The Book of Matthew (The Alex Chronicles Book 1) (13 page)

Suddenly, he lunged across the table and grabbed my wrists in his hands. He held them tight so that I would hear. Startled, I let out a yelp. Papers scattered all over the table, some falling to the floor. His gray hair was mussed and his face was red, veins bulging on the surface of his temples. His eyes were black and beady and his lips curled up into an all-knowing grin.

His voice was loud and forceful. He shook my arms as he spoke.

“Here is a trustworthy saying that deserves full acceptance. Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners—of whom I am the worst. But for that very reason I was shown mercy so that in me, the worst of sinners, Christ Jesus might display his unlimited patience as an example for those who would believe in him and receive eternal life!” He released me and sat back in the chair.

My wrists burned from his grasp. I massaged each of them and stared at my father in fear. I didn’t recognize the man who sat across from me. I trembled at the sight of him.

Suddenly, words reached the tip of my tongue, but from where they came I do not know. It was as if someone had pulled a string on my back. I was a puppet repeating what I was programmed to say.

“Surely you mean to impart some prophecy to me?”

He nodded. “There will be terrible times in your coming years. People will be lovers of themselves, lovers of money, boastful, proud, abusive, disobedient to their parents, ungrateful, unholy, without love, unforgiving, slanderous, without self-control, brutal, not lovers of the good, treacherous, rash, conceited, lovers of pleasure rather than lovers of God—having a form of godliness but denying its power.” He paused.

“What of them?” I asked.

He leaned forward. “Have nothing to do with them.”

“But they hide behind masks. How am I to avoid evil when it surrounds me always? When their hearts are impure and their lives are false, what am I to do when tempted by the forces of their empire and made to worship alongside them in idolatry?”

He folded his hands together on the table. “Pray,” he said resolutely. “Pray that they will come to their senses and escape from the trap of the devil who has taken them captive to do his will.”

I was awash with helplessness. In that moment, the world was a dry, hot, endless desert, and I was the only one in it. I wandered aimlessly, hopelessly, as the sun beat down on me. My skin burned with the knowledge that I was alone. I thirsted for comfort.

I lowered my head and squeezed my eyes shut. When I lifted my head, all was calm and still. My father no longer sat across from me with a look of evil in his eyes. He was sitting in his chair in the living room, reading the book he had put aside to help me fill out the paperwork.

He turned to look at me. “He must be working you too hard,” he said.

“What?”

He adjusted his glasses. “Your boss at Burger Palace. He must be working you like a slave.”

My memory was foggy. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you remember? You fell fast asleep at the kitchen table—right when we were in the middle of filling out the financial aid form.”

“I did?”

He looked at his watch. “You were out for an hour. You looked so peaceful I decided not to disturb you. I went back to reading my book.” He held up the Bible.

Confused, I sifted through the paperwork. The college application was set off to the side. The financial aid form sat right in front of me. The front page was smeared with ink where my cheek had rested while prophetic visions swirled in my brain as I slept.

This time, I was sure, I had dreamt the whole thing.

I.

I held the small wrapped present out to him. “Merry Christmas.”

Matt and I stood outside Kentmore Hall. It was dark and a light snow was falling, soft and beautiful as it blanketed the sidewalk.

He stared at the present for a few seconds, and then looked up at me. “You didn’t have to,” he said. “I didn’t get you anything.”

“It’s okay,” I said. “I wanted to.”

He unlocked the door and we went inside and I held the gift out to him again.

“Open it,” I said.

He took the present and peeled off the paper and threw it in a ball on the floor. His eyes grew large when he opened the hinged lid and saw the watch inside.

“This is, uh, really nice,” he said. “You spent too much.”

“Nah.” I waved off the notion. “Now you’ll always be on time for our lessons.”

Matt ran his fingers along the glass face of the watch. “Thanks. It’s great.”

“You’re welcome.”

He closed the lid and held the box in his hand. “All right. So, ready for another lesson?”

The kitchen didn’t taunt me as I walked by. The issues raised in there had died in there. There was closure; we had reached a resolution.

