The Rising: Antichrist Is Born (9 page)

Finally Ray climbed into the toasty car and stretched out across the backseat again. He could no longer stanch the tears. As he cried, he prayed aloud, “God, help me! Please bring my mother back. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll quit swearing. I’ll quit sassing. I’ll go to church and really listen.”

Ray buried his face in the crook of his elbow, his shoulders heaving. He kept telling himself to go back into the store and get help. But almost as bad as fearing his mother had abandoned him—and his dad being in on it—was the prospect of looking like such a wuss.

As he lay sobbing, he heard footsteps and the driver’s door opening. “Oh, Rayford,” his mother said, “you’re sleeping.”

He quickly wiped his face and sat up. “I’m awake.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, tossing her packages on the passenger’s seat. “You wouldn’t believe what happened.” She started the car without looking at him, and he was relieved. Relieved that she was alive, that she was here, that he had been wrong. Had God answered his prayer? Ray was amazed at how quickly he regretted making all those promises, especially when his mother’s return seemed so plain and hardly miraculous.

“What happened?” he said.

“Well, it’s embarrassing. I was on my way out of the store, thought I saw someone I knew, and hesitated. As it turned out, it wasn’t her anyway, but when I stopped, the door caught my heel and tore the flesh just above the shoe line. I was bleeding, Rayford. How bizarre. A clerk came running and took me to the employees’ lounge in the back, and the assistant manager was most helpful. He cleaned the wound and bandaged me up. I felt so silly.”

“I wondered where you were.”

“Oh, you probably slept through the whole thing, Ray-ford. I’m limping a little, but it’s just a surface wound and I’ll be good as new by morning.”

“Yeah.”

“I hate to think what your father will say.”

“Um-hm.”

“Well, I can see this elicits no sympathy from my loving son.”

She had no idea. Ray was so grateful that he didn’t know what to say or do. “You should have taken your phone, Ma. You forgot it again.”

“Oh, I know. I thought about calling the car, but with the engine off—”

“Well, if you’d had your phone, I could have called you!” Ray swore.

“Now, honey—”

“You’re just so scatterbrained,” he said.

“Well, I’m sorry. I might have expected a little more understanding.”

“Yeah, sure, like I get from you.”

Again she ignored him. What had gotten into him? What had happened to his fear, his promises to God, his relief? He was angry to have had to endure all that, and for what? A stupid, silly little accident his absent-minded mom could have avoided.

Ray hated himself. What kind of crybaby was he? And what kind of an ungrateful son?

If there was really a God, why hadn’t He just let Ray find his mother? Was this His idea of answering a prayer? Ray had never felt more like a child. Maybe there was a God, but He sure didn’t seem to make any sense, not in the Bible and not here and now in real life.

All that made Ray feel like a fraud, and he didn’t understand himself. His love for his mother, his desperation when she was away, had shown itself in anger and bitterness when she returned.

He turned his guns on his dad at dinner. “Why couldn’t I get through to you on your cell phone this afternoon?”

“You tried calling your dad?” his mother said. “What for? When? And from where?”

“Oh, I was just wondering about something. I don’t even remember what now. And what difference does that make? Mom, sometimes, really …”

“Where’d you call from? We don’t need more phone bills.”

Knowing it would show up on the bill, Ray said, “I tried from the car and then from the store you were in.”

“What did you want?”

“Who cares? That’s not the point! Why didn’t you have your phone on, Dad?”

“I did, Ray. Just calm down. I was on an important call with a supplier in Ohio, if you must know, and it took the entire ride home.”

“Oh.”

“Oh, what? Are you sorry for scolding me before you knew what was going on?”

“Whatever.”

“That describes your whole attitude these days,” his dad said.

That was for sure.

Ray couldn’t concentrate the rest of the night. He didn’t enjoy watching sports on TV, didn’t enjoy reading his aviation books, wasn’t able to relax, and seemed to take forever to get to sleep. This had to be the worst time in his life. Why couldn’t he just be grateful that he had been wrong, his mother had not abandoned him, she was still there, still loved him, would be there for him?

