Copyright © by Jim Wills 1997-2011. All rights reserved.

“I’ll tell you a big secret, mon cher. Don’t wait for the
Last Judgment. It takes place every day.”—Camus, The Fall

Chapter 1

Jesus asked me to start the Last Judgment, reverend abbot. His exact words were, “Paul, I want you to announce to the world who can enter the Kingdom of God and who is excluded.” I told him, “Only you can judge the living and the dead.” Jesus said, “Tell what you know and you become me.” I said, “I don’t want to be you.” He said, “Haven’t you always dreamed of telling the Final Story, Paul?” I said, “I will never tell the Final Story if it means starting the Last Judgment.”
    Then you know what I did? I told Maria Perez, the love of my life. That was Tuesday. Yesterday, I came this close to telling my friend, Ben Sachs, when he laughed and said there was no Last Judgment. And I wanted to tell John Clay before he made my appointment with you, reverend abbot.
    Do you think I came to your monastery because I’m strong? I came because I am weak, because I can’t trust myself to keep my mouth shut without help. I came because you and your monks follow a strict rule of silence. I can’t start the Last Judgment if I’m forbidden to speak, can I?
    Still, I almost didn’t come. When I boarded my flight in New York yesterday, I believed coming here was the only thing to do. By the time the plane landed, I had serious doubts. I turned my rental car around four times.
    Please, don’t misunderstand. Your reputation for hospitality is the finest. From the moment I arrived, the warmth of your greeting made me feel I am among friends.
    And, please, don’t think my reluctance was a reflection on your monastery. What a sanctuary. I got up with the monks before dawn to hear them sing the Gregorian Chant. It could have been the ninth century. I saw hooded monks illuminated only by candlelight as they sang, Vidimus stellam eius in Oriente. Medieval song mixed with the scent of beeswax to become a balm for my lost soul.
    I’m getting to the point. I almost didn’t come because I was afraid you would ask me to tell you what I know before admitting me to your cloister. Prove my fear unfounded. Welcome me with open arms, no questions asked.
    How can you refuse me? Didn’t Jesus say, “Knock and it shall be open unto you?” What? Everyone who seeks to join your monastery must first unburden himself?
    But I cannot confide my troubles without telling you what I know, and that defeats my purpose in coming. Can’t you drop the requirement in my case? After all, I am Paul Genet, winner of the Seminal Prize for Literature. It’s not as if I were someone off the street.
    I’m sorry, reverend abbot, I mean no disrespect. I don’t want to set myself above the others, but I am a special case. Yes, I do understand that one exception can undermine discipline, but no person should hear from the lips of another what I have to tell. Don’t you see it is in everyone’s best interests that I keep what I know to myself? Look, I’m on my knees.
    Is there nothing I can do to change your mind? I will become the humblest of the humble and scrub the latrines, clean the grease traps in the kitchen, and spread manure across the fields by hand—every day. Observe. I drop from my knees onto the cold, stone floor and lie before you in complete supplication.
    I’ve never met anyone as hard as you. At least grant me one small favor. Promise not to breathe a word of this to anyone. Why the need for secrecy if I’ve already told Maria Perez? Because, reverend abbot, after you learn what I know, you will be the only one besides me who can start the Last Judgment. Maria’s dead.

Chapter 2

This nightmare began the day I met Maria. It’s hard to believe that was only three weeks ago. I stood near the Arch in New York’s Washington Square with Michael Chen who was visiting my wife, Sara, and me. We were waiting for Ben Sachs to join us for lunch.
    The park was unusually crowded for early February due to a warm front out the Gulf of Mexico. The mild weather drew the full menagerie from hibernation—tourists, street people, business types, and students from City University where Ben was a professor of philosophy.
    Michael and I watched as John Clay, known in Greenwich Village as Preacher John, exhorted his pickup congregation.
    “In the beginning, every creature lived in the Kingdom of God and enjoyed paradise—the vision of all things as one. Then one creature, Adam, broke the symmetry and created a competing world by viewing things separately. At that moment, time began and consciousness appeared. God said, ‘I will send my son to privilege forever the vision of all things as one.’”
    A woman, whom I recognized as a professor of literature at the university, scoffed, “All points of view are constructs. Not even God can privilege a point of view.”
    Preacher John said, “Privileging a point of view is what it means to be God. When he returns to judge the living and the dead, Jesus will privilege the view of all things as one.”
    A man heckled John, “The Second Coming? Ha! Don’t hold your breath, folks.”
    Preacher John said, “Separate identities will become a living hell for those who do not answer Jesus’ call.”
    I turned to Michael, “Don’t you recognize the preacher? That’s John Clay.”
    “The former civil rights leader who became Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare? You’re putting me on, Paul.”
    “How many street preachers have you seen dressed as if they were on their way to a meeting with the President?”
    Michael said something, but I didn’t hear it because that’s when I saw Maria Perez for the first time. As I looked past Preacher John to the opposite side of his flock, there she was, an absolute vision.
    I nudged Michael. “What I wouldn’t give to meet that woman with the long, black hair.”
    Michael shook his head. “You haven’t changed since high school.”
    But I was captivated by the woman and didn’t take my eyes off her until I was distracted by my four-year-old daughter’s red coat as she ran toward us. “Daddy! Daddy! Come to the fountain.”
    My thirteen-year-old stepson, Rob, was right behind her. “You little twerp, come back here.”
Karen tugged on my coat sleeve. “Daddy, come hear the singers.”
    The woman looked at her watch. Was she about to leave? “Karen, I told Uncle Ben I’d meet him here at the Arch.”
    Rob corrected me. “He’s not our uncle.”
    “Come on, Daddy!” Karen insisted and pulled harder on my sleeve.
    The woman started to walk away. “Michael will go to the fountain with you, Karen.”
    “No, Daddy, you come with me.” Karen pulled me slightly off-balance with a hard yank on my sleeve. The woman moved into the crowd. I tried to see which direction she was headed.
    Michael said, “Go ahead, Paul. I’ll watch for Ben.”
    I stared into the crowd hoping to catch another glimpse of her, but she was gone.

The fountain in Washington Square became a theater-in-the-round for street performers when the city drained it for winter. Its tiered rim provided seats for the spectators. In spite of the crowd, Karen and Rob found seats on the top tier and I stood behind them.
    Two street singers were center stage introducing their next song when a drunk, who looked as if he’d slept in a cocktail blender, began to
taunt them.
    One of the singers stopped and told the drunk to get lost, or words to that effect. The drunk responded by baptizing the singer with cheap wine. Our young troubadour was not impressed by the sacrifice. He unslung his guitar and climbed out of the fountain to do battle.
    At this point, one of New York’s finest stepped in. He raised one hand to hold back the singer while he spoke to the drunk in a reassuring tone.
    I heard a woman’s voice. “Along with the music, a little street psychology. All for our entertainment, of course.”
The remark came from off my right shoulder. It was the kind of thing my wife might have said, and I turned thinking Sara had come up behind me. Instead, I was delighted to see the woman from Preacher John’s congregation.
    “Mind if I squeeze in?”
    I moved to provide room, but it was a tight fit. We were shoulder to shoulder.
    She said, “You seemed fascinated by the street preacher.”
    She had noticed me at the Arch. I was so enchanted that I had to think for a moment. “I was interested in that business about two worlds…”
    “Two worlds?”
    “Two competing points of view—God’s kingdom, where all is viewed as one, and Adam’s kingdom where everything is seen separately.”
    “What’s interesting about that?”
    “Those two worlds exhaust the possibilities. We have no choice but to view the world as one or as many. What intrigued me was this. Suppose those two worlds were not only opposite but also were equal…”
    She was way ahead of me. “You mean, if they were balanced like the two sides of the yin-yang symbol? Or the two triangles of the hexagram?”
    “Exactly. What would it mean if God’s kingdom and Adam’s kingdom were balanced?”
    She parried, “You tell me.”
    “They would cancel out like two sides of an algebraic equation…”
    She finished my thought, “…They would represent everything and nothing at the same time.”
    I have on occasion been able to resist a beautiful women but never one who was as smart as she was.
    She asked, “Are you on the university philosophy faculty?”
    “Not a chance. There’s no original work left to do in philosophy.”
    “Perhaps I saw you on TV. Are you that artist whose exhibit is about to open in SoHo?”
    “All today’s artist can do is imitate what others have done as well as can be done.”
    “I know where I’ve seen you. You’re that famous writer whose picture was on the cover of Sunday’s literary supplement.”
    “Writers are lucky. There is one story and it has never been told.”
    She looked into my eyes, smiled, and said, “What story hasn’t been told?”
    “The story from which all other stories derive—the Final Story.”
    “Wouldn’t that be the First Story?”
    “First Story, Final Story, Only Story—take your pick. I prefer Final Story because it would end the conceit that there is more than one valid story.”
    The woman started to respond when three teen land skaters whizzed by us. One of them bumped me hard and knocked me into the woman causing her to fall. As I helped her up, I shouted at the fleeing skaters to come back. It was a mistake. They came back.
    The skater who bumped me said, “What’s your problem, dude?”
    I asked the woman, “Are you okay?”
    She brushed her coat. “I think so.”
    I said to the skater, “Go on, beat it.”
    He shoved me. “You got something to say, let’s hear it, dude”
    I pushed him back. “Apologize to the lady.”
    The skater slugged my shoulder. “You apologize to her. You knocked her down, dude.”
    Rob, who heard the commotion, got up from his seat on the rim of the fountain, and before I could stop him, punched the skater in the stomach.
    The skater lifted Rob and threw him to the ground.
    “Hey!” I said as I lunged at the skater. We scuffled, but before either of us could hurt the other, the cop who separated the singer and the drunk
pulled us apart.”
    The officer held the skater by the arm. “I saw the whole thing, lady. I’ll run this kid in if you want to press charges.”
    “No, I’m okay.”
    The cop warned the three teens and they streaked away.
    I turned to her. “I owe you an apology. I am Paul Genet, the writer featured in the literary supplement.”
    “I’m the one who should apologize. I knew who you were, Paul. I’m Maria Perez.”
    “Maria Perez? Ben’s friend at the university?”
    At that moment, Michael and Ben Sachs approached us. “Well, looks like you finally met Maria, pal.”
    “Yeah, no thanks to you, Ben.”
    “I know better than to introduce you to a beautiful woman.”
    Michael added, “Amen.”
    Ben introduced Maria to Michael. “Maria Perez is president of an import-export business, and teaches part-time at the university. Maria, Michael Chen is Paul’s friend. They attended Catholic prep school in San Francisco. Michael is a Jesuit and directs an ecumenical conference center in New Orleans. The two of you should have a lot in common.”
    Maria shook Michael’s hand. “That’s Ben’s way of saying you and I are both Catholic, Father Chen.”
    “Please, call me Michael.”
    I turned to Maria. “I wish I’d known who you were before I sounded off.”
    Maria smiled. “I tried to get you to introduce yourself, Paul.”
    “What did he say, Maria?” Ben asked.
    “He was just putting me on.”
    Michael said, “Paul would like to put the whole world on,”
    Ben persisted. “Maria, what did he say?”
    “Nothing.”
    “Maria!”
    She sighed. “He said he wanted to tell Final Story.”
    Ben rolled his eyes. “You’ll need more than that old pipe dream to keep your career going after Helen Johnson’s attack in the literary supplement yesterday, pal.”
    Michael asked, “What attack?”
    I said, “Ben’s new book, Power Fiction, was published Friday, and one critic used it as an opportunity to take a cheap shot at my novel.”
    Ben said, “You Are God is yesterday's news, pal. Time to tell a new Power Fiction.”
    I ignored Ben’s barb. “Maria, can you join us for lunch?”
    “I have a class to teach in a few minutes.”
    “I hope you’re coming with Ben to see me get the Medal of Freedom at the White House tomorrow.”
    “I’ll be in Puerto Rico on business.”
    “Then you have to come to our discussion group on Monday night. I’m going to read from my latest novel.”
    “Maybe.”
    Ben said, “Maybe means no, Paul.”
    Before Maria could respond, Sara arrived with Martha, the friend she was visiting in Greenwich Village. When Karen saw her mother, she shouted, “Mommy! Daddy and Rob got in a fight.”
    Sara raised her eyebrows. “You’ve never been in a fight in your life.”
    “It was nothing. I’ll tell you later.”
    Ben said, “Maria, this is Sara Genet, Paul’s spouse.” He emphasized spouse.
    Sara extended her hand, “So you’re Maria Perez, the mystery woman Ben’s been hiding from us.”
    Maria smiled. “Sorry to rush off, but I have a class to teach and I’m late.”
    Sara said, “We’ll have to get together.”
    I watched Maria walk toward the university. Sara noticed and gave me a look.
    Ben said, “Maria and I are going to the Mardi Gras this year, Sara. You and Paul should join us.”
    Sara shook her head.
    Michael said, “That reminds me, Paul, I’ve been meaning to ask you to attend an ecumenical conference I’m sponsoring in New Orleans the weekend before Mardi Gras.”
    Sara said, “Paul can go if you pick up the tab, Michael.”
    I put my arms around Michael and Ben and announced, “We're off to lunch.”
    Rob said, “Let me come with you guys.”
    “You have to go back to school,” Sara said.
    “I have to have lunch before I go back. Please, Dad.”
    “Ben and I have to talk business, Rob. It’s adult stuff. You’d be bored.”
    “No, I wouldn’t. Anyway, I am an adult in the Jewish religion, aren’t I, Ben?”
    “How old are you, Rob?”
    “Thirteen.”
    “Let the young man have lunch with us, Paul.”
    “Okay, Rob, but then you’re going back to school.”
   Rob put his hand up for a high five.
    Karen said, “I wanna come, too, Daddy.”
    Sara said, “Young lady, you’re going to have lunch with Aunt Martha and me, and then we’re going shopping.”
    Rob corrected his mother. “She’s not our aunt.”
    Ben said, “See you at the White House tomorrow, Sara.”
“I hope I can make it. The Pentagon called this morning. They rescheduled the book contract negotiation for tomorrow morning.”
    I said, “What does that mean?”
    “We may not finish in time.”
    “Your husband is receiving the Medal of Freedom from the President of the United States and it’s not important enough for you to be there?
    “Put off the negotiation.”
    “I can’t. We’re down to the wire on this contract.”
    “This is a family thing, Sara. You can recess your meeting for a couple of hours.”
    “You know I can’t break off in the middle of a negotiation.” Sara turned to leave with Karen and Martha in tow.
    Ben slapped me on the back. “Let’s eat, pal. First shot of rye is on me. Bottoms up. Like we used to. Michael, too.”
    I said, “Michael doesn’t drink, but if you make mine a double, you’re on.”
    “Dad, can I…”
    “Absolutely not.”

Chapter 3

At 1:55 sharp the next afternoon, Karen, Rob, and I were ushered into the Oval Office at the White House for a few minutes of private conversation with the President before the ceremony.
    The President said, “I thought we’d take advantage of the warm weather and hold the ceremony in the Rose Garden, Mr. Genet. Will Ms. Genet be joining us?”
    “She’s at the Pentagon negotiating a book contract, Mr. President, but I expect her any minute.”
    The President talked to the kids while we waited. At two o’clock, an aide appeared at the door to the Oval Office. The President nodded acknowledgment and said to me, “We should get started.”
    “Just a few more minutes, sir. I know my wife will be here any second.”
    “Sure,” he said graciously.
    Karen was curious about everything—what the buttons on the telephone were for, who the people were in the pictures on the credenza behind the President’s desk…”
    At 2:05, the aide reappeared at the door and pointed to his watch. The President said, “Mr. Genet, we really must get started. Ms. Genet will be brought directly to the Rose Garden the moment she arrives.”
    Rob said, “Please, Mr. President, I know my mother will be here.”
    “Okay, young man. We can wait a few more minutes.”
    At 2:10, the aide was at the door for the third time. This time he spoke. “Sir, you have a full schedule this afternoon.”
    The President said, “Mr. Genet, I’m sorry but we can’t delay any longer.”
    Rob started to say something, but I interrupted. “I understand, Mr. President. You’ve been very patient. Let’s get started.”
    The TV lights blinded us as we stepped to the podium in the Rose Garden. I peered into the visitor’s section to catch a glimpse of Ben Sachs, but the glare from the lights made it impossible to see him.
    I heard only the clicking of the photographer’s cameras as the aide directed me to stand to the President’s left. Rob stood next to me and I held Karen in my arms.
    The President spoke into the microphone. “We are a diverse nation—intellectually, spiritually, and culturally—and it is in the spirit of this diversity that we award the Medal of Freedom to one whose faith differs from our own. Paul Genet’s idea that we create the universe through the stories we tell is certainly a minority view. Yet, one of the things that makes America a great nation is the rich diversity of views which are guaranteed free expression under the Constitution.”
    Karen squirmed in my arms. “Daddy, I want Mommy.”
    “Mother’s running late, sweetheart.”
    The President continued. “We also honor Paul Genet for his spirit of innovative thought which is a hallmark of a free economy. We must encourage this spirit in the nation’s cultural, economic, and scientific endeavors if we are to remain competitive in the twenty-first century and beyond.”
    “Daddy, I want Mommy.” Karen spoke loud enough this time for the microphone to record her complaint.
The President placed the Medal of Freedom ribbon around my neck. When I started to put Karen down so I could acknowledge the award, she protested.
    “No, Daddy, you hold me.”
    “Karen, Daddy has to speak.”
    Rob said, “C’mon, Karen. Stand with me.”
    “No! I don’t want to. Don’t put me down, Daddy.”
    I continued to hold Karen as I spoke into the microphone. “Mr. President, our strength as a nation resides in our diversity and in leaders like yourself who have the courage to recognize that great ideas always begin as minority viewpoints…”
    “Mr. Genet! Mr. Genet!” A reporter stood to be recognized.
    The President’s aide placed his hand over the microphone. He whispered to the President who nodded and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, the press will have an opportunity to interview Mr. Genet later.”
    The reporter said, “Mr. President, this ceremony is Paul Genet’s moment. Please allow him to respond while we have live national coverage.”
    The President looked at his watch. “Okay, one or two questions, but be brief.”
    The reporter identified himself as Bert Jones of the Louisville Post. “In his new book, Ben Sachs says you will tell the next great Power Fiction.
    However, in her review of Sach’s book, Helen Johnson points out that, at forty-five, you’ve only written one book—and that was five years ago.
    “Does she fairly criticize you as a washed-up, flash-in-the-pan?”
    The President winced.
    “Tomorrow I meet with my publisher to sign a contract for my second novel.”
    “Will it top You Are God?”
    “You know I can’t answer that. My publisher would have my head if I jumped the gun on publicity.” The retort brought a laugh from the press and a slight smile of relief from the President.
    “Ms. Johnson goes on to say that you received the Seminal Prize for Literature because the committee was overreacting to criticism that it only awarded the prize to established authors long past their prime instead of rewarding the best literary work of the year. Do you agree?”
    “That’s an issue you’ll have to take up with the Seminal Prize committee.”
    Another reporter stood and introduced himself as Tony Bell of the San Diego Dispatch. “Johnson’s article says your idea that humans are God undermines our entire Judeo-Christian heritage…”
    The President winced again.
    “It’s fiction. Lighten up.”
    “But, sir, you’re on record as saying everything is fiction.
    The President leaned forward to the mike. “Mr. Genet will be available later…”
    “Mr. President, you’ve allowed two white males to ask questions. I request equal time, sir.”
    The President sighed, “One final question.”
    “Mr. Genet, I’m Rita Morales of the Miami Courier. Is there any connection between your spouse’s failure to be here today, and the fact she’s been seen having intimate dinners with Derek Somers?”
    “Sara Genet is a literary agent. Mr. Somers produces movies. They met when she was trying to sell the screenplay for my novel.”
    “Rumors are that she and Somers are having an affair.”
    “Where do you get off asking a question like that? My personal life is none of your business.” Karen was really getting heavy.
    “Well, Mr. Genet, if marital problems are the cause of your lack of literary productivity, the public has a right to know.”
    “I told you my wife is negotiating with Somers over movie rights for You Are God. I also told you I have a new novel ready for publication. Aren’t you listening?”
    “The tabloids say you and your spouse are divorcing. Is that accurate, sir?”
    “Absolutely not! Why are you pursuing this line of questioning? I’m holding my four-year-old daughter in my arms.” I was shaking. My arms ached so that I feared I would drop Karen.
    The President came to my rescue. “That’s all for today, ladies and gentlemen.”
A reporter shouted, “Mr. President, regarding the controversy surrounding Mr. Genet that surfaced over the weekend, is it true that your staff was unaware of it until this morning, too late to cancel the ceremony this afternoon?”
    The President smiled and waved as he turned away but I saw his jaw clench when his back was to the cameras.
    Karen finally consented to let me put her down as the President guided us back inside the Oval Office.
    “Now you know what it means to be thrown to the lions,” he said.

