Keeper of Dreams (95 page)

“Never mind him,” said my companion. “He isn’t British, either. And he’s in a bad mood. Just lost a bet, you see.”

“Lost a bet?”

“He thought he had it sussed. Thought he understood all my plans. He watched how I got all his ideas about social justice put into an atheist package and called it Communism, and
he
thought it was nothing more than an annoyance. Then he thought he understood what I was doing when I got the Communist Party installed in power in Russia and it became such a horrid place to live, but he never grasped it.”

“Oh, I grasped it all right,” I said. “Typical of your methods. You set up a system in Russia in the
name
of communism, but you actually had it function like the nastiest sort of monopoly capitalism.”

“Don’t you think that was a lovely touch?” my companion asked. “They would win converts by
preaching
your theories, but when they governed, what they put in practice was always
mine
. I loved the USSR. It was as if IBM had bought all the other companies in the world, so you couldn’t get a job unless you worked for them. Capitalism to
perfection
, and they were all commies!”

“Deception is a cheap trick,” I murmured.

“Of course,” he said proudly. “And in the meantime, I watched how hard he was working in the U.S. and Europe, trying to get capitalism tamed, to fence it around with laws so that it was fair and the common people could get an even break. Oh, I tried to interfere with him enough that he’d think I was opposed to what he was doing, but he was playing into my hands.”

“You’re a graceless winner,” I pointed out to him.

“Then a few years back, he thinks he’s going to beat me. I watch him grooming Gorbachev, and then he makes his move and puts him in power—not very subtle, you know. Killing off three old coots in rapid succession like that—how obvious can you get!”

“Just because you wish
you
could do it,” I said.

“He frees eastern Europe, he has the Soviet Union eating out of his hands, and then all of a sudden he realizes the trap I’ve sprung for him! Just when he thinks he’s defeated me, and it turns out that I’ve used his own actions to defeat
him
!”

“I knew it earlier than that,” I said.

“Because when he broke down the system that worked
my
way, it completely discredited the
philosophy
that
he
believes in! And the people who live in those countries where he got the power of capitalism tamed, he’s got
them
believing that it was free-market capitalism that accomplished all of that, so they’re breaking down all the regulations that kept capitalism in check in the West. So now the victorious capitalists are going to do my work for me! The whole world thinks that capitalism defeated communism, when it was virtually the
opposite
that’s the truth. The whole world is
racing
to adopt free-market capitalism. We truly will have Hell on Earth!”

“Oh, shut up,” I suggested.

“You leftists are such bad losers,” said the lobbyist.

My companion ignored him. “The sweetest irony is that even his own churches are going along with it. I won I won I won!” he crowed.

“Yes,” I said. “You did.”

“So now I get to do it,” said my companion. “I get to destroy the world. Such a simple thing, really. The nuclear weapons in the old Soviet Union—give me a few months and I’ll have them in the hands of every group that hates somebody else so badly they’re willing to use them.”

“But you forget,” I said. “Now I get to look ahead into the future.”

“Oh, of course,” he said. “But there
is
no future to look ahead to.”

I let down the barrier that had so long blocked my vision, and despaired.

Lucifer laughed and laughed.

The lobbyist looked from him to me and back again. “Are you guys out of your minds?”

“Enough to make you want to o.d., isn’t it!” cackled the devil.

“Maybe I
won’t
destroy it,” I said. “I don’t have to. The wager was that
if
I destroy it, you get to do it.”

“Weasel all you want,” he answered. “Leave it forever, I don’t mind. It’s just misery and oppression, poverty and bitter injustice through the world. It’ll get worse and worse, until you give up and decide to destroy them after all—and then I get to do it.”

I thought of wiping everything clean and starting over yet again, and it just made me tired. No, if I couldn’t undo the mess he’d made within a year or two, that would be the end of it. No Noah this time. Just let it all go and find something else to do. Why couldn’t these humans, just this
once
, see through his lies? They’ve spit in my face once too often. Why should I save them again?

Or at least that’s how I felt then. I don’t feel so depressed today. Maybe by tomorrow I’ll get some of my hope back. Maybe then I’ll have the heart to set out once again to fight him on every front. Or maybe I’ll just take the easy way, and delay him only long enough to find my Noah and get a ship ready for him. It’ll have to be a starship this time, and that’ll take longer, but I can probably do it. I mean, I
am
omnipotent, when it comes down to that. And I really don’t like to lose.

When the children started moving out of the house and starting their own families, Jared and Rachel couldn’t decide whether to be relieved or depressed about it. On the one hand, they would have their own lives back. No more racing home to have a car available for some-body’s date. No more sorting through the clean clothes to pick out items that somebody slipped into a batch of the parents’ laundry. No more taking endless messages or giving endless reminders. Rachel could actually go with Jared on any of his lectures or conferences that she wanted. Jared could probably do some of his work at home instead of having to flee the house to get peace and quiet in his office up at the university.

On the other hand, the children were in the most exciting phase of life, and for many years their activities had been much more important to Jared and Rachel, emotionally at least, than their own. The house felt empty. “It’s too big now,” Jared said, several times. And then the suggestion: “A condo closer to campus.”

But Rachel didn’t want to leave the ward. Jared’s life was focused on campus. Rachel’s life was centered in the Primary and the ward choir. Jared could leave the ward and still have his friendships at work. For Rachel it would be starting over. She had twenty-five years invested in the Lakeview Third Ward and she wasn’t going to throw that all away. One thing about having your career be in the Church: You never vested. There was no pension that you could take with you, eking out long friendships and favorite callings during the lonely years of old age. When Jared finally repeated his remark about moving nearer to campus often
enough that Rachel realized he was serious, she answered as clearly as possible. “I’m not going anywhere. When I’m old and decrepit, coming to church with a walker, I intend to be surrounded by children I taught in Primary.”

