definitely un-burqa-ed, and trying to relax. Her passport was in the outer pocket of her purse, her credit card and sat phone both worked, and she had a window seat with one possible neighbor. If that neighbor was a chatty sort, this was twelve hours of awful ahead, but if they had earphones and a tablet, it would be time for a hallelujah right out of her childhood.
Home was, right now, not much of anywhere. But it wasn't here. It was time to leave.
"No, I'm done trying to find him."
"Yes, I appreciate all you've done to help me. Don't you appreciate all the great stories you've gotten out of me while I've been here?"
"Yes, yes, I know you've paid me well, but not well enough to stay here."
"Arnie, no. No. No."
In the international lounge of United at the Islamabad airport, no one was gauche enough to act like they were listening to her conversation with her editor back in New York, but she assumed they all were. Never mind, even if a Taliban informant was in this room, he wouldn't be able to get the gist of this argument from one side.
"You don't owe me anything, I don't owe you anything. So what do you want next, or are we just done?"
"Of course I want to write for you. I just don't want to sleep on mats in dusty high altitude compounds any more, wondering if my ride the next day is going to get hit with a drone."
"No, but good isn't perfect. Plus I don't always know who the heck is driving, and if their name is on a CIA list [now that's going to make people listen in, Abigail thought] then I can't really complain if the van I'm riding in gets hit, can I?"
"Right, I'm gonna write that story. Maybe someday, but not this month. Not next month."
"THANK you. Seriously, Arnie, thank you. I'll see you in New York. I'm stopping in London first."
"Why? Because the plane goes there first anyhow, and I don't want to bust my tailbone flying straight through. And I have friends in England. Maybe a story."
"Sure. Thanks. Hey, I'm not mad. Take care. Bye."
She tucked her phone into her purse, and leaned back into the seat. It was too early for a glass of white wine, and she couldn't recall if the departures lounge here would do that, anyhow. On the plane.
It had been her longest trip up into the North West Province, and too many overnight lodging changes to count. Camping would have been more comfortable than all the various "women's quarters" she'd stayed in, few of which offered enough camaraderie to be worth the time spent in the evening being civil. Some women were willing to struggle along with her Urdu, which usually was a second language for them, as well; once she shared a room with a woman who knew British-accented English, but who never volunteered a hint of how she'd come by it.
Now, in a long dress with a modest neckline and sleeves, she was unveiled, definitely un-burqa-ed, and trying to relax. Her passport was in the outer pocket of her purse, her credit card and sat phone both worked, and she had a window seat with one possible neighbor. If that neighbor was a chatty sort, this was twelve hours of awful ahead, but if they had earphones and a tablet, it would be time for a hallelujah right out of her childhood.
Home was, right now, not much of anywhere. But it wasn't here. It was time to leave.
Wednesday, March 12, 2014
Chapter Eight
Tariq was standing next to the door into the church, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets. Todd had a flash of uncertainty, then realized that Tariq knew his author shot would make him more than recognizable. He wondered if that checked scarf was always around his neck, or just when he was going to meet strangers, and if it was the same one from the book jacket photo.
"Hello." Todd started to reach out his hand, and hesitated when he saw Tariq's hands weren't moving from his pockets.
"Let's go inside. I often meet people here; they are open most weekdays."
Turning, the burly Pakistani walked through the door, holding it just long enough to be polite but not looking back to see if the American had caught it. Todd did, and turned to close it carefully, hearing behind him a brief greeting to the woman at a low desk near the entryway.
They both walked on into the body of the church, the nave, Todd dimly recalled. Beams overhead like a ship overturned, "navis" came drifting back from high school Latin. The seating was made up of individual chairs, not long benchlike pews he recalled from childhood. Kneelers were scattered about, and the arrangement was less linear than he thought of as normal for churches, as if a crowd had recently left in a hurry.
The walls up to the roofbeams were a bit of a jumble, too. Chunks and hunks of art and statuary, or at least bas-relief figures and shields and coats-of-arms, dotted at irregular intervals, some low, some high. Tariq turned and sat down on a pair of chairs sitting at an angle to the semblances of rows, and finally pulling a hand out of his coat pointed to a chair.
"Sit."
"Thank you for making the time to..."
"Have you been to England before?'
"No."
"To Somalia, or Pakistan, or...?"
"No, nowhere overseas." Todd almost said "I've been to Canada" but thought better of it.
"Ah. Welcome, then. You are in a very old church of, well, your...."
The silence hung in the air a moment, then Tariq went on "You are a Christian of some sort?"
"I guess; I mean, not really. Not a member."
"Oh. A free thinker?"
Todd had to think a moment about that, and said more hesitantly than he wished "Yes, that's probably right."
"You know, there is a monument to William Godwin here, he and Mary Wollstonecraft."
Todd nodded as if that were an obvious connection to him.