He felt himself retreating farther and farther into his shell. He felt guilty about making promises to God that he may have meant at the time but now seemed crazy and empty. He had no intention of keeping them.

It was one of those rare Tuesday afternoons when Mari-lena’s and Sorin’s workdays ended nearly simultaneously. Marshaling her courage, Marilena poked her head into his office. “Would you consider walking me home?”

He grimaced. “Why would I want to do that? I mean, I have my bike here, and you always take the bus…”

“Never mind.”

“No! I don’t mean it personally, Marilena. It’s just that—”

“Well, can’t you take the bus back here with me in the morning too? Your bike will be fine.”

“I suppose. But why?”

“I just need the exercise and prefer not to walk alone,” she said.

“Come, come,” he said. “I know you better than that. Something troubling you?”

“Yes.”

Sorin loaded his bag and slung it over his shoulder. On their way past Dr. Baduna Marius’s door, Sorin said, “I’m walking home. We’re still on for tonight.”

Baduna nodded and smiled, but he would not look at Marilena. That told her Sorin had informed Baduna that she knew. How awkward. They had to work together. Well, she decided, if Sorin and Baduna could make it work at the office, she certainly could too.

Marilena had not formulated an approach and found herself at a loss for words for the first several blocks of their trek.

“Let’s not waste this disruption of my routine,” Sorin finally said.

“I know,” she said, “but I didn’t take into account how long it’s been since I walked this far. Would you mind terribly if we stopped somewhere?”

“Well, I’m hardly hungry yet,” he said, steering her toward a park bench. “Come on, out with it.”

“Oh, Sorin, I can’t be badgered into a serious discussion. You’re impatient from the beginning. How is that supposed to make me feel?”

“As if I am weary of the game playing and the serious talks,” he said. “We are married in name only. It’s a convenience for both of us, but frankly it is more convenient for you than for me.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Don’t act as if it’s news, Marilena. I appreciate that you uphold your end of the expenses and that we help . each other out. You know full well that I would rather be married to Baduna, but who knows how long it will be before that could become a reality? I appreciate you, consider you a fine person, and enjoy scholarly discussions with you. I do not, however, look forward to these heart-to-hearts.”

Marilena hated that her voice had a tear in it and would make her sound weak. “Perhaps I should spare you then.”

“Oh, please. Save the histrionics. At the very least you have piqued my curiosity.”

Marilena sighed and looked away. Finally, “I want a serious talk. I don’t want to merely satisfy your curiosity.”

“All right. I’m here. I’m not happy; I’m eager to get home, but I’m here.”

“That is hardly conducive to constructive conversation.”

Sorin leaned forward and rested his chin in his hands. “My dear, I have not had a constructive conversation with you, aside from academic subjects, for years. Now don’t cry. I didn’t intend for that to hurt you. You know I tell the truth at any expense.”

“Even my feelings.”

“Frankly, yes.”

She shook her head. “Can you imagine how difficult this is for me, your wanting me to just get on with it?”

“As long as we’re being direct,” he said, “imagine how difficult this is for me. Whatever it is, it’s an interrupter. I can’t imagine caring, and yet I will feel obligated to pretend I do.”

“Am I really that much of a burden, Sorin?”

“Sometimes. Occasionally, yes.”

“You want me to leave, don’t you? I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Leave or stay,” he said, “but please abandon the frequent personal revelations.”

Marilena couldn’t imagine a crueler husband, aside from one who might beat her. “You don’t care what goes on inside me?”

“I don’t, Marilena. I’m sorry, but I don’t. In your mind, perhaps, because you are a careful student and an articulate thinker. But in what you call your heart or soul or whatever it is you are trying to nurture? No. It bores me.”

“But this pertains to you.”

“How can it if I don’t care?”

“Because it would affect you, Sorin!”

“Not if I don’t let it. You know where I stand on all this spiritual prostie”

“Foolery? That’s what you think it is?”

“Of course, and you know it. And unless you have lost your mind, you agree.”

“All of it is craziness. That’s what you think?”

