The Gospel of Catherine Deare

The Gospel of Catherine Deare

A Novel By

Mike Colahan

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE GOSPEL OF CATHERINE DEARE

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Copyright © 2018 MICHAEL COLAHAN. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the author and publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Cover designed by Audrey Thompson

Cover art:

Copyright © iStock-641294046_Oleh_Slobodeniuk

Published by Telemachus Press, LLC at Smashwords

7652 Sawmill Road

Suite 304

Dublin, Ohio 43016

http://www.telemachuspress.com

Visit the author website:

http://www.mikecolahannovels.com

ISBN: 978-1-945330-85-8 (eBook)

ISBN: 978-1-945330-90-2 (Paperback)

Category: FICTION / Religious

Version 2023.11.16

Acknowledgements

My gratitude to my family, Meg, Michaela, and Elliot, for their support during the years of writing this story. As well, I owe a debt to many others, including but not limited to, Bonnie Lee Behm, Kate Emburg, Chris Entwisle, Mick O’Toole, Pat Ramirez, Tory Stozek, and Dr. Ruth Weidner for offering their time, guidance, and input, all of which made this book better than I could have hoped to do on my own. And finally, my gratitude to the staff at Telemachus Press for their expertise and warm professionalism.

For my children and their generation, for they are obliged to inherit the earth.

Table of Contents

1. The Man on Goshen Road

2. The New Disciple

3. Bethlehem

About the Author

Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.

— The Gospel of Matthew, 8:20

The Gospel of Catherine Deare

1. The Man on Goshen Road

She sees him off under a night sky that hints at nothing to come: quiet, cloudless and cool. Brian’s smile is loose and a little rakish in the yellow porch light. Time has tinseled his hair and deepened his eyes, but the business suit can’t hide his tall height and athletic bearing. She can still see the brash Wharton student who heard her sing in a campus pub twenty-one years ago, who asked her to the movies, and then never asked another.

Fly safely.

I do, Cath. Every time. But it’s really the pilots you want to tell that to.

He climbs into the Camry and backs down the drive, then kicks the gas to spur the car up Abigail Lane, for the country road they live on grades sharply against the side of a considerable Pennsylvania hill. Watching his taillights rise and disappear over the summit, Catherine unexpectedly shivers. There is a chill in the air that wasn’t there yesterday, with a flinty scent of approaching autumn. She steps back inside the house.

The kitchen microwave reads 5:07. Too early to wake Seth, and not enough time to sneak back to bed. She reheats her coffee and snaps on the island TV. All westbound traffic on the Schuylkill Expressway is snarled by road construction near Vare Avenue. Democrats from New Jersey’s Fourth District are squabbling over the budget for Gloucester Township. On the national scene, President Bush plans to visit a Florida elementary school as part of his campaign for education reform, and Colin Powell is in flight to Latin America to shake a few hands. In Washington a California congressman continues to insist he did not have relations with a female intern who vanished mysteriously months ago.

Just another day. Dull with a little sadness at the fringe.

At six o’clock she climbs the stairs to Seth’s room. Hey, sport. Time to wake up. She snaps on the light. Her seventeen-year-old son sleeps on his stomach, mouth open, big feet hanging off the end of the bed. The room is painted light green, and cluttered with posters for Metallica, Phish, Dave Matthews, and R.E.M., and fantasy films like Lord of the Rings and Phantom Menace. Hanging in a place of honor above the desk is a full-sheet movie poster of Cameron Diaz grinning in a skimpy pink negligee. Seth was too young to see There’s Something About Mary when it came out three years ago, but shortly thereafter they purchased it, and he has been passionately devoted to its leggy blond star ever since.

Come on, Seth. It’s after six.

He moans. Why?

"Why what? You mean, why is it after six? Honey, after six happens. I already shipped Dad off to Denver." She pokes his ribs.

"Mom, hey!"

Think mind improvement. Think of Sara Chin sitting in front of you in Third Period French. Rise and shine.

He groans, lifting himself by degrees to a sitting position. What’s today?

Tuesday. Listen to me. I need you to see yourself off to school. I’ve got to be out the door myself in five minutes.