“Daddy! Look, Daddy! Uncle Ben’s on TV.” Karen pointed to the monitor suspended from the ceiling in the airport VIP lounge as Ben, the kids, and I waited for our departure to New York.
    A newscaster appeared on the screen with a film clip of Ben in the background. “Ben Sachs—famous for his deconstruction of Hegel’s idea that opposites can be synthesized—was in Washington today to speak to a National Press Corps luncheon about his new book, Power Fiction, which has everyone in an uproar.
    “Why the controversy? Sachs says linear reality is ending. It will be replaced by a non-linear post-reality where all events occur simultaneously. In other words, instead of one event causing the next, each event will be seen to cause all other events instantly. Sachs says the world won’t change, but our way of looking at it will. Sachs claims we began our shift to the post-reality viewpoint when non-local quantum physics marginalized the local cause-and-effect world of classical physics.
    “Sound farfetched? Not to Sachs who says we enter post-reality whenever we experience déjà vu. Normally, we think of déjà vu as the strange feeling an event has happened before. What actually occurs during déjà vu, according to Sachs, is that we enter a paradigm where every event is always happening.
    “What’s delaying a complete paradigm shift into post-reality? Sachs says we’re waiting for someone to explain how all time and space can be one. Whoever presents a compelling solution to this riddle will tell the next Power Fiction and launch us into post-reality.
    “Does Sachs have someone in mind?” The TV screen cut to a film clip of Ben at the National Press Corps luncheon. “I know of only one person whose creative imagination is capable of generating the next Power Fiction—Paul Genet, author of You Are God.”
    A reporter asked Ben, “Have you changed your mind about Genet’s ability after Helen Johnson’s criticism of his work?”
    “Not at all. Paul has the most original mind of anyone writing today. He will recover fully.”
    The newscaster continued. “Meanwhile, Genet, winner of the world’s most prestigious literary award—the Seminal Prize for Literature—was across town at the White House to receive the Medal of Freedom. Instead of giving us a preview of the next Power Fiction, Genet embarrassed himself, and the President, when he lashed out at a reporter who asked him if the rumors were true that he and his spouse were divorcing.
    A film clip of my press conference appeared on the screen.
Karen said, “Daddy! I’m on TV. See, you’re holding me.”
    “Since You Are God was published, Genet has been under constant attack from religious leaders threatened by his “We Are God” philosophy. However, until today, he had a reputation for being cool under fire…”
    I said, “Can’t someone turn that thing off?”
    No one did, and the newscaster droned on. “In a related story, political opposition leaders renewed their attacks on the President’s judgment for awarding the Medal of Freedom to Genet…”
    The public address system interrupted the TV report. “Flight sixty-seven for New York City now boarding at Gate 10.”
    I said, “That’s us. Let’s go home.”

Sara was at home by the time the kids and I arrived. I was furious with her for not showing up at the White House.
    “I want an apology,” I said.
    She ignored me.
    “Mommy, I saw the President this close. No, this close.” Karen’s little hands started about two feet apart and closed to six inches.
    “I know, sweetheart.”
    “And I was on TV, too, Mommy.”
    “Yes, I saw you on TV.”
    “And Daddy got in a fight again. The lady on TV said so.”
    “Sara glared at me. “How could you lose your temper on national TV?”
    I said, “How could you humiliate me in front of the whole world by not being there?”
    “We’ll talk when the children are asleep.”
    I checked the answering service while Rob and Karen got ready for bed. There was a message from Maria saying she enjoyed meeting me, and she was sorry she couldn’t be with me in Washington. There were several messages for Sara, and a message from my lecture agent, Len Gardner, “Paul, your contract’s up. Stop by my office tomorrow.”
    When the kids were in bed, I began again. “I want an apology.”
    “You’re the one who should apologize. Your display of temper today will hurt your contract negotiations with Barton Roberts.”
    “Are you going to apologize?”
    “How much advance are you going to ask?”
    “Why? Didn’t you sign the Pentagon contract?”
    “No. How much are you going to ask?”
    “I don’t know. I’ll let him make an offer.”
    Sara threw up her hands. “You have to take the initiative, Paul. Ask $2 million.”
    “This new novel isn’t worth it.”
    “Paul, this isn’t about what it’s worth. It’s about what you can get.”
    “I can’t believe you didn’t sign the Pentagon deal.”
    “Pay attention, Paul. Roberts will lowball if you let him take the initiative, and you’ll have to react to his figure. You must force him on the defensive.”
    “I’m no good at these games.”
    “Then let me handle it. It’s what I do.”
    “Is it what you did at the Pentagon today?”
    “You can be such a child, Paul. Let me get somebody else if you don’t want me to handle the negotiation.”
    “Barton Roberts was able to start his publishing house on the strength of my book. He owes me.”
    “Don’t be naïve, Paul. This is business. You can’t just waltz into your meeting with Roberts tomorrow without a plan.”
    “Okay, okay. I’ll ask $2 million and it’ll be the first thing out of my mouth. Satisfied?”
    “No, you need to knock Roberts off stride first.”
Sara saw the novel, White Exit, on the coffee table. “This is perfect. Arrive early and be reading Victoria Aren’s best seller which Roberts would never have signed without your help. He will notice the book and have to acknowledge his debt to you, or at least acknowledge it to himself. That will give you an emotional edge. Then you ask for the advance.”

Chapter 4

Barton Roberts reserved his usual table at the tony Afgan Coffee House in midtown. I arrived early and was reading Victoria Aren’s novel when himself breezed in.I continued to read as he slipped into his chair, placed his folded Financial Journal by his coffee cup, dropped the napkin in his lap, and glanced around the room to see who was power lunching whom.
    When he finished this ritual, Roberts said, “You can’t seem to get your nose out of that book, Paul. Whatever it is, it must be good.”
    I held White Exit so Roberts could see the title. He shifted in his chair.
    I said, “I understand the book has done $3 million.”
    “Well, that’s an exaggeration.” Roberts signaled our waiter.
    “Is it true you’ve nominated Victoria for the Pynchon Award?”
    Roberts motioned the waiter to hurry. “Where did you hear that?”
    “Sara.”
    “Humm.”
    The waiter appeared and asked Roberts, “Drinks, sir?”
    “Not for me.”
    I shook my head
    Roberts said, “We’re ready to order.”
    “May I present the specials, sir?”
    Roberts stopped him with a wave of his hand and we ordered from the menu. After the waiter left, there was an uncomfortable pause as Roberts studied his newspaper without picking it up.
    I seized the initiative. “I’ll need an advance of $2 million.”
    Roberts continued to study his newspaper. “Barton Books can’t publish your novel, Paul.”
    Sara was right. This was going to be hardball. Roberts’ tactic was brilliant and caught me completely off guard. My comeback was feeble.
    “Naturally, I don’t need the entire amount up front. We can spread it.”
    He looked up from the newspaper and studied my tie. “Paul, you’re not listening. Barton Books can’t publish your novel.”
    There was an embarrassing silence and then he said, “I’m sorry.”
    “Make me an offer…”
    Roberts had a puzzled expression as if he couldn’t understand why I was continuing to press the issue.
    I said, “I know the manuscript needs work…”
    He studied the place settings.
    “Bart, I won the world’s most prestigious literary prize. My name on a dust jacket is worth half a million dollars.”
    “Your new novel is amateurish. I’m surprised you submitted it.”
    “I’ll make whatever changes you ask. I need money.” I was starting to sweat.
    “Want my advice? Start over. If you need money, I can make you a personal loan.”
    “How much?”
    “Five thousand.”
    I was too stunned to respond.
    “It’s the best I can do right now,” he said.
    I brandished White Exit and raised my voice. “You started Barton Books with my novel, and you wouldn’t have signed Victoria if it wasn’t for me.” That tone is not used in the Afgan Coffee House where the volume never rises above a conspiratorial buzz.
    “Don’t create a scene, Paul.” Roberts glanced around the room and smiled an apology to the diners who were starting to look our way.
    Ignoring him, I spoke even louder. “I can walk out of here and have a publisher within the hour.”
    He looked at me directly for the first time since we started talking. “Do that and you can kiss what’s left of your career goodbye.”
    I stood. “We’ll see about that.”
    “Sit down and have your lunch.”
    “You have lunch. On me.” I threw two twenties on the table.
    The glares of publishing’s nobility followed me to the door.

I walked east from the restaurant. At Fifth Avenue, I turned south. By the time I reached the New York public library, I had calmed down, but I wasn’t ready to face Sara. I needed to talk to someone—no, I needed to talk to Maria. I looked at my watch. Maria would be at the university.
    The warm weather continued to bring out the crowds and Preacher John was at his usual place by the Arch when I got out of the taxi at Washington Square. He told his small gathering as I walked past, “Enter the Kingdom of God when Jesus calls you to, ‘Come, follow me.’ Do not hesitate. There is no second chance.
    Maria was leaving the School of Business when I arrived. “Let’s get a drink.”
    She continued walking. “Not now, Paul.”
    I started to follow. “A cup of coffee?”
    She hailed a taxi. “I’m late for a meeting.”
    “I need to talk to you.”
    “Let’s have lunch. Call me.”
    I still needed to talk to someone. Fortunately, Ben was in his office grading papers. When he saw me, he motioned me to come in and take a seat. “How’d it go?”
    I turned my thumb down.
    He marked a grade on the paper. “I’m finished here. Let’s get a cup of coffee.”
    “I need something stronger than coffee.”

Preacher John was winding down as Ben and I passed the Arch. “We must give up our identity to enter the Kingdom of God where all is one. And remember, the person who hesitates is lost. There is no second chance.”
    I told Ben, “I need to speak with Preacher John.”
    “You know him?”
    “We talk all the time. Mostly about his years in the civil rights movement. John was an attorney, not a minister like King or Williams.”
    When John finished, I introduced him to Ben who immediately challenged him. “If entering the Kingdom of God means losing your personal identity, who would want a first chance, much less a second?”
    “Jesus will answer your question when he returns to judge the living and the dead, Mr. Sachs.”
    “I for one don’t want to give up myself to your Jesus.”
    “The path you follow is broad, Mr. Sachs, and many travel it with you.”
    “Where do you get this crazy stuff?”
    “I witness to what I am taught from within, Mr. Sachs.”
    I interrupted. “John, I want to talk to you about this two worlds idea of yours. Let’s have lunch on Monday.”
    John nodded toward the Arch. “You know where to find me, Paul. And, now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, a new flock awaits.”
    As we walked away, Ben said, “What nonsense. That guy was a cabinet secretary. Why does someone with his ability and connections become a street preacher? He should sitting on the boards of a dozen corporations in this town.”
Ben and I sat at the bar when we reached the tavern. He ordered an Irish coffee and I ordered a shot of rye, straight up.
    “I’m going to pack it in,” I said as I knocked back the shot.
    Ben looked at me with disbelief. “Quit writing? Why?”
    “Barton Roberts rejected my novel.”
    “That’s no reason to quit.”
    “He said it was junk.”
    “He must have been more specific than that.”
    “Yeah, he said I should start over.” I ordered another shot and tossed it down.
    Ben shook his head. “I told you that you should have let me read the manuscript. But don’t worry, we’ll fix it, pal.”
    “Roberts said it couldn’t be fixed.”
    “Forget Roberts.”
    “Roberts is right, Ben. I’m finished.”
    “Nonsense. You can’t let Roberts’ rejection or what happened at the White House get you down.”
    “I’m not.”
    “What then?”
    “I’ve never told the Final Story.”
    “You wasted fifteen years chasing that mirage before you wised up and took my advice.”
    “I compromised my dream.”
    “You Are God made you rich and famous. That’s a compromise anyone but you would die for.”
    “That novel was junk.”
    Ben said, “That’s the booze talking.”
    “It’s my lost integrity talking.”
    “How can you be so bitter? Your success is the envy of every story teller alive including me.”
    “If I hadn’t taken your advice, I might have succeeded in telling the Final Story. Now, it’s probably too late.”
    “This Final Story nonsense is your form of writer’s block, pal. You’re avoiding the next Power Fiction because it’s going to be tough explaining how all events can happen at once.”
    “That’s the easy part,” I said.
    “Really? How come nobody’s ever done it?”
    “It was Preacher John’s idea of two worlds that started me thinking, what if they are equal as well as opposite?”
I took the napkin from beneath my drink and drew a hexagram—two opposing triangles, one atop the other so that they shared the same center. “The two triangles are opposite and equal. What does that suggest to you?”
    “Don’t play games with me, pal.”
    “It’s balance, Ben.”
    Ben’s eyes narrowed as he studied the drawing, then his face brightened. “It’s so simple. There’s only one possible outcome if everything is balanced.”
    “Time is eliminated. All events are simultaneous.”
    Ben smiled. “Balance is an idea that could launch us into non-local post-reality. You may have discovered the next Power Fiction, pal. All you have to do to save your career is tell the story of balance.”
    “No, there’s something missing.”
    Ben said, “Balance is a complete idea. There’s nothing missing.”
    “The story of balance isn’t enough. We have to experience balance.”
    Ben said, “We do. It’s called déjà vu.”
    “Déjà vu may be universal but each person’s experience of it is particular. What I need is an experience of balance where the content is exactly the same for everyone.”
    Ben ordered another Irish coffee. “The only universal experience would have to be of the center. There is no center. Therefore, a universal experience is impossible.”
    “Ben, if we can’t come up with a universal experience that privileges balance, we cannot cross over to post-reality.”
    “Sure we can. It just won’t be permanent.”
    “Then I’m not interested.”
    “Be realistic. Tell the story of balance and launch us into post-reality. While it lasts, you’ll be on top. Take what you can get.”
    “I am not going down that road again. This time, it’s the Final Story or it’s nothing.”
    “You’re no kid on the make anymore, pal. You’re fighting to save your career and you’re running out of time.”
    Ben and I continued to talk around each other until I could no longer avoid going home to face Sara.

Taking a page out of Sara’s book, I went on the offensive as soon as I walked in the door. “I feel like I’ve been reborn.”
    Sara eyed me skeptically. “You got the $2 million advance from Roberts?”
    “Better than that. Much better. I’m going to tell the Final Story.”
    “You’ve been drinking with Ben, haven’t you? He’s always telling you that you can walk on water. What happened with Roberts?”
    “Roberts rejected the manuscript.”
    “He did what?”
    “He said it was junk, but don’t worry. After I tell the Final Story we will never again have money troubles.”
    Sara exploded. “You blew it. I knew you couldn’t handle the negotiation. I knew it.”
    “He is right. I’m scrapping the book.”
    “I’ll tell what you’re going to do. You’re going back out there and sell that book.”
    “Ben doesn’t think anyone can tell the Final Story. I’ll show him.”
    “You’re drunk.
    “Drunk with a renewed sense of purpose. For the first time in five years, I can’t wait to sit down at my computer to write.”
    “You can’t afford to indulge your fantasies. We have to pay the mortgage.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Don’t you get it? We’re in real financial trouble.”
    “What happened to the $1 million award for the Seminal Prize?”
    “It’s gone. I’ve been trying to get you to look at the books for the last six months. But, no, you couldn’t be bothered.”
    “Where did the money go, Sara?”
    “Well, let’s see. The house on Cape Cod. Your sail boat. Our vacation trip to Africa. Trust funds for Rob and Karen’s college education. Redecorating this condominium. Parties. The mortgage on this prime piece of Central Park real estate. Tuition for the kids’ private schools, day care, domestic help…”
    “It can’t be that bad.”
    “Really? You want to see the withdrawal slips on your ATM card for the last month? You spend out-of-pocket money like we owned the oil fields of Arabia.”
    “We’ve got the royalties from my novel and my lecture fees. Your business is doing well, isn’t it?”
    “You have no idea what’s going on. For your information, The royalties for You Are God have dropped 75 percent in the last year. And your lecture fees barely pay for groceries. So you go back and see Roberts tomorrow. Swallow your pride and make the changes he asks you to make.”
    “He wants me to start over.”
    “Then take it to another publisher. I can name you half a dozen houses who would jump at the chance to publish Paul Genet.”
    “I’m not going to run around New York like a door-to-door peddler.”
    “Then I’ll do it.”
    “I’ll get a loan to tide us over.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody who looks at our financial statement is going to give us a loan. You have to go out tomorrow and sell that book. You don’t have any choice.”
    “The only story I’m going to sell is the Final Story.”
    “You can sleep on the sofa tonight and use your precious Seminal Prize for a pillow. Tomorrow I’m going to see my attorney.”
    I walked out and found the closest pay phone. “Maria, it’s Paul.”
    “Paul…I’m surprised. Are you okay?”
    “Everything’s coming apart. I need to see you.”
    “Let’s have lunch tomorrow.”
    “I need to see you now.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “My publisher rejected the new novel.”
    “Can’t you take it somewhere else?”
    “It’s no good.”
    “Then rewrite it.”
    “I need to see you.”
    “Maybe it’s not as bad as you think, Paul. Get some other opinions. Promise me you’ll do that.”
    “Look, I…”
    “We’ll talk tomorrow, Paul. Stop by the office about noon—and get some rest.”
    When I came home, there was a blanket on the sofa and a note: “While you’re out tomorrow selling your book, find another lecture agent. Len Gardner called today to say he’s not renewing your contract. And Michael called to remind you he wants you to attend his ecumenical conference in New Orleans—he’d better pay your expenses.”

Chapter 5

My first stop the next morning was with my lecture agent, Len Gardner. He was unlocking his office when I arrived. “Can’t see you now, Paul.”
    I followed Len into his office. “Your message said to stop by.”
    “Yesterday, Paul. You were supposed to come by yesterday.”
    “What’s this business about my contract being up? We have a standing contract.”
    “Your bookings have fallen 50 percent in the last year. And that’s down 50 percent from the year before. Face it. There’s no demand for your act anymore.”
    “I’m in a bind. I’ll take whatever work I can get.”
    “I hate this as much as you, but I run a business.” Len sank into the executive chair behind his desk.
    “You built your business on my name. Show a little gratitude.” I paced back and forth.
    Len shuffled the mail on his desk.
    I raised my voice. “Two days ago, I received the Medal of Freedom. Are you telling me you can’t promote that?”
    “Yeah, then you lost your temper on national TV.”
    “I need a favor.”
    “After your outburst at the White House, I’ve been getting calls from these outfits that promote controversy.”
    “How much does it pay?”
    Len hesitated. “Not enough, good buddy. These promoters put you in a public arena—TV, college campus—against some fake journalist, and the two of you go at each other like pit bulls. I told ‘em to shove it.”
    I slumped into the chair in front of his desk.
    Write another best seller. Then we’ll talk.” Len came around his desk and opened the door for me.
    My luck wasn’t any better with the publishers I saw. My name got me in the door, but from that point, the interviews were like the first one with Patricia O’Malley, editorial director at Windbrook Press.
    I said, “This is your lucky day, Pat. I’ve got the manuscript you’ve wanted for years.”
    “Is it the one Bart Roberts turned down yesterday?”
    “Poor timing. He can’t take on another project now.”
    “I could waste your time, take the manuscript, and pretend to look at it, but I have too much respect for you to do that, Paul. The word from Roberts is that your new novel is sub par. I doubt any of the New York houses will sign you without a major rewrite.”
    “Look, Pat, I know this manuscript isn’t going to win me another Seminal Prize, but my name on the dust jacket is a gold mine.”
    “You’re a victim of your own success, Paul. The people who would buy a Paul Genet novel expect the best and nothing less. That’s why the main houses won’t touch it. I’d love to see anything else you’ve got in the works.”
    Pat gazed out her window at the skyscrapers in Rockefeller Center. I stood awkwardly holding my manuscript until I realized she had dismissed me.
    I didn’t have another project and I needed cash. Now. I did get one offer: a standard contract, no jumps for performance, and I had to throw in the paperback rights. I was humiliated, but I would have pounced on the offer if it had included a decent advance.

