He should try to sleep. He found himself staring at a bulge under the magazines. He lifted Christian Parenting and pulled out the black book he’d moved aside earlier. He read the spine for the title.
Oh.
Carl tried to remember if he’d ever held one of these in his hands before. On the few occasions his family had gone to church – usually Easter and Christmas – the church used some kind of mini-version called a Missal. But this... this was an original. He flipped the pages. The print was small. Still, somewhere in here, maybe, was the secret of Mrs. Carboneau’s faith. Some kind of explanation for how she could so willingly do what she was doing. Maybe this book could even answer why he, himself, could so willingly do what he was doing.
Carl was tired. He was edgy. Until these two opposing forces could work some compromise, he opened the Bible to a random page and began to read.
43
Suresh Ramprakash had not been visited by the deva since last week. Whether the spirit, who never offered his name, was truly one of the countless denizens of heaven called angels, or Krishna himself, did not matter. The visit had felt final then, that within the dream that was not a dream, he had to make a decision. Choose forever: action or inaction.
He had to decide while in the deva's company. This was no fancy. These events were shaping the future, forming history for perhaps the next twenty-five thousand years, as when Krishna first stood with Arjuna on the battlefield. Suresh was chosen, standing in a place much like the grove of his childhood though cleaner, more open than true memory. Suresh felt this mystic world calling him, and knew he could not turn from it. The angel forced him to turn and face the curved and naked shape of Neha sleeping on the starlit path before him, one arm cast beside her and partially hidden by a tree. Her body was perfect. Suresh swelled with admiration and love.
“Is it truly love, or lust?” said the deva. “The rajo-guna of your faith has two faces, rage and lust. Is true love having this woman's adoration and respect, or merely the occasional touch, the feel of her skin on your lips, the joining of your bodies?”
The spirit spoke frankly, not with judgment but simple curiosity. Suresh had thought about the question, walking forward in the grove and kneeling beside Neha's body. He touched her arm, warm, dark, glistening in the dewy starlight. He did want her, physically, yes, but that was not all.
“I do love her,” he whispered, finding his gaze drifting over her body but returning always to her face, the curve of her jaw, the soft blanket of lids over eyes that were full of fire when awakened. The visitor from heaven said nothing, but Suresh felt him watching.
Suresh stood then, and looked away from his wife. The mango trees swayed in a slight wind, rustling their leaves in whispered song. It was beautiful here, as beautiful as the sleeping form behind him. More so, perhaps, but he loved Neha and that was enough. “I do love her,” he repeated softly. Then, with more conviction, “Action rightly denounced brings freedom, does it not?”
The deva said nothing at first, his face soft and radiant but without emotion. He looked past Suresh, apparently at the woman, then simply nodded. Before the dream ended, he said with the same, indifferent tone, “Truth, rightly denounced, also brings untruth, does it not?”
Suresh awoke, rolled over to look at his wife in this real, tangible world. She was not there. Of course not, he realized. She was on duty until eleven that morning.
That had been last Thursday, and when Neha had later inquired about his dreams as they watched the evening news, watched the story of those who had not turned away from God, he lied and said the visions had stopped.
It felt as though her question was in fact the deva speaking through her, asking one more time if he would repent his decision. He did not, breathed easier knowing he was trading one responsibility for another. One truth for another. Whether or not this other was a lie, as the angel implied, did not matter. He’d made his decision. It was enough.
Now, he turned right off of Massachusetts Avenue. The lunchtime traffic, even in such a residential community as Arlington, was heavy. The old historic city was a major pass-through between the congested Route 128 traffic and the back roads into Cambridge. Still, as he pulled from the main thoroughfare, skirting the center, he thought there were still too many cars. At a red traffic light, he checked the map he'd printed from the Internet, outlining the neighborhood. He'd have to cut over to Route 3A which eventually led back north to the highway, but break off before the town line onto a small road named Macomb Street. From there, he had only one more turn and he would find what he was looking for.
They would be back in this area on Friday, he and Neha, further up Mass Ave in the wealthy suburb of Lexington. They'd been invited to attend a dinner by Neha's employer. An older man from the way Neha described him. She had clearly stressed the importance of the upcoming event, and had been gracious in not asking him more than a couple of times to refrain from participating in any discussions about the “Flood People,” unless he was asked pointedly. He agreed. She seemed content with his promise. Neha acted as if her husband’s earlier visions never truly happened, that perhaps it was she who dreamed the whole thing.
The light turned green. Suresh followed the traffic until it stopped at the next light. On his right spread a massive cemetery, so many headstones he wondered how they found room. He stared at the markers, at the grass only beginning to shimmer that brilliant new green which he and Neha so loved about this country. Spring meant joy for people and plants alike.
There would be no more. Perhaps not all of this would be destroyed; perhaps the forces behind the pending deluge would only prune, snip away the overgrowth like a woman tending her garden.
The horn of a car jolted him from this reverie. Suresh jerked his car forward. Already the gap between his and the next leading car was enough to make the Dodge Ram behind him try pulling around. Heaven forbid us to have open space on the road, Suresh thought, and pressed the accelerator to close the gap. The Ram was forced to move back into its place, but not without a flannel arm stuck from the window with the official Boston salute.
Macomb Street was on the left. All but two of the cars ahead of him turned that way, waiting for those coming south to also turn in. The Ram blared its horn again, but Suresh assumed it was directed at the entire crowd of cars this time. After a few minutes, and an appropriate gap in traffic, Suresh pulled his Chevrolet onto Macomb. Two things became obvious. He was not the only one with this particular trip in mind today, and if he was going to get back to work this afternoon without using up a vacation day, he would need a new tactic.
He checked his map, glancing quickly at the cars ahead to be sure he wasn't driving into someone's bumper. His destination wasn't far. Suresh pulled the sedan into the first open spot by the sidewalk and turned off the engine.
It was a nice day. He could walk.
As it turned out, he'd chosen well. The closer he came to his destination, the fewer parking possibilities remained. The sidewalk ran along the tree-lined road, heavy roots occasionally pushing through asphalt. The leaves neared full bloom, casting him and the other walkers in a soft, luminous green. The constant smell of car exhaust, though not eradicated, was greatly reduced here among the old neighborhood homes. The smell of cut grass was life, cool, always moving. He walked by a rose bush. Two yellow bees emerged to fly about his head, offered their obligatory warning, then buzzed away to continue feeding.