He frowns. You don’t work Tuesdays.

I’m not going to the office. I have to meet Uncle Jack in Bryn Mawr, and I’m hoping he’ll come out and have dinner with us. Got any tests today?

Don’t think so. Shouldn’t.

Hardly reassuring, but she doesn’t have time to investigate. Also I have a party this afternoon—are you listening? I won’t get back home until five. That leaves you and Jack to hang out together, so don’t hole up in your room surfing with your buddies.

Okay. He rubs his eyes and yawns. What’s your gig?

Brouden Daycare in Radnor. One of the teachers is retiring, and the children asked for a party. Should be fun.

Nice. Seth offers a drowsy smile. He is sweet enough to appreciate that his mother is, at heart, a musician. Catherine studied music at the University of Pennsylvania, and can play flute or piano with prim classical discipline, or rock wicked on either of two electric guitars she keeps in the basement. Seth and his friends consider her one of the cool moms, a status she does not take for granted.

Now, can you get dressed and get your own breakfast and everything? I really need to move.

Yeah, I can.

Your lunch is on the kitchen counter. See you tonight.

There is no kissing him anymore. Catherine trots briskly down the stairs and grabs her large canvas tote bag by the front door.

The sky is pinking above the porch eaves as she steps outside. Catherine’s car is a blue 1996 Dodge Grand Caravan bought five years ago so that it, like she, can manage the family’s big junk errands: spring cleanings, Christmas tree haulings, and clothing drives for the Methodist church. Today the rear hatch holds her acoustic guitar and several large cardboard boxes of character cutouts, kids’ instruments, balloons, fans, teddy bears, and funny hats. Catherine backs down the driveway, then kicks the pedal to spur the Caravan up Abigail Lane. At the top of the hill she acknowledges the emerging sun with a patronizing smirk. She has been up since three-thirty.

Though Bryn Mawr lies fifteen miles to the east, the smartest route is to loop southward and travel the back roads, avoiding the county’s main highways with their daily commuter crush. Taking Providence Road, Catherine’s minivan passes through long stretches of countryside where forests and farmland have been cleared for enormous houses and immaculately landscaped lawns. Embracing both sides of the road are sweeping green pastures that belong not to mere farms but horse ranches, and display a level of wealth and leisure she can’t imagine. Tree-lined driveways extend to distant mansions, and riders dressed in helmets, crops, and high boots frequently canter on paths half-hidden by tall grass. Catherine knows none of these people. She comes to a four-way stop, waits her turn, then steers east onto Goshen Road. The car radio rehashes the same headlines she has been listening to all morning: Bush in Florida, Vare Avenue, and the latest scoop on that seedy California congressman. Catherine slips in a CD and Joni Mitchell cuts off the noisy world like a therapeutic drug. Clouds still influences her, even these days when life is basically bills, groceries, and keeping the men in her life fed, shod, and moving forward.

Past the big horse farms the road descends through a long funnel of broad-branched oaks and sycamores. At the foot of the drop is a large covered bridge that spans Crum Creek. Set a few yards off the main road, the bridge no longer functions; however, because it is covered it is treasured, and a local historic society has cleared the land around it for a modest park with benches and a plaque. A young man sits on one of the benches. Seeing her approach, he quickly stands and begins to wave broadly with an extended arm. One glance tells Catherine she doesn’t know him, so she keeps accelerating down the hill. But then a strange thing happens: the man steps close to the curb and waves more urgently. Catherine attended enough Sunday school classes as a child to recognize a potential Good Samaritan moment, and against all instincts her foot shifts to the brake. The man appears young, bearded with longish hair, and lanky in build, dressed in a brown flannel shirt, blue jeans, and heavy work boots. Catherine knows this is reckless, knows she can still kick the gas and speed past him, yet feels no conviction in this. A queer undertow pulls at the soles of her feet. She glides the van up to the curb and hits the button to lower the passenger side window. Hello.

Hi, he returns, easily enough.

Can I help you, maybe? Do you need a lift?

As a matter of fact, I could use help getting to Philadelphia.

I’m going as far as Bryn Mawr.

Oh, that would work well, thank you. I can take a train from there into the city.