I threw my coat over a chair in the practice room and took a guitar from the closet like I had so many times before. It felt like I had just been there the day before. So many memories lingered—our first lesson together, our last lesson together before the end of the semester, all the silence and screaming and sex in between. What memories were waiting to be created on this night?

We sat face to face on the floor. Matt was just about ready to speak when the door flung open. I had been the last one in the room and forgot to lock it.

A young man rushed in. He appeared to be about 18. He was tall and thin, with long legs, and his hair was blonde and wavy. He was the person Matt had been arguing with in the lobby of Kentmore the semester before. I remembered the image vividly. Matt hadn’t mentioned anything about the argument, or who the young man was; he’d just ushered me upstairs to the practice room.

The young man stopped short when he saw us sitting on the floor. He gave Matt a head nod. “Hey, shithead. Sorry, forgot this was your night.”

His voice was familiar. I suddenly realized he was Matt’s roommate, Ted, the person who answered the phone the night before when I called their room.

Ted stole a glance at me then turned to leave. “Later.”

“Hey!” Matt shouted after him.

Ted peered through the door. “What?”

“Bob with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Do me a favor,” Matt said. “Remind him he owes me money.”

Ted opened the door wider. “Speaking of Bob, he wanted me to give you this.” Ted stretched his arm out as far as it would go and extended his middle finger.

“Good one, asshole,” Matt replied. “Real mature. Lock the door when you leave.”

Ted flipped the lock from the inside and closed the door behind him. We were alone once again.

Matt sighed. “All right. Where were we?”

“So that’s your roommate, Ted,” I said.

“The one and only. I sometimes call him Theodore. He hates when I do that.”

“Is he a musician, too?” I asked.

Matt strummed his guitar. “He plays bass in our band. We have two music classes together, too.”

“You guys must be real close.”

“Best friends.”

“Seriously? I was being sarcastic. It sounds like you hate each other.”

“We don’t. He’s changed. Ted’s not the same person I knew a year ago in high school when we first started our band and decided to be college roommates.”

“Maybe he’s pissed about the 3% interest you’re charging him,” I joked.

“That’s his fault. He wouldn’t have that problem if he’d paid me by now.”

“Quit the band,” I said.

Matt stopped strumming and looked at me as if I had two heads. “No way. I’m way better than he is. If it comes down to that,
he
should quit.”

Then I understood. Years of close friendship, arguments over money, and testosterone-driven jealousy…it was enough to sever any male friendship.

“So who’s Bob?” I asked.

“Our drummer. He can be an asshole too.”

“Let me guess—he owes you money and won’t pay you back?”

“Yep.”

“And he’s pissed because you’re charging him 3% interest?”

“Hey, you’re good. You’re starting to figure shit out.”

“Is there anyone who
doesn’t
owe you money?”

He thought for a minute. “Besides you, no. Hell, even Christine—” He stopped mid sentence and looked down to avert my eyes.

There was a twitch in my stomach. “Christine, as in your ex-girlfriend?”

He nodded his head.

“What about her?”

He started strumming his guitar again. “She still owes me money from, like, a year ago.”

Something in the way he fidgeted with his hands, the way his usually steady fingers were trembling slightly, didn’t seem quite right. He sometimes avoided eye contact, he frequently used smirks to communicate, he was normally clumsy and vague with his words. But his hands…They were the most steady and predictable thing about him. Whether they were holding me or holding a guitar, his hands were always strong, powerful, rock solid.

Because of them, because of that slightest of trembles, I couldn’t believe a word he was saying.

“You’re lying,” I said.

He looked up at me. “No, I’m not.”

“You mean to tell me you haven’t forgiven a year-old debt from an ex-girlfriend who broke up with you months ago?”

“Something like that,” he mumbled. “I don’t know.”

I set my guitar aside. “You don’t know?”

He sat there staring at me, watching my eyes, as if waiting for me to challenge him further.

