Chapter

 66

A voice shouted above the windy ride. A voice strangely familiar. “Randy, I didn’t fly your ass...sorry...didn’t fly the Reverend Father  Randall Stevens half-way around the world to fall off my bike.  Get a grip.  Around my belly.

Now hold on and don’t pass out on me. We’re just about there.”

“Sorry,” the voice beneath the eyes shouted back. “Not used to drinking anything stronger than a sip from the chalice. I feel a bit strange.”

“Not nearly as strange as me, brother.”

Father Randall Stevens turned from the yellow lines and gave a long look at the image in the bike’s mirror...the image looking back at him...the brother he hadn’t seen for twelve years...the brother whose face was gaunt, emaciated, diseased but still his brother... his twin brother, Charlie Stevens.

Sometime later, Randall’s eyes weren’t fighting the sting of the wind. He was sitting on the sand and his eyes were fighting a different kind of pain as he watched the needle pierce his brother’s skin and lose its contents into the pin cushion riddled arm. “Don’t look so alarmed, Randy We’ll get to this later.”

Randall looked away. Even the voice of his brother was ravaged as if time, liquor, the drugs...all had taken their toll. The clear voice he remembered singing with him in the church choir was gone.

He pushed the memory out of his mind. The cove Charlie had brought him to was quiet and private… even peaceful. They had illegally entered through the gate whose sign warned of no trespassing after dark. That hadn’t bothered Charlie. He talked as if it wasn’t his first visit.

Of course, Randall was not surprised. They had grown up together. Randall, the cautious, law-abiding respectful twin; Charlie, the one always breaking the rules, always ignoring authority. He hadn’t changed much in that respect.

As on their arrival, Charlie had immediately started working on a bottle of wine and crystal glasses from the saddle bags, he was continuing a more serious form of pain relief. 

Randall asked.  “Charlie...can’t we just talk? Why the wine? The drugs? You really should see a doctor.”

“Yeah...I know.” Charlie filled the syringe again and placed it on another rock next to the fire to warm. He staggered to his feet. His white silk shirt, open to the waist, was soiled with the wine of the ‘61 Latour he picked up from the sand. “Why so much wine?” He finally answered. “Because you’ve never been very sociable with me, Randy.  Drink up for Chri… for God’s sake give yourself a break.  God loves you, my brother.”

He topped up his Wedgewood glass from the saddle bag, gestured to Randall’s glass, sitting in the sand. “No thanks, Charlie.”

He topped it anyway. “You always were a wuss even before they made you wear this funeral suit. Choir robes were more you. Much more.”

Charlie gazed into the eyes of the man who still wanted answers. “And the drugs? See a doctor?” Charlie sipped his wine. “You don’t want to know that yet.”

He pushed the wine bottle and his glass into the sand and wandered down toward the edge of the beach and the driftwood. “When we were growin’ up,” he shouted back over his shoulder.

Randy strained to hear.  “Charlie...I’m losing you.”

“When we were growin’ up in Cleveland and onto the island,” yelled Charlie as he gathered the wood. He coughed several times, clearing his throat, spewing the flehm into the sand, then continued. “You always got the attention ‘cause you played out that shy, bashful shit. Always ‘Yes, sir. No, sir.’ Mostly ‘no sir,’ never taking anything offered you even when you earned it. You were always makin’ me look like the bad guy ‘cause I took what I deserved.”  He dropped the drift wood next to the fire.  “Well, you’ve been a good boy. You’ve been taking care of business...of people. You earned a trip on a Lear from that creepy island of yours, and you took it, and that makes us a little more like each other, Randy. That’s how things are supposed to be, you know? Don’t you think?”

Father Stevens stared at the man moving back to the shore for more wood and wondered how it had all come to this. The parents that had brought them into this world had met untimely deaths in an auto accident, so they had come this far alone in the past few years. They were just a family of two now.

Momentarily forgetting himself in the nostalgia, Randy’s next sip became several swallows.

Charlie trudged back to the fire with more driftwood. “So? How does it feel?”

Randy placed his glass in the sand.  “I’ve had enough.”

“No. How does it feel to be like me?”

“Charlie, I... look, it’s good to see you. We had a great talk this afternoon at the airport. You told me all your deals. I told you all about my jungle. So, where are we? I still don’t understand why you finally found me after all this time...flew me thousands of miles in your jet. And we end up on a beach? Because we grew up on a beach?”