It was almost noon. I remembered my luncheon date with Maria, but I needed to clear my head first. I walked east on Forty-ninth Street. At Fifth Avenue, I was so lost in my thoughts that I stepped into the street against the light. A cab squealed around the corner and brushed against me.
    The driver blew his horn and snarled, “You ain’t long for this world, Mac.”
    When I reached the east side of Fifth Avenue, I retreated into Saint Matthew’s Catholic Church.
    As I entered the church, I caught a whiff of incense that took me back thirty years to the scene I used to play out in my mind when I served Mass at prep school. I would picture Jesus descending to the altar at the consecration of the host. I flushed with embarrassment at this reminder of my youthful naïveté.
    A funeral mass was in progress. The priest was giving the homily from the pulpit. I took a seat on the end of a pew midway down the center aisle.
    The priest said, “In Matthew 12:30 and Luke 11:23, Jesus says, ‘The person who does not gather with me scatters.’ Who, then, can enter the Kingdom of God? Only those who gather with Jesus.
    “How does one gather? Through the narrow gate for ‘Wide is the gate that leads to destruction, and many find it. Narrow is the gate that leads to life, and only a few enter through it,’ Matthew 7:13. What gate? In John 10:9, Jesus says, ‘I am the gate.’
    “When are we called to enter through the narrow gate? We do not know the day or the hour when Jesus will issue his invitation to, ‘Come, follow me.’”
    Something was wrong. I saw the priest’s lips form the words, but the sound seemed to come from the back of the church. Stranger still, it was Preacher John’s voice I heard say, “Come, follow me.”
    I turned to look behind me. I had a clear view down the aisle to the vestibule but John wasn’t there. No one around me seemed to hear the voice I was certain I heard.
    “Come, follow me,” the priest repeated, and again I heard Preacher John call me. His voice urged me softly, insistently, to join him. Instinctively, I understood that all I had to do to enter the Kingdom of God was to meet John at the back of the church.
    “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord,” the priest said, again quoting Scripture.
    Was John calling me in the name of the Lord? That’s nuts, I thought. Besides, no one around me seemed to hear a thing.
    The priest continued to quote Scripture. “If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and follow me. For whoever wants to save his life shall lose it and whoever loses his life for my sake shall find it,’ Matthew 16:24.”
I placed the manuscript for my novel on the pew and laid my wallet and keys on top. I would have no further need of these things.
    “Come, follow me,” the priest repeated, and again it was John’s voice that I heard calling to me from the vestibule.
Every muscle in my body wanted to respond. I put my hands on the back of the pew in front of me and began to pull myself up. But somewhere between sitting and standing I froze. I wanted to give up all right to myself but I couldn’t give up being me. I was sweating from the tension.
    Then I noticed an elderly woman in my pew staring at me. I became self-conscious and relaxed my grip. I put my wallet and keys back in my pocket and tightly clutched the manuscript to my chest. I strained to hear the voice once more.
Suddenly, Preacher John’s double warning—the person who hesitates is lost; there is no second chance—jolted me as if I had been knocked down by that taxi on Fifth Avenue.
    My throat tightened and I couldn’t swallow. Panic seized me and I fought to breathe. A searing sense that I was lost overwhelmed me. I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. I told myself repeatedly that nothing had happened. Jesus did not invite me to follow him. I had a bad moment, that’s all. And why not? Except for the Medal of Freedom, wasn’t this the worst week of my life?
    It didn’t work. Something weird had happened. The only way to get some peace of mind was to talk to John, and clarify this second chance business. He could not have meant, literally, there was no second chance.
I stood. I thought my knees would buckle, but I managed to walk. A gust of icy air cut through me as I left the church. The cold weather had reappeared as quickly as it had vanished on Monday, and snow flurries began dropping from an ashen sky.

John was at his usual place near the Arch. He was talking to a couple who lingered after his last preaching. He waved when he saw me.
    “You’re getting to be a regular here in Washington Square, Paul.”
    “Were you at Saint Matthew’s about twenty minutes ago?”
    “I’ve been here all morning. What’s the matter? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
    “Why do you say there no second chance?”
    “In Matthew 24: 42-44, Jesus says we do not know the day or the hour that he will invite us to become one with him. We know only that he will come when we least expect him. Why would he warn us to be alert if there was a second chance?”
    “John, the other day you told Ben you were taught from within. That’s what I’m interested in. Tell me about that.”
    “I’ve never discussed that with anyone. It’s too personal, Paul.”
    “Does it have anything to do with Jesus calling everyone?”
    “Yes, of course. But I won’t discuss my personal experience.”
    “You’ve admitted you didn’t answer the call.”
    “Yes, to my regret.”
    “Did your failure to answer the call start a process of self-judgment? Is that how you were taught from within?”
    “That’s all I’m going to say, Paul. Why is this so important to you all of a sudden?”
    I wanted to tell John what happened, but I couldn’t. For one thing, he was right. It was too personal. For another, it was crazy. Instead, I told him, “I’m working on this theory for my new book. I have this idea that everything is one through a balancing of two opposing forces. Of course, that would lock everything in. All events would always be occurring. Everything would be set. There would be no freedom.”
    “And you think this is why there’s no second chance?”
    “Yeah. I wanted to see if there is some connection between your idea of no second chance and my idea of balance. I was hoping you would tell me how you were taught from within.”
    “The convenient thing about Scripture is that everything is there so that we don’t have to talk about our personal experiences. I hope the quote from Matthew 24 helps.”
    “No, I need you to share with me how you were taught from within.”
    John pulled his coat around him. “I have to get back to my preaching while there are still a few souls out, but if this weather keeps up, and my congregations continue to diminish, we can have lunch on Monday.”
    Until that moment, I had not thought of my luncheon date with Maria since before I went into St. Matthew’s. I took a taxi to Maria’s import-export office at the World Trade Center to apologize. Her assistant said she was out for the rest of the day.
    The flurries began to collect on the sidewalk. I shivered and turned up my coat collar against the sharp wind that blew against me as I walked home.
    Along the way, I noticed a waste can by the curb. I stopped and held my manuscript in front of me, staring at it, then slammed it, two-handed,
into the trash.

Sara was in the kitchen when I got home. She had finished eating and was placing her dishes in the dishwasher.
    I said, “Isn’t it early for dinner?”
    “I didn’t have lunch.”
    “Where are the kids?”
    “They’re spending an overnight with friends.”
    “On a school night?”
    “There are leftovers in the fridge.” Sara closed the dishwasher and turned it on.
    “I’m not hungry.”
    “Did you sell the book?”
    “Something happened today that made me realize I can never make sense of this world…”
    “Paul, didn’t I get through to you at all yesterday? We’re broke.”
    “…And if I can’t make sense of this world, I can’t tell the Final Story…”
    “Good. You can do a quick rewrite of your new novel and this time I’ll handle the negotiations.”
    “…And I’m finished if I can’t tell the Final Story.”
    “Okay, you’ve had a long day. Start the rewrite in the morning.”
    “Our every attempt to make sense of this world is countered by the fact that this world doesn’t make any sense.”
    “Do you love Karen and Rob, Paul?”
    “I’m offended that you would ask me a question like that.”
    “Then meet your financial responsibilities.”
    “I’m not going to write anymore. I’m through.”
    “Have you been drinking with Ben again?”
    “Something happened when I stopped in Saint Matthew’s today. The same thing that I think happened to Saint Thomas.”
    “I don’t care about some church philosopher who’s been dead 700 years.”
    “Three months before he died, Saint Thomas stopped in the middle of saying Mass and returned to his monastery cell. When asked what was wrong, he said he had an insight that made his writings no more important than straw. He never picked up a pen again. Three months later, he was dead.”
    “You’re scaring me, Paul. I want you to see Dr. Stephens tomorrow.”
    “I don’t need a psychiatrist.”
    “Fine. Then stop looking for excuses and get to work.”
    “I can’t.”
    “Tell me what happened this afternoon so that I can understand.”
    “The same thing that may have happened to Saint Thomas.”
    “You’re not making any sense.”
    “I’ve always believed I could tell a Final Story that would make rational sense of everything. After what happened today, nothing makes sense.”
    Sara slammed her fist on the kitchen table and several dishes crashed to the floor. “Anybody else would have turned the Seminal Prize for Literature into a gold mine. But, no, not Paul Genet, the great creative genius of the twentieth century.”
    “I know about you and Derek Somers.”
    “Don’t change the subject. And don’t you dare repeat what the supermarket tabloids have been saying since your press conference at the White House.”
    “I don’t have to. Ben saw you the night you and Somers had dinner when I was out of town. He followed you and Somers to the Hotel de Lion and sat in the lobby all night until the two of you came down around ten the next morning, arm and arm.”
    “And you believed him? You’ve gone too far this time, Paul.”
    “Don’t make a fool of yourself trying to deny it, Sara.”
    “This morning, I asked Jeff Anderson to draw up a divorce agreement because I suspected you wouldn’t make a sincere effort to help us out of our financial crisis. Now you say you won’t ever write again because something happened to you in Saint Matthew's. I don’t believe you. To top it off, you—of all people—accuse me of adultery. That’s it, Paul. Tomorrow, I’ll ask Jeff to file for divorce first thing Monday morning unless you sign the agreement. And I don’t want you staying here tonight. Sleep with one of your girlfriends.”

I wanted to be with Maria and took a chance that she would be home. She was in her robe and surprised to see me.
    “I’m sorry I missed luncheon, but something happened…”
    “Paul, you should have called before coming over.”
    “I’m having the worst day of my life. I need to talk to you.”
    “Shouldn’t you be with your family?”
    “Sara threw me out.”
    “I’m sorry, Paul.”
    “Can I come in?”
    “It’s not a good time.”
    “I’m quitting. I’ve got to talk to you, Maria, please.”
    “You’re not going to write anymore?”
    “Can we talk inside?”
    “Not tonight, Paul. We’ll have lunch tomorrow.”
    “Maria, I…”
    “Come by the office about noon. Okay?” She closed the door.
    Ben wasn’t home and I couldn’t reach Michael, so I went to a hotel and lay awake all night with the lights on. I played my experience in Saint Matthew’s over and over again in my mind trying to understand what happened.

Chapter 6

When I checked my answering service Friday morning, there were messages from Sara’s attorney, Jeff Anderson; from Ben; from Michael; and from my sister, Elaine.
    Jeff asked me to meet with him in his office Friday afternoon. I set an appointment with his secretary.
    Ben’s message said Maria told him I was quitting. He wanted to see me before he went to San Francisco to interview for a position at The Westmont Center for Advanced Study. Ben had tickets to a university production, and we agreed to meet Friday evening at the campus theater.
    Michael wanted to discuss the possibility of my attending his ecumenical conference in New Orleans over a game of HOOPS. I promised I’d meet him at the gym Saturday afternoon.
    My sister, Elaine, was in town raising funds for her Center for the Study of Quantum Gravity in San Francisco. I left a message suggesting we have dinner Saturday evening.

Maria’s office was in One World Trade Center and she made our luncheon reservations in the restaurant on the top floor. She was seated when I arrived. The view was north toward the Empire State Building.
    I said, “Ben tells me he’s going to interview at The Westmont Center this weekend.”
    Maria said, “He has wanted to be a Westmont fellow for years.”
    “Ever since he began his teaching career in California. Of course, he’ll be on the West Coast if he accepts.” I observed Maria closely when I said that, but she showed no reaction, and I took this as a sign there was hope for me with her.
    After we ordered, she said, “Ben told me your father and Michael’s father founded an import-export company in Asia.”
    “Yes, my father was an officer in the French Foreign Legion. He was at Dien Bien Phu when the Vietminh defeated the French Army in 1954. Afterwards, he went to work for a trading company in Macao and later in Formosa. That’s where he met Michael’s father, an officer who served under Chiang Kai-shek before the Communists defeated the Nationalists in 1949. They formed a partnership and eventually moved the business to San Francisco.
    ”Maria said, “My father started our company in Puerto Rico and then relocated to New York.”“But you went into the business and I didn’t.”
    “My father wanted me in the business from the first, but I wanted to get my Ph.D. in philosophy.”
    “That’s when you met Ben?”
    “He was my dissertation advisor, but we didn’t start seeing each other socially until I joined the business faculty last fall.”
    “What was your dissertation?”
    “It would have been to show the influence of quantum theory on the deconstruction projects of Derrida and Gödel.”
    “You didn’t finish?”
    Maria shook her head. “After my father’s heart attack, I could no longer ignore his pleas for me to join the business.”
    “And now you’re a very successful executive,” I said as the waiter served lunch.
    “You must have had similar pressures from your father,” Maria said.
    “No, my father was military to the core—practical to a fault. He understood he and I were cut from different cloth and never tried to force his life on me.”
    “When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”
    “At Berkeley, after I lost my faith. I wanted to tell the Final Story—a story no one could deny. Ben has always laughed at me for trying.”
    “And now you’re going to give up that dream.”
    “My dream of a Final Story assumes the universe is rational if viewed from the whole. Yesterday, something irrational happened to destroy this assumption. My dream is finished.”
    “What did happen, Paul?”
    “I’m not sure. I do know it was irrational. Simply talking about it may confirm that I’m losing my mind.”
    “Aren’t you being melodramatic?”
    “You wouldn’t say that if I told you what happened.”
    “Have you told anyone?”
    I shook my head.
    “Unless you discuss it with someone, you’re never going to get past this.”
    I felt nauseous. “Can we get out of here? I need some air.”
    “You haven’t touched your sandwich.”
    “I’m not hungry.”
    Once we reached ground level, Maria and I walked across the plaza toward Two World Trade Center, and took the quarter-mile elevator ride to the top.
    The glassed-in observation deck was too confining. “Let’s take the stairs to the roof,” I suggested.
    A security guard cautioned us, “We’re not stopping anybody from going up, but it’s pretty raw today. Might be a good day to enjoy the view from here.”
    I acknowledged his warning with nod as I opened the door leading to the upper deck. At the top of the stairs, a couple coming in brushed by us. They were frozen. The man’s teeth chattered, “Y-you don’t w-want to go out there t-today.”
    The roof was empty. We immediately felt a blast of moist, frigid air blowing off the Lower Bay. Maria turned her collar up against the wind, but I hardly noticed. I had other things on my mind.
As we moved around the walkway, all of Manhattan, Long Island, the Statue of Liberty in the Lower Bay, the Hudson River, and the New Jersey waterfront spread in panoramic view below us.
    “Maria, I want to see you.”
    Maria pressed a gloved finger against my lips to stop me from going further.
    I took her hand in mine, pulled her to me, and kissed her. For a moment she kissed me back, then she pulled away.
    “You’re married.”
    “I feel closer to you than ever. I’m going to sign the divorce agreement this afternoon.”
    Again, Maria put her finger to my lips. “It’s the hurt talking, Paul. You’ve fallen so far so fast. You’ll feel differently when you gain your bearings.”
    “Tell me you don’t have feelings for me.”
    “I love Ben.”
    “You and I were together from the moment we met in Washington Square. Tell me I’m wrong, and I won’t say another word.”
    “You take risks with your writing that Ben only dreams about taking. But I won’t see you as long as you won’t tell me what happened to make you give up your dream.”
    I stared past the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge to the Atlantic Ocean and on to the horizon beyond.
    She tried again. “You have to feel you can tell me anything, Paul.”
    “I want to tell you what happened.”
    “Don’t wait too long.”
    Another freezing gust whipped against us. This time I felt it.

Jeff Anderson was on the phone when his secretary showed me into his office. “Sara is very upset with you, Paul,” he said as he put the phone down.
    “Are you guessing? Or do you know something I don’t know?”
    “Stow the sarcasm. This is serious, Paul. I tried to get her to agree to a trial separation, but she’s adamant about going ahead with the divorce. I’ve agreed to represent her so you’ll need an attorney.”
    “I’m not going to contest.”
    “I told you this is serious. You should have your own counsel read the terms. I can recommend someone.”
    I waved away his offer.
    “This really saddens me, Paul. I’ve known you and Sara for ten years. You’re like family.”
    “Let’s get this over with, Jeff.”
    “We don’t have to rush into anything. I can delay for a couple of weeks. That will give both of you a chance to cool off.”
    “It’s not going to change anything.”
    “Speaking as a friend of both you and Sara, and not as an attorney, I think your marriage can be saved.”
    “For the sake of the children, I suppose?”
    “I never advise staying together except when it’s best for both spouses.”
    “Let’s hear your theory.”
    “No theory. Fact. You have to clean up your act.”
    “Meaning?”
    “One, stop your womanizing. I’m surprised Sara has put up with it as long as she did. Who’s your latest prey—Ben Sachs’ girlfriend? Sara said this woman is half your age.”
    “Oh, and Sara’s innocent? I have an eyewitness who says she spent the night with Derek Somers at the Hotel de Lion.”
    “She denied they are having an affair.”
    I shook my head. “Okay, I stop my extra curricular activities. What else?”
    “Two, revise that novel you’re writing, and sell it. And no more talk about quitting.”
    “Anything else?”
    “Yes. You scared Sara when you told her something happening to you yesterday in Saint Matthew’s. Tell her what happened, Paul. She needs to understand.”
    “I don’t understand it myself.”
    “Okay, you have an alternative here. If you can’t talk to Sara about it, then take her suggestion and see a psychiatrist.”
    “Forget it. I’m ready to sign.”
    “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for this—what’s her name—Maria? Personally, I think you’re having a garden variety mid-life crisis, and you’re doing a terrible job trying to tough it out on your own. Let a therapist help you through this.”
    “I’m not having a mid-life crisis.”
    “Then you need to give yourself a good talking to. We can’t have everything we want in this life. Understanding that is what separates adults from children.”
    “Spare me the lecture, Jeff.”
    “Sara said your Jesuit friend is in town. Discuss what happened in Saint Matthew's with him, and we’ll put this off until Monday.”
    “No. Show me where to sign.”
    I used the phone in Jeff’s outer office to call Maria. I wanted to tell her the divorce was official, but she was in conference and her assistant wouldn’t put me through.

Ben had tickets to a university production Friday evening. I met him at the campus theater and we had coffee at the concession before the curtain.
    Ben gave me a reproachful look. “What’s this grandstanding nonsense about your quitting?”
    “It’s a done deal.”
    “C’mon, pal, Wednesday you were all fired up to write the Final Story.”
    “Something happened between then and now.”
    “Yeah? Like what?”
    I shook my head.
    “This is Ben you’re talking to, pal. I’m the guy you can say anything to.”
    I shook my head again.
    “Look, maybe I was too hard on you Wednesday. Try the Final Story again. Give yourself a couple of months. If it doesn’t work out…”
    “I’ve seen the light. There is no Final Story.”
    “That’s no reason for you to quit, pal. When one Power Fiction goes sour, you replace it with another—ad infinitum.”
    “I’ll never make sense of the world again after yesterday.”
    “Paul, I can’t help you unless you tell me what happened.”
    An usher announced curtain in five minutes. Everyone began filing into the theater. I didn’t move. I felt a tightening in my chest and numbness in my left arm followed by an excruciating pain. It was as if all the muscles on my left side cramped at once.
    “You don’t look good, Paul. What’s wrong.”
    “I feel nauseous.”
    Ben helped me as I walked unsteadily to the men’s room.
    “You’re sweating like you just ran the three-minute mile. Are you in pain?”
    “My chest…down my arm.”
    “You could be having a heart attack. Let me get a doctor.”
    “No…no…it’s tension…a muscle cramp. Let me rest against the wall for a minute.” I stared ahead without seeing, paralyzed by the pain.
    Ben took a paper cup from the dispenser, filled it with water, and offered it to me. I took it with my right hand and gulped it down.
    “I’m going to see if there’s a doctor in the house.”
    “No, Ben. Don’t. I’m feeling better. The water helped.”
    “I’ll call off the discussion for Monday evening.”
    I nodded.
    “Promise me you’ll see a doctor first thing Monday morning, Paul.”
    “No doctor can fix what’s wrong with me.”
    “Then talk to a priest. Talk to Michael. Talk to somebody, pal.”
    I crumbled the cup and threw it into the waste can. I doused my face with water from the tap. “Enjoy the play, Ben. I’m leaving.”
    “I’ll take you back to the hotel.”
    “No, stay. I’m okay now.”
    But Ben insisted. The last thing he said to me as I entered the hotel was, “You’ve got to tell somebody what happened, Paul. It’s not healthy to hold it in.”
    Ben was right. Everybody was right. I needed to talk about what happened in Saint Matthew’s. I lay awake trying to figure out how to talk about something that, if I did talk about it, would confirm I was losing my grip. Around 4:00 a.m. the obvious occurred to me. I would talk about it indirectly, and the discussion on Monday evening was the perfect forum.
    Who to invite? It was essential that Preacher John and Michael be there as well as my sister, Elaine. I also wanted to include Indira Chowdury from the university because she was conducting a seminar on the great cycle theories of history. That mix should yield a lively discussion, and might help me gain insight into what happened in Saint Matthew’s.
    Fortunately, I was able to phone Ben Saturday morning before he left for San Francisco. I told him I had fully recovered, and had a discussion topic for Monday evening, but wanted it to be a surprise. He promised to invite Indira Chowdury. Since I planned to meet Michael and Elaine later in the day, I began my recruiting effort with my most important guest, Preacher John.