I had lived moments like this one before. The day we met, when he stared at me with curiosity in the lobby but didn’t ask me a single question. The night we had sex in the kitchen, when he pleaded wordlessly with his eyes for me to leave but wouldn’t tell me why. The night I confronted him in the practice room about the state of our relationship and all he could do was sit and stare at me with those goddamned beautiful eyes of his.

“Why do you do that?” I said.

“What?”

“Look at me like that. You just watch me but don’t say anything.”

“I don’t know.”

I took a deep breath. “Do you want to be with me?”

“Yes.”

“In order for me to be your girlfriend you’ve got to start communicating.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Yes, girlfriend. You said you wanted to be together.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have commitment issues?”

“No.”

“Oh, I get it. I’m good enough to screw but not good enough to date.”

“I never said that.”

“Then what?”

“I want to be with you. I just can’t be…committed to you.”

“Meaning?”

He sighed and locked eyes with me. “I’m back with Christine.”

Suddenly, I could hear my blood coursing and throbbing in my ears.

“What? I—I don’t understand…When? How?”

“It happened during Christmas break. I didn’t know it was going to happen. It just did. I’m sorry.”

Suddenly—finally—I felt it.

Regret.

I never should have bought him that damn watch.

“What about me? What about us?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure.”

“But I thought you were crazy about me? You said so.”

“I am.”

“But—”

“Look, Alex,” Matt said. “I like you a lot. But the thing is…” He trailed off.

Then, suddenly, I understood.

“You still love her, don’t you?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I was speechless. A woman I didn’t even know had stolen the man I never really had.

Matt set his guitar aside, leaned in, and whispered in my ear. “But like I said, I still want to be with you...”

I closed my eyes as he kissed my temple, my cheek, my neck. My flesh tingled at the touch of his lips. I tried to speak. “Were you ever…going to…” I couldn’t finish my thought. I lay down on my back. “Screw it,” I said.

Right before our mouths met, I caught a glimpse of his crooked smile and his deep green eyes.

Despite the betrayal, I hadn’t the urge to resist him.

II.

What’s so special about God?

That’s the question I asked myself as I stared at the book in my lap. The maroon leather cover with its gold embossed lettering stared right back, almost taunting me to open it. How much easier it would have been to simply marvel at the beautiful front rather than peel back the dainty pages and read the tiny words contained within.

Bibles were never meant to be read, anyway. They weren’t supposed to have their spines broken and their pages dirtied and torn. They were meant to just sit around on coffee tables and in hotel room bedside drawers. I was convinced that being in the presence of a Bible was enough to bring comfort to people. Kind of like a security blanket or a bedtime doll.

But even childhood toys eventually show signs of age from years of use and too much love. A security blanket would become tattered and frayed around the edges, a doll would lose a shoe or its arm would go missing. The book I held in my lap, however, showed no signs of age whatsoever. My father claimed he’d had it for almost thirty years. His mother had bought it for him as a high school graduation present. In its perfect rectangular form, it still maintained a glossy luster, its spine free of fine cracks or creases. It was smooth and cool to the touch, like streaming water trickling through my fingers. And its size, too, was perfect, being able to fit neatly in the palm of one hand.

How could I possibly deflower its purity? I’m naturally hard on people and books. I knew the minute I opened my father’s Bible, its spine would be cracked and its pages wrinkled. The cover would curl to the point of no flat return. And I’d have an insatiable need to write in the margins in pen, and highlight page after page until my fingers were stained yellow.

Maybe the true meanings of the messages in the Bible were always meant to remain a mystery. Perhaps through the power of osmosis I could derive all meaning without having to mutilate my father’s old book. Or perhaps I would be made holy just for having it.

But I’m no chicken shit. I knew I had to open it. I had questions to be answered. Namely, what’s so special about God? How had my father become ensnared by God’s power? And why did God steal Bobby away from me?

If there was a hell, I wished Mr. Fraser would go there and rot. He was no man of God. He was mean to his sons. He had convinced his youngest son that pre-marital sex was a sin. And Bobby believed it. I would never forgive Mr. Fraser for that.