“You don’t have a clue, do you?” said Charlie. “Why don’t you at least loosen the white band around your neck? Give it a rest. Just be my brother for a while.”

“I am your brother, Charlie. I’m also a man who left a lot of people back there on the island who depend on me. Dropping everything like you asked wasn’t easy. Charlie...I’m just trying to understand why. Why so sudden?”

“Because you owe me.”

“Owe you?”

“Way back, Randy, goody two-shoes got to move to the mainland. Got the private school. Got the honors... “

“Hold it. Hold it right there, Charlie. You didn’t want to go. You had the same chance. You wanted to stay with Mom.”

“Same chance, my ass. Scholarships are for guys with grades. You had the grades and Dad had the connections.” Charlie coughed again, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and wiping his mouth.

“So? The connections were for both of us,”said Randy. “He was ready to pay for your tuition. C’mon. He divorced Mom, not us. He was sick over you staying behind. Didn’t you sense that at graduation?”

“Yeah. Your graduation. He said something about wishin’ I’d been standin’ up there gettin’ my special blessings in French like you. Then you gave the valedictory. He loved that. Priests, nuns and his smart son standing together with the Eiffel Tower in the distance. You sent him to heaven that day.”

“Charlie...amassing millions isn’t usually accomplished by a dumb person.” Charlie paused a short moment.

“Ah...but Father Stevens... “

“I’m your brother, Randall, Randy Remember?”

“Okay...but Randy...” He coughed once more into his handkerchief, a pattern having now set in. “You haven’t asked how I learned the art of getting rich? You finished growing up going to school in Paris and—how did you put it?—'Playing football and feeding the poor’ in the summer.”

“You really ought to see a doctor about that cough.”

“I know...I finished growing up cutting classes on our little island of Aruba, hustling the tourists and learning numbers. I’m good at numbers, Randy.”

“Okay. You’ve always been good at numbers. Mom and Dad were always confused how you could be so good with numbers and screw up in school. But you still haven’t answered why the urgent call... having me rush to an airport to jet thousands of miles to have a long chat at the airport and then…sit on a beach and watch you killing yourself with whatever it is in that needle.”

Charlie poured the last glass from the bottle. “Sure goes fast when you’re having fun. I’ll be just a minute.”

He coughed again and staggered a few feet toward the pier side of the cove and turned back. “Randy...come on down. I’ll show you one of my ‘numbers’.”  He motioned several times before Randall finally stood up, paused a moment, obviously feeling the wine,  loosened the white band and dickey and joined him.

Moored at the docking area was a boat so low to the water that Randall was unaware of its existence until they were standing over it at the end of the pier.

“Like it?” said Charlie with a hint of pride Randall hadn’t heard all night. “Game in Monte Carlo. Italian film producer. We were up to ten thousand a hand. He kept bumpin’ and I kept raisin’. He didn’t know how good I was with numbers, and I didn’t know how much he really paid for it. But it was in one of the Bond movies. That’s all I cared about and I thought...okay. What am I gonna do with more cash anyway?”

“Does it fly through the water or above?” joked Randy, welcoming the chance to lighten the night up.

“It mostly stays in the bow of ‘Spades’.”

“Spades?” asked Randy.

Charlie pointed out toward the fog. “The yacht that keeps me water bound a lot of the time.”

“You’ve got a boat out there to carry this in?”

“Yeah. And a crew of ten to take me any place I want to play with it.” He reached into the ‘Bond’ boat-compartment and retrieved another bottle of ‘61 Latour. “Got its own wine cellar to take from, too. You know wine?”

Randall smiled sheepishly.

“I know,” said Charlie, “Only from the Chalice. Well, when you can find it, this is a Bordeaux that cries to be taken into the body at about sixty-eight degrees. Here, remember the label if you ever want to treat yourself in the jungle.”

“Uh huh. Sure to be available at the local supply store,” grinned Randall.

“It smiles. My God....” Charlie crossed himself and they made their way back up to the fire feeling more relaxed and content for the moment, knowing as brothers, they were liable to fight the next minute, as not.

It wasn’t the next minute, but not far beyond that the friction returned, even if it wasn’t the kind either was expecting.

They had opened the bottle and Charlie had talked Randall into another glass, even though they both knew Randall’s tolerance level was narrow at best and probably non-existent by this point in time. Randall sensed that Charlie knew the reason for the “mystery” flight was about to be challenged again. Neither, however, was ready for the interruption that stalled the inevitable yet again...and again...and again.