Tariq went on: "Of course, they are buried now in Bournemouth, but the marker keeps their memory here, closer to their home. Some say Thomas Paine's remains ended up here, buried under their marker, after Cobbett brought them home. You have read Paine, as an American?'
This was more solid ground, recalling both the name and a section of his writings in a college text. "Yes, I've read 'Common Sense' and..."
"No, no," Tariq answered with a brush of his free hand. "I meant 'Rights of Man' and 'The Age of Reason.'"
"I haven't."
"This you should do. He is part of your inheritance as an American, something of which you can be proud. You wish to meet with Ali Abdul Nazeer?"
"Sorry, I mean, right. Yes. That's the Somali preacher who..."
"Had lived in your state, in Ohio. Not really an important part of his story, I suspect. He spent time there, but his mind was not formed there."
Todd had little enough to say to this, since connecting Nazeer's Ohio years to the global story of Islam and terrorism was what his editor had told him to write up.
"You could meet him. This could be arranged, but you would not learn much. With respect, you would not 'get much out of him' as they say. He is proud, and angry at America, and not given to interviews outside of the Arabic press at any rate. I would suggest a different story for you to pursue, if you are interested."
Todd was nervous, but interested. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a long notepad and a ballpoint pen, flipped it open.
"What are you thinking about, sir?"
Tariq smiled, and began to tell a story.
"Hello." Todd started to reach out his hand, and hesitated when he saw Tariq's hands weren't moving from his pockets.
"Let's go inside. I often meet people here; they are open most weekdays."
Turning, the burly Pakistani walked through the door, holding it just long enough to be polite but not looking back to see if the American had caught it. Todd did, and turned to close it carefully, hearing behind him a brief greeting to the woman at a low desk near the entryway.
They both walked on into the body of the church, the nave, Todd dimly recalled. Beams overhead like a ship overturned, "navis" came drifting back from high school Latin. The seating was made up of individual chairs, not long benchlike pews he recalled from childhood. Kneelers were scattered about, and the arrangement was less linear than he thought of as normal for churches, as if a crowd had recently left in a hurry.
The walls up to the roofbeams were a bit of a jumble, too. Chunks and hunks of art and statuary, or at least bas-relief figures and shields and coats-of-arms, dotted at irregular intervals, some low, some high. Tariq turned and sat down on a pair of chairs sitting at an angle to the semblances of rows, and finally pulling a hand out of his coat pointed to a chair.
"Sit."
"Thank you for making the time to..."
"Have you been to England before?'
"No."
"To Somalia, or Pakistan, or...?"
"No, nowhere overseas." Todd almost said "I've been to Canada" but thought better of it.
"Ah. Welcome, then. You are in a very old church of, well, your...."
The silence hung in the air a moment, then Tariq went on "You are a Christian of some sort?"
"I guess; I mean, not really. Not a member."
"Oh. A free thinker?"
Todd had to think a moment about that, and said more hesitantly than he wished "Yes, that's probably right."
"You know, there is a monument to William Godwin here, he and Mary Wollstonecraft."
Todd nodded as if that were an obvious connection to him.
Tariq went on: "Of course, they are buried now in Bournemouth, but the marker keeps their memory here, closer to their home. Some say Thomas Paine's remains ended up here, buried under their marker, after Cobbett brought them home. You have read Paine, as an American?'
This was more solid ground, recalling both the name and a section of his writings in a college text. "Yes, I've read 'Common Sense' and..."
"No, no," Tariq answered with a brush of his free hand. "I meant 'Rights of Man' and 'The Age of Reason.'"
"I haven't."
"This you should do. He is part of your inheritance as an American, something of which you can be proud. You wish to meet with Ali Abdul Nazeer?"
"Sorry, I mean, right. Yes. That's the Somali preacher who..."
"Had lived in your state, in Ohio. Not really an important part of his story, I suspect. He spent time there, but his mind was not formed there."
Todd had little enough to say to this, since connecting Nazeer's Ohio years to the global story of Islam and terrorism was what his editor had told him to write up.
"You could meet him. This could be arranged, but you would not learn much. With respect, you would not 'get much out of him' as they say. He is proud, and angry at America, and not given to interviews outside of the Arabic press at any rate. I would suggest a different story for you to pursue, if you are interested."
Todd was nervous, but interested. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a long notepad and a ballpoint pen, flipped it open.
"What are you thinking about, sir?"
Tariq smiled, and began to tell a story.
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
Chapter Seven
Picking up one of the three cordless drills sitting in charger cradles next to his desk, Nicholas went back out through the shop to start removing hardware from old doors.
His latest haul came from a house being torn down out in Concord Township up Auter Creek. It had six chimneys, eight bedrooms, and about a dozen interior doors that no one seemed to have any interest in.