Chapter 7

Saturday morning was cold but clear when I picked up Karen and Rob. Friday’s snow flurries had not accumulated, and I knew Preacher John would be at his usual place in Washington Square. I played catch with the kids between the fountain and the Arch while I waited for John.
    When he finished his noontime preaching, John walked over and I introduced him to Rob and Karen. I handed the ball to Rob. “Play nice with your sister while I talk to Mr. Clay.”
    “Half-sister,” Rob said.
    John and I took a seat on a nearby bench where I could keep an eye on the kids.
    “Paul, I thought we weren’t going to have lunch until Monday.”
    “I need to ask a favor, John. Ben and I host a discussion meeting, and I would like you to join us this month.”
    “No, thanks. I don’t do parlor discussions.”
    “This one is different, John. We will discuss my idea of how all events can occur at once.”
    “Only Jesus knows that.”
    “If he knows so can anyone. The key is balance. If everything is in harmony with everything else, past and future disappear. I got the idea from you the other day when you said there were two worlds.”
    John said, “The Kingdom of God and Adam’s kingdom are not equal. Therefore, they cannot be in balance.”
    “Differences of opinion make for a lively discussion, John. Please share your thoughts with us Monday evening.”
    “Sorry, Paul, I have no interest in an academic discussion of truths that I, and everyone else, learn from within.”
    “I’m inviting my friend, Michael Chen, who is a Jesuit, and my sister, Elaine, who is a theoretical physicist. Ben has invited the chair of the World Studies Department at the university. Think of it as your chance to preach to a group very different from your street congregation.”
    “No, I wouldn’t be comfortable. If they want me, they can join me here in Washington Square.”
    I was striking out. I tried to think of some way to get John to agree to come as I watched Rob and Karen run toward us from the fountain.
    “Ask him, Karen.” Rob said.
    “Can we go to lunch now, Daddy?”
    “In a minute, sweetie.”
    “Dad, I’m starved,” Rob said.
    “Rob, I’m talking to Mr. Clay.”
    Karen said, “Daddy, you said his name is Preacher John.”
    “People call me that,” John said.
    Karen frowned, “But Daddy just called you Mr. Clay.”
    “My real name is John Clay. Preacher John is a nickname.”
    “Yeah, Karen, like your nickname is twerp.”
    “Rob! You and Karen play ball for a few more minutes.”
    “I roll the ball to her and she still can’t catch it.”
    “My hands are cold, Daddy.”
    “Okay, then make up a story about someone you see by the fountain and tell it to me when I’m finished talking to Mr. Clay”
    “Aw, Dad!”
    “This is important to me, Rob.”
    “C’mon, Karen,” Rob said, pulling her by the sleeve.
I turned to John. “Remember the other day when we talked about no second chance? You asked me why it was so important to me all of a sudden…”
    “…And you wouldn’t tell me.”
    “I couldn’t tell you because it seemed crazy. I had been in Saint Matthew’s and thought I heard you call me from the back of the church except it wasn’t you, it was…”
    “…Jesus.”
    “I don’t know what happened but it’s driving me crazy. I need to talk about it, but I can’t. Not directly. I was hoping to use this idea of balance to bring it up indirectly at the discussion group. This is really important to me, and I need you there for moral support, John.”
    He looked at me for a long moment. “What time Monday evening?”
    “I’ll stop by your place about eight o’clock.”

I went to the fountain and sat on the top tier between Karen and Rob. “Did you make up a story about somebody?”
    Rob said, “Yeah, that guy over there, the one drinking whiskey out of the bottle hidden in a paper bag.”
    “He’s the same one who started the trouble with the singers on Monday. What’s his story?”
    “He quit his job and left his wife and kids. Now he’s homeless and gets drunk on cheap wine he buys with the change he bums off the tourists.”
    “Humm, did he have two children?”
    “Yeah, a boy and a girl. The boy was older, about my age, and the girl was little like Karen.”
    I fought to control my emotions. “That’s quite a story.”
    “He left home because he didn’t love his kids.”
    Karen said, “Do you love us, Daddy?”
    I hugged her. “Yes, sweetie, I do, very much.”
    Karen said, “Then why did you leave home?”
    Rob said, “Was it something I did? I promise to be good to Karen and never call her twerp again. I mean it this time.”
    “It isn’t you. Either of you. It’s me. I’m the problem.”
    Rob said, “Just tell Mom you’re sorry.”
    Karen said, “Then you can stay with us when you take us home.”
    “It’s not that simple.”
    “Will we ever see you again?” Karen said.
    “Yes, but not every day…” The words caught in my throat.
    “Dad, can we go to lunch now?” Rob said.
    We stood and, as we started to leave, Karen asked me to carry her. I gathered her into my arms. “You’re getting too big for this.”
    Rob said, “Dad, I want to come to the discussion this month.”
    “These are grown up discussions, Rob.”
    “You said that the other day when I wanted to go to lunch with you and Ben.”
    “This is different.”
    “You didn’t mean it about loving us, did you?”
    “Of course, I did, Rob, but these discussions are about ideas. I don’t want you to hear things you’re not ready for.”
    “Don’t treat me like a kid.”
    “Let’s see what your mother says.”
    “You’ll let her talk you out of it.”
    “No, I won’t.”
    “Then you have to be prepared. Tell her it’s important we do real stuff together, and not just go to the park to play ball.”
    After lunch, I took the kids home. Sara objected to my taking Rob out on a school night, but relented when I told her he and I needed to do real stuff, and not just go to the park to play ball.”
    I tried again to call Maria but without luck.

I was in no mood to play HOOPS, but I had to get Michael to agree to come to the discussion, so I met him at the gym about four o’clock as planned. He was on the court when I arrived. The first thing he said when he saw me was,     “Sara told me she’s filing for divorce.”
    “No lectures.”
    “Sara said something happened to make you think your work had no value. She said you mentioned Saint Thomas, and I told her of the scandal you caused at prep school when you learned how he quit writing. So tell me, now that you think you know from personal experience, what did happen to Saint Thomas?”
    “I can’t talk about it.”
    “I can’t make you talk if you’re not ready, but don’t take long. Time’s running out on your marriage.”
    “I signed the divorce agreement yesterday.”
    Michael said, “You jerk,” as I walked to the locker room to change into my sweats.
    We tossed a coin to decide honors for the first shot. Michael won. He took position at the top of the key for his shot. His went in; mine missed.
    “Are you coming to New Orleans for the conference?”
    “Why do you want me there? You’re always complaining that I have foot-in-mouth disease. Aren’t you afraid I’ll muck things up?”
    Michael faced the basket from the sideline and lofted a two-handed shot over his head. Swish. “Actually, I need someone to stir the pot.”
    I missed my shot. “I can’t afford the trip.”
    “I’ll cover your expenses.” He took another set shot—a right-handed hook. It went in.
    “I’ll come to New Orleans if you come to my discussion group on Monday night.” I missed again.
    Michael made a two-handed lay-up off the boards. “No can do. I have an important dinner meeting with the Father General on Monday.”
    I made my lay-up, but with only one hand. “How badly do you want me in New Orleans?”
    Michael stood with the ball on his hip and thought for a moment. “Okay, I can have dinner with the Father General on Tuesday night if it’s really that important to you that I be there.”
    “It is.”
    Michael’s next shot was a one-handed jumper from ten feet out. He made it, and I missed—H-O-O-P-S. I hadn’t won a single point. It was the first time Michael ever shut me out. My consolation was that I had his commitment to come to the discussion Monday night.
    I made another call to Maria. Again, no answer. Could she have gone out of town?

That evening, Elaine had her taxi stop at my hotel. “Where are we having dinner?” I asked as I got in.
    “There’s a new French restaurant I want to try.” She looked and sounded tired.
    “How goes the funding drive for your think tank on quantum gravity?”
    Elaine answered with a sigh. “Private money’s dried up since Congress pulled funding for the supercollider. I may have to close the center.”
    I said, “Might as well. There’s never going to be a coherent theory of quantum gravity. Relativity and quantum theory are mutually exclusive.”
    Elaine glared at me.
    “Don’t get mad at me, Elaine. Hegel was wrong and Ben is right—synthesis of opposites is not possible.”
    “You and Ben Sachs are full of it.”
    “You’ll be glad to hear I’ve stopped trying to discover a Final Story.”
    “That may be the first intelligent career decision you’ve ever made.”
    “In fact, I’ve quit writing.”
    “So that’s why Sara’s upset. How are you going to support your family, Paul?”
    I had no answer.
    “Sara says you signed the divorce papers yesterday.”
    “Yeah.”
    “If you get divorced, it will finish mother.”
    “She’ll outlast both of us.”
    Elaine stared vacantly out the taxi window on her side. “The cancer has spread, Paul. Mother’s dying. I want you to come back to San Francisco with me and reconcile with her before it’s too late.”
    “Now’s not a good time.”
    “If you miss this chance to make peace with her you’ll never forgive yourself.”
    This was the opening I needed. “Okay, I’ll go back, but I want you to come to our discussion meeting Monday evening.”
    “I can’t believe you’d try to bargain with me about this.”
    “Well?”
    “My flight to San Francisco is Monday evening.”
    “Change your flight.”
    “How do I know you won’t renege?”
    “Come to the discussion and we’ll go back together on Tuesday.”
    Elaine shrugged in resignation. “You’re impossible.”

Chapter 8

I tried all day Sunday to reach Maria. Monday morning I went to her office at the World Trade Center. Her assistant said she was out of town and wouldn’t be back in the office until Tuesday. However, she was at Ben’s Monday evening for the discussion.
    Everyone else was there when I arrived with Rob and Preacher John—Michael; Elaine; Ben’s guest, Indira Chowdury, chair of the World Studies Department at the university; and three of her students, Jennifer, Margaret, and Elizabeth.
    After introductions, and while everyone was getting acquainted, I had an opportunity to take Maria aside. Ben saw us talking from across the room. I knew I didn’t have much time.
    “I signed the divorce agreement on Friday. Now, we can see each other.” Ben started toward us.
    Maria said, “Paul, you still haven’t told me what happened to make you quit writing.”
    Ben interrupted. “Is Maria telling you her life story, pal? No? She hasn’t told you how she took over her father’s business after he had a heart attack?
    Maria touched Ben’s arm. “Don’t.”
    “Maria told her father, yes, but only on the condition he make her a full partner. And, she gave him one day to decide. Daddy ignored the deadline. Big mistake. He tried to manage on his own but could not, so he gave in. Except Maria raised the stakes, pal. Daddy now had to agree to retire.”
    Maria took Ben’s hand in hers. “Paul, doesn’t want to hear this.”
    Ben continued, “So, Paul, if Maria ever gives you a deadline…”
    Maria let go of Ben’s hand. “Stop now, Ben.”
    This time Ben took the hint. He looked at his watch and got the group’s attention. “Show time, folks. Paul was going to discuss his new novel this evening. I offered to call off the discussion when he decided to quit writing, but he wanted to meet anyway. So it’s pot luck tonight. Whatever we discuss will be as much a surprise to me as it is to you.”
    I let the anticipation build for a moment. What I had to do was get Preacher John involved. If I talked about the importance of point of view, I should be able to induce John to jump in with his idea that only God’s point of view was valid. From there, it was a short step to how Jesus would privilege God’s view at the Last Judgment. Once I got to that point, it should be easy to get John to talk about the call experience. I began with a concrete example of Ben’s post-reality.
    “Our meeting tonight would not be possible if, ten billion years ago, a single electron had taken a one-quarter spin to the left rather than to the right.”
    Rob challenged me. “Dad, are you saying that electron caused us to meet?”
    “More that that, Rob. Not only did that slight turn cause us to meet, but our meeting caused that electron to take the spin it did.”
    Rob wasn’t buying it. “C’mon, Dad, the present can’t cause the past.”
    Maria said, “It can, Rob, if everything is connected.”
    Elaine said, “That’s right, Rob. In physics, we call that a non-local connection. Think of it this way: the apple falls on Newton's head and causes
his head to hurt. That’s a local effect. A non-local effect would work both ways. The apple would cause Newton’s head to hurt, but Newton would cause the apple to fall.”
    Rob rapped the top of his head with his knuckles. “Ouch! If effects are non-local, you could say Newton hurt his own head. But that’s just make believe, right, Dad?”
    Elaine said, “No, Rob. We get non-local effects like that in quantum mechanics, the most successful scientific theory ever.”
    Jennifer said, “That’s one of the things we’re studying in Indira’s—I mean, Professor Chowdury’s—seminar. It’s an ancient problem. Is the world one? It would have to be one, if things were connected non-locally. Or is it many? The world would have to be many, if it is non-connected separate things.”
    Rob said, “Which is correct?”
    Indira said, “Appearances are illusion.”
    Ben said, “When we view everything at once, we see nothing. When we view things sequentially, we see only a part of the whole, but at least we see something. Both viewpoints are legitimate. Neither can be privileged.”
    Beautiful. Ben used the code word, privilege, and John jumped at the opportunity to preach. “At the Last Judgment, Jesus will privilege seeing all things as one so that viewing separate things will no longer be possible.”
    Jennifer asked John, “Are you saying time is an illusion?”
    “Time is an effect of viewing things separately. When Jesus reveals how all events happen simultaneously, the time effect will disappear.”
    Rob said, “Does that mean there is no time if we see all things as one?”
    John said, “Correct, Rob. Time will end when we change from Adam’s to God’s point of view.”
    Jennifer said, “If everything is one, and if each event causes all other events, then everything is set, and we cannot have free will.”
    At this point, Michael objected. “The whole point of the Bible, particularly the story of the Fall, is that we are free to choose. Otherwise, we would not be morally responsible for our actions, and could not be held accountable. The whole idea of the Last Judgment would be a mockery.”
    Elaine said, “How can that be just, John?”
    “Jesus will explain divine justice when he returns.”
    Michael said, “If Preacher John is right, the Bible is wrong in its most fundamental proposition, and we are nothing but puppets who dance at the end of God’s string.”
    Maria said, “John, Michael has a good point. It sounds like you’re saying that God, by allowing us to think we are free, is playing a joke on us.”
    “No, in the Garden of Eden, all creatures beheld the beatific vision, that is, all things as one. Adam’s view of things as many was the original sin. We play the joke on ourselves.”
    Maria said, “You mean we don’t count for anything?”
    “Not as individuals. We count only as part of the whole.”
    Jennifer said, “Hell for me would be the certain knowledge that I was not free to determine my own life. I can’t imagine anything worst.”
    John said, “How we view the world—as one or as many—does not change events. It is hubris, that is, Adam’s sin of pride, to think that we can change anything.”
    Michael said, “I do not accept that.” Everyone agreed with Michael.
    Rob looked at me. “Isn’t Preacher John’s idea also your idea, Dad—all things at once through balance?”
    “Yes, Rob, but something happened last week to change my mind.”
    Michael said, “Glad to hear you’re not going to pursue balance, Paul. If we don’t have free will, what’s the point?”
    Ben said, “No, I think Paul should pursue balance, but without deluding himself that any story is final.”
    Jennifer said, “Why have you given up, Paul?”
    “I thought I could tell a story that was completely rational. Then something irrational happened. Now, I’m back to square one.”
    Indira said, “I think balance is a brilliant insight, Paul. I don’t know of a better explanation of how the world could be one. What happened to dissuade you?”
    “I can’t talk about it without sounding crazy.”
    But John wasn’t as reluctant to speak. I was counting on that when I invited him, of course. “Jesus appearing to Saint Paul on the road to Damascus is an example of something beyond rational explanation.”
    Ben said, “Who knows what happened to Saint Paul. His accounts are contradictory and ambiguous.”
    The hint of a smile crossed John’s lips as he ignored Ben. “Jesus calls every person to follow him as he did Saint Paul.”
    Ben said, “No one has called me.”
    John continued, “The person called must accept the invitation instantly. Whoever hesitates is lost. There is no second chance.”
    Michael said, “Baloney. No single act decides a person’s spiritual fate. It is the sum of all a person’s deeds that counts.”
    Jennifer said, “That’s known in theology as the fundamental option.”
    I could tell Michael was impressed. “How did you know that?”
    “I’m a graduate theology student.”
    I said, “My experience was irrational. I can’t fit it into my idea of balance.”
    Elaine was suspicious. “Did you have a call experience like John describes?”
    When Ben saw that I wasn’t going to take the bait, he said, “I’ve already said that Jesus has never called me. Let’s have a show of hands.
    Anyone in the room who has been called by Jesus, put your hand up.”
    Only Preacher John raised his hand.
    Ben said, “Maybe Preacher John is putting us on.”
    John said, “I witness to the truth within.”
    Michael said, “That sounds like Gnosticism to me.”
    Rob said, “What’s Gnos…Gnos…”
    Jennifer answered, “Gnosticism is direct personal knowledge of God.”
    Michael said, “Rob, the church condemned Gnosticism as heresy.”
    John said, “The knowledge that I speak of is not secret. Everyone is taught it from within. All judgment is self-judgment based on what we learn from within. Last Judgment is public revelation of this private knowledge.”
    Ben tried again to flush me out. “Paul, are you sure you haven’t been called like Preacher John?”
    “Everyone here denied they were called except John. Why single me out?”
    “Because you said something irrational happened to you, and what could be more irrational than having a dead man appear and invite you to follow him?”
    I said, “Is that the only irrational thing?”
    Ben wouldn’t let it go. “Stop playing games, pal. Tell us what happened to make you give up your dream?”
    Rob said, “What happened, Dad?”
    Michael said, “I’ve never known you to keep anything to yourself.”
    Then Maria and Elaine joined the chorus, “Yes, Paul, tell us what happened.”
    I paused. Everyone waited on my response. What to do? If I tell, I might sound certifiable. On the other hand, by telling, I would remove the last obstacle keeping Maria and me apart.
    I took a deep breath. “Last week, when I couldn’t get anybody to publish my new book, I stopped in Saint Matthew’s to collect my thoughts. Suddenly, I thought I heard John call me from the vestibule. I turned my head, but saw no one. I understood Jesus, not John, was calling me to follow him. I heard the call again. I wanted to go, but hesitated. I strained to hear the voice once more, but there was only silence.”
    No one spoke. No one moved.
    Finally, Rob said, “Preacher John, are you Jesus?”
    “No, Rob. In Matthew 23:39, Jesus says, ‘You will not see me again until you say, “Blessed is the person who comes in the name of the Lord.”’
    For your dad, I was the person who comes in the name of the Lord.”
    “You mean, kind of a stand-in?”
    “Yes.”
    Michael said, “That’s absurd.”
    Ben said, “Well, I think there’s a perfectly rational explanation. It was indigestion.”
    I said, “Don’t you mean delusion, Ben?”
    Ben shrugged, “Sorry, pal, I’ll grant you nothing more dramatic than heartburn.”
    Elaine said, “Maybe it was a momentary delusion, Paul. Nothing to be concerned about though. Unless, of course, you insist the experience was real.”
    Ben’s phone rang. “Elaine, it’s for you.”
    She looked at me. “It has to be about mother.”
    While Elaine was on the phone, Maria offered to freshen everyone’s drink. I followed her into the kitchen. “Maria, you said we could see each other if I told you what happened to make me quit writing.”
    “What I said was, you have to be able to tell me anything.”
    “I wish I could find the words to tell you how much you mean to me.”
    “Paul, what I found attractive about you were the risks you took with your unconventional ideas. Now, you say you don’t want to take those risks anymore.”
    “What happened in Saint Matthew’s put an end to my dream.”
    “How can you ask me to believe in you when you have given up on yourself?”
    “You’ve never had an experience like that?”
    “Ben told the National Press Corps that you were the one whose creative imagination is capable of generating the next great story. He believes that and so do I.”
    “My dream was to tell the Final Story.”
    “I believe you can.”
    “But it has to be rational and what happened was irrational.”
    “Then make it rational.”
    “I wouldn’t know where to start.”
    “Start by believing in yourself.”
    “I’ve always thought I could tell the Final Story…”
    “Now’s the time to prove it. Ben may be less talented than you, but he has lived up to his potential. Whatever you decide, don’t be long about it.”
    Was she giving me a deadline? I never got to ask because at that moment Elaine came into the kitchen, “Paul, I have to leave.”
    “Is mother…?”
    “The doctor said she’s developed pneumonia. I’m going back tonight. I want you to keep your promise to take the first flight out in the morning.”
    “I will.”
    Elaine said good-bye to Maria and the others. Her leaving broke up the discussion.
    Michael asked Indira to attend his ecumenical conference. “We’ll meet this Saturday through Monday. Delegates may stay over Tuesday for Mardi Gras if they wish. The center will pick up your expenses, and you’ll be in good company. Paul promised me he will attend as a delegate. Also, Ben and Maria will attend part of the conference as observers while they are in town for Mardi Gras.”
    “Yes, Father Chen, I’d be delighted. I need only to arrange for another instructor to cover my one class on Monday.”
    “And our seminar on Tuesday—if you stay for Mardi Gras,” Jennifer added.
    Michael said, “You’re invited, too, Jennifer. You would have observer status since you’re a theology student. Of course, Professor Chowdury must approve.”
    Jennifer said, “Absolutely! I’d love to go.”
    Indira said, “Jennifer, our off-campus trip to Athens is at the end of next week. You can’t afford to miss more of your other classes.”
    “Not a problem. I’m caught up in all my classes.”
    Indira nodded her approval.
    Michael said, “I’ll make reservations for both of you.”
    Jennifer asked me to autograph her copy of my You Are God.
    “Looks like you’ve read this a hundred times,” I said.
    “Two hundred.”
    After I signed the book, she said, “I’ll see you in New Orleans, Paul. I’ve always wanted to go to Mardi Gras.”
    Margaret and Elizabeth said, “Yeah, right.”
    I said to them, “You two didn’t join in the discussion.”
    Margaret said, “Oh, we let Jennifer do the talking.”
    Elizabeth said, “Yeah, we just tagged along to keep Jen out of trouble.”
    I handed the signed book to Jennifer. “She needs a chaperon, does she?”
    “Well…” Margaret and Elizabeth said as they looked over Jennifer’s shoulder at the inscription I wrote.