That’s how the rumble and vibrations of a California earthquake made its sudden and frightening three-stage appearance.

As the last shake and roll finished, it split the peak of the hill and sent its half-ton message rolling down to settle but inches away from their scramble to safety.

Perhaps it was the tremor that had given way to the calm night again, or the drugs—the type and quantity of which was still unknown to Randall—or maybe it was the mellowing effect wine could have on people, that made it happen. But whatever the reason, Randall was not prepared for the change that had suddenly taken place with Charlie. They both stared at the jagged edges of the boulder just a few feet away.

“See,” Charlie nervously muttered, trying to handle their near-death experience, “You can lose it all if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.

For a man like Charlie, the boulder’s position was luck. For Randall—knowing his brother equated everything in life by a keen understanding of the odds—the frightening experience resurrected a familiar sadness he had prayed about for years since leaving his identical flesh and blood behind so long ago.

“You wanted to know about me using drugs...about seein’ a doctor, well...”  He staggered back to the fire that was still burning and retrieved his syringe lying in the sand.

Randall’s memories continued, for being separated since they were seventeen, he had learned in a painful way that a twin is never far away and like it or not, he knew sharing in the other’s life was, and is, inescapable, regardless of distance.

Charlie once again tried to stifle his cough. “You’re here because I’ve seen doctors and doctors and then some more doctors.”

He primed the fluid and lifted his arm.

Before Randall could summon the courage to act on his impulse to rise and stop the next dose, it was too late. Charlie had learned how to be fast.

“Charlie...oh, Charlie.” Again, he turned away.

“When the cough got really bad, I willingly became a ‘ratboy,’ a human laboratory rat, perfect for testing the strength of various drugs. They tried them all. Stuff that hadn’t even been tested with Mexican animals. Stuff I begged them to try, paid them to try, built them a bigger and better lab to make them try. This one finally worked.” He removed the needle and slumped in the sand. “Least that’s what they told me.” He looked up at the boulder that tumbled down to the beach.  “Damn that was a big one, hey, old buddy?  So, anyway, was it Confucius or one of those other Asian guys that said, ‘what you believe is?’”

Even the fifteen feet separating them couldn’t hide the welling up of Randall’s eyes. “Hey, lil’ brother,” smiled Charlie. “And I am a half inch taller than you...It’s not all that bad now, ‘cept when it shows up on my handkerchief. The tissue inside is so saturated with this so-called “miracle” stuff, it doesn’t even know it’s cancerous, and I don’t even know it’s around. Doctors say I’m in remission, but wouldn’t you say they were strokin’ me?  They’re makin’ a fortune keeping me on this stuff.”

Randall’s face suddenly looked old and drawn like that of his brother’s. “Charlie...why didn’t you say something?”

“I am. Now you know.  No big deal.  Least it’s an honest way to spend my money and have fun doin’ it. I might be paving the way for a cure. That’s helpin’ people, isn’t it?” The weak laughter was the last thing Randall needed to hear. He grabbed his brother and held him close.

“I wanted to find you earlier, Randy, but...”

“You should have, damn your...bless your soul.”

“I had it all, Randy. Millions, a party life, even a woman who loved me for the asshole I was and still am, but... “

“But nothing. You were always a good asshole. She must have known it.”

“Yeah...Lauren Sobel wasn’t no angel either, but we got on well. I’m not proud to admit it broke up the family.  Yeah, I was married. Liz had the headache for nine years with me. Kid, dog, house...the whole program. Toward the end, I built a house in Hong Kong, then ended up living in one of Lauren’s executive offices there.  You wouldn’t believe the bathroom in that suite.  But… don’t want to get into that yet.” He pulled away, rose and tried to gather his composure. “Lauren and I came here a lot last year. Sort of our spot.”

“Where is she now?”

“Far away I hope. It’s no good anymore, look...” He turned back and sat down, pulling his knees up under his chin. “I brought you here...”

Another sudden shake of the ground gave them both pause. “After shocks. I brought you here because I think I’m fading fast. Look at me. They say I’m beating it, but you don’t need a medical license to tell which of the identical twins needs to leave the table and cash in. I need to confess some things. Things I wouldn’t feel right telling just any priest. If someday, I just fell on my face and paramedics—and God knows what other idiots might be rushing around makin’ it hard for me to remember the zillions of fuck ups I needed to absolve myself of, well...” he wiped his cheeks and reached over to refasten Randall’s collar. “...just let me get started before this Mexican wonder drug wears off...or Mother Earth gets antsy again.”