The owner of the property was tearing down the old brick home to build a bigger, modern home, and while Nicholas had opinions about this practice, he'd seen it happen too many times to waste his tongue arguing with the fellow over what he wanted and what he thought he wanted. Offering him $5 per door and removal, he was happy to offer Nicholas free rein around the decaying home, which turned out to have more like fourteen of them, plus a pair of sliding pocket doors nailed into place that the current (and final) occupant hadn't even realized were there. Yesterday, he'd gone out with the old two-and-a-half ton truck and recovered the interior doors; it was agreed he'd come back in another week and do the potentially heavier demolition work it would take to remove the pocket doors, their framing, and possibly even the front door. But he'd gotten his fourteen for the price he'd asked, plus having to listen to almost two hours' worth of the occupant talking right behind him about the faults of old houses, how perfect his new home would be, and a few forays into politics that didn't go too far given the fact that Nicholas didn't agree or disagree with much, just offered lots of "mmmmm, hmmm mmmmpphh" in between the buzzings of the cordless and the whine of screws coming out of wood. He thought again that he should wear ear protection when he was doing this, but not for any damage done him by the drill's motor.
That all meant paying $75 could mean close to $1800 of income... but only if he got them quickly and painlessly off their hinges and out of the house. The hinges and doorlatches might bring even more sold separately, but some would be pulled off them, and others left on to maximize the revenue.
Natasha was good at talking to the homeowners they so often dealt with, not to argue them into taking a lower figure for the doors or whatever else they wanted us to get us on that job site for, but finding out from them what other decaying homes were in need of our "last rites". The salvage work had begun with her, and a passion she'd inherited from her grandmother, who had, when Natasha was very young, needed to tear down the house she had come to when first married, raised her children in, and returned to after her husband's funeral. So she did something that in that place, back in that day, was considered very odd: she hired a contractor who helped her take off the doors and the useable hardware, and then built a nice new home with all of the pieces she could salvage built into it, not just transferring furniture from old to new but re-using windows (a few), timbers (not many, but some), and the doors almost without exception from the previous house.
Grandmother had added zone heating, a stained glass window in her study from another old house she'd found at a rummage sale, and a chandelier that looked old but was selected from a catalog. She wasn't just interested in old for old's sake, and neither had been her granddaughter. But the reflexive wholesale tossing of old stuff because it was old became both a source of frustration (never anger), and the basis for a business. A pretty good business, Nicholas thought. It had started as indulgence on his part, and then he had become a full partner, and now it was his. Plus it became a church, or at least where a church met.
And that hadn't been his idea, either.
His latest haul came from a house being torn down out in Concord Township up Auter Creek. It had six chimneys, eight bedrooms, and about a dozen interior doors that no one seemed to have any interest in.
The owner of the property was tearing down the old brick home to build a bigger, modern home, and while Nicholas had opinions about this practice, he'd seen it happen too many times to waste his tongue arguing with the fellow over what he wanted and what he thought he wanted. Offering him $5 per door and removal, he was happy to offer Nicholas free rein around the decaying home, which turned out to have more like fourteen of them, plus a pair of sliding pocket doors nailed into place that the current (and final) occupant hadn't even realized were there. Yesterday, he'd gone out with the old two-and-a-half ton truck and recovered the interior doors; it was agreed he'd come back in another week and do the potentially heavier demolition work it would take to remove the pocket doors, their framing, and possibly even the front door. But he'd gotten his fourteen for the price he'd asked, plus having to listen to almost two hours' worth of the occupant talking right behind him about the faults of old houses, how perfect his new home would be, and a few forays into politics that didn't go too far given the fact that Nicholas didn't agree or disagree with much, just offered lots of "mmmmm, hmmm mmmmpphh" in between the buzzings of the cordless and the whine of screws coming out of wood. He thought again that he should wear ear protection when he was doing this, but not for any damage done him by the drill's motor.
That all meant paying $75 could mean close to $1800 of income... but only if he got them quickly and painlessly off their hinges and out of the house. The hinges and doorlatches might bring even more sold separately, but some would be pulled off them, and others left on to maximize the revenue.
Natasha was good at talking to the homeowners they so often dealt with, not to argue them into taking a lower figure for the doors or whatever else they wanted us to get us on that job site for, but finding out from them what other decaying homes were in need of our "last rites". The salvage work had begun with her, and a passion she'd inherited from her grandmother, who had, when Natasha was very young, needed to tear down the house she had come to when first married, raised her children in, and returned to after her husband's funeral. So she did something that in that place, back in that day, was considered very odd: she hired a contractor who helped her take off the doors and the useable hardware, and then built a nice new home with all of the pieces she could salvage built into it, not just transferring furniture from old to new but re-using windows (a few), timbers (not many, but some), and the doors almost without exception from the previous house.