Ben called a taxi for me. Michael and I dropped Preacher John at his apartment, then took Rob home. On the way to my hotel, I confided in Michael. “I’m in love with Maria.”
    “You fall in love, on average, with two smart, beautiful woman a year.”
    “She appreciates the risks I’ve taken. She has a power over me like no one ever has. She’s not impressed with what I’ve achieved because she knows I haven’t lived up to my potential.”
    “Give up this idea of telling a Final Story. I’m afraid that if you discover something, you’ll publish it no matter who gets hurt.”
    “She told me—without saying it, of course—that if I didn’t pursue the Final Story, I wouldn’t stand a chance with her. But I don’t believe in a Final Story anymore after what happened in Saint Matthew’s.”
    “Want my advice? Go back to your wife and children, and resume a normal writing career.”
    “I love Maria. I don’t expect you to understand.”
    Michael closed his fist. “I should bust your chops for that remark.”
    “Okay, okay, but I love her.”
    “Don’t do anything. See how it goes.”
    “She started to tell me not to delay my decision when Elaine interrupted us in the kitchen. I think the reason I couldn’t reach her over the weekend was that she went to San Francisco with Ben. I believe he’s about to propose to her. I have to decide now.”
    We rode the rest of the way to my hotel in silence. When I got out, Michael asked, “Well, what are you going to do?”
    “I’ll tell Maria first thing tomorrow morning that I will pursue the Final Story.”
    “Surprise, surprise.”

The next morning, I went to Maria’s office in the World Trade Center to tell her my decision. I brushed past her assistant and opened the door to Maria’s office.
    “I have a meeting about to start, Paul.”
    Maria’s assistant announced from the door, “Everyone is here for your ten o’clock. And I’m sorry about…” She gestured towards me.
    I said, “Give me two minutes.”
    “I can see you this afternoon.”
    “Maria, this can’t wait.”
    “It will have to, Paul.”
    “I’m going to pursue the Final Story. Give me one minute.”
    Maria went to the door, apologized to the people she was meeting, and turned to me. “Ben got the offer from Westmont and he asked me to marry him last night.”
    Even though I anticipated this, I was surprised. “Did you accept?”
    “I told him I would give him an answer today.”
    “You don’t want to move to the West Coast. Your business is here.”
    “I want to expand operations to the Pacific Rim.”
    “Are you going to accept?”
    “Paul, you don’t expect me to tell you before I tell Ben.”
    “Give me a chance to prove myself.”
    “You should have made your decision when we were in the kitchen last night.”
    “You don’t have to give Ben an answer right away.”
    Maria thought for a moment. “I’ll give you two weeks.”
    “Two weeks to do what no one has ever done?”
    “Ben has two weeks to accept the Westmont offer. He wants my answer before he decides. You have the same two weeks.”
    “What you’re asking is impossible.”
    Maria put her finger to my lips to silence my complaint. “Don’t you want to do the impossible for me, Paul?”
    I started to take her in my arms when her assistant announced from the door. “Mr. Genet’s sister is on the line.”
    “You may put the call through in here, Susan.”
    Elaine was in tears. “The doctor said mother won’t survive the pneumonia. She has a day or two. You must come now, Paul.”
    There was no negotiating this time. “I’ll take the next available flight.”
    “And bring Michael. Mother said she will only let Michael give her the last rites.”
    I put the phone down. “My mother’s dying. I have to go to San Francisco.”
    “I’m sorry, Paul. Is there anything I can do?”
    “I need to use your phone.” I called the Jesuit house and told them it was an emergency.”
    When Michael came to the phone, he said, “What is it, Paul? I’m in the middle of a meeting.”
    “Mother’s dying. She won’t accept the last rites from anyone but you.”
    “Paul, I have the conference in a couple of days.”
    “This means a lot to Elaine…and to me.”
    “It’s the week before Mardi Gras. I won’t be able to get a flight from San Francisco to New Orleans.”
    “You were her favorite, Michael, more of a son to her than I was.”
    “All right, Paul, but I have that meeting with the Father General tonight. I’ll take the first flight tomorrow morning.”
    I turned to Maria. “I have to have more than two weeks. Not only do I have to go to San Francisco now, but I’m committed to attend Michael’s ecumenical conference.”
    “I know this is a bad time for you, Paul, but I can’t extend the deadline. Maybe you can get some ideas from the theoretical physicists at Elaine’s center while you’re in San Francisco.”

Chapter 9

Elaine met my flight at the San Francisco airport. The first words out of her mouth were, “Where’s Michael? I asked you to bring him with you.”
    “He’ll be here in the morning.”
    “That may be too late.”
    “We’re lucky he’s coming at all. By the way, I want to meet with the physicists in your group while I’m here.”
    “What for?”
    “Perhaps I can learn something that will help me find the Final Story.”
    “You told me you were finished with that nonsense.”
    “Will you arrange a meeting?”
    “I want you to apologize to mother for the heartache you’ve caused her.”
    “Will she change her will?”
    “How can you think of money at a time like this?”
    “I’m broke.”
    “Your inheritance won’t help. You’re only getting $5,000.”
    “I guess her millions go to the dutiful daughter.”
    “I’m getting $5,000. The rest is going into a charitable foundation.”
    When we got to mother’s house on Lombard Street, Elaine led the way upstairs to the bedroom. “She blamed herself that you left the church.”
    “How many times have you told me that?”
    “She hasn’t been to Mass in five years because she believed she failed in her duty to God.”
    “Mother always wanted to be Saint Monica.”
    “Don’t make light of this, Paul.”
    “What do you want me to do?”
    “Tell her you’ve come back to the church.”
    “I won’t do that.”
    “Then tell her you’re sorry for her suffering, and for anything you may have done to cause it.”
    We entered mother’s bedroom and Elaine asked the nurse to wait downstairs. Even with the covers pulled up, I could see mother’s stomach swollen from the cancer.
    “Let’s come back when she’s awake, Elaine.”
    “No, she doesn’t sleep anymore. She just dozes off and on from the medication.” Elaine touched mother’s arm, and mother opened her eyes.
    “Look who’s here, Mother.”
    Mother didn’t seem to recognize me.
    “It’s Paul, Mother. Paul’s come home.”
    Mother looked at Elaine and then straight ahead, blankly. Elaine silently mouthed, “Say something.”
    “It’s been a long time, Mother. Too long. I’m sorry. I should have come sooner.”
    Mother made no response. She continued to stare straight ahead. Elaine put her hand to her mouth and her eyes teared. “I thought the two of you would fight. I didn’t expect her to be passive.”
    “Maybe she doesn’t know me.”
    Elaine shook her head. “She’s very alert. It’s remarkable. I should leave the two of you alone.”
    When Elaine left the room, I felt awkward standing at the foot of mother’s bed. I went over to the nurse’s chair by the window and brought it to the side of the bed.
    “I am sorry I didn’t come sooner. Elaine told me you haven’t been to Mass in five years. I find that impossible to believe, Mother. You were always a daily communicant.”
    I waited for her to speak. “Please, say something, Mother.”
    Still no response.
    “I’m sorry for the suffering I’ve caused you, Mother. I don’t think you should burden yourself with my leaving the church. It had nothing to do with my upbringing.”
    Mother’s eyes blinked but did not look at me.
    “Elaine wants me to tell you I’ve come back to the church. I have not come back to the church, and I won’t lie to you. But I do regret any suffering my leaving caused you.”
    Mother’s expression revealed no emotion.
    “Something happened last week, something that convinced me this world is strange beyond anyone’s wildest imagination. Jesus came to me and asked me to follow him, but I refused, Mother.”
    Still no response.
    “You taught me to love God more than myself and I didn’t listen. Everything is my fault, Mother, not yours. I regret most of all anything I may have done to lead others astray. I have a friend in New York. His name is John Clay. He is everything I am not. He warns others against making the mistakes I have encouraged.”
    “Renounce your book.”
    Mother surprised me. I didn’t think she could speak.
    “The novel is fiction. It means nothing. It was what I said on talk shows and during lectures that was harmful.”
    “You learned something from that experience last week. Tell the world what you’ve told me.”
    “You don’t know what you’re asking …”
    “I’m asking you to repent publicly.”
    “I can’t renounce who I am, Mother.”
    “And who are you, son? It is pride that hardened your heart against God.”
    “Can you forgive me?”
    “It is not my forgiveness that you need.”
    “I am truly sorry I’ve been a disappointment to you, Mother.”
    “Saying you’re sorry means nothing. You were proud in public. Now, you must humble yourself in public.”
    Mother closed her eyes and neither of us spoke again. Finally, Elaine opened the bedroom door and motioned me to come into the hall.
    “How did it go?”
    “I did what you asked.”
    “You apologized? What did mother say?”
    “Well…she…I…”
    Elaine took my hand. “It’s her medication. You can try again later.”
    “Ummm,” I said.
    Elaine prepared dinner. She offered me the guest bedroom, but I had a reservation downtown at the Sierra Hotel on Powell Street across from Union Square.
    “Well, then let me drive you,” she said.
    “Stay with mother. I can take the cable car to my hotel.”
    I caught the Hyde Street cable car at the crest of Russian Hill a half block from mother’s house. It was dusk, and the lights in Marin County and in Oakland were visible. Fog was rolling under the Golden Gate Bridge from the Pacific Ocean.

Elaine called the next morning. She said mother survived the night, but was fading fast. She said the doctor was with mother and that she was comfortable.
    I took the Hyde Street cable car back to the crest of Russian Hill. The panoramic view of the bay I had enjoyed the night before had disappeared in the fog.
    Michael arrived shortly after me. Elaine expressed her gratitude for his coming from New York and on such short notice. The three of us sat in the living room while the doctor attended mother.
    Elaine said, “We’re at the end, Michael.”
    Within a few minutes, the doctor came down to the living room and Elaine introduced him to Michael.
The doctor said, “She needs you more than me, Father. I’ve done everything I can for her. You can see her now, Elaine.”
    Michael, Elaine, and I went into mother’s bedroom. Mother’s expression brightened when she saw Michael. She put her hand on Michael’s face when he leaned close to greet her.
    “Elaine asked me to give you the last rites of the church, Catherine. If it’s okay with you, I’ll begin now.”
    Mother gave her consent with a slight nod of her head. Michael asked mother if she wanted to confess. She shook her head, no. When he finished anointing mother, Michael offered her Holy Communion.
    “She’s afraid, Michael. We’ve had to feed her intravenously because of the pain of digesting solid food.”
    “Jesus is present, body and blood, in the entire host, Catherine.” Michael broke off a tiny piece of the host and held it to mother’s lips but she refused to open her mouth.
    Michael leaned in close to mother and whispered, “Catherine, this small piece of the host will dissolve in your mouth. You don’t have to swallow it. There will be no discomfort.”
    When mother refused again, Michael said, “That’s all right, Catherine, Jesus understands.” Mother looked at him without expression—and died.
    Michael closed her eyes. Elaine knelt beside mother’s bed, put her head in her hands, and began to sob. Michael put his hand on Elaine’s shoulder to comfort her, then he and I went down to the living room so she could grieve in private.
    “You have my deepest sympathy, Paul.”
    I nodded.
    “Were you able to make peace with her?”
    I made a slight wave of my hand to indicate my unsuccessful attempt.
    “Don’t blame yourself. It’s difficult for someone in your mother’s condition to focus on anything beyond their own suffering.”
    When Elaine joined us, she asked Michael to say mother’s funeral mass.
    “It’s Mardi Gras. All flights into New Orleans are booked. To get to my conference on time, I must fly back to New York and use my original return ticket.”
    Elaine and Michael hugged and said good-bye. She called a taxi, and I went with him to the top of Russian Hill to wait.
    “Mother despaired of entering the Kingdom of God,” I said.
    “Your mother was very ill, Paul. Her behavior was common for someone so sick. God’s greatest mercy is reserved for those he tests so severely.”
    “Michael, if Preacher John and I, and perhaps my saintly mother, cannot enter the Kingdom of God, who can?”
    “You’re distraught, Paul.”
    “Remember what you said Monday night after the discussion? You wanted me to stop my search. You said if I discovered some terrible truth I wouldn’t shut up about it. What is the terrible truth, Michael?”
    “I didn’t mean it literally.” The taxi arrived.
    I said, “We’ll continue this conversation in New Orleans.”
    Michael said, “You won’t make it to the conference anymore now without a reservation.”
    “I’ll go standby. I’ll get there.”
    I watched the taxi disappear and went back to the house. That’s when Elaine told me I would have to arrange the funeral.
    She said, “I can’t do it because I’ve got a meeting with the senior members of the center this afternoon.”
    “Can’t you reschedule?”
    “I’m going to announce the center is closing for lack of funds.”
    “Let me make the announcement, Elaine. I want to talk with them anyway.”
    “I don’t want you talking to them.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because you don’t believe a theory of quantum gravity is possible, and you’ll shoot off your mouth like you always do.”
    “No, not this time. Besides, if you don’t want mother’s funeral botched, you have to arrange it yourself.”

Elaine relented, and called one of her colleagues at the center to explain why she couldn’t be at the meeting. The senior fellows were waiting for me when I arrived, anxious to hear the news. They greeted my reading of Elaine’s announcement with stunned silence, followed by murmurs of disappointment, and then by bickering.
    Eladio Villa began, “If Elaine can’t handle fund raising, let’s turn it over to professionals.”
    Mayumi Iwasaki said, “Elaine is not only the best scientist among us, Eladio, she’s the most successful fund raiser in academia. It is not her fault. It is our fault. We didn’t make sufficient progress. We should have united behind my superstrings approach.”
    “You’re at a mathematical dead end, Mayumi. We should have shifted our focus to my general relativity approach,” said Nelson Ulundi.
    “Except that you don’t go far enough, Nelson. You and the others should have joined me and concentrated on discrete causality units,” said Eladio Villa.
    “You’re all off the track. We should have put our resources into my search for a non-physical principle,” said Werner Schwartz.
    “You’re all chasing your tails,” I said.
    Every eye turned toward me.
    “How dare you presume to tell us our business, Mr. Genet,” said Don Brown.
    Mayumi Iwasaki said, “Mr. Genet’s just lost his mother…”
    “That’s no excuse. I’m not interested in his ‘literary’ opinion,” said Brown.
    “Let him hang himself if he wants to, Don,” said Schwartz.
    So I continued. “How can you seriously expect to merge two incompatible descriptions of nature?”
    “We should throw in the towel. Is that your idea?” said Brown.
    “The problem arises because you refuse to privilege either relativity or quantum mechanics.”
    “Einstein’s theory of relativity and quantum theory are the two most successful in science. Which one do you propose we throw out?” said Nelson Ulundi.
    “Neither. Let relativity be an approximation of quantum mechanics.”
    “To privilege quantum mechanics is to give up objective reality,” said Eladio Villa.
    “No, you can keep objective reality, but it has to be non-local.”
    “Every event the cause of every other event. How can that be?” said Villa.
    “It goes back to Professor Schwartz’s idea of a non-physical principle.”
    “Really? Werner is clueless, but I suppose a man of letters, like yourself, knows of such a principle,” said Nelson Ulundi.
    “The most ubiquitous…balance.”
    “Balance is nothing but symmetry dumbed down,” said Werner Schwartz.
    “Everything is divided into two worlds, as my friend John Clay says. Instead of merging, those worlds cancel out so that everything and nothing are the same.”
    “Two worlds? What is this, Poetry 101?” said Villa.
    Nelson Ulundi smiled. “Eladio has a point, Mr. Genet. If you’re talking about good and evil, those are hardly scientific concepts.”
    “No, I’m thinking of something neutral—neither good nor evil—but simply equal and opposite, like the opposing triangles of the hexagram.Don Brown leaped to the blackboard. “Here you go. Take a triangle pointing up. Add a triangle pointing down. Cancel them, and presto! Everything equals nothing. Best of all, Mr. Genet’s theory of everything meets our most demanding criteria—it fits on a T-shirt.”
    The distinguished fellows applauded Brown as he took a deep bow.
    Mayumi Iwasaki said, “Sit down, Don. Mr. Genet, we appreciate your coming on Elaine’s behalf. We extend our sympathy to you for the loss of your mother. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have serious matters to discuss.”

Maria expressed sympathy when I called to tell her about mother. Then she asked, “Did you meet with the physicists?”
    “Yes, and I’m more convinced than ever that synthesis of opposites is not possible, but I’m no closer to a Final Story.”
    “Are you coming back to New York?”
    “No, I’m going to New Orleans for the Michael’s ecumenical conference.”
    “Maybe you shouldn’t come to New Orleans, Paul. That may not be the best use of your time.”
    “You’ll be there.”
    “You’re not taking this seriously enough, Paul. Remember, you only have a week and a half left to accomplish what you said was impossible.”
    “Maybe I’ll learn something at the conference.”

One of the distinguished professors called Elaine, and she was furious with me when I returned to Lombard Street.
    “I asked you to read the announcement. Period.”
    “I got carried away.”
    “See? It’s not that you don’t know what you’re doing when you pop off like that.”
    “They were asking for it.”
    “You don’t have the discipline of a four-year-old. When are you going to grow up and accept responsibility for the words that come out of your mouth?”
    “This is about You Are God, isn’t it? You’ve always resented my success.”
    “If you wanted to do anything worthwhile with your life, you would have gone into science.”
    “You’re terminally naïve, Elaine. Physics is a story like any other.”
    “You’re the one who’s naïve…telling the most eminent theoretical physicists in the world they are chasing their tails.”
    “Well…”
    “The only thing you’re successful at is making a fool of yourself.”
    “I guess winning the world’s most prestigious literary prize doesn’t count for anything in your book.”
    “Science has standards. You can’t just say anything that pops into your head.”
    “You’re never going to synthesize the theory of relativity with quantum theory.”
    That did it. Elaine wouldn’t speak to me after that, not even when Karen, Rob, and Sara flew out for mother’s funeral. It wasn’t until we put them on their flight back that she broke the silence.
    “Mother wanted me to pour her ashes into the Bay from the Golden Gate Bridge.”
    “Isn’t that against the law?”
    Elaine was determined to carry out this last wish, and I went with her. However, she seemed to have second thoughts as we stood on the bridge midway between San Francisco and Marin County, and watched a freighter cutting through the cold waters below.
    “Well?” I said.
    Elaine looked at the vase. “I can’t.”
    “It’s okay. Listen, about the other day at the center…”
    “You made a fool of yourself and you embarrassed me. Promise me you’ll quit trying to find a Final Story.”
    “Let’s get off this bridge.”