Are you sure?

Yes. This is very nice of you. He swings open the door and hops in. The car rocks gently from the springiness of his movements. Catherine presses the gas and grips the wheel. Her heart is a third party in the car. Never in her life has she picked up a hitchhiker, and she can hear her husband chewing her out, as well as every cop in the state.

You can’t imagine what a help this is, he says, carefully buckling himself in. I’ve a premonition that this will be a busy day for me.

What is it you do?

She means his profession, but his answer is more immediate. I’m seeing a friend who lives on Forty-Sixth Street near Baltimore Avenue.

Are you serious? That’s my old neighborhood.

What is?

Baltimore Ave. I grew up in West Philly. What’s his name?

Rios. First name Anthony.

She shakes her head. Don’t know that one. My family used to live on Forty-Seventh and Woodland. That’s just one block over.

Well, this is fortunate. I thank you for your trouble.

She certainly can’t fault his manners. At the same time she can hear herself gushing nervously. How incredible it is that this stranger is seated next to her, that she actually invited him into her car! He can strangle her, rape her, he can grab the wheel and force the car into a fence or ditch. Yet he doesn’t seem dangerous. He sits with loose-limbed serenity, and there is a disarming twinkle in his brown eyes. His dark complexion, jeans, heavy boots and short beard suggest a laboring man, but in this county that doesn’t mean anything. He could be a vagabond or the richest man in Chester County. The polarity of these two choices makes her smile.

He asks, What’s funny?

I’m sorry?

You look amused. You have a very nice smile.

She realizes with a jolt that he is watching her closely. I was, uh, just laughing at a stray thought. It’s meaningless.

I see.

The road bends sharply at the crest of a hill, and she takes the turn with native expertise. His proximity thickens the interior of the car. She smells earth and grime, salt and livestock. A small ocean churns inside her. She says boldly, You have quite a way of looking at people.

Looking at people?

Well … looking at me, at least.

He laughs mildly. Perhaps as a courtesy he now looks out the windshield. Just curious about you.

Why?

Because you seem genuine, and you picked me up.

Genuine? What a funny word. Why wouldn’t I be genuine?

Because most people aren’t. You know that. There’s a kindness in your face, Catherine, that is gentle and nuanced and unmistakable.

Ah, she says, and feels herself blush. So that’s why I picked you up, so you could compliment me.

Was it a compliment? I thought I was simply observing. Is that your guitar back there?

Yes.

Are you a singer?

Barely. I perform at children’s functions. Birthday parties and such. I have a job later this afternoon, but I’m driving all over the place this morning and needed to pack the car last night.

Where do you live?

Her husband, the cops, even her dad, scream in her ear. Weedon.

Weedon? Oh, I haven’t been to Weedon in twenty years. It was a small town when I saw it last.

You must have been very young.

He says nothing to that.

It’s still small, she goes on. But the area around it is all built up. And she thinks that he had to be extremely young. He looks in his thirties, though it’s hard to tell. At forty-four, Catherine finds all young people blurring into a sea of new global tenancy.

The buildup, yes. You must hate that.

I do. I can’t drive past these houses without smarting. They look like hotels with their giant stained glass windows and three or four decks. The garages hold up to six cars, did you know that?

It does give you pause.

My husband hates it more than I do. He grew up in Chester County and he misses the woods and creeks. He and Seth—that’s my son—used to catch turtles in a stream just back a ways from here, and fish in a river near Downingtown that’s now someone’s flat dead lawn. Chester County held onto its farms until the end of the Nineties, but when everyone got money and wanted to pull out of Philadelphia with its crazy wage tax and crappy school system, everything got plowed under.

It must have happened fast. I was surprised to see all this.

I suppose it’s the money, she says with a sigh. Or perhaps I’m jealous. Brian and I do well, but we don’t see the need to take our fortune and blow it on a huge yard and a thirty-room house.

You’re not the jealous type.

The presumption annoys her. How do you know?

It’s easy to see. I hear it in your voice. You have too much honesty.

Well, thanks. These tiny compliments are getting on her nerves. He still smiles pleasantly, but she is feeling at last what she should have felt all along, that this is a creepy thing she’s done, and the sooner she drops him off and makes some distance the better. He called her by name a moment ago, and she can’t remember if she told it to him. She doesn’t think she did.