Grandmother had added zone heating, a stained glass window in her study from another old house she'd found at a rummage sale, and a chandelier that looked old but was selected from a catalog. She wasn't just interested in old for old's sake, and neither had been her granddaughter. But the reflexive wholesale tossing of old stuff because it was old became both a source of frustration (never anger), and the basis for a business. A pretty good business, Nicholas thought. It had started as indulgence on his part, and then he had become a full partner, and now it was his. Plus it became a church, or at least where a church met.
And that hadn't been his idea, either.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Chapter Six
In the cool of the morning, after the call to prayer had echoed from loudspeakers and minarets all around the neighborhood, there was time to think.
In the prevailing traditions of the local mosques, men gathered, but women prayed at home. This was what the hadiths were said to teach, and Abigail was fine with that. The peace and quiet in the apartment block where she was staying was calming and restorative.
She thought to herself "that's not what Muhammad actually says in the surahs of the Qur'an" but as with so many such thoughts, she kept it to herself. In early Islam, men and women mingled in prayer, but that, like so many things, changed quickly after the Prophet's death and the start of the Great Estrangement, or so she had heard called the second century after the Prophet's death.
In the Qur'an, Adam and Eve are created together out of one original soul, no ribs involved; in the Qur'an, Adam goes for the forbidden fruit first, not Eve; in the Qur'an, both men and women are called upon to be modest. It was cultural tradition and the scholarship of lands into which Islam spread that created the second-class status so many in the West think is the Islamic way of seeing women's place.
And within Islam, Abigail had found the emphasis on the oneness of God to be refreshing. Sufism and other forms of Islamic mysticism caught her imagination within, even as she had to focus on learning the external observances which were what kept her safe and allowed her entry into Pakistani households.
As for the anti-woman, more than mildly misogynistic aspects of Islam, she often found herself thinking about the glass houses, lived in, so to speak, by Mr. Peggotty in "David Copperfield" seeking Em'ly, or worse by Ethan Edwards as played by John Wayne in "The Searchers" pursuing Natalie Wood's Debbie . . . honor culture was not an exclusively Islamic issue. It wasn't that long ago, in historical terms, that the cultured West had many of the same anxieties driving their menfolk, even if under multiple layers of concealment.
Having said that, she was done. She was ready to go home, or at least somewhere more like home. The constant furtive pressures to be invisible, to vanish, to not be seen underneath the coverings or behind walls -- even some of the careful friendships she had made among women here were not enough to balance what was becoming a memory of openness and involvement in the world around her. She wanted to walk down a street, turn and enter a shop, and order some food from a clerk without regard to what she was wearing or what gender the counter worker was. Even if it was falafel. Maybe especially falafel.
But was she ready to go back to Ohio? To home? That might be too close a set of constraints in a different, but not dissimilar way. London, that was the ticket. She knew at least two networks would pay her to go there and be available to do stand-ups in front of a studio window for a few weeks, talking about the 'Stans, and women, and whatever was blowing up at the moment. She would go to London.
The moment she thought that, it took an effort of will not to reach up and pull off the burqa immediately. Not yet, not until the airport. But soon.
In the prevailing traditions of the local mosques, men gathered, but women prayed at home. This was what the hadiths were said to teach, and Abigail was fine with that. The peace and quiet in the apartment block where she was staying was calming and restorative.
She thought to herself "that's not what Muhammad actually says in the surahs of the Qur'an" but as with so many such thoughts, she kept it to herself. In early Islam, men and women mingled in prayer, but that, like so many things, changed quickly after the Prophet's death and the start of the Great Estrangement, or so she had heard called the second century after the Prophet's death.
In the Qur'an, Adam and Eve are created together out of one original soul, no ribs involved; in the Qur'an, Adam goes for the forbidden fruit first, not Eve; in the Qur'an, both men and women are called upon to be modest. It was cultural tradition and the scholarship of lands into which Islam spread that created the second-class status so many in the West think is the Islamic way of seeing women's place.
And within Islam, Abigail had found the emphasis on the oneness of God to be refreshing. Sufism and other forms of Islamic mysticism caught her imagination within, even as she had to focus on learning the external observances which were what kept her safe and allowed her entry into Pakistani households.
As for the anti-woman, more than mildly misogynistic aspects of Islam, she often found herself thinking about the glass houses, lived in, so to speak, by Mr. Peggotty in "David Copperfield" seeking Em'ly, or worse by Ethan Edwards as played by John Wayne in "The Searchers" pursuing Natalie Wood's Debbie . . . honor culture was not an exclusively Islamic issue. It wasn't that long ago, in historical terms, that the cultured West had many of the same anxieties driving their menfolk, even if under multiple layers of concealment.