Chapter 10

The ecumenical conference was winding down by the time I reached Michael’s center in the Garden District on Monday afternoon. The housekeeper escorted me to a large sun-lit room filled to capacity. Delegates, including Michael and Indira Chowdury, sat around a large table in the center of the room. Observers, including Ben, Maria, and Jennifer Craig, occupied chairs lining the walls. The delegates were attempting to agree on a definition of God.
    Ahmed Abu Said, a Muslim delegate, said, “Allah is one.”
    Indira, voicing a traditional Hindu view, said, “God is many, especially, Shiva, Vishnu, and Brahma.”
    The coadjutor, or assistant bishop of New Orleans, attempted a compromise, “God is many—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—in one.”
    I said, “None of this would make any sense to my friend Preacher John. He does not believe that God and the world are separate.”
    The coadjutor said, “Who is this Preacher John?”
    Michael said, “A Gnostic street preacher.”
    “He sounds like a pantheist to me.”
    I said, “Preacher John says the world can be one or many depending on how you look at it. He says that God sees the world as one, and that seeing the world as many is an affront to God.”
    Michael signaled me to button my lip.
    “Preacher John says God privileges his point of view through Jesus when Jesus calls each person to enter God’s world through him. John says the Last Judgment is when we find out who did, and who did not, answer that invitation.”
    The coadjutor looked at Michael and drew his finger across his throat.
    Michael said, “Let’s take a ten minute recess.”
    The coadjutor pulled Michael to the side to confer with him. Meanwhile, Maria, Ben, Indira, Jennifer, and I walked into the patio. A few minutes later, Michael joined us. “I need to speak to you privately, Paul.”
    “We’re all friends here, Michael.”
    “The coadjutor says you can’t stay.”
    “You’re throwing me out? I thought you brought me down here to stir the pot.”
    “Stir it, yes. Kick it over, no. You never pull your punches.”
    I shrugged. “Where do you have me staying tonight, Michael?”
    He handed me an address and a key. “You’re staying with me. I have a friend who lives in the French Quarter. He hates Mardi Gras. Every year he leaves town and lends me his apartment.”
    Jennifer said, “Paul, are you going to sit with us in the grandstand during the Rex parade tomorrow?”
    Michael said, “Paul, Maria, Ben and I were going to get lost in the crowd, care to join us?”
    “Absolutely!”

Fat Tuesday. For Christians, the last day before the forty days of fasting and penance that precede Easter. Mardi Gras in New Orleans, “the city that care forgot,” is an outrageous street party billed locally as the “greatest free show on earth.”
    When Maria, Ben, Jennifer, Michael and I rendezvoused before the Rex parade, I had no idea how the spirit of carnival would open Michael emotionally. The first thing he did was stop in a liquor store to buy a fifth of rye whiskey. Here was Michael, whom I had never seen take a drink in his life, drinking from the bottle in the middle Bourbon Street as we moved with the crowd toward the Rex parade.
    We joined the streams of people flooding into Canal Street, one of the widest thoroughfares in the world. By the time we got there, it was sea of people.
    “We have to get next to the floats or we won’t catch anything,” Michael said. We squeezed our way single file through the crowd until we reached the police barricades that form a corridor for the floats.
    Every arm was outstretched to catch the throws—necklaces and doubloons—flung randomly by the hooded members of the Rex krewe. Every voice screamed, “Throw me something, mister.” Most valued are the doubloons, aluminum coins about the size of a silver dollar with the krewe’s emblem.
    Michael shouted, “Heeeeeeey! There’s a doubloon, Paul. Stamp your foot on it.”
    I put my foot down and had two people step down on top of my foot as they attempted to beat me to it.
    Michael said, “The trick now, Paul, is to reach down and retrieve it before you’re pushed away from it by the crowd.”
    “Show me.”
    Michael snatched the coin in sweeping move when I moved my foot, and Jennifer snatched it from him.
    When King Rex’s float stopped across from us, patiently waiting to move forward another few feet, Michael jumped the barricade, and climbed on the tractor hitch. Waving the bottle, he tried to persuade Rex, the King of Carnival, to let him come up on the float. Rex was shaking his head, no, between smiles and waves to his noisy subjects.
    Ben said, “We’d better get him down before he gets into real trouble.”
    Ben and I crossed the barricade. “That’s enough, Michael,” I said.
    Michael took a drink, “You ruined my life, Paul.”
    “Let me have that bottle.”
    “You ruined my life.”
    “Come down and we’ll discuss it.”
    “You’re going to ruin everybody’s lives.”
    Ben said, “Come on, Michael. Let me give you a hand.”
    “Paul can’t keep his mouth shut no matter who he hurts.”
    A police officer approached, “Get your friend down or I’ll arrest him.”
    “You’re busted, Michael, let’s go.” I tugged on his jacket and he slipped and fell backward. Ben and I caught him and helped him across the barricade.
    “I’m taking Michael back to the Lafitte Apartments.”
    Jennifer said, “Let me help, Paul.”
    Ben said, “Maybe we should all help.”
    “No, Michael and I need to talk. Let’s meet at the costume contest on Bourbon Street after the parade. If we miss each other in all this madness, let’s meet at the French Market tomorrow morning for breakfast.”

It was impossible for me to talk to Michael amidst the noise and confusion of Mardi Gras. We worked our way through the crowd to Bourbon Street. Suddenly, Michael pulled away from me and went into an oyster bar. People were standing everywhere waiting for tables, but there was room at the bar, and that’s where Michael headed. He put his bottle down and motioned for the bartender to open some raw oysters. He made a mess trying to mix a concoction of catsup, mustard and hot sauce.
    “How did I ruin your life, Michael?”
    Michael dabbed an oyster in the sauce, put his head back and let it slip down his throat without chewing. “At prep school you had to rub everyone’s nose in it when you learned Saint Thomas called his work of little value. You couldn’t shut up even when the headmaster said you were misinterpreting Saint Thomas’ meaning.”
    “That ruined your life?”
    Michael swallowed several more whole oysters and took another drink. “At Berkeley, when you lost your faith you couldn’t stop talking about it,
    Paul. You’ve never cared who you hurt.”
    “Obviously, you weren’t affected because you became a priest…unless…unless you became a priest because you were running away from something…”
    The bartender broke open another half dozen oysters for Michael.
    “I’m beginning to get the picture. Jesus called you as he called me in Saint Matthew’s, didn’t he? Only it was years ago, while we were at Berkeley, and you refused the call, too, didn’t you, Michael?”
    Michael threw his head back, raised another oyster, stopped, put the oyster down, and stared at the bar.
    I asked the bartender, “Where’s the men’s room?” He nodded toward the back of the restaurant.
    The men’s room was packed. Michael couldn’t get to the sink or to the toilet, so he threw up on the floor. That cleared the small room. Then he knelt in front of the toilet and dry heaved for five minutes.”
    The bartender came to the door. “Hey, what’s goin’ on back here. I got customers who need to use—awwwww. Joey! Joey, get a mop and clean the men’s head.”
    “Sorry. Let me give you something for your trouble…”
    “Pay me for the oysters and take this guy out of here.”
    Remarkably, up to that point, the booze only affected Michael emotionally. The physical didn’t kick in until after he vomited. I had to practically carry him back to the Lafitte Apartments. When I put him to bed, I knew that Michael was at the end of his Mardi Gras partying for this year.
    By the time I reached Bourbon Street, the costume contest was over and I couldn’t find Maria, Ben, and Jennifer. I called Ben’s room at their hotel but there was no answer. I left a message reminding him of breakfast at the French Market in the morning, and went to dinner. Later, at the Lafitte Apartments, I sat on the balcony and watched Mardi Gras wind down.

Ash Wednesday. The first day of Lent. When I awoke, Michael was dressed and about to go out the door. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee at the French Market before I distribute ashes.”
    He left and I threw my clothes on and followed. Jackson Square is bounded on two sides by apartment buildings, and on the other two sides by the cathedral and the French Market.
    Michael had three cups of the dark, caffeine-loaded chicory coffee in front of him, and had emptied two of them by the time I arrived at his table.
    “Promise me you’ll stop looking for a Final Story,” he said.
    “You know what the Final Story is, don’t you, Michael?”
    “I accept without reservation the magisterium of Holy Mother Church. That’s what I know.”
    “I don’t think my mother’s not going to church the last five years had anything to do with me.”
    Michael was silent.
    “What’s so terrible about the Final Story that you fear my telling it?”
    Michael drained the third cup of coffee. “I have to go to work.”
    Maria approached as Michael left. I said, “Where’s Ben?”
    “He’ll be along in a few minutes. I wanted to speak to you alone.”
    “Should I be encouraged?”
    “Why did you act out at the conference?”
    “I was bored.”
    “How could you blow an opportunity to get some ideas with only a week left?”
    “Maria, it was just a rehash of same stuff they’ve been saying for thousands of years.”
    “You didn’t give it a chance, Paul.”
    “None of them can privilege their stories. They have the same problem as the physicists at Elaine’s center. And the same problem I’m having trying to privilege balance. That’s not going to change.”
    “Talk to Preacher John.”
    “John thinks I’m trying to do what only God can do.”
    “That’s a point of view, too,” she said.
    “My chances of ever succeeding are slim, and my chances of succeeding by next Tuesday are none.”
    “If you quit on me now, Paul, forget it.”
    “I’ll see it through, but at this point I’m clueless. I have no idea where to go next.”
    Jennifer arrived with Indira in time to hear that last remark. “Come to our seminar tomorrow, Paul. We’re discussing the grand cycle theories of history. It fits right in with your idea of balance.”
    I said, “It’s up to Professor Chowdury. She may not want me after my performance yesterday.”
    “You are welcome to join us anytime, Paul.”
    Jennifer said, “Then it’s settled.”
    Ben arrived, and Maria said. “I’m going to get ashes. Anyone want to join me?”
    “Not me, I’m more interested in the beignets,” Ben said as he eyed the pillow-shaped doughnuts saturated with powered-sugar being served at at the next table.
    I said, “I’ll go with you, Maria.”
    Several priests were distributing ashes from the sanctuary. Maria and I stood in Michael’s line. He acknowledged Maria with a nod before he placed the ashes on her forehead. “Dust thou art. From dust thou came and unto dust thou shalt return.”
    When it was my turn, Michael and I looked at each other. As he took a pinch of ashes, I asked again the question I put to him the day mother died. “Who can enter the Kingdom of God?”
    As he smudged the ashes on my forehead with his thumb, Michael said, “For the last time, Paul, it is the fundamental option—the sum of all our actions—that decides our spiritual fate.”

Chapter 11

Thursday, I went to Indira’s office at the university, and she took me with her to the seminar room. Present were Jennifer, Margaret, and Elizabeth from the discussion at Ben’s, and two male students, Todd and George. I was disappointed. It didn’t look like the seminar would help me until class was about to end.
    Indira asked, “Has anything we’ve discussed been useful, Paul?”
    “To be honest, no. I need to privilege balance—the view of the world as one. Nothing we’ve talked about will help me do that.”
    Margaret said, “What you want to do is impossible.”
    “I’ve come to the point where I agree, Margaret. Just when I thought balance would supply a rational explanation, something irrational happened to me.”
    Elizabeth said, “This is confusing. If the world is a dual system of equal and opposing forces, how can the world be one?”
    Jennifer said, “It’s all in how you look at it. Two is real only if you give separate identities to the opposing forces. Cancel them out and you get zero.”
    Elizabeth said, “So one and nothing are the same?”
    “Absolutely.” Jennifer smiled at her pun.
    Todd said, “That’s weird, Paul. Why would anyone want to view the totality of existence as nothing? I mean, if you choose nothing, you disappear.”
    George said, “So what? Individual identity has no meaning now that we can clone.”
    “Preacher John says one is God’s point of view, and we must give up personal identity if we want to share God’s view.”
    “Which is no view at all, so to speak. You really have to stop hanging in Washington Square, Paul,” Margaret said.
    Elizabeth said, “What matters to God—or whether anything matters to God—is speculation. For anything to matter, it has to matter to me.”
    “I agree, and that’s the crux of my problem. If I can’t tell a story that each person will privilege above all others, I fail.”
    Margaret said, “You’re going to fail, Paul.”
    “Preacher John would agree. He says only Jesus can privilege God’s point of view.”
    Margaret smiled. “In that case, we’re safe.”
    Todd said, “Paul, there are two symbols that graphically represent your idea of balance—yin-yang and the hexagram. Which best represents your idea?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Indira said, “Let’s explore that.”
    I went to the blackboard and drew the yin-yang symbol and the hexagram.
    George said, “I prefer the yin-yang symbol.”
    Jennifer said, “I don’t. It’s too static.”
    Indira said, “Explain what you mean, Jennifer.”
    Jennifer joined me at the blackboard. “My father’s a systems control engineer. He says dynamic systems function through feedback.”
    Jennifer drew a sine wave. “That’s your yin-yang symbol—perfect feedback. But nature doesn’t work that way. Feedback usually produces one of two effects in a dynamic system. Either the noise increases or it dampens.”
    Todd said, “You’ve lost me.”
    Elizabeth said, “Todd wants you to draw him a picture, Jen.”
    Jennifer drew two more waves. One began large and ended small. The other was the opposite.
    My mouth dropped open.
    “What is it, Paul?” Jennifer said.
    “Look. If you draw lines around both of these waves, you get the two triangles of the hexagram.”
    Jennifer said, “Absolutely. That’s my point, Paul. That’s why I prefer the hexagram. It’s dynamic. It reflects the way the world is.”
    George said, “Yin-yang better illustrates Paul’s idea. It not only represents the two opposing forces that cancel to nothing, but the circle represents the nothingness.”
    “Hello. This is a no brainer, Todd.” Margaret joined Jennifer and me at the blackboard and drew a circle around the six points of the hexagram.”
    George said, “Brilliant, Margaret. By making the hexagram as static as the yin-yang symbol, you’ve proved my point.”
    On that note, the bell rang and class ended. I thanked Indira for inviting me. Jennifer put her arm in mine and walked me out. “Was that helpful, Paul?”
    “Are you kidding? It means the hexagram is not just an abstract illustration of balance. The two triangles are grounded in the way the world works day to day.”
    Jennifer squeezed my arm. “I’m thrilled, Paul.”
    “To privilege balance, I must explain rationally how the experience I had in Saint Matthew’s is a universal experience.”
    “Sometimes I get results solving a problem when I don’t try so hard.”
    “I can’t rest. I have to understand this by Tuesday.”
    “What I meant was, I think you need a change of scenery, Paul. Why don’t you come to Athens with me, I mean, with the seminar?”
    “No, to understand this, I need to somehow conjure the experience I had in Saint Matthew’s, and reenter the Kingdom of God.”
    “You’re really out on a limb, Paul. I don’t think you stand a chance. Maybe if you went to Israel, and nothing happened, you could find some peace of mind.”
    “Humm, I hadn’t thought of that. What better way to enter God’s world metaphysically than to enter God’s world physically. But, Jennifer, a trip to Israel now would clean out my bank account.”
    “Don’t you owe it to yourself to give this your best shot, Paul?”
    “You’re right. Go for broke. No half measures within reach of the goal.”
    “Especially with only a few days left.”
    “I’ll do it.”
    “Good. Here’s the plan. Our seminar leaves for Athens tonight but classes don’t start until Tuesday. Margaret, Elizabeth, and I plan to fly from Athens to Israel Friday morning. We’re staying at a hospice in Jerusalem near the Jaffa Gate.” Jennifer wrote down the address.

I had a busy afternoon. First, I booked my flight, then I explained to Karen and Rob that I was going to Israel to research my next book. Next, I got my suitcase and passport from the hotel. Last, I had to tell Preacher John and Maria about my breakthrough at the seminar.
    By the time I returned to Washington Square, it was late afternoon and Preacher John was leaving the park. “John, wait up.”
    He saw my suitcase. “Where are you going?”
    “Israel. I made a breakthrough at Indira’s seminar. Suddenly, everything began to click into place—balance, the hexagram…”
    “Hexagram?”
    “It represents God’s world and Adam’s world. When I had my call experience in Saint Matthew’s, the priest quoted Jesus as saying, ‘The person who does not gather with me, scatters…’”
    “Slow down, Paul. What do you mean, ‘scatters?’”
    “Like in Yeats’ poem—‘things fall apart, the center cannot hold.’ Examples are the tower of Babel in Genesis 11:9, and the second law of thermodynamics.”
    “What’s that got to do with going to Israel?”
    “I still need to find a rational explanation for how Jesus can call someone to follow him when he’s dead.”
    “It’s a mystery. Only Jesus knows that, Paul.”
    “That’s why I have to go to Israel. I need to reenter God’s world as I did in Saint Matthew’s so I can find out what Jesus knows.”
    “You can’t recreate the call experience. It lasts a few moments, and there are no second chances.”
    “For those few moments I was in a paradigm where all events are simultaneous. I know I can reenter timelessness if I go to Israel.”
    “What if you learn something you shouldn’t know?”
    “John, I have to see Maria and catch my flight…”
“In 10:22, Isaiah, says, ‘Though your people, Israel, be as the sand of the Sea, yet only a remnant shall return.’ And Jesus himself said only a few enter into life though the narrow gate.”
    “The priest in Saint Matthew’s said all that.”
    “You’re treading on dangerous ground, Paul. What if you learn that only a few can enter the Kingdom of God?”
    “I can’t stop this close to the finish line.”
    “No matter what the consequences?”
    “Wish me luck.”

I had to hurry if I was going to see Maria before I left for the airport. As I went in the business building, I ran into Ben coming out.
    “Hey, where are you going, pal?”
    “Uh, I was talking to Preacher John. I was going to use the men’s room.”
    “You need a suitcase to go to the toilet?”
    “I’m going to Israel.”
    “Israel? Don’t tell me you’ve started chasing the wild goose again.”
    “I believe I experienced post-reality in Saint Matthew’s. If I can recreate the experience, I think I can privilege balance.”
    “There is no center, and we can’t privilege anything. You’re a slow learner, pal.”
    “I don’t have time to go into it now.”
    “You should take time. This obsession of yours is beginning to border on the pathological, Paul.”
    I looked at my watch. “I have to go.”
    “Call me when you get back,” Ben said as he left the building.
    Maria’s class was about to start. I bounded up the stairway. She was in the hallway about to enter her classroom. She got a puzzled look when she saw the suitcase.
    “I’m going to Israel.”
    “Now? Why?”
    “I made a breakthrough at the seminar. I’m close to a Final Story. I can feel it.”
    “You didn’t answer my question, Paul.”
    “I need to experience Jesus again like I did in Saint Matthew’s. I think I have the best chance in the time remaining if I go to the same physical space he occupied.”
    “Let’s talk when my class is over.”
    “My flight is tonight and security can take three hours or more. I have to leave for the airport now, Maria.”
    “You don’t have to find the Final Story by Tuesday.”
    “Are you extending the deadline?”
    “I gave you that deadline to test you. I didn’t believe you really cared about me. Watching you struggle to please me has changed everything. Especially when I knew you no longer believed you could privilege a rational explanation.”
    “I promised you I would finish this.”
    “Paul, you’re not listening. I love you. It isn’t necessary to prove yourself to me.”
    “Don’t you want me to fulfill my lifelong dream?”
    “You’ve scared me with this talk about meeting Jesus. I’ve pushed you too hard.”
    “I can’t quit now.”
    “I’m losing you.”
    “No! I love you.”
    “If you love me, don’t go.”
    “We’ll talk when I get back.”
    Maria turned away from me without saying good-bye. When she closed the door to her classroom, and left me standing alone in an empty hallway, it hit me. In spite of what she said, I didn’t believe Maria could ever accept me if I didn’t go to Israel. She understood I wouldn’t be any good to anyone if I quit now. At the same time, I knew that my going defied her plea to me not to go, and that would change our relationship forever.
    I walked to the wall opposite Maria’s classroom and leaned against it and slowly slid down until I was sitting on the floor. There was a waste can about five feet from me also against the wall. I took the plane ticket from my pocket, wadded it into a ball, and pitched it dead center into the can.
    Then I waited for Maria’s class to end.
    I waited about five minutes, got up, retrieved the ticket, unwadded it, and put it in my pocket. Except for that moment after I was called in Saint Matthew’s, I never felt more lost than I did as I left for the airport that afternoon.