Well, it doesn’t feel like jealousy, she defends. In the past four years I’ve seen so much beautiful acreage cut away for lawns and huge houses. It doesn’t look wonderful to me, it just seems like a terrible waste.

It’s the lure of prestige. His voice softens, his eyes grow muddy.

Are you all right?

Yes, I’m fine. This is a solemn topic for me. You are right, of course, in all you say. This country has enjoyed unparalleled prosperity for many years. It’s one of the worst things that could ever happen to it.

You think so? The inbred American in her is ruffled.

Oh, it’s changed everything. The whole problem has flipped itself over. There are people who once walked this earth who would laugh to hear me now.

"Ohhhh-kay," she says with an inflection meant to let him know how weird he sounds. This talk of wealth is definitely troubling him. Perhaps he is an activist.

He slumps in his seat and says, a little testily, It’s not like they think I’m a fool. But now that they’re prosperous they believe I’m out of touch. You can’t believe how much harder my work has gotten in just the past ten years.

What is it you do?

Whatever is necessary. He gazes out the window.

Can you at least tell me where you live? Now Catherine is annoyed. She is giving him a lift at the risk of life and limb, and out of sheer courtesy he can answer a few questions.

You mean currently?

I mean whatever.

Right now I live with a handful of people on a farm just off Boot Road. We’re watching the place for an elderly couple who decided to go abroad for several months. Farm-sitting, you might call it.

You’re watching someone’s farm?

We’re doing them a favor, and it’s a favor to us. There’s not a lot to it, just chickens, a cat, and a couple of horses that are their pride and joy. I don’t pretend to know anything about horses. We met them in a diner, and after Keith volunteered to care for the animals, they happily accepted the arrangement.

Wait a minute, Catherine says. Are you telling me these people are strangers, yet they’re letting you take care of their farm?

Oh, they trust us. It’s nice, actually, that they do.

And uncommon, I’m sure.

Well, they’re in their sixties, he says, as if that explains it. They’ve never been out of the country and wanted to travel. I couldn’t talk them out of it. They flew to Spain, then France, then to Germany where they have relatives—

You don’t approve of travel?

He shrugs. Done properly, travel can lead to understanding and enlightenment. But people don’t travel to be enlightened. They travel for entertainment, to say they’ve been somewhere. They return home emboldened and less humble. When you think about it, the only people with a genuine need to travel are men of God.

Men of God? The expression makes her stomach tip inward.

People of God, he corrects himself, misunderstanding the look on her face. Sorry, I should have said ‘people’ and not ‘men.’ I usually do.

Catherine feels sweat break along her spine. She has done it after all, and allowed a fanatic into her car. Religion taken too passionately scares her, even though her family attends the Methodist church in Weedon and she considers herself a believer. In a single instant this gangly man with his long hair and workman’s clothes seems wild-looking. His dark skin is tough from outdoor exposure, and his eyes are not lit with a twinkle but a subtle, more hidden flame, as if a furnace smolders behind the irises.

He asks, You’re married, of course.

Yes.

But your husband’s away, isn’t he?

Before her better judgment can kick in she says, How could you know that? She holds the wheel tightly and tries to watch the road.

Don’t be worried, he answers cheerfully. And don’t be surprised by anything I tell you. I’m something of an empath.

Oh? It’s a new word to her, but she can figure what it means.

I’m very good at picking up on people’s vibes, he explains. It’s something I do.

How nice. The sooner this weirdo is out of her car the better. His talk of living with a bunch of people on a farm sounds like good old-fashioned hippie communing. He even has the pseudo-Jesus look often associated with that lifestyle. She swings the Caravan hard right to cross a single-lane stone bridge, and speeds through Radnor Township. The car clock reads 7:40, and the road as she approaches Lancaster Avenue is clogging with commuter cars and school buses. The traffic in Bryn Mawr is some of the worst on the Main Line. The Caravan worms across Lancaster Avenue, and Catherine pulls into the parking lot of the Bryn Mawr train station.