As the brother from the jungle remained fixed on the embers of the dying fire, his eyes tried desperately to hold back the flood gates his heart asked him to open, all while Charlie ineptly fumbled with fastening back Randy’s collar.

That’s how the middle of the night started.

Father Randall sat beside the fire on that November night while his dying brother in life fussed to straighten the garments he’d only an hour before desecrated with mocking remarks. This was the kind of pain no priest was ever taught or prepared to deal with.

“You’ve told me all about your jungle, now it’s my turn,” said Charlie as he brushed the sand from Randall’s coat sleeve, threw another piece of wood on the fire, and began. “I’m the one who took the money from your fishing tackle box.”

“You have been away from the church awhile, haven’t you Charlie?”

“Mescaline and Peyote had me take the virginity from Ursula before she became our housekeeper in ninety-five.”

“This is the beginning of a long night,” said Randall. “In the name of the Father and the Son, Amen.”

“Please forgive me Father, for I have sinned… big time.  Make the mis-steps of those jungle guys kids play.”

It was several hours later when the unusually humid night, hanging heavy around him, made Randall remove his coat and dickey again. He could be all brother now. The telling of wrongs was over. He felt strange as all the background of his brother of the past 12 years was revealed.  Never had he felt so much as one.  What was happening.  He was… feeling like his brother.  But, as he shook his head, he was a priest, not his brother.  Never had Randall known so much about his twin. Never had he felt so close, so much a part of the man that only a few short hours before had greeted him at the airport, looking faded, worn and distant.

Randall didn’t know how much the wine and sheer exhaustion had to do with it, but he wasn’t handling the intensity he felt very well. Suddenly, being this attached to his brother and knowing his twin was dying, disturbed his sense of trust in God, in himself.

He didn’t like this feeling. He was a servant of God. He was a man of faith.

He was at this moment, however, a man who didn’t understand why God was taking Charlie away now. Even though he knew he was trained to pray for and counsel others in the blessings of death, he, himself, wouldn’t accept the reality Charlie was so convinced would happen any moment.

Charlie wasn’t anything like he had been hours before either. The man now proclaiming that upon his death, all his money would be Randall’s to do with as he saw fit.  That did nothing to help the situation. It only antagonized Randall’s inner turmoil. All the power of will he thought he had learned from God, could not control the anger he was feeling emerge...emerge toward his brother who was taking himself away, removing his life from Randall’s. It was as if the flesh were being torn from his body. And amidst all this raging confusion, Charlie compounded everything by sounding too coherent now, almost too lucid and clear to be losing his grip on life.

Crazy thoughts started racing through Randall’s mind. Was this all a lie? Was this some kind of crazy effect of the drugs Charlie was taking? Was he just a plain ordinary junkie having fits of delusion?

Then his eyes caught sight of the bloody handkerchief lying in the sand and the pain of reality within the denial and confusion returned. It was so… bloody.

Charlie stood behind the fire, stoking the still live coals to flame. “I’m not gone yet, Randy. My choices are narrow, but I’ve still got a couple. I can go back out to the boat and sail off to some remote place and wait out my last worthless days before dying, or I can climb on the toy over there and hope I can maybe do something worthwhile before I die. Rather remote, though.”

Randall lashed out. “I don’t want to lose my brother. Don’t you understand? You have no right to talk this way about endings.”

“Hey, Randall. ‘No right?’ It’s my choice. It’s my option. I’m the only one that makes that decision.”

Randall picked up the handkerchief. “No! This is my blood too. We’re made the same way. We walk with the same blood, same skin, same everything.”

“But, choice,” Charlie interrupted. “Everything but choice. You chose to be a priest. I chose to play cards. You chose to drink milk, I liked beer… and, oh, that Latour…so good. You love life; I’ve got my stay of execution in the needle. That’s just the way it is.”

The two waited a long while. Charlie walked toward the bike. “Remember when we used to putt around the island on that old Honda? We used to push it as much as ride it. This machine will take you anywhere. Those saddlebags can carry all you need for a very long trip.  And I know you’ll treat it wisely.  So…think I should try and change myself, Randy?”

Randall was walking toward the beach. “Like you said.  Choice, Charlie.   Oh, boy, this night is making me crazy.”

