Blessed Child (8 page)

“Excuse me, please.”

Jason opened one eye and saw the small boy standing. The boy? He jerked up and looked around the room. His home in Pasadena . . . with the boy, Caleb, standing beside his bed, at nine in the morning according to the analog clock on the wall. He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Caleb stood with his arms at his sides, dressed in the gray cotton slacks and white dress shirt Leiah had bought him in London. The brown sandals fit him well, although they didn't really complement the outfit. He had chosen them over the black shoes Leiah had shown him. His hair lay in tangles to his shoulders.

“Good morning, Caleb. You're up bright and early.”

“Sir?”

Yes, he did speak English, didn't he? At least basic English. “Just a saying we use in America. Did you sleep well?”

“Sir, we must go to the church.” His choice of words certainly didn't sound childish, but then again he hadn't grown up with children, had he? In Ethiopia it would be proper English.

“Church? Yes, of course. You'll have lots of time to go to church.”

“We will go now, then?”

“Now? No, heavens no.” Jason chuckled and plopped back on the pillow. “It's nine o'clock in the morning, middle of the night Ethiopian time.”

The boy's round aqua eyes blinked. He looked out the window and then back. “I would like very much to go to the church.”

Jason sat up. “Yes, I'm sure you would, but we can't. I don't even know which churches are open or when the services start. It's been years since I've stepped foot inside a church, my boy.” He threw the covers aside to stand. “Now, what do you say we go get us some breakfast? Ever hear of McDonald's?”

Caleb seemed not to have heard. He took a step back and blinked several times. “I would like very much to find the church.”

Poor child was feeling lost. The church was the only home he knew. “We will, Caleb. We will. We'll take you to the Orthodox church on Monday.”

Caleb suddenly seemed frantic. His eyes shifted to the window, welled with tears, and then returned to Jason. He brought his hands to his chin in a praying gesture and begged. “We must go to the church! Please, sir.” The boy's little body trembled and Jason felt the first pang of alarm. What if the boy did snap as Leiah suggested? He'd certainly never seen a ten-year-old looking like Caleb did now. “I beg you, good sir. I beg you—”

“Okay, Caleb.” He held out his hand for the boy to settle down. “Okay, we'll take you to a church. Maybe we can find one open tonight.”

The boy stilled for a moment and then he began to pace frantically, four feet one way and four feet back. His eyes were searching the floor desperately.

Jason stood, frightened by the behavior now. “Okay, Caleb, settle down. Please settle down. We'll get Leiah and go to the church, okay?”

The boy stopped midstride and spun to him, his eyes round with relief. He rushed forward, grabbed Jason's right hand, and began to kiss it. “I thank you; I thank you,” he said.

Jason felt his chest constrict at the sight.
Dear Caleb, I'm so sorry.
He placed a hand on the boy's head and pulled him close. He wanted to say something, but his throat was aching and he couldn't speak.

The boy wrapped his arms around Jason's waist and held tight. Then he broke away and pulled Jason by the hand. “We will go now?”

“Well, I do have to get dressed, boy. I can't very well fetch our dear nurse in my underwear, can I?”

He dressed quickly and led Caleb to the guesthouse. Leiah responded on their third attempt to raise her. She stood in her blue tunic, her dark hair messy and her eyes squinting.

“The boy insists we go to church,” Jason said, smiling.

“Now?”

“Yes, trust me. Now. He doesn't seem interested in accepting no for an answer.”

“Goodness, I haven't been to a church in a dozen years.” She hesitated. “Well, give me a minute to throw myself together here.” She shut the door without waiting for a response.

“There you go, Caleb. Church it is.”

It occurred to Jason then that the Greek Orthodox church which ran the orphanage would probably be having their Sunday Mass soon. Church services usually started at ten or eleven, didn't they? He had attended the Greater Life Community Church on the east side of Pasadena for three months leading up to his son's death seven years ago. It would take an army of angels to drag him back into that sanctuary again.