This is it. I have no idea what time the next train to Philadelphia is.

That’s okay. I don’t mind waiting.

When is this Anthony Rios expecting you?

We didn’t set a time, but he knows I’m coming. He lost his job.

Oh, I’m sorry.

He actually lost it a year ago, and it’s getting very hard for his family. I told him I’d stop by. I’ll be his sounding board, punching bag, whatever is needed. He’s a friend.

He really is on a mission of mercy. Catherine hesitates, her finger on the button to unlock the car door. He smiles gently, as if reading her thoughts, then glances at the little station. What do you think a train ticket will cost?

I don’t know. Four or five dollars, I guess.

You wouldn’t happen to have four or five dollars, would you?

You don’t have any money?

Well, I wasn’t expecting to take a train.

His glinting eyes offer no apology. He has been in her car long enough for her to acknowledge a certain rugged sex appeal, the easy confidence of his movements, the bright intelligence in his face, the hint of blue-collar rebel in his worn work clothes and scruffy beard. The Jesus look is working for him. It makes her conscious of the thin gray streaks doing battle with her red Irish curls, and how tall he would be (like Brian) next to her five-foot-four frame. It is the silliest of feelings, for she is happily married and has been for nineteen years. She reaches behind her chair and tugs her large shoulder bag off the floor, rummages through it for her wallet, and hands him a five. That should get you to the city, at least.

This is great, thank you.

Sure. Then she surprises herself by asking, Will you need a ride back to Boot Road later?

Thanks, but no. I’ll get back somehow. It was nice of you to give me this lift. It’s hard to find people willing to do this sort of thing.

Everybody’s scared of the world.

They shouldn’t be. They don’t need to be. He opens the door and hops out, but after shutting it behind him turns and leans on the sill. He takes a lengthy measure of her, and his jaw thrusts forward, as if he has come to a decision. Catherine, you lost a child, didn’t you?

She gasps. How do you know?

I can tell. A son or a daughter?

It was a girl.

He nods solemnly. You seem like someone who would take the loss of a child hard. You’ve been shook up badly, and for a while. Years, I’d venture.

This is both terrible and fascinating. She doesn’t know what to say.

You don’t have to confirm anything I’m telling you. But you deserve a few words from me. Don’t be worried that I know about this. It’s why I wanted to see you today.

My daughter died ten years ago, she volunteers. There was a terrible accident. Ten years this fall, actually. In November.

And her name was?

Lindsey.

Yes. He is silent a moment. I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry that it saddens you.

Well, of course it saddens me.

He shakes his head. Save your sadness, if you can, for those who do not understand the importance of a given day. Lindsey was young?

A baby. Well, a toddler.

And she was a good child, certainly.

Oh yes. A fire spreads in her chest. She trembles against her seat.

She showed a lot of promise, Catherine. That was noticed, and she’s being looked after. That’s what I wanted to tell you.

And it doesn’t seem strange at all for him to say this. There is an awareness in his fixed dark eyes, something ageless and kind. She smiles gently. Thank you.

He walks with a buoyant swing toward the train station, stops to look at the track sign, and starts to go around the building toward the north side. Then he realizes he was on the correct side after all, and doubles back. He disappears inside the little building.

Catherine lingers for a moment, hoping to see him appear on the platform. She feels something teasing her, something quiet and wonderful but very sly. The car clock tells her she is now late, and reluctantly she pulls away from the station. Parking is going to be tricky, but at least the meters in Bryn Mawr are civilized enough to accept dimes. As she fights the commuters for curb space, she wonders if she’ll ever see him again. His strangeness reminds her of the artists she hung out with in Philly when she was a student in the late Seventies: musicians and poets with eccentric minds and brilliant opinions about everything, usually expounded over rum and coffee in dark city bars with enough beatnik pretention to keep disco at the door. She wishes she could have spent more time with him. She wishes, in fact, that she had gotten more out of him.

˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

The Cape is casual and humorous, with nautical decorations scattered throughout, and photographs of beaches and Victorian houses mounted above each table. A large TV hangs over the coffee bar, and from this pulpit a female news anchor prattles with the volume mute. Catherine steps through the entrance in time to spy footage of the President entering a Florida elementary school, his step brisk and cheerful but his eyes squinting with fatigue. Funny to think that both she and the planet’s most powerful man were obliged to wake up early today.