Charlie stayed by the bike a few moments longer, staring at the fire’s reflection on the gas tank. “What would I do with myself anyway?” he mumbled. He reached over and took a book from the saddlebags. He paused just long enough to take in the embossed “Diary” across the cover, then opening it, read the only two words from the front page to himself, “Charles Randall.” He looked up at the rock. “Lucky for me...or him?”

He turned back toward the fire. Beyond, at the water’s edge, the dim silhouette of Randall walked dejectedly along the beach.

Charlie dropped the diary in the sand as he started walking toward the pier. “Better you, than me.”

By the time Charlie reached the pier, Randall could no longer be seen anywhere along the murky shore,

Climbing aboard the ‘Bond’ craft, Charlie turned over the powerful engine. A flip of a switch and the bank of lights recessed in the bow rotated upward and threw their beams into the fog. For another few moments, he watched the swirls of gray curl like veils of silk around the beams of yellow and white light.

“Randy!” he shouted into the air, raking his throat again into a coughing spasm. No answer.

He opened another bottle of Bordeaux and corking, then lifting the bottle to his lips, he said,  “To you Randall. Thank you.” He sipped and let the liquid settle in his mouth… then swallowed. “Bit musky.  He gulped the rest of the bottle as he sent the boat speeding into the fog.”

At that moment, Randall was climbing his way along the rock-strewn trail to the top of the adjacent hill, some quarter mile away. Above him through the patchy fog, he could see the broken outline of the limestone boulder whose other half lay below in the sand.

As he made his way to the top, he thought he heard the sound of an engine down below. He paused and listened. Nothing...only the sound of the breeze cooling his sweating body. He knelt at the rock, clasping his hands in his lap and dropping his chin to his chest. “Dear Father in Heaven...I humbly pray you’ll not forsake me for my weakness this night. I do but want your grace and love to be part of both of us. Bless him, dear lord, that he may... “

Suddenly, the stillness was broken by the eerie resonance of Charlie’s voice through a bullhorn...a strained and weakened voice echoing like a wax figure left too long near a flame. “I know you’re feeling alone, right now Randy, but time will be on your side...you’ll see.”

Randall leaped to his feet, his mind spinning like the swirls of fog moving in and around his body. He turned in all directions, trying to focus on where the voice was coming from...where the sound...yes...now he heard it again. Under the voice...the sound of an engine...

He started running down the trail, stumbling and falling as he shouted... “Charlie! Charlie!”

Charlie’s voice seemed closer now. Randall could even see glimpses of a light beam piercing the thicker fog below. It was to the left. He jumped the trail, stumbling down the embankment, “Charlie! don’t leave. Don’t go away...Charlie!

Inside the boat, Charlie continued to speak softly into the bullhorn, occasionally wiping his mouth of the blood that was beginning to saturate the towel. “...and when you have time to think calmly about this night, this coming together after all this time, you’ll know it was good. You’ll know I made the right decision.”

“Charlie!” Randy shouted, stumbling onto the sand, “You can’t just leave me with your unanswered questions... “

He was ripping off his shirt, his collar, dashing to the water’s edge, seeing the distant blur of light moving through the fog and away from the shore, when the final sounds of Charlie voice through the bullhorn  were forever swallowed into the night. “I love you my brother. Take care of things.”

Randall arched his body over a small breaker and plunged his half-naked body through the cold dark waves. His mind of a holy man, filled his heart.  “Charlie! Charlie! I won’t let you die!”

Even as the water passed through, and choking his gasping cries and the night filled his lungs with darkness that soon overcame his sense of sound, sight...and mind, Father Randall still believed Charlie would not just leave him… not disappear from his life again.

The dried kernels of sand caked around his face began to drop one by one to the ground. He opened his eyes and turned his head to the sun.

Sunrise, he thought.

On the beach.

What beach?

That was his first realization that something was missing.

He felt his face and let his hands slide down his crusted naked chest to his still wet pants. A fear of moving in such an unknown world kept his head on the sand.  His head was bursting with ache.

A fluttering sound to his right.

Turning his cheek into the sand, his eyes focused on the flapping page of a book lying a few feet away. A huge rock cast its shadow onto the page now momentarily suspended in the breeze...underscoring its only words... “Charles Randall.”

This was the name that greeted him for the first time along with a new birth he hadn’t asked for...a fugue birth that had finally run full cycle and was destined to stay behind.