Having said that, she was done. She was ready to go home, or at least somewhere more like home. The constant furtive pressures to be invisible, to vanish, to not be seen underneath the coverings or behind walls -- even some of the careful friendships she had made among women here were not enough to balance what was becoming a memory of openness and involvement in the world around her. She wanted to walk down a street, turn and enter a shop, and order some food from a clerk without regard to what she was wearing or what gender the counter worker was. Even if it was falafel. Maybe especially falafel.
But was she ready to go back to Ohio? To home? That might be too close a set of constraints in a different, but not dissimilar way. London, that was the ticket. She knew at least two networks would pay her to go there and be available to do stand-ups in front of a studio window for a few weeks, talking about the 'Stans, and women, and whatever was blowing up at the moment. She would go to London.
The moment she thought that, it took an effort of will not to reach up and pull off the burqa immediately. Not yet, not until the airport. But soon.
Friday, March 7, 2014
Chapter Five
"Tariq here."
Todd had called the number a friend of the editor's had given him on the international phone the magazine had loaned him for the trip to London. Tariq Afaz was a professor and author with knowledge of the more radical mosques and Islamic leaders, along with a willingness to talk to western media, or so he was explained to be.
"Hello, um, sir, I am a journalist looking to interview..."
"You were given my name by Quentin." It was a statement of fact, not a question. "I expected your call. My time this week is limited, but I can meet briefly today. Where are you staying?"
Explaining his location in Camden Town, Tariq cut him off in mid-description. "Meet me at 3:00 pm at Old St. Pancras. Anyone there can help you find it. Make sure you have re-set your watch. Good day."
The click went without saying. Todd thought that this could actually be the best possible outcome for him, since his options were few, but his first call had given him an interview subject who clearly understood that was what he would be asked to do. His interview subject also clearly planned to drive the conversation, and Todd was perfectly ready to let him do so.
At the front desk, the clerk nodded briskly at the question about Old St. Pancras' churchyard. It was about twenty minutes' walk, and Todd readily turned down the offer to call a cab. It was a bit over three hours until the interview, but wanting to get out of his room he just ran back for a notepad and the rest of his pockets' contents (pens, credit card and room key card, some change in Euros and British coinage).
On the way, he stopped to eat at an Indian restaurant, feeling like it would be the best balance between familiar and foreign for him. The nan was crisp and fresh tasting, and the chickpea and chicken dish he settled on was not too spicy. Perched on a counter seat along one wall, he flicked through New York Times foreign news headlines on his tablet, stabbing at mentions of Islam and London and protests. The weight of random violence and outbursts of terror around the world made him nervous and tired, and as he anticipated his coming interview, more than a little edgy.
Two more turns and ten more minutes, and the green swath opening before him was the beginning of the churchyard, memorials visible beyond the fence, and the tan stone of the church coming into view along one side.
Stepping through a gate, he strolled along trying to get his focus and energy back. There were vertical monuments and horizontal slabs, names with hints of familiarity and strange titles, obscured inscriptions and deep cuts into stone surfaces. At one end of the churchyard, a tree was encircled by concentric rings of tombstones piled side-by-side all the way around the trunk; this had been done long enough ago that there were a number of places where the bark was clutching around the slabs of stone, not easily to let go, if ever.
A train station towered over one side of the open area, and occasional clanks and thunderings echoed into the peaceful cemetery space. The sounds followed him as he walked a final loop up around to the aged tower in the trees of Old St. Pancras'.
Todd had called the number a friend of the editor's had given him on the international phone the magazine had loaned him for the trip to London. Tariq Afaz was a professor and author with knowledge of the more radical mosques and Islamic leaders, along with a willingness to talk to western media, or so he was explained to be.
"Hello, um, sir, I am a journalist looking to interview..."
"You were given my name by Quentin." It was a statement of fact, not a question. "I expected your call. My time this week is limited, but I can meet briefly today. Where are you staying?"
Explaining his location in Camden Town, Tariq cut him off in mid-description. "Meet me at 3:00 pm at Old St. Pancras. Anyone there can help you find it. Make sure you have re-set your watch. Good day."
The click went without saying. Todd thought that this could actually be the best possible outcome for him, since his options were few, but his first call had given him an interview subject who clearly understood that was what he would be asked to do. His interview subject also clearly planned to drive the conversation, and Todd was perfectly ready to let him do so.
At the front desk, the clerk nodded briskly at the question about Old St. Pancras' churchyard. It was about twenty minutes' walk, and Todd readily turned down the offer to call a cab. It was a bit over three hours until the interview, but wanting to get out of his room he just ran back for a notepad and the rest of his pockets' contents (pens, credit card and room key card, some change in Euros and British coinage).
On the way, he stopped to eat at an Indian restaurant, feeling like it would be the best balance between familiar and foreign for him. The nan was crisp and fresh tasting, and the chickpea and chicken dish he settled on was not too spicy. Perched on a counter seat along one wall, he flicked through New York Times foreign news headlines on his tablet, stabbing at mentions of Islam and London and protests. The weight of random violence and outbursts of terror around the world made him nervous and tired, and as he anticipated his coming interview, more than a little edgy.