Hi, Cate! Over here!

Her brother waves from a booth. He stands to give her a hug, grinning at her through a pair of black-framed glasses that he has worn some version of since second grade. His clothes are casual to the point of embarrassment: blue jeans faded to cirrus, dirty sneakers, and a green T-shirt depicting creatures from Where the Wild Things Are parading through a forest.

Look at you, he says with a laugh. You’re all flushed and excited. What happened?

Am I? I wouldn’t know why. She slides into the booth, sitting opposite him. What do you like in this place?

Spanish omelet. Jack signals a waitress. Coffee?

Sure.

They both order Spanish omelets. Their waitress is a willowy college girl who looks as bored as her apron. She pours coffee, then leaves. Jack slouches back on his bench and sips deeply, studying his sister over the crescent of his mug. So are you going to tell me?

Tell you what?

"What happened to you. Something did happen."

She laughs. How do you always know?

It’s a sibling thing.

Or maybe he’s an empath too. Their parents, John and Laura Flynn, were respectively a Philadelphia police captain and an elementary school teacher, and on their combined modest salaries raised three rambunctious children in a row home on Forty-Seventh Street. Sheila came first in 1956, then Catherine in 1957, and finally Jack in early 1960. Sheila chose accounting at La Salle, pinned the CPA exam to the mat on the first try, and is now an unseen but powerful VP of finance for an engineering firm in Manhattan. Jack grew up observing the chins of both sisters, and eventually melded Sheila’s assertiveness with Catherine’s heartfelt dreams and turned himself into an artist—and a fairly successful one too. His sculptures, mostly rough-hewn nudes molded from polyester resin, have shown in smart established galleries in New York and Philadelphia, and many have sold, enough to sustain a modest bohemian lifestyle in gentrified Northern Liberties.

All right, she confesses. Something did happen as I was coming in. I wasn’t sure I should mention it.

Why not?

Because it was weird. I picked up a hitchhiker on Goshen Road. He needed a ride to Philadelphia, and I left him off at the Bryn Mawr train station.

Did you really? Jack slowly grins. God, Sis, you must have Pop rolling in his grave.

Well, and think of Brian. He’d have a fit if he knew. You can’t tell him.

Of course not. What made you do it?

That’s the weird part. I can’t really tell you. There was just something about him. I think he was someone important.

Like who?

Before she can answer the waitress returns with breakfast, and all talk ceases as saucers and utensils get shifted to make room. Catherine waits until the table is theirs again. You really want to know?

Sure.

You have to understand I’m serious.

Okay.

She leans close and lowers her voice. I think he was Jesus Christ.

It takes a moment to sink in. Jack’s expression grows uncertain. "Jesus Christ? As in ‘Blessed are the meek,’ that Jesus Christ?"

Yes. What do you think?

I don’t know. Should I laugh? Was he just standing there?

No, you shouldn’t laugh. He was sitting by this covered bridge on Goshen Road, and suddenly he ran to the curb and waved. He looked about thirty, with a scruff of beard like the kind college boys grow when they’re too lazy to shave. In fact, he looked very much like a college student. Well, actually more like a college drop out. Said he was living on a farm with some friends. I figure they must be disciples.

You’re serious, he murmurs.

I told you I was. We got in this crazy conversation where he seemed to know things about me that no stranger should, like my name and the fact that Brian was on a business trip. So then I started wondering who he could be.

And Jesus Christ was the best you came up with? How did he know your name?

She shrugs happily. That’s sort of the point, isn’t it?

No, Cate. There has to be a real reason. And did you say he knew Brian was out of town?

His sobriety makes Catherine pause. What’s your problem? she asks.

You tell me.

You’re thinking he was dangerous?

Well, I think—given the world the way it is these days—that he might have been, yeah.

Catherine smiles. You don’t have to worry. Believe me, I would know. He did have me going for a bit, but then he turned out to be nice.

Okay. Jack signals the waitress, who slides off her stool with a sigh and reaches for the coffee pot. Any chance he was good-looking?