The Present

Father Randall Stevens opened his eyes. His head was once again lying on the beach, and once again he turned his cheek to the sand. Now, however, instead of a diary, his eyes saw the hand of his friend, Julian, gripping his. Before chancing the reality of a spoken word, he took a long moment to appreciate the picture before him.

It had been what seemed like an eternity to journey full circle and return to the place where an endless night had started. He was grateful. He said a silent prayer for the seated man whose darkness had somehow given him the courage to return once more to his own dark past.

Even as Randall sat up, Julian’s body remained fixed toward the sun. His face was a smile of peace.

“Exhausted?” asked Randall.

“A little. Doesn’t matter where you are, though, the sun is the sun. Knows how to recharge you.”

Randall moved across the sand to his side and raised his head toward the early morning rays. Like two children having just discovered the sun makes you feel good, the two men sat together, both smiling, both preparing for another day.

“You?” asked Julian.

“You could say I’m a little tired from that... hard to think of a proper name for it.”

“Sounded like something you’ll want to remember. Possible?”

Randall gripped Julian’s hand. “Yeah. The past is back. Twenty-nine years of it. I said a lot, I bet, huh?”

Julian nodded.  “In spite of whatever caused your loss of memory, half drowning, or maybe the pain of losing your brother again, what ever caused it, you’re back now.  You seem pretty whole to me, Father Stevens.”

 “I’m not sure if all I thought I saw was real, you know?”

“You kept me interested. Quite a brother you had. You’ll miss him, I bet.”

It took a while for Randall to swallow enough times to answer. “Yeah...a lot.”

Randall was still a little shaky when he pulled up in front of the house he’d bought for Sara, Julian and Max. The modest fence kept the puppy Max had bought with his earnings from terrorizing the neighbor’s lawn.

As Julian climbed off the Harley, said his final goodbye and made his way to the front gate, Max came running out of the house.

“Randall! Randall, you promised!”

“I didn’t forget. C’mon.”

As Randall slid back on the seat, Max climbed on and tried to reach for the handlebars. “Couple of years, Max.” He turned toward Julian who was playing with the puppy. “Have him back in a few minutes, Julian.”

Julian waved. “Maybe he won’t like it.”

“Maybe I will,” answered Max. He elbowed Randall. “C’mon. Not everyday a kid gets to ride with an ‘Angel’.”

“Right,” laughed Father Stevens. “And don’t you forget it.” He revved up the engine and shot down the street, sure that he had given Julian and the whole neighborhood a scare. Max was eating it up.

His return a few minutes later was quiet, refrained and...

“Boring,” said Max. “Driving like an old lady down this street is boring. C’mon.

One more time.”

“Can’t, buddy. Got a plane to catch.”

Max slid off, ran up and grabbed his puppy and ran back. “You didn’t ask me what I named it.”

“No, I didn’t. What did you name that little mongrel?”

“C.C. For Charlie/Charles. Dad said you wouldn’t mind.”

Randall had to think a moment what the memory of Charlie/Charles meant to him. “Course not. Nice to be remembered.”

“You’re okay with that, really? I mean, I’ve got my reasons, but...”

 “I’m sure you do, Max. I’m fine. Really.”

Max held C.C. in one arm as he extended his hand. “Well, with the neighbors and all, better keep it decent.”

“Yeah. Wouldn’t want them to think their new neighbor’s as weird as the priest on the Harley, right?”

“Right.” He held Randall’s handshake. “I’ll miss you.”

“Miss you too. I’ll write. And you can visit whenever your dad says it’s okay.”

“We’ll be pretty busy with the business, but we’ll get down there.”

“And don’t forget your grades. You promised.”

“I won’t.”

Just then, the cab Max had ordered per Randall’s request, arrived.

“So when are you gonna let go of my hand?”

“Screw the neighbors.” Max threw his arms around Randall, C.C. and all.

Swallowing wasn’t working now. Randall was losing it. “Gotta go...gotta go. God bless.”

After Max helped load up Father Stevens’ luggage, Julian stepped up and the three gave each other one last moment.  Father Stevens gave one last glance at the house he hoped would always remain a blessed home for all three.  He stepped into the cab and headed for the airport.

Max stood holding C.C. hard to his chest as he too tried to suppress the tears that ultimately won the battle.

Father Randall Stevens looked out the back window of the cab watched his friends disappear from view, hoping his own tears would stay checked. 

On arriving at the airport, he felt an odd presence he couldn’t put his finger on.