The Fallen and the Elect

by Jerry J. K. Rogers

  Chapter 5

  The air was hot. The air was still. The air was muggy. Michael Saunders hated the air here this time of day. He attempted to distract himself while jogging. He missed the clear skies and cool breezes earlier in the year, the way the sun reflected across the ocean as it receded behind the horizon, light dancing off wind-agitated ripples in a sheet of sparkling crystals. During these days, a muddied splotch of gold and amber crudely pasted in the sky took the sun's place looking murky, dingy, and diffused through the haze. If not for the undulations of the water, it sometimes looked as if the water and sky were blended into the same palette. Michael pondered people who said God was an awesome creator and his creation awe inspiring, but not this image painted on the canvas of encroaching twilight. While engrossed in the sunset, Michael nearly ran into a young couple setting up a blanket by the jogging path next to the sandy beach. He observed a small cooler, long-stemmed wine glasses, and Tupperware selection of cheeses. How can anyone enjoy having a picnic out here on this miserable, sweltering day? He asked himself.

  Breaking away from the stream of other joggers, cyclists, and walkers, Michael spotted his normal landmarks. The neighbors were engaged in their customary activities: working in their yards, working out on their patios, or sitting on lawn chairs in the small garages of the town houses and condos and watching passersby. As he approached his own small front porch, Michael witnessed a male and female walking up