Fifteen minutes later Jason piloted his white Ford Bronco down the Hollywood freeway toward the valley. According to the yellow pages, liturgy began at ten-thirty Sundays at Holy Ascension Greek Orthodox Church in Burbank—the church responsible for Caleb's future. Their large color-splashed ad included a small picture of Father Nikolous, dressed in white-and-gold robes with a towering white headpiece that reminded Jason of pictures of the pope.

Leiah had managed to wash and dry her new clothes before turning in, and she wore them now, white turtleneck and all. Jason thought about offering her some of his clothes, but quickly decided that he could hardly do it without embarrassing her. He wasn't sure that jeans were standard fare in Orthodox services, but hers were clean and they fit well.

Caleb sat in the rear, face pressed against the window, gawking at the mix of metal and concrete flying by. It was the first time he'd seen a Western city by daylight, Jason thought. Speeds within the monastery hadn't exceeded walking or the occasional run. It was a slow life with enough time to hear your own breathing and consider its source. Watching a mouse scamper across the room would qualify as a highlight. Now the boy was confronted with eight lanes of lumbering trucks and flashing cars, roaring at breakneck speeds. It would be akin to stepping into a Jetsons cartoon and watching futuristic cars hover by.

Leiah sat in the front passenger seat, looking back at the boy with furrowed brow. “You ever bring a Third-World refugee to the States?” Jason asked.

“No. You?”

“No. At least we've established that Caleb speaks English, haven't we, Caleb?” Jason asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

The boy looked at the back of his head but did not respond.

Jason tapped the mirror. “Caleb?”

He looked up, saw Jason's image, and smiled.

“Father Matthew taught you English?”

Caleb didn't answer. Why, Jason didn't understand, but the boy just looked out the window, presumably distracted by a huge tractor-trailer that rolled by on their left. The boy muttered something in Ge'ez and fell silent.

“He'll be in shock for days,” Leiah said quietly.

“I don't understand. He spoke so clearly this morning. I mean it wasn't just broken English, but proper English, like last night.”

“So he speaks proper English. That doesn't mean he speaks more than a few dozen words. Either way he's like a fish out of water.”

Jason glanced at the boy's image in the mirror. He was growing rather used to the idea of having him along. Nostalgic, even. Maybe Caleb was bringing something out in him: a sense of purpose that he'd buried with Stephen.

At first sight the large Orthodox church looked like something that belonged in an encyclopedia under the subject of religion rather than on the streets of Burbank, California. The circular drive swept by a crystal-clear pond complete with splashing fountain and large orange carp before running under a causeway in front of the entrance. The lawns were manicured and the palm trees carefully placed to give symmetry to the landscaping. Towering brickwork supported huge bright blue dormers on either side of the entrance. But it was the copper dome arching over the otherwise square structure that gave it the religious feel. These boys knew how to put their money where their hearts were.

Jason parked the Bronco in a visitor's slot and climbed out. They were late, judging by the hundreds of cars sitting quietly in the lot. He walked around to help Caleb out, but the boy had already found his way to the asphalt and was crossing to the large dome.

“Caleb, hold up.” Jason glanced at Leiah and they hurried after the boy. “Well, he recognizes something.”

“Of course he does. The dome. I feel underdressed.”

“You'll be fine. We'll slip in the back and sneak out early.”

“You ever been in an Orthodox church like this?”

“No.”

“Me neither. I really feel underdressed.”

The foyer was lined with Greek pillars rising twenty feet to support a ceiling painted in gold leaf. Leiah rested her hand on the boy's shoulder. They passed a large writing desk that reminded Jason of a concierge's station, and the man who peered past his bifocals at their entry seemed to fit the part. A business manager perhaps. Someone had to keep the coffers full.

The door leading into the sanctuary was at least ten feet tall and made of solid oak. Jason pulled a brass handle three times the size of his hand and ushered Leiah and the boy through it. He followed them and let the door close softly behind him.

Nothing could have quite prepared him for the atmosphere that met him. The dome spanned over them in brilliant gold, divided in a dozen sections, each section framing huge paintings of robed men with eyes too large for their faces. Presumably Christ and his disciples. The rectangular walls were covered in a burgundy velvet cloth. Three huge crystal chandeliers, glittering with a hundred bright lights, hung over the sanctuary. The sight was enough to stop all three of them for a moment.