He looked at his watch. “Really, Marilena, I don’t have time in my life for this. You have your meeting tonight with the zevzec, and Baduna and I—”

“Don’t call her a nincompoop, Sorin. That’s beneath you. Disagree with her if you must, but—”

“Marilena! I was being kind! Don’t you see? I called her a zevzec because that’s what I believe you have become!”

Marilena stood and paced. This was no good. She was going to have to leave Sorin, depend upon the state, have a child,

and raise it on her own.

“Can we please go now, dear?” he said.

“Don’t call me dear again,” she said. “Not anymore. I know what you really think of me.”

“Oh, Marilena! What’s become of you? We both know I am not a soft person. I have none of the social graces that should accompany my profession. I don’t speak forthrightly to cause pain, and I get no joy from it. But I would not otherwise be true to myself nor constructive to you. What is it now? Tell me what’s on your mind. I’ll try to be sensitive, though I make no guarantees.”

“You’ll hear me out?”

“I promise.”

  He always kept his word; she had to give him that.

She took a deep breath. “I want a child.”

Sorin covered his eyes, then let his hands slide to cover his mouth, as if to keep from blurting out something ¦*?, injurious.

Before he could change his mind, Marilena sped through what had happened to her, how the urge had come over her long before the Tuesday night meetings, and yet how those meetings and that woman, Viviana, had spoken so specifically to her.

When Sorin took his hands from his mouth, she plunged on, not wanting to hear him. “Just last week we talked after class, and she assured me she knew what was weighing on me. She said she had my answer. Tonight I will make her tell me what she meant. Oh, I know what you think of her and the whole idea of hearing from spirits in a world beyond us. But I can ignore it no longer. Discount the messages, discount the spiritual plane, but don’t you dare deprive me of the right to feel what I did not choose to feel. I want a child. I need a child. I will have a child.”

“Well,” he said at last, “good for you.”

“Good for me?”

“And not so good for me.”

“I was afraid of that.”

“As well you should have been,” he said. “Have I ever given you the impression that I changed my stance on this subject? I don’t want to be a father again. And the last thing I want is my life and routine interrupted.”

“Fine.”

“I am clear then?”

  “You have always been clear, Sorin. Do you think so little of me that this is all you can express? No sympathy, no interest, no joy in what I have come to realize about myself? Are you not happy for me?”

“If this makes you happy, I am happy for you. Naturally, myriad questions arise. Where will you get this child? Where will you raise it? How—?”

“So it was nebunie for me to even dream that you might—?”

“Folly to think this would happen in my apartment, in the midst of my papers and books and work? Of course.”

“Will you miss me?” she said.

Finally she detected a glimmer of compassion. “That I can say in all truthfulness, Marilena. I will miss you.”

“Not all of me.”

“No, not all of you. Not this current obsession and how it seems to have affected your intellect. But there is much engaging about you, and we have been together a long time.”

“And we have had our good days, haven’t we, Sorin?”

  “We have indeed. I shall have many lifetime memories.”

“That makes me bold enough to make one request.”

“Just to save you any grief, let me warn you that this request should be something I might conceivably be able to fulfill. In

other words, it must not include inter—”

“Interrupting your life, yes, I understand. Sorin, I would appreciate it more than I can express if you would—in light of what we have had together—find it within yourself not to divorce me until after I have had my child.”

“But you don’t even know where you might go to be impregnated.”

“That is my problem. I want the child to have a legitimate name. Your name.”

“I have no interest in impregnating you, conventionally or otherwise.”

“I know. I will pay to have that done, but I want my son or daughter to be a Carpathia.”

Sorin stood and she sat. He was not a big man, but he seemed to tower over her. “Should I agree to that condite, it would

not obligate me to—”

She looked up at him. “Any duties or responsibilities as a father, no.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Perhaps I should draft a document that requires you to abandon my name should the child ever do anything to embarrass me.”

“Are we not getting way ahead of ourselves, Sorin?”

“Perhaps. But I must consider my reputation.”

That night at the meeting, Viviana Ivinisova seemed in a hurry. She went through her usual litany of telling the past, the future, communicating with cooperative spirits, lighting the candle, and praying to the angel of light, and she even threw in some tarot reading and interpretation.