The question makes her choke on a hash brown. Putting a napkin to her mouth, she sputters, What makes you ask that?

No reason. Just wondering. I’ll bet he was handsome.

Oh for God’s sake. Yes, as a matter of fact he was. Tall and slender, with a beard and long brown hair that came to about here. She touches the base of her neck.

And his voice?

Oh, he does know her. A tenor. Smooth and clear.

Not bad. He holds out his cup for a refill. As soon as the waitress is gone Catherine hisses, You jerk! But she does it lightly, for she knows he is only exercising his baby brother’s right to tease her. My marriage to Brian is fine, thank you very much. I am not on the prowl.

I’m glad to hear it. So what did you and Jesus talk about? God? Sin? The fires of Revelation?

Actually he complained mostly about the big houses. Catherine chews thoughtfully. I don’t think he’s here for the Second Coming. I think he’s just checking up on us. You know—visiting people here and there.

What kind of people?

Ones who need him. Ones who have faith in him. I think it’s rather nice, don’t you?

Jack doesn’t answer. He stretches an arm across the back of his bench, letting his fingers dangle off the edge. Well, I’m sorry it’s not the Second Coming. I’ve got a bunch of papers I’m dreading to grade.

He also mentioned Lindsey.

What do you mean?

Lindsey. He was quite sweet about it.

Jack’s smile fades. You told him about Lindsey?

No. He already knew. Don’t ask me how. She laughs a little nervously.

Cate, he couldn’t have known about Lindsey. You must have said something.

I didn’t, I swear. We pulled up at the—

"No," he says, sharp enough to startle her. This doesn’t sound good at all. I don’t think this was a random pick up. I think you were targeted.

Stop it! she says, and feels her heart thump. He was a nice man, and he needed a ride to the city. That’s all.

Yet he knew about Brian’s trip, and who you were, and—

And so what? Damn it, you weren’t even in the car. I can tell when a person is dangerous. I had the same father you did. And grew up in the same goddamn city!

"But you’re also telling me he knew about Lindsey. And not because you told him—he just knew."

That’s right!

And that’s okay with you. It’s okay because maybe he was Jesus Christ checking up on us, and he needed a ride to Bryn Mawr. You know what I think?

What?

I think you believe this. I think you actually believe you had Jesus Christ in your car. Somewhere deep where it counts, you do.

She frowns at her plate.

Sis, don’t get mad at me.

Silence.

Cate?

Fine. She looks up at him. "Maybe I do. Maybe I just want to. But why not, Jack? Why not?"

Oh, Cate.

No, don’t you see? He was being kind to me. He brought up Lindsey to give me something special.

Much gentler he says, I know.

He does understand; they aren’t brother and sister for nothing. But he also looks middle-aged, which she had not noticed before, with jowls reshaping his mouth, and his reddish-blond hair thinning enough to reveal a frontal swath of pink scalp. He studies her in a way that begins to jangle her nerves, a nervous probing of his eyes that may or may not be her imagination. He reaches for her hand. I’m sorry. I spoiled something good, didn’t I?

It doesn’t matter.

Yes it does. You came in here all jazzed and excited, and I’m acting like a jerk. Listen, if you say you saw Jesus Christ this morning, and if you think he told you about Lindsey, then I’m in no position to say you’re wrong.

Don’t humor me, she says sternly. Don’t.

I’m not trying to. You know I’m ignorant about Jesus. I gave up the church—shoot, I don’t even remember. Back in my teens, I guess.

You broke Mom’s heart.

I did, it’s true. I couldn’t figure how not to. Are you done? Let me get the check and we can go.

I’ll get the check, Catherine says.

No, he grins. I sold two pieces. This check is mine.

The people in the booths around them shift suddenly and glance up at the TV over the bar. Curious, Jack and Catherine look too. The female anchor seems unusually alert, and the words BREAKING NEWS flash in block letters at the bottom of the screen.

What can this be? Catherine asks.

The restaurant manager walks around the bar and uses the remote to raise the volume.  … appears the plane was a commuter flight out of Boston’s Logan Airport. Authorities and emergency teams are heading to the site now.