A rich scent filled Jason's nostrils—an incense Jason didn't recognize or possibly the smell of the candles blazing on the platform. Every detail was in perfect order; not a soul moved from their place. The congregation was seated in long pews on either side of the plush aisle at their feet. They sat like puppets, fixated on the ceremony conducted by Father Nikolous, who Jason immediately recognized from his picture. Had a stray sheep in the flock turned to take note of the slight disturbance, they would've seen three sadly underdressed strangers who looked as if they'd just entered the wrong facility by mistake.

Fortunately, it wasn't the kind of atmosphere that invited the sheep to turn and stare.
Un
fortunately, the Father didn't need to turn to see them. His eyes held Jason's for a long moment before dropping back to the large book in his hands.

Jason tugged on Leiah's arm and sidestepped into the last pew. She followed quickly, slipping in beside him.

But the boy stood staring ahead, transfixed by the sight.

Leiah reached out and gently laid her hand on his shoulder. “Caleb,” she whispered softly.

Caleb was not listening. He stepped forward and Leiah's hand fell off his shoulder. It was a small, slow step, but it was away from them, up the aisle.

Caleb had taken three more steps forward before Jason realized that the boy actually intended on walking to the front. His heart skipped a beat, and he let his instincts take over for one terrible moment.

“Caleb!”

His harsh whisper might as well have been a yell. A dozen parishioners near the back turned and dipped their heads to offer stern stares.

But Caleb walked on, slow and frail, with his arms hanging by his sides. Leiah had buttoned his white shirt up to the last button and combed his hair so that it parted in the middle and fell neatly to his shoulders. He stared directly ahead and moved as if lost in a world beyond the one captured under this gold dome.

On the platform Father Nikolous came to the end of a stanza. One of the priests next to him began to sing in a high warbly voice and the congregation joined him like a well-practiced choir. A bowl of smoking incense hung from a chain in the priest's right hand and swung like a pendulum at his knees, keeping surreal time with his chant.

Caleb walked on, and Jason stood, as if doing so might stop the boy. What was he going to do now? Leiah rose slowly beside him. Jason made a move to exit the pew, but Leiah held out her hand.

“Leave him,” she whispered.

Of the five hundred faithful gathered that day, roughly twenty-five had lost their focus on the liturgy and now watched the strange boy slowly gliding up the aisle. He was halfway to the front, a stray child whose head hardly reached the top of the pews, when the congregation seemed to sense wholesale that something unusual was happening in the aisle. A hush settled over the crowd, beginning at the back and spreading up the thirty or so rows, until only the most devout, seated up front, boldly continued their liturgy.

And then it was only the priest beside Father Nikolous, in a voice that echoed loudly through the auditorium. He caught himself, pried his eyes from the book in his hands, and stopped on the word
and . . .

Father Nikolous frowned and stared at the boy, but he did not speak. The service at Holy Ascension Greek Orthodox Church in Burbank, California, had come to a dead stop.

All eyes were fixed on this one small child who walked up the aisle, seemingly unaware of his boldness, his large eyes fixated on the podium.

Jason moved quietly down the pew to the outer aisle and eased closer to the front, where Leiah joined him. From his vantage point he could see the boy clearly. He scanned the platform and once again met Father Nikolous's disapproving glare. He shifted his eyes and saw then what the boy was staring at. Behind the priest stood a tall wooden cross, with the naked form of Christ hanging in death. Caleb was fixated on the one icon that could easily have been transported here from his monastery at Debra Damarro for its similarity.

The poor child was grasping for a root to his motherland and he had found it here, in this cross with the dead Christ. “He's staring at the crucifix,” Jason whispered.

Leiah nodded. She'd seen it too.

“Should I get him?”

“No, leave him,” she said.

Caleb stopped at the platform steps and stared up at the cross. Ahead and to his right the priest's swinging incense bowl barely moved now. Absolute silence had gripped the church.