Chapter 12

My flight arrived in Tel Aviv Friday afternoon in time to catch the last bus to Jerusalem before the beginning of Sabbath. Jennifer’s directions were perfect. The Christian hospice was just inside the Jaffa Gate in the Old City. After I registered and took a shower, I had an hour before I would meet Jennifer for dinner.
    The Old City, walled for defense by the crusaders, was different from the modern part of Jerusalem. Its narrow streets formed a labyrinth shaded from light by buildings joined one to the next. I saw an Arab in traditional robes leading a donkey, and realized that some things had changed little in 2,000 years. I browsed the stalls of the souk on cramped David Street and bought souvenirs for Rob and Karen.
    As soon as I walked into the dinning room at the hospice, I saw Jennifer seated with Margaret and Elizabeth at a table near the front. Jennifer insisted I accompany them the next day as they toured the Old City.
    On Saturday, the Old City was jammed with Christian tour groups, and Jews on their way to Sabbath worship. The women and I observed the ceremonies at the Western Wall, toured the Dome of the Rock, the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and walked the Via Delarosa. Nothing happened, and I thought I might have a better chance producing another call experience if I were alone.
    Saturday afternoon, I went to the Mount of Olives. Later, I walked the entire length of the wall surrounding the Old City. I returned to the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in the hope that might induce the experience. Again, nothing. After dinner, I told Jennifer I was going to try Galilee on Sunday.
    “Don’t give up on Jerusalem so quickly, Paul. Go with us tomorrow morning to the Israel Museum. You can always head for Galilee in the afternoon if nothing develops.”

Sunday we visited the Knesset, and then walked over to the Israel Museum. After touring the main building, I told Jennifer that I was going to Galilee.
    “Paul, you can’t leave without seeing the Shrine of the Book where they house the Dead Sea Scrolls.”
    “Scholars can’t even agree on who wrote the scrolls much less on their significance. Anyway, a bunch of dusty 2,000-year-old manuscripts certainly won’t help me.”
    “Don’t be so grumpy. It won’t take long to see the exhibit, and then we’ll have lunch. Maybe you’ll be more agreeable after you’ve had something to eat.”
    As the women and I examined the centerpiece exhibit—the Isaiah scroll—we overheard a man and a woman discussing the beliefs of the monks who were thought to have written the scrolls.
    The woman said, “The Qumran monks believed in a world divided into Sons of Light and Sons of Darkness.
    The man said, “An idea they got from the Zoroastrians, no doubt.”
    The woman said, “They also believed in a strange kind of predestination.”
    The man said, “Pre-Christian Gnosticism, perhaps?”
    “There are definite Gnostic elements, but the Qumran monks’ idea of predestination was different. They called themselves the ‘true remnant.’ You can find the idea in Isaiah 10:22, ‘Though your people, Israel, be as the sand of the Sea, yet only a remnant shall return.’”
    The man said, “Rather obscure, don’t you think?”
    “Except that in Romans 9:27, Paul quotes this passage from Isaiah and gives it an interesting twist: ‘Though the number of the children of Israel be as the sand by the sea, only the remnant will be saved.’ Both Saint Paul and Isaiahseem to suggest that admission to the Kingdom of God is not by physical, but by spiritual inheritance.”
    The man said, “Doesn’t mean anything. The apostle Paul was preaching to the Gentiles, trying to broaden the Christian membership base.”
    The woman ignored the man’s cynicism. “In Romans 11: 5-7, Paul fused the idea of the remnant with the idea of a privileged few: ‘There is a remnant chosen by grace. And if by grace, then it is not by works. What Israel sought it did not obtain but the elect did obtain it.”
    “So they thought they were the elect. Big deal.”
    The woman quoted, “Isaiah 11:11-12, ‘In that day the Lord will recover the remnant of his people…and gather the outcasts of Israel.’”
    “So what?”
    The woman didn’t miss a beat. “There are other references to the remnant as an elect: Jeremiah 31:7, ‘O Lord, save thy people, the remnant of Israel,’ and 42:2, ‘Though we were once many, now only a remnant remains.’ And Micah 2:12, ‘I will surely gather the remnant of Israel,’ and 5:8, ‘The remnant of Jacob shall be in the midst of many people.’”
    None of this may have meant anything to the woman’s companion, but it was an earful for me. I turned to Jennifer. “You could interpret the two triangles in the hexagram this way. In one, the elect gather into a remnant amidst the many of the scattering world.”
    Jennifer said, “Margaret, Elizabeth, and I are going to stop at Qumran this afternoon before we go to En Gedi.”
    I said, “Let’s go.”

Only twelve miles separate Jerusalem and Khirbet Qumran, but they are twelve of the bleakest miles on earth. The road drops 3,800 feet from Jerusalem’s heights to the lowest dry land on the earth’s surface—the shores of the Dead Sea—1,300 feet below sea level.
    There is nothing at Qumran but the monastery ruins and a restaurant operated by a kibbutz. Although it was February, the temperature was well over one hundred degrees. The ground was as parched as a piece of brown chalk. Behind the ruin were cliffs where some of the scrolls were found by an Arab shepherd in 1947. The monastery itself sat on a bluff overlooking a sea so salty nothing could live in it.
    Jennifer, Margaret, Elizabeth, and I tagged along within earshot of a tourist group. The guide said, “In this forbidding place, during the reign of King Herod, a Jewish sect waited for the end of the world which they believed was near. They called themselves the true remnant of Israel, and believed they alone deserved to be called chosen…the elect of God…the Sons of Light.
    “While they waited for the final battle between themselves and an evil world, they shared their possessions in common. Each day, they followed a strict routine of work, ritual baths, and prayer. They copied the Bible and other manuscripts onto leather, copper, parchment, and papyrus scrolls, and put them in pottery jars which they stored in caves.” The guide waved his hand toward the cliffs.
    One of the tourists asked him, “Was Jesus ever one of the monks?”
    “Scholars are divided. Some say, yes; some say, no.”
    “What do you think?”
    “The monks believed in reincarnation. Jesus did not.”
    I contradicted the guide. “If Jesus did not believe in reincarnation, what did he mean when he said that Elijah had already returned?”
    The guide ignored me. “Another difference was that Jesus said all could enter his Father’s kingdom, not just a remnant.”
    Again, I spoke up. “What did he mean when he said, ‘Many are called but few are chosen?”
    The guide gave me a hard look and muttered something under his breath.
    Jennifer brushed against me and whispered in my ear, “Paul, the iconoclast, destroyer of sacred truths. Tsk, tsk. Michael was right. You never pull your punches, do you?”
    Elizabeth and Margaret stayed with the group as it moved out to the edge of the bluff where a marker pointed to Cave Number Four. Jennifer and I walked though the monastery site and mounted the wooden platform where the second floor of the watchtower once existed.
    I said, “I’m going to stay here to collect my thoughts. You go ahead to En Gedi with Margaret and Elizabeth and I’ll see you this evening.”

After the women left, I walked to the caves that peppered the cliffs behind the monastery. Then I sat at the edge of the cemetery in front of the monastery. I was mesmerized by the hills of Moab which seemed to dance as heat waves shimmered from the Dead Sea. There were no sounds until I heard someone behind me call out. I turned. A man was running toward me from the monastery.
    “Paul! It’s time!”
    “Who are you?”
    “The Guardian’s assistant.”
    “Guardian?”
    “The spiritual leader of the monastery, Paul. You’ve been sitting in the sun too long. Well, come on, the Guardian likes to start on time and he insists the witness arrive first.”
    “Witness?”
    “You must witness the interrogation of the novice candidate, Jesus of Nazareth. When guests sit in, it makes the proceedings seem more impartial.”
    “Why can’t I take a ritual bath of purification instead?”
    The Guardian’s assistant wiped the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his robe. “Come on, Paul, show some compassion for that young man. He’s been cooking in the watchtower for ten minutes.”
    I didn’t budge. “I came to meet Jesus, but I have no desire to witness his interrogation.”
    “Don’t do this to me, Paul. If you don’t witness, the Guardian will blame me. He’ll say I didn’t try hard enough, cut my rations, and make me carry those big jars with the scrolls up to the caves, and I always break one and …” His face was flushed.
    “Okay, okay. Don’t have a heat stroke.”
    The Guardian’s assistant led the way and I climbed the stairs to the watchtower. A walkway for observation went around the outside of the tower room and led to a doorway. I thought it would be cooler in the room out of the sun, but it was stifling. The air was still except when stirred by the flies buzzing around our heads.
    Jesus stood by the window and watched the road that ran alongside the Dead Sea from the monastery toward Jerusalem. He took no notice of me when I entered the room. There was nothing special about his appearance. He was dark complexioned and of medium height and wore the standard clothing, a white linen robe. But he had an aura that I sensed as soon as I came into his presence.
    I brushed away the flies and sat on the single piece of furniture in the room, a small bench. He continued to look out the window without acknowledging me.
    “Why did you come here?” I asked after the silence became more suffocating than the heat.
    “Has the interview started?”
    “No, I’m curious why anyone would come to this desert voluntarily.”
    He didn’t answer.
    I rose from the bench to stand beside him at the window. “Were it not for the haze, you could see the Jordan River from here. I wonder why the water level stays the same? I mean, the Dead Sea has no outlet and the river pours millions of gallons into it each year.”
    “Evaporation. Everyone knows that. Do you mock me?” Jesus turned to look at me for the first time. In that single glance, his eyes took the measure of my soul. I had never felt a look before or since like that one.
    The Guardian appeared in the doorway. He was a tall man with a gray beard who moved and spoke with authority.     He greeted me. “Has Jesus been entertaining you, Paul? He’s quite a bright young man, you know. Too bad I must ask him to leave the monastery.”
    “Why can’t I stay?” Jesus couldn’t believe what he heard. He moved from the window and sat on the bench. His shoulders slumped.
    I left the window and confronted the Guardian. “I thought this was a fact-finding interview.”
    The Guardian raised his hand to silence me. “You’re here only as a witness, Paul.”
    “The reason you want an outside witness is to protect you from a charge of unfair treatment. So I’m doing my duty, Guardian, when I ask you to tell Jesus why you are rejecting him.”
    The Guardian walked over to the window and fixed his gaze on the Dead Sea. He spoke with his back to us.
    “Jesus has a kinsman named John, son of the old Abijah priest, Zacharias. We threw John out six months ago because he insisted that anyone could enter the Kingdom of God through repentance and baptism. He contradicted the Teacher of Righteousness who taught that there are two worlds, the Sons of Light and the Sons of Darkness. Only the Sons of light can enter the Kingdom of God. If I allow Jesus to stay, his presence will remind the monks of John’s heresy.”
    “Guardian, it’s not fair to judge Jesus by his kinsman’s beliefs. Let him speak for himself.”
    The Guardian shook his head.
    “Be fair, Guardian,” I said.
    The Guardian gazed at Dead Sea again, lost in thought. Finally, he said to Jesus, “Tell us, what do you believe?”
    “I believe as the community does. A person is either of the light or of the darkness from the beginning. I believe the chosen are the few who live in this monastery.”
    “Ah-ha! Now I know you cannot stay!” the Guardian shouted.
    “Guardian, my witness is that you have been unfair. This man is sincere. There is no reason why you cannot take him in and give him a chance.”
    The Guardian swatted the air. “Paul, you are as pesky as these flies, and I am losing patience with you. However, there is one final test I can apply. Candidates must have a religious experience known to us as the calling. No one who has had the experience, and revealed what happened, has been turned away. That should satisfy even you, Paul.”
    Jesus said, “I had such an experience. One night, about three years ago, I had difficulty sleeping. Finally, I dozed off, but sometime after midnight, I awoke. I thought I heard someone call me to come out and join him. It was strange because I imagined the person calling me was a rug merchant who passed through Nazareth that day. I sat up and heard the call again. This time I knew it was Jehovah who called me.”
    “The Lord?” I said.
    “Yes. The Lord God of Hosts. I put on my tunic, and went out into the night, and set the latch behind me because I did not intend to return.”
    “Why not?” I asked.
    “I was giving up my life to be with the Lord.”
    “And was the Lord there to greet you, Jesus?” the Guardian asked with a smirk.
    “I searched, but no one was there. I heard a dog barking somewhere in the distance. Then I returned to the house and woke my mother so I could get in.”
    “You’re lying!” the Guardian snapped.
    “No! I am not lying!”
    “Okay. I believe you are telling the truth. And it is exactly for that reason you cannot stay.”
    “You dishonor yourself, Guardian,” I said.
    “I regret that I asked you to witness.”
    “I’m only asking you to be fair.”
    The Guardian sighed. “What I am going to show you now will break a solemn vow of secrecy. No one but the inner circle of elders has seen what you are about to see. In exchange, Paul, I want it noted that I went the extra mile to be fair. Agreed?”
    “Agreed.”
    The Guardian took a piece of limestone from the pocket of his robe and stooped to draw a hexagram on the wooden floor of the watchtower. First, he drew a triangle with three equal sides. On top of it, he drew a second triangle pointing in the opposite direction.
    “This is the true symbol of existence as taught to us by our great Teacher of Righteousness. But its meaning is not apparent as you see it here. To get the meaning, you must separate the triangles, one from the other, and place them side by side.”
    The Guardian drew the two opposing triangles side by side. “Two opposite worlds always in balance with each other and within themselves. No one crosses from one to the other. God decided at the beginning of time who is in each world.”
    Jesus said, “Then God is unjust.”
    “Not at all. Look again. One world begins scattered and ends gathered. The other is opposite. Balance is divine justice.”
    The light dawned and Jesus said, “The last shall be first, and the first last.”
    “See, Paul? I told you he was bright.”
    “But none of this explains why Jesus can’t stay.”
    “I have said too much already.”
    I rebuked the Guardian. “You must tell him why he cannot stay.”
    “He is different from us, Paul. I thought you were a pretty smart guy, but you still don’t get it, do you?”
    “You owe him an explanation.”
    I owe him nothing.”
    “You said no one who had the experience and told of it is turned down.”
    “Let it go, Paul,” the Guardian warned.
    I couldn’t let it go. “Jesus’ going out to meet Jehovah is proof he is one of the gathering—one of the remnant. How can you turn him away and consider yourself fair?”
    The Guardian paused in the doorway and spoke to Jesus with the full authority of his position. “I want you gone within the hour. Draw provisions for a day’s journey. That will be get you to Jerusalem.”
    Jesus slumped when he and I were alone again. “Where will I go? The monastery was my last hope. Is there no place for me in this world?”

Jennifer and her friends had reservations in En Gedi at a spa near the public beach. Behind the spa was Shukamit Falls where David hid from Saul. After dinner, Jennifer and I walked to the waterfall, and I told her what happened after she left Qumran.
    “Paul, at the discussion in New York you admitted it is irrational to have a real encounter with someone from another time.”
    “Not if all events are always happening. This afternoon, I experienced balance. I stood at the center of existence as I did in Saint Matthew’s.”
    “Did Jesus call you again?”
    “No. I thought I would learn the Final Story from him, but he didn’t know anymore than I do.”
    “Paul, it just proves it wasn’t the same. Maybe you were in the sun too long.” Jennifer felt my brow.
    “Why did the Guardian reject Jesus? There’s something missing, something about this I still don’t understand. It must be right under my nose, but I can’t see it. Maybe Preacher John was right and the Final Story is beyond me. Even the Guardian said I wasn’t as smart as he thought I was.”
    Jennifer said, “Promise me you’ll come with us to Masada tomorrow.”
    “…The Guardian’s mood changed after Jesus said he answered the call…but all the monks at Qumran would have given the same answer…unless…unless…”
    “What is it, Paul? You look ill.”
    I sat on a rock. “Oh, no. Oh, no. No.”
    “What?”
    “I know how a dead man can call people to follow him.”
    “I’m afraid to ask.”
    “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell you. It’s too terrible. But I must tell Jesus, otherwise he may never know.”
    “You can’t change events if, as you say, all events are set by balance.”
    “If he learns it from me, I won’t be changing anything. My telling him is a part of balance.”
    “Paul, do you have any idea how crazy this sounds?”
    “I have to find Jesus.”
    “You’re scaring me. I don’t know what's going on, but if you have entered another world twice already, you may not be able to come back the next time.”
    “Not another world, Jennifer, but the Kingdom of God.”
    “I want you to promise you will come with us to Masada tomorrow.”
    “Jesus said he was going to Jericho. I must go there tomorrow.”
    “I’m going with you.”
    “No, I have to do this alone.”
    “Paul. I care for you. I’m not going to let you go alone.”
    “Please, Jennifer. Go with Margaret and Elizabeth to Masada.”
    “You can’t stop me from coming with you.”

Chapter 13

Jennifer didn’t tell Margaret and Elizabeth she was going to Jericho with me until the bus to Masada was ready to leave. “Paul thinks the answer he’s looking for may be in Jericho.”
    Margaret said, “Let Paul go wherever he wants, Jen. You’re coming with us.”
    The bus driver said, “I am leaving, girls. You catch next bus in afternoon.”
    Elizabeth said, “I told you from the start what he was after, Jennifer. You knew his reputation.”
    Jennifer said, “It’s not what you think. I had to beg him to let me go with him.”
    There was a hissing sound as the driver released the brake. “Bye, bye, girls.”
    Margaret and Elizabeth got on the bus. Margaret stood at the doorway and said, “Hello. This a no-brainer, Jen. You’ve got a crush on him and he’s taking advantage.”
    Jennifer said, “Nothing’s changed. We’ll rendezvous at the Christian hospice in Jerusalem this evening, and go from there to Ben Gurion Airport.”
    Elizabeth said, “No, I’m not leaving the West Bank without you. We’ll meet you in Jericho. Where can we find you, Paul?”
    The driver said, “Stand back, please. I close door.”
    Margaret said, “You’re not shutting this door until we know where to meet our friend.”
    I said, “Meet us at the Hisham’s Palace Hotel.”
    Elizabeth said, “Oh, great. I told you he just wants to get you in bed, Jen, now get on this bus.”
    Jennifer didn’t move. The door whooshed shut, and the bus’s tires skidded on the gravel driveway as the driver gunned the engine.

In Jericho, Jennifer and I stored our luggage at the hotel. “Wait here for me. I won’t be long.”
    “No. I’m going with you.”
    “Jennifer, you promised to stay here.”
    “I don’t want you sitting up there in the sun all day by yourself.”
    “I have to do this alone.”
    “Paul, I’m going with you and that’s final.”
    “All right, but only to the monastery that guards passage to the summit.”
    We took a taxi from the town square to the base of the Mount of Temptation, then we climbed the trail leading to the monastery. Jennifer allowed me to go to the summit alone.
    The summit provided a panoramic view of the Judean Wilderness all the way to the Dead Sea. Sitting near the edge of the cliff, I saw a man and woman talking.
    The man was Jesus. He greeted me and introduced the woman as Mary Magdalene. He said to her, “This is Paul, the man I told you spoke in my defense at Qumran.”
    She said, “This is a devil. Only a devil would dress so strangely.” I had on a white polo shirt, khaki trousers, and a green visor I bought at a golf tournament.
    I said, “Jesus, I must speak to you alone.”
    He said, “Mary has saved me from my messianic delusions. I trust her completely.”
    “Do not let him speak, Jesus. He is a devil.”
    I removed the visor and placed it beside me as I sat down.
    “Paul, I am grateful for your kindness to me at Qumran, but it would be best if you did not stay.”
    I said, “I know why the Guardian rejected you.”
    Mary said, “Jesus is going to be my husband and the father of many children, and the best carpenter in all Judea. He is going to live a normal life. He does not need to hear the lies of a devil.”
    “I can tell you what the Guardian would not.”
    Mary shooed me. “Go away, devil. Jesus is all through with that nonsense. He knows now he is no savior of the world.”
    I said, “That’s correct. What you are, Jesus, is the remnant.”
    Jesus said, “You mean one of the remnant, don’t you?”
    I stooped and drew two triangles in the dust with my finger. “The Guardian was right. There are two worlds. While the Children of God gather into the Kingdom of God, the Children of Adam scatter to fill the kingdoms of the earth. Scattering starts as one—Adam—and gathering ends as one—you, Jesus.”
    “All the monks at Qumran are of the gathering,” he said.
    “No one at Qumran gathers. When you naïvely told the Guardian you answered the call, he knew you were the last of God’s children. That’s why he told me you were different. That’s why he rejected you. He thought I was stupid for not seeing the obvious.”
    Jesus looked perplexed. “I want to gather everyone into the Kingdom of God.”
    Mary said, “Listen to yourself, Jesus. You are talking like a messiah again. This devil has tricked you. Go back to your hell and leave us alone, devil.”
    “Your purpose is to judge the living and the dead by standing at the center of existence and inviting everyone to join you.”
    Mary said, “Come on, Jesus. If this devil won’t leave, we will.”
    Jesus said, “Paul, if what you said is true, I would issue a call no one would answer. That’s monstrous, and I will have nothing to do with it. I am going with Mary to live a normal life.”
    He and Mary disappeared down the trail. I had failed to make him understand. I bounded after him but ran into Jennifer and the abbot coming up the trail.
    Jennifer said, “Who were you talking to?”
    “To Jesus. He was with Mary Magdalene. They went down the trail.”
    “That’s impossible, Paul. The abbot and I just came up by that path. No one could have gone down without passing us.”
    The abbot said, “Too much sun for one not used to this climate.”
    Jennifer said, “Sit down, take a drink of water, and I will shield you from the sun.”
    I drank the water but did not sit.