Sounds like an accident, Jack says.

A man at the table next to them clears his throat. I think a plane crashed into the World Trade Center.

In New York?

Yeah. It just happened, he adds importantly. He is wan and bearded, and looks like he spends most of his days lounging in the Cape.

How sad, says Catherine. I’m sure a lot of people got hurt.

Everyone watches, but there is nothing to see. The news woman begins to repeat the story, and the soft clink of forks on china resumes throughout the restaurant.

Catherine looks at Jack. How can a plane crash into a building?

You got me. And on such a clear day too.

˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

Though curious about the plane crash, Catherine drives out of Bryn Mawr with the radio off so her brother can talk. Jack currently has five important sculptures showing at a prestigious gallery in SoHo, and with several columnists including one from The New Yorker giving his work serious praise he is experiencing a hard-won professional high. She wants to enjoy his happiness, but a small apprehension picks at her. That worried look he gave her in the restaurant has clarified itself; she knows what it is. It’s the look everyone gave her ten years ago when life took a horrible turn and they thought she was lost to them and they’d never see the real Catherine again and what a shame it was. To her doctors she called it the Stare of Pity, and to have Jack resurrect it over breakfast at the Cape this morning is a real stunner. She drives west on Goshen Road, retracing the same route she took coming in, and as the road swerves downhill toward Crum Creek and the red covered bridge tucked in its cluster of trees she pumps the accelerator. She doesn’t want Jack to see it.

Her brother says, Mind if I turn on the news?

No. Go ahead.

He taps the radio button and babble bursts from the speakers. It startles both of them. They listen to garbled shouts and sirens and a lot of voices, including one that seems miked but isn’t coherent.

This isn’t still that plane, is it? Catherine asks.

Oh, it can’t be. I don’t know what this is.

For half a minute the radio broadcasts nothing but noise and incoherence. Finally a voice declares,  … second plane has now struck the South Tower of the World Trade Center! This for those of you who are just tuning in. Sheryl Pendrecki is on the scene. Sheryl, what do you see?

"Peter, we are—wait! Peter, there’s debris falling everywhere! Falling glass—we had to duck to get under cover ourselves! People are screaming in our ears! The sight is incredible! Both towers are in flames! Can you hear? Can you hear me?"

Sheryl, we hear you. What—

"God, Peter, we saw it happen! Peter, we saw it happen!"

Catherine has never heard such naked emotion from a reporter. She looks in wonder at Jack who mutters, "Two planes?" and grimaces, trying to get a handle on it.

The plane swooped around the lower tip of Manhattan, then came streaking in! the reporter jabbers. There’s large parts of the buildings, windows, concrete, all hitting the ground! This is insane, Peter! I—what? We can’t seem to see—

It’s terrorists, Catherine whispers.

It must be.

Dear God in Heaven.

The radio sounds like a riot, all whistles and screams. A sudden curve in the road looks impossible to navigate, and Catherine steers the big car onto the grass and parks beside a wooden pasture fence. The reporter’s shrill voice fills the van.

 … my God! Peter, two passenger planes have definitely flown into the towers of the World Trade Center! Traffic is at a standstill! Police are cordoning off the area! We hear that Mayor Giuliani is heading to Wall Street—

Cate, move the car!

She sits in limbo. Sky, grass. She sees a fence.

Cate, come on! We can’t stay here!

What? Oh! She shudders and hits the gas. God, Jack, I’m sorry.

It’s okay. Let’s just get you home. Jack rests a hand on her shoulder. It’ll be all right. We’ll put on the TV and find out everything that’s happening.

Catherine drives too fast over the twists in the road. She turns onto Sugartown, a rustic back road with a forty-mile speed limit. She takes it at sixty, and the Caravan leaps with each roll, banging the chassis and rocking the floor. Jack yelps, his hands flailing. Entering Weedon, she turns left on King Road, then hard right down the steep slope of Abigail Lane. She coasts into the driveway with a screech of wheels. Not waiting for Jack, she jumps out and runs up the porch, jiggles the key in the lock. In the living room she grabs the remote and clicks on the large TV.

There they are, smoking like a pair of Olympic torches over the