Two more turns and ten more minutes, and the green swath opening before him was the beginning of the churchyard, memorials visible beyond the fence, and the tan stone of the church coming into view along one side.
Stepping through a gate, he strolled along trying to get his focus and energy back. There were vertical monuments and horizontal slabs, names with hints of familiarity and strange titles, obscured inscriptions and deep cuts into stone surfaces. At one end of the churchyard, a tree was encircled by concentric rings of tombstones piled side-by-side all the way around the trunk; this had been done long enough ago that there were a number of places where the bark was clutching around the slabs of stone, not easily to let go, if ever.
A train station towered over one side of the open area, and occasional clanks and thunderings echoed into the peaceful cemetery space. The sounds followed him as he walked a final loop up around to the aged tower in the trees of Old St. Pancras'.
Chapter Four
Sharon Architectural Salvage was a big white nondescript building, with a large fenced in lot behind. Nicholas drove into the alley around back, got out, unlocked and swung open the gate then pulled into his spot between the tall rack of assorted pillars and posts and the peeling block wall.
From the un-ornamented, plain exterior, you wouldn't expect the riot of color, texture, and outline inside once you turned on the overhead lights and shut off the security system. The high ceilings were almost reached on one side by frames that cradled rows of exterior doors and interior doors, set up by size, alternating with heavy shelving and stacks of windows and shutters.
Almost everything in here was old, but ready to be repurposed. Leaded glass windows ranked along one wall, newel posts in profusion, chunks of staircase with fine detail in the woodwork, and peeping out behind it all the bulky shapes of fireplace surrounds and mantlepieces.
Into the main room, the riot of jumble was purposeful, but confusing to the eye at first (and not as well organized as when Natasha was alive, he thought again, and again, but he tried to maintain the order she'd established). Chandeliers and lighting fixtures of bygone ages in varying states of overpainting and polish; pictures and frames that had seen better days but all of a Victorian genre, no velvet or woodburned accents among them. Statuary of a more delicate nature than the concrete birdbaths and garden nymphs in the backlot, plaster and alabaster, faces pensive and sweet.
A stuffed great blue heron, almost as tall as Nicholas' six feet, stood next to an obviously fake suit of armor, cheap-ish but solid (he'd almost left it in the trash, then realized even if he sold it for $5 it was profit, so in the truck it went). A collection of gates, some wrought iron and others strap steel, stacked out from one wall, and a series of fan lights without glass piled against the other.
On through the door into the front office, passing through opposite the path most customers took from the main door inside, he stepped into the welcome warmth, clicked on the smaller lights in the lower ceilinged space. Glass top cases (for sale, too, but at prices designed to keep them in service here) sheltered old doorknobs, hinges, keys, the finer brass and steel hardware; art that Nicholas suspected needed more climate control hung along the walls. He flipped the hinged part of the counter, stepped behind, and sat down at the roll-top desk that he swore he would actually sell one of these days and powered up his computer. It took an eternity to start, since it was the one thing in here besides copper that there might be some temptation to steal, so why encourage them? It ran old versions of everything, and the browser just barely kept up with the internet, which was good enough for him, although he knew someday soon he'd have to upgrade.
And almost one of the antique house parts and vintage architectural pieces was the answering machine by the phone, the type that still had two mini cassettes, one for the answer to play from and one to record incoming messages. He still knew how to operate it and could work the buttons with two fingers and not thinking. It would have to be replaced when one of these tapes snapped, but for now...
Three messages overnight, one a lead on a house to be dismantled out near Glenford, and two asking what time church was on Sunday. Because on Sunday, the old wooden folding chairs came out of the closet by the fireplace surrounds, the pulpit (for sale!) rolled up next to the life-size statue of St. Anne, and Sharon Architectural Salvage became The Salvage Yard, a non-denominational fellowship that Nicholas was almost ready to quit trying to not call a church. He was the pastor, so to speak, and he still wasn't sure how this happened, but he knew there would be church here this Sunday, and that made him smile.
From the un-ornamented, plain exterior, you wouldn't expect the riot of color, texture, and outline inside once you turned on the overhead lights and shut off the security system. The high ceilings were almost reached on one side by frames that cradled rows of exterior doors and interior doors, set up by size, alternating with heavy shelving and stacks of windows and shutters.
Almost everything in here was old, but ready to be repurposed. Leaded glass windows ranked along one wall, newel posts in profusion, chunks of staircase with fine detail in the woodwork, and peeping out behind it all the bulky shapes of fireplace surrounds and mantlepieces.