Margaret and Elizabeth were waiting for us at the hotel. I knew explaining that Jennifer insisted on coming with me to the Mount of Temptation would not get me off the hook with them.
    Elizabeth said, “We were worried sick about you, Jen.”
    Margaret said, “What a scuzz hole this hotel is. There were sheep gazing on grass growing through cracks in what was the swimming pool, and the plumbing doesn’t work in the bathroom. Yuk!”
    I said, “This area was hit hard during the Six Day War. They’ll get it fixed up now that Jericho is a center of government for Palestine.”
    Elizabeth said, “Let’s go, Jen.”
    Jennifer said, “Paul’s coming with us to Athens.”
    Margaret said, “You’re old enough to be her father, Paul. Don’t you have any sense of propriety?”
    “Don’t worry, I’m not coming with you, Margaret.”
    Jennifer said, “You shouldn’t stay here alone, Paul. You’re not well.”
    I said, “I’m okay. Let’s get your luggage.”
    “Paul, if you believe you can have a real conversation with someone from the past, you are definitely not okay.”
    Jennifer pleaded with me to come with them as we walked to the square. I kept my voice low so Margaret and Elizabeth could not hear. “You know I have to see this through, Jennifer. I have to find Jesus again and make him understand what he must do.”
    Jennifer whispered, “You already know what he does.”
    “But maybe he does it because of me.”
    Jennifer raised her voice. “Jesus was not on that trail, Paul. There was no one there but you, me, and the abbot.”
    “He is here now…somewhere. To see him I have to reenter God’s paradigm where past and future disappear.”
    “At least admit you understand that what you just said is nuts.”
    “I botched things on the Mount of Temptation. Jesus left with Mary saying he was going to give up the idea of being special and just live an ordinary life.”
    A tear rolled down Jennifer’s cheek. Margaret and Elizabeth glared at me.
    We found a taxi at the town square. The driver got out. “You tour? Good, good. We like the English in Palestine. We not mad about Balfour Declaration. I make joke. But serious, we have special rate for English.”
    I said, “Take these ladies to Ben Gurion Airport. Here, this should cover the fare. No detours, got it?”
    “Ah, you are American, not English. Tell me about Jeemmee Carter. He is poet now. Is true, no? Ah, you Americans. You all crazy. I make joke.”
    The driver put the luggage in the trunk and Margaret and Elizabeth got in the back seat. Jennifer hesitated.
    Margaret said, “Jennifer! Come on!”
    “I’ll call you when you get back to New York,” I said.
    “You’d better.” Jennifer hugged me and got in. I watched the taxi until it disappeared around a corner.

After they left, I walked to the River Jordan. When I got there, I thought I was alone. Then I noticed a group of people gathered around a man in a white robe. It was Jesus.
    Mary Magdalene was standing in the back of the crowd. When she saw me, she walked over and slapped me so hard the left side of my face went numb.
    She said, “After we came down from the Mount of Temptation, Jesus said, ‘Paul is right.’ Then he started preaching. Listen for yourself. They will kill him for what he’s saying. It breaks my heart. With me, he could have been happy. I would have given him the world.”
    I listened intently as an elderly man said, “Rabbi, I am Nicodemus, a member of the Sanhedrin. Tell me, if you can, what must a person do to enter the Kingdom of God?”
    “You must follow me.”
    A tall woman said, “I follow you and I have not entered the Kingdom of God.”
    “You do not follow me. You pay me lip service. When I say follow me, I mean follow into me. Become me. Give up all right to yourself.”
    The tall woman said, “Are you saying we must die?”
    Jesus said, “No. I am not talking about phyical death. I mean death of your self, death of your separate identity.”
    “Then I would be nobody,” A large, red-bearded man laughed and patted his belly. The crowd laughed with him.
    Jesus smiled slightly and said, “You wouldn’t be nobody. You’d be me.”
    The tall woman said, “Are you crazy? What you say is impossible.”
    “What is humanly impossible is not impossible for a child of light.”
    Nicodemus said, “Rabbi, I don’t believe I have seen this Kingdom of God on a map. Is it in the sky, or perhaps, beneath the earth?”
    “The Kingdom of God is within.”
    “Ah, within. And you can only get there by forsaking yourself? I find you amusing, Rabbi. Perhaps you missed your calling. You should be entertaining the court of King Herod.”
    Red Beard said, “This man is no rabbi. He is a trickster. He plays word games to confuse us.”
    “The person who does not gather with me scatters.”
    Nicodemus said, “Stop with the riddles. Tell us directly, is it possible for anyone to enter the Kingdom of God?”
“Do not concern yourself with others, Nicodemus. Follow me when I call, and you will enter the Kingdom of God.”
Peter, one of Jesus’ disciples, said, “But, Master, we gave up everything when you called us, and we have not entered the Kingdom of God.”
    “The call you receive from me before I go to the Father means nothing. The only call that matters is the one you receive from me after I go to the Father.”
    The tall woman said, “When will you call us?”
    “No one knows when the Son of Man will come for you. Be ready at all times.”
    A man who identified himself as a merchant said, “But what if I can’t come when you call? I have obligations—a family, a business …”
    Jesus said, “The person who hesitates cannot be with me in the Kingdom of God.”
    Nicodemus said, “That’s pretty harsh, Rabbi. Can’t you soften it a bit. After all, allowances must be made.”
    “If you do not abandon mother and father, brother and sister, spouse and children, friends, everything that you have, and give up your identity to
become me, you cannot enter the Kingdom of God. The person who tries to preserve this life will lose it, and the person who gives up all possessions, including self, for my sake, will find life.”
    Another man, a priest, said, “How dare you presume to call me while I’m performing my duties at the Temple.”
    “Your duty is to follow me.”
    The man turned to the crowd. “This carpenter’s son puts service to himself above service to God.”
    Jesus said, “I and the Father are one.”
    “He blasphemes! You are all witnesses.”
    Nicodemus said, “This is serious, Rabbi. You are accused of blasphemy. Deny it for your own sake.”
    Jesus stooped to draw the hexagram in the dust beneath his feet.
    “When I gather to the Father, I will become the center of existence. Each of you has a moment of balance. At that moment, your personal center will coincide with me. When that happens, you will experience me outside of time and space, and I will invite you to merge with me.”
    “Blasphemer! Only God can call us.”
    “If my Father requires you to serve me for his sake, what is that to you?”
    “Blasphemer! You are all witnesses. This man deserves the cross.”
    I could not contain myself any longer. I went to him and whispered, “Don’t just draw the hexagram in the dust. Use it to show them it is impossible to answer your call because everyone scatters but you.”
    “You know that’s not the way it works, Paul. After they refuse my call, a person is taught from within that he or she cannot enter the Kingdom of God. Public, or Last Judgment, is possible only after this private self-judgment.”
“You’re afraid to give it to them straight, aren’t you?”
    Jesus found this amusing. He laughed, “I’m already a dead man thanks to you, Paul. Didn’t you hear that priest recommend me for the cross?
    “I was losing this argument. I made one last, desperate attempt. “Yes, but you’re pulling your punch. You and I both know you can return in spirit, but not in body, once you are dead.”
    “I don’t have to come back. You’re going to announce to the world that no one but me can enter the Kingdom of God.”
    “No, I can’t do it.”
    “Of course, you can, Paul. You’re perfect for the task. You have never in your life pulled your punches.”
    “Only you can judge the living and the dead.”
    “You are the Second Coming, Paul.”
    “You’re ruthless. You let me discover the Final Story so you could use me to do your dirty work.”
    “It may be dirty work, but you’ll be well paid. One, you get to achieve your lifelong dream to tell the Final Story. Two, you get to revive your career with absolute confidence that no one will ever top you.”
    “I will never tell what I know if it means starting the Last Judgment.”
    “Paul, I apologize for making this personal. It is my Father’s will that all things be one through balance. And it is balance, not me, that requires you to start the Last Judgment. You will do what balance requires, Paul, like it or not.”
    “I am free. I decide what I will do or not do, and I am telling you I will not reveal what I know to a single person.”

Chapter 14

The first thing I did when I returned to New York the next afternoon was visit Karen at her day care center. Then I went to see Rob. He was finishing basketball practice when I got to his school.
    “Did you find the Final Story, Dad?” he said when he saw me.
    I couldn’t lie to him. “Yes, I did.”
    Rob put his hand up for a high five. “Way to go, Dad. Now you can finish your new book.”
    “I’ve decided not to tell the Final Story, Rob.”
    He looked puzzled. “I thought this was the story you’ve dreamed your whole life of telling.”
    “This isn’t going to be easy to understand. It’s going to require maturity on your part.”
    “I can handle it.”
    “I’ve learned there are some things best left unsaid, and that this applies to the Final Story above all.”
    “You’re right, Dad, I don’t understand.”
    “How shall I say this? Everybody is taught the Final Story from within, like Preacher John says.”
    “I don’t know it, do I?”
    “Not yet. But eventually you will.”
    “It must be okay to tell it if everybody knows it anyway.”
    “This is the difficult part, Rob. We know the truth, but as long as nobody talks about it, we don’t have to face the consequences.”
    “Why would talking about it be so bad?”
    “Because it would confirm what we learn from within. Without that confirmation, we can enjoy doubt…”
    Rob finished my thought. “…Not knowing makes hope possible.”
    “You’ve really grown up, Rob.”
    “If you’re not going to tell the Final Story, what are you going to do, Dad?”
    “I want to help your mother provide for you and Karen, so I guess I will exploit the commercial value of my Seminal Prize for Literature like any normal human being would.”
    “That’s kind of sad.”
    “Until you consider the alternative.”
    “I love you, Dad.”
    “I love you, too, Rob. You and Karen are my life now. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

I was in luck when I went to see Maria at her World Trade Center office. She was in. Her assistant picked up the phone to let Maria know I had arrived. “You may go in, Mr. Genet…”
    “What is it, Susan. What’s wrong?”
    “I shouldn’t say anything, but she’s been really down since you left for Israel. I’ve never seen her like this. I hope you have good news.”
    Maria was cool and remained on her side of the desk.
    “I made the deadline.”
    “Paul, I’m glad you accomplished your goal, but it doesn’t matter one way or the other to me anymore.”
    “Maria, I love you.”
    “You had the chance to prove that when I begged you not to go to Israel.”
    “I risk everything to learn the Final Story by today. That’s what you wanted.”
    “I didn’t want you to risk your sanity.”
    “You’ve accepted Ben’s proposal, haven’t you?”
    “Tell me the Final Story.”
    “What I know would start the Last Judgment.”
    “That’s impossible. If you tell me, maybe you can break the spell you cast over yourself.”
    “I can’t tell anyone.”
    “Here we go again, Paul. You’re letting a personal secret come between us.”
    I wanted to believe I was wrong about the Final Story. I tried to convince myself that, if I told Maria, I might see things differently, and be able to shake free of my terrible burden. But that was a rationalization. The truth was, if I didn’t tell her I was going to lose her.
    “Let’s ride the Staten Island Ferry over and back. I’ll tell you everything.”
    “No. I told you I’m meeting Ben for dinner.”
    “We’ll be back by seven o’clock.”
    The World Trade Center is close to Battery Park where the ferry docks. On the ride over and back, I pulled the whole story together. I finished as the ferry returned to the Manhattan terminal.
    She was incredulous. “If what you’re saying is true, the entire human race is involved in a conspiracy of silence. If what you’re saying is true, everything we’ve ever believed or taught about anything is a lie.”
    We had been sitting inside because of the cold, but as the ferry began to pull into the dock, Maria went on deck and stood by the railing near the bow. I followed her and tried to soften the blow.
    “The symmetry is beautiful. Two worlds—the Kingdom of God and the Kingdom of Adam—in perfect balance with each other and within themselves. Apart they equal everything. Together they cancel out and equal nothing.”
    “You’re too clever for your own good, Paul. If we know we cannot hope to enter the Kingdom of God, why don’t we despair?”
    “Rejecting Jesus is a half turn. To come full circle, you must accept yourself. The person who accepts herself will not despair, Maria.”
    As the bow pushed against the end of the docking slip, and the ferry lurched to a stop, Maria tried to get me to recant.
    “Your Final Story is insane, Paul. Tell me this is your writer’s imagination on overdrive.”
    I made no response.
    “Last chance, Paul. I understand you have to pretend to be serious for the public, but you can tell me the truth.”
    Again, I did not respond.
    The crew lowered the gangplank and Maria fled into the terminal.”
    I caught up to her. “I love you, Maria.” She was crying. I tried to hold her, but she broke away when someone grabbed my shoulder.
    “The lady wants you to get lost, dude.”
    It was the roller blader who bumped me in Washing Square the day I met Maria. I turned and slugged him and he went down. A terminal authority cop saw it and told me to stay put.
    “I have to go,” I said.
    The officer pressed his night stick against my chest. “You wanna broken arm?” He helped the blader up. “You okay, kid? You wanna press charges?”
    The blader dusted himself off. “Nah, my ten-year-old brother hits harder than this dude.”
    The officer let me go with a warning, and I rushed from the terminal. Maria was getting into a taxi as I got to the curb. I pushed a man out of the way to get the next cab in line. “Follow that yellow taxi.”
    “Which one, Mac? There’re a million cabs in New York and they’re all yellow.” He studied me in the rear view mirror, then turned. “Hey, I know you. Yeah, I never forget a face. You’re the jerk I almost ran over uptown a couple of weeks ago. Look, I’m sorry about that, Mac. Tell you what. This fare’s on me.”
    The driver turned off the meter and I gave him Ben’s address. I figured he and Maria might go there after dinner.
    The driver watched me through the rear view mirror. “Lady friend troubles, huh? Hey, Mac, don’t let it get you down. It’s the human condition, know what I mean?”
    “Yeah. Tell me about the human condition.”
    And he did, all night, as we waited for Ben and Maria. Of course, he was clueless, or rather, pretended to be. Even with him, a stranger, I was tempted to confirm what I was sure he already knew.

Finally, I dozed off. The next thing I remember was the cabby shaking me. “No couple went in or out all night. Just some guy, and he was alone. It’ll be light in a few minutes, Mac, and I’m off duty. Let’s call it a night, whadaya say?”
    I handed the driver a check. “Take this for your trouble.”
    The driver waved off the money, but I insisted.
    I shivered in the cold as I stood in the doorway of Ben’s townhouse. A light snow had dusted the city during the night. The street’s bleak surface reflected my desolation.
    At first light, the trees along the sidewalk were silhouetted against the gray heavens. Their black, leafless branches, stirred by a chill wind, seemed to reach out to me in sympathy, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken him?”
I held out my arms in response, and watched my breath steam into the morning air as I shouted, “Don’t bother on my account. On that fateful day when he called, I abandoned him.” I heard the door open behind me.
    “Paul, what are you doing standing in the cold at my doorstep shouting to the trees? You’re losing it, pal.”
    “Ben, what are you doing home? Didn’t you go to dinner with Maria last night?”
    “She never showed up. I went by her apartment, but there was no answer. I sat in a bar until it closed, then came back here.”
    “Yeah, the cabby said a man alone entered the building.”
    “Paul, why were you sitting in a cab outside my townhouse all night?”
    “I saw Maria yesterday evening. We had an argument.”
    “What do you mean, you saw Maria?”
    “Never mind about that now, Ben. We have to find her. I’ll check my hotel…”
    “Why would she go to your hotel? Say, what’s going on here, pal?”
    “…If she’s not there, I’ll try her office at the World Trade Center.”
    “She swore she wasn’t having an affair with you.”
    “We never went to bed if that’s what you mean. Look, Ben, we don’t have time for this. You check her university office and her apartment again.”

Maria wasn’t at my hotel. I went to her World Trade Center office when it opened. She wasn’t there, and no one had seen her since she left with me to ride the Staten Island Ferry.
    I went to her departmental office at the university. They hadn’t seen Maria since yesterday, but said Ben had just left to check her apartment again. I phoned Maria. A man answered. It wasn’t Ben so I hung up.
    Ben showed up at his townhouse about eleven o’clock. He was pale and his hand shook as he put the key in the lock. “Maria’s dead. She apparently returned to her apartment after I left and shot herself with a pistol I gave her for protection.”
    “Did she leave a note?”
    “No. Come inside, Paul. I want you to tell me why you and Maria argued.”
“I told her I had discovered the Final Story during my trip to Israel. I said I couldn’t tell anyone but she made me tell her. She became very upset and ran away.”
    “What was she doing with you, Paul?”
    “She took an interest in my search for the Final Story.”
    Ben’s face became flushed. “You don’t know anything. You were trying to seduce Maria by pretending to take her into your confidence. I’ve seen you use that technique dozens of times.”
    “What I know would not only launch us permanently into post-reality, it would start the Last Judgment.”
    Ben laughed, “There is no Last Judgment.”
    That’s when I was tempted to tell him everything.
    He went to his desk and pulled a revolver from the drawer. “You betrayed my trust.”
    “Nothing happened between Maria and me.”
    “You shut up.” Ben took a step toward me, raised the revolver, and aimed it. His hand was shaking.
    I stared into the gun barrel. “Go ahead. Pull the trigger. You’d be doing me a favor.”
Ben slumped into a chair, sobbing, “Oh, God, what am I going to do without Maria?” I slipped the revolver from his hand and removed the bullets.
    As I opened the door to leave, Ben said, “All possibilities universes are real. We are free to choose any universe by shifting our consciousness. Publish your one-universe, no-freedom idea, turn you into a world-class fool, pal.”
    I hesitated. Again, I was tempted to tell him everything. Instead, I stepped out of the house and closed the door behind me.

Maria was dead. I needed help and the only person I could turn to was Preacher John. It was snowing again, but I found John by the Arch finishing a conversation with the only two people in Washington Square.
    “Maria killed herself last night.”
    “No! Paul, I’m sorry.”
    “What am I going to do, John?”
    “Tell me what happened.”
    “We had a fight. She didn’t want to see me again.”
    “Why?”
    “I told her the Final Story and wouldn’t admit it was just my imagination.”
    “What did you tell her?”
    “Everything.”
    “But you say she didn’t believe you?”
    “She said it was insane to think that the Final Story was true. She wanted me to say it wasn’t true.”
    “And you couldn’t do that.”
    “No. That’s when she started crying and said she didn’t want to see me again.”
    “If Maria despaired because of what you told her, why haven’t you despaired?”
    “Because I accept myself for what I am. After you say no to Jesus, you have to say yes to yourself.”
    “There could be many reasons why she despaired that have nothing to do with what you told her, Paul. I mean, you only knew her for a couple of weeks. To be honest, Maria may have despaired because she thought she had lost you to, well, to madness.”
    “Let me tell you the Final Story and you can judge for yourself if I’m crazy.”
    “First, why did you vow never to tell anyone?”
    “Because what I know will start the Last Judgment.”
    “I don’t believe you.”
    “You said Jesus could do it by revealing what he knows. I now know what Jesus knows.”
    “Do you realize you’re saying you are Jesus?”
    “No, John. Only if I tell the Final Story do I become Jesus.”
    “Paul, what you’re saying is irrational.”
    “If you really believe that, let me tell you what I know.”
    “Does what you know confirm Isaiah was right about the remnant?
    “Yes.”
    “Does it explain why there is no second chance?”
    “Yes. And more…why Nietzsche said there was only one Christian…what John Calvin meant by double predestination…”
    “Do you want to tell me? Do you want to become Jesus?”
    “No.”
    “Then don’t. Let Jesus start the Last Judgment.”
    “If he can.”
    John smiled. “You’re a devil, Paul.”
    “I’m a devil with a problem—I’ve never in my life been able to keep my mouth shut.”
    “You could join a monastery.”
    “C’mon, John, what would prevent me from telling one of the monks?”
    John pulled an address book from his pocket. “At this monastery, all monks follow a strict rule of silence.”
    “Nobody talks?”
    “Correct.”
    “It’s out of the question. I can’t leave my kids.”
    “Paul, this is your decision. If you will keep your mouth shut, or, if you doubt you are right, there’s no need to isolate yourself.”
    “I’ve never been able to keep my mouth shut. And, sane or insane, I have no doubt.”
    “I can get you an appointment with the abbot, Paul. The rest will be up to you.”

———————

Author: Wills, Jim.
Title: Second coming : a novel / by Jim Wills.
Published: Los Angeles : Donnée Books, c1997.
Description: 207 p. ; 22 cm.
LC Call No.: PS3573.I45659S43 1997
Dewey No.: 813/.54 21
ISBN 10: 0965056902
ISBN 13: 9780965056902