“All the children you taught in Primary will have grown up and moved away, like our kids,” said Jared.

“By then I’ll be senile and I’ll
think
they’re the same children,” said Rachel. “Don’t expect me to be rational about this. If you move, you move alone.”

“I can’t keep up the yard anymore, not with the boys all gone.”

“Hire a kid from the neighborhood,” said Rachel.

“And then pay for another sprinkler head every week when it gets chopped up in the lawnmower,” said Jared.

“If you keep grumbling I’ll make another no-salt dinner.”

“If you make another no-salt dinner I’ll eat out.”

“If you eat out I’ll buy a whole new wardrobe for fall.”

“If you buy a whole new wardrobe I’ll buy a boat and go fishing.”

“If you buy a boat and go fishing I’ll go out and buy a ten-pound salmon so that we can add it to what you catch and have ten pounds of fish for dinner.”

“All right, let’s skip all the expensive stuff and have salmon for dinner.” Jared laughed and kissed her and went up to the office. He never mentioned the condo idea again.

But they were wrong about having an empty house. They were wrong about needing less space. Because Jared’s father died on Halloween, and with him gone there was no one to care for Hazel, Jared’s mother, who was severely limited because of her arthritis. “I don’t want to be a burden on my daughters-in-law,” said Hazel.

“Your daughters live in New Jersey and Rio de Janeiro,” said Rachel. “You can’t deal with the humidity and pollution in either place. And I liked you even before I decided to fall in love with your little boy. I think we can get along.” Inwardly Rachel knew that it would be a severe trial for both of them. But she also knew that there was no better choice. Someday I may need someone to care for me, she thought. I’ll treat Mother Hazel exactly as I hope to be treated—plenty of independence, plenty of opportunities for her to help out, and zero tolerance for any
interference in the running of the household, not that Mother Hazel has ever tried to meddle.

“I’ll do it as long as you understand that I have got to be allowed to help out even if it drives you crazy, because I can’t stand to be idle,” said Hazel.

“You can help out as long as you fit into the way I do things in my kitchen,” said Rachel, “even if you think it’s completely boneheaded.”

They presented Jared with a fait accompli. “Your mother is taking the girls’ bedroom and she’s getting exclusive use of the second-floor bathroom,” said Rachel.

“How nice,” said Jared. “Especially because all the rest homes I’ve looked into are either resorts or prisons, and none of us can afford the former and I would rather die than put you in the latter.”

“You’ve been looking into rest homes?” asked Hazel darkly.

“I didn’t know that Rachel would be willing to let you live here,” said Jared. “And you always said that you’d rather be in a rest home than burden any of your children.”

“I was lying,” said Hazel. “Besides, I refuse to be a burden. An albatross, maybe, but not a burden.”

So it was set. By Thanksgiving, Hazel would be in residence, and the house would not be so empty.

In all the busyness of getting things ready for Hazel—they even priced home elevators and stair climbers, until Hazel informed them that she could still climb stairs—it took a while for Rachel to realize that Jared really wasn’t taking the death of his father in stride.

“I’m doing fine,” said Jared. He had a puzzled look on his face.

“I know you are,” said Rachel. “But you get this lost look sometimes. You just stand there, in the middle of some action.”

“I’m an absentminded professor. I usually
am
lost.”

“Just now, you stood there looking in the mirror, your tie half tied, for five minutes.”

“I forgot how to do a double Windsor.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I think it has to do with your father.”

“Maybe it does.”

“Maybe you need to cry. You didn’t, you know.”

“He was old. He was in terrible health. Pain all the time. Death came to him as a relief. He was a good man and the Lord will honor him in the next life. What’s to cry about?”

“You tell me.”

“I still have my mother,” said Jared.

“Is that an answer?”

“No,” said Jared. “I think it’s a question.” He laughed mirthlessly. “I’m not sure how to deal with her without Dad.”

“Excuse me if I sound judgmental, but I’m not aware of your father ever ‘dealing’ with her.”

“But he did,” said Jared. “Quietly, alone, later, patiently, he dealt with her.”

“And that’s it? That’s what you miss about your father? That he won’t be here to help with Hazel?”

Jared seemed to be thinking about her question. But then he finished adjusting his clothing and left the room without saying another word. Rachel wrote this up on her mental chalkboard and drew a big thick square around it: Jared is having a very hard time dealing with his father’s death. She had no idea what to do about this, or even if she should do anything at all. But she would watch.

At Thanksgiving, everything went perfectly. Hazel had been in residence for two days and had already shed any hint of being a guest. Thanksgiving dinner could have been a nightmare—two women in the kitchen!—but Hazel did only what she was asked, except that she made a batch of candied yams, which Jared and Rachel both loathed but which Hazel needed in order for it to be really Thanksgiving. “My mother made them,” she explained. “When I eat them, I see her again. Silly, isn’t it? Conjuring the dead with candied yams.” It made Rachel think about what she would always carry of her mother, when the time came that she couldn’t just fly down to Phoenix to see her. That whipped-cream-and-jello dessert they called “Gone with the Wind”? “All foods have to have a name,” Rachel’s father had said. “Calling it ‘That Green Dessert’ could describe half the food in the fridge.” So Rachel’s younger sister, who was an absolute
Gone with the Wind
groupie, had named it for the sine qua non of American literature. But did that dessert really stand for Rachel’s mother, or was it just a family thing? Jared hated it anyway, so Rachel only
made it when her parents or a sibling came to visit. Or when Jared was traveling. Maybe it was one of the last remnants of her single life. Who could guess what any of these things really meant? Everybody had their own private mythology, with inexplicably powerful icons arising from the most commonplace things. Candied yams. Gone with the Wind. A double Windsor knot.