Into the main room, the riot of jumble was purposeful, but confusing to the eye at first (and not as well organized as when Natasha was alive, he thought again, and again, but he tried to maintain the order she'd established). Chandeliers and lighting fixtures of bygone ages in varying states of overpainting and polish; pictures and frames that had seen better days but all of a Victorian genre, no velvet or woodburned accents among them. Statuary of a more delicate nature than the concrete birdbaths and garden nymphs in the backlot, plaster and alabaster, faces pensive and sweet.
A stuffed great blue heron, almost as tall as Nicholas' six feet, stood next to an obviously fake suit of armor, cheap-ish but solid (he'd almost left it in the trash, then realized even if he sold it for $5 it was profit, so in the truck it went). A collection of gates, some wrought iron and others strap steel, stacked out from one wall, and a series of fan lights without glass piled against the other.
On through the door into the front office, passing through opposite the path most customers took from the main door inside, he stepped into the welcome warmth, clicked on the smaller lights in the lower ceilinged space. Glass top cases (for sale, too, but at prices designed to keep them in service here) sheltered old doorknobs, hinges, keys, the finer brass and steel hardware; art that Nicholas suspected needed more climate control hung along the walls. He flipped the hinged part of the counter, stepped behind, and sat down at the roll-top desk that he swore he would actually sell one of these days and powered up his computer. It took an eternity to start, since it was the one thing in here besides copper that there might be some temptation to steal, so why encourage them? It ran old versions of everything, and the browser just barely kept up with the internet, which was good enough for him, although he knew someday soon he'd have to upgrade.
And almost one of the antique house parts and vintage architectural pieces was the answering machine by the phone, the type that still had two mini cassettes, one for the answer to play from and one to record incoming messages. He still knew how to operate it and could work the buttons with two fingers and not thinking. It would have to be replaced when one of these tapes snapped, but for now...
Three messages overnight, one a lead on a house to be dismantled out near Glenford, and two asking what time church was on Sunday. Because on Sunday, the old wooden folding chairs came out of the closet by the fireplace surrounds, the pulpit (for sale!) rolled up next to the life-size statue of St. Anne, and Sharon Architectural Salvage became The Salvage Yard, a non-denominational fellowship that Nicholas was almost ready to quit trying to not call a church. He was the pastor, so to speak, and he still wasn't sure how this happened, but he knew there would be church here this Sunday, and that made him smile.
Thursday, March 6, 2014
Chapter Three
Abigail was never, never going to get used to the burqa.
She was wedged into a backseat of a Toyota that looked like it could pop open from a number of different angles, but the women on either side of her seemed to trust the door latches with almost a religious faith, or perhaps a fatalistic indifference.
There was the look to one side you made without moving your head, trying to see along the edge of the netted opening, and then there was the full-body swivel it took to open up your field of vision; the heavy cloth of the burqa still tried to stay in place given that you were sitting on the bulk of it, so your swivel would go largely unnoticed, nor would it actually shift the eye-slot very much for all your trouble.
So she tried to satisfy herself with the view straight ahead, in between the two young men driving and looking stolidly straight ahead. Their Urdu was fluid and idiomatic and incomprehensible; Abigail's was serviceable, and put her in a unique position among Americans, but here in Pakistan it left her as ignorant as a State Department ambassador.
Three years she had spent mostly in these mountains, where she felt, quite frankly, safer than she did in the sprawling low-slung cities of the northwest, Kohat, Dir, Peshawar. The local government and Bhutto Women University had given her opportunities to meet with people her male counterparts never could have, and a perspective that, while limited to a burqa's eye-slot at times, often unveiled views that looked out across a landscape as big as the nearby Himalayas, let alone the Hindu Kush.
What had led her here was a quixotic quest that she still wondered at to this day. She was looking for an old high school classmate. She was still working on what she wanted to ask him if they were to meet, and it was not to accuse or defend or blame, but to understand. Why it was so important for her to understand what Kyle had done was something Abigail was still working on, even as it had become in a public way a path to awards and honors and respect, even if the respect was somewhat in question where she was spending her time these days. She might feel a little more respect for her accomplishments if she was "back home," but she would also be farther away from the answer to her question, a question which her own self-respect drove her to keep asking.
It was in turning the page of a magazine, and seeing a face, bearded, smiling, wearing a pakol hat, a leathery tan, and a pullover v-neck sweater that she distinctly remembered from a drama club party their senior year, now worn and dusty but the dark green knit and white and black trim stained, yet distinctly the same as that memory. Kyle Foster had become Sulaiman al-Idris, and perhaps more importantly, although a mere picture can be deceiving: he had become happy. His face was filled with joy and delight and was lifted to the light of the sun. The article was about the darkness and doubt surrounding the story of Sulainman al-Idris, but what Abigail could not get out of her head, even ten or twelve years later, was how sad and angry and bitter Kyle Foster had been, brilliant but deeply unhappy, and how happy he appeared to be now.
