“It wasn’t very spiritual,” Debby said. She explained about the bleak nature of the opera and then said, “Last night at the theater we met a man named Richard who said he was a monk here. He had an elderly friend named Alexander who said Richard had driven him up from Albuquerque.”
“Yes, Brother Richard’s friend was named Alexander.”
“They sat next to us at a pre-opera dinner,” Debby said. “Then it turned out they were just a few seats away from us in the same row at the opera. When we left early, we crossed paths with them in the parking lot. Their car was next to ours. The whole thing felt strange.”
“And strangest of all,”“ Frank said, speaking quickly, “the state police say Brother Richard and his friend Alexander died at six-forty, south of the opera house, so how could we have met them at the opera and watched them drive north afterward?”
Brother Sebastian’s inner stillness changed to unease. “Perhaps you’re misremembering the names.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t misremember that one of them said he was a monk here,” Frank said.
“Perhaps the newspaper got the time and place of the accident wrong. Perhaps it happened after the opera.”
“No,” Frank said. “I phoned the state police. They agree with the newspaper. The accident happened at six-forty.”
“Then you couldn’t have met Brother Richard and his friend at the opera.”
“It certainly seems that way,” Debby said. “But this is making us crazy. To help us stop thinking about this, if you have a photograph of Brother Richard, would you mind showing it to us?”
Brother Sebastian studied them. “Superstition isn’t the same as spirituality.”
“Believe me, we’re not superstitious,” Frank said.
Brother Sebastian studied them another long moment. “Wait here, please.”
Five minutes later the monk returned. The wind was stronger, tugging at his brown robe and kicking up red dust. He held a folded newspaper.
“A journalist from Santa Fe came here last summer to write a story about us. We saw no harm in it, especially if it encouraged troubled people to attend retreats here.” Brother Sebastian opened the newspaper and showed Frank and Debby a color picture of a man in robes standing outside the church.
Frank and Debby stepped closer. The photograph was faded, but there was no mistaking what they saw.
“Yes,” Frank said. “That’s the man we met at the opera last night.” The wind brought a chill.
“No,” Brother Sebastian said. “Unless the state police are wrong about the time and place of the accident, what you’re telling me isn’t possible. Superstition isn’t the same as spirituality.”
“I don’t care how logical he insists on being,” Frank said. “Something happened to us.” Guiding the SUV along the muddy road, he added, “Last night, do you remember how bad the storm was when we arrived home?”
“Yes. I was glad we weren’t on the road.”
“Right. The storm didn’t quit until after midnight. It shook the house. If we hadn’t left the opera early, we’d have been caught in it. The newspaper said there were several accidents.”
“What are you getting at?” Debby asked.
“If Brother Sebastian heard me now, he’d say I was definitely superstitious. Do you suppose…”
“Just tell me what you’re thinking.”
Frank forced himself to continue. “Alexander and Brother Richard gave us the idea of leaving early. We followed them. As crazy as it sounds, if we’d stayed for the entire opera and driven home in the storm, do you suppose we might have been killed?”
“Are you actually suggesting they saved our lives? Two ghosts?”
“Not when you put it that way.”
“It’s impossible to know what might have happened if we’d driven home later,” Debby said firmly.
“Right. And as for ghosts…” Frank’s voice drifted off. He reached the solid footing of the highway and headed back to Santa Fe.
One year later, Frank again saw Alexander and Brother Richard.
It was a Saturday morning in late August. He and Debby were in downtown Santa Fe, buying vegetables at the farmers’ market. As they carried their sacks toward where they’d parked on a side street, Frank saw a short, slight, elderly man with white hair and a matching goatee. Next to him was a tall, well-built young man, with short, dark hair and a square-jawed face. Unusual in the farmers’ market atmosphere at nine in the morning, they both wore dark suits and white shirts. Their eyes were very clear.
“Those two men over there,” Frank said, pausing.
“Who?” Debby asked. “Where?”
“Next to the bakery stand over there. An old guy and a young guy. You can’t miss them. They’re wearing black suits.”
“I don’t notice any—”
“They’re staring straight at us. I feel like I’ve seen them before. They have a…”
“Have a what?”
“Glow. My God, do you remember the two guys from…”
As Frank moved toward them, they turned and walked into the crowd.
He increased speed.
“What are you doing?” Debby called.
Frank caught a glimpse of the black suits within the crowd, but no matter how urgently he tried to push past people buying from various stands, he couldn’t get closer.
“Wait!”
Vaguely aware of people staring at him, he saw the black suits disappear in the crowd. After another minute of searching, he had no idea which direction to take.
Baffled, Debby reached him.
“The two guys from the opera,” Frank explained. “It was them.”
“The opera?”
“Don’t you remember?”
People bumped past him, carrying sacks. Frank stepped onto a crate and scanned the crowd, looking for two men in black suits, but all he saw were people in shorts and T-shirts.
“Damn it, I had so many questions.”
Debby looked at him strangely.
Tires squealed. Metal and glass shattered. A woman screamed.
Frank ran toward a side street. Peering through the crowd, he and Debby saw what used to be their SUV. A pickup truck had slammed into it. A woman lay on the pavement, next to a bicycle, its wheels spinning.
“I saw the whole thing,” a man said. “The truck was weaving. Driver must be drunk. He swerved to avoid the girl on the bicycle and hit that car parked over there. It’s a lucky thing no one was killed.”
“If I hadn’t noticed them,” Frank said, watching a tow truck haul their SUV away, “if they hadn’t distracted me, we’d have been at our car when the accident happened. They saved us. Saved us for a second time.”
“I didn’t see them. The opera? How could it be the same two men?”
The third time Frank noticed them was five years later. Thursday. December 10. Seven P.M. Debby had been recovering from a miscarriage, her fourth in their fifteen-year marriage. Finally accepting that they would never have children of their own, they discussed the possibility of adopting. Now that Debby felt well enough to leave the house, Frank tried to raise her spirits by taking her to a restaurant that had recently opened and was receiving fabulous reviews.
The restaurant was near Santa Fe’s historic plaza, so after they parked, they walked slightly out of their way to appreciate the holiday lights on the trees and the pueblo-style buildings.
“God, I love this town,” Frank said. Snow started to fall. “Are you warm enough?”