Now, of course, was more than three years ago. Today, Kyle or Sulaiman might be dead, some said so. And even Abigail's quest for the photographer from Reuters who took the picture had still not borne fruit, the location where the picture was taken still unknown to her other than "Pakistan" in a caption, which meant it could well have been just inside Afghanistan, Kashmir, even Tajikistan. Somewhere in these mountains, there was a story about how Kyle had not just become Sulaiman, but how he had found happiness, or at least that was the story she was already writing in her mind.
In pursuit of that story, still unfinished, she had written dozens of others, garnered a pakol hatful of awards, and found a career and focus in learning the language and the folkways and some of the personages of this strange yet altogether too well known land for Americans. We understand it about as well as New Yorkers understand Iowa, she thought. But her motivation underneath it all was still her desire to find Kyle Foster and ask him, "How did you become that smiling face in the photo?" What the CIA or the Army wanted to ask him was probably a bit different than that.
She tugged hard at the burqa as the vehicle lifted up in a bounce over yet another deep rut in the road, giving her some freedom to at least turn in one direction and pull the eye-slot with her. Sometimes, you had to settle for small increases in what you could see, and not worry about what you couldn't quite reach. Sometimes.
She was wedged into a backseat of a Toyota that looked like it could pop open from a number of different angles, but the women on either side of her seemed to trust the door latches with almost a religious faith, or perhaps a fatalistic indifference.
There was the look to one side you made without moving your head, trying to see along the edge of the netted opening, and then there was the full-body swivel it took to open up your field of vision; the heavy cloth of the burqa still tried to stay in place given that you were sitting on the bulk of it, so your swivel would go largely unnoticed, nor would it actually shift the eye-slot very much for all your trouble.
So she tried to satisfy herself with the view straight ahead, in between the two young men driving and looking stolidly straight ahead. Their Urdu was fluid and idiomatic and incomprehensible; Abigail's was serviceable, and put her in a unique position among Americans, but here in Pakistan it left her as ignorant as a State Department ambassador.
Three years she had spent mostly in these mountains, where she felt, quite frankly, safer than she did in the sprawling low-slung cities of the northwest, Kohat, Dir, Peshawar. The local government and Bhutto Women University had given her opportunities to meet with people her male counterparts never could have, and a perspective that, while limited to a burqa's eye-slot at times, often unveiled views that looked out across a landscape as big as the nearby Himalayas, let alone the Hindu Kush.
What had led her here was a quixotic quest that she still wondered at to this day. She was looking for an old high school classmate. She was still working on what she wanted to ask him if they were to meet, and it was not to accuse or defend or blame, but to understand. Why it was so important for her to understand what Kyle had done was something Abigail was still working on, even as it had become in a public way a path to awards and honors and respect, even if the respect was somewhat in question where she was spending her time these days. She might feel a little more respect for her accomplishments if she was "back home," but she would also be farther away from the answer to her question, a question which her own self-respect drove her to keep asking.
It was in turning the page of a magazine, and seeing a face, bearded, smiling, wearing a pakol hat, a leathery tan, and a pullover v-neck sweater that she distinctly remembered from a drama club party their senior year, now worn and dusty but the dark green knit and white and black trim stained, yet distinctly the same as that memory. Kyle Foster had become Sulaiman al-Idris, and perhaps more importantly, although a mere picture can be deceiving: he had become happy. His face was filled with joy and delight and was lifted to the light of the sun. The article was about the darkness and doubt surrounding the story of Sulainman al-Idris, but what Abigail could not get out of her head, even ten or twelve years later, was how sad and angry and bitter Kyle Foster had been, brilliant but deeply unhappy, and how happy he appeared to be now.
Now, of course, was more than three years ago. Today, Kyle or Sulaiman might be dead, some said so. And even Abigail's quest for the photographer from Reuters who took the picture had still not borne fruit, the location where the picture was taken still unknown to her other than "Pakistan" in a caption, which meant it could well have been just inside Afghanistan, Kashmir, even Tajikistan. Somewhere in these mountains, there was a story about how Kyle had not just become Sulaiman, but how he had found happiness, or at least that was the story she was already writing in her mind.
In pursuit of that story, still unfinished, she had written dozens of others, garnered a pakol hatful of awards, and found a career and focus in learning the language and the folkways and some of the personages of this strange yet altogether too well known land for Americans. We understand it about as well as New Yorkers understand Iowa, she thought. But her motivation underneath it all was still her desire to find Kyle Foster and ask him, "How did you become that smiling face in the photo?" What the CIA or the Army wanted to ask him was probably a bit different than that.
She tugged hard at the burqa as the vehicle lifted up in a bounce over yet another deep rut in the road, giving her some freedom to at least turn in one direction and pull the eye-slot with her. Sometimes, you had to settle for small increases in what you could see, and not worry about what you couldn't quite reach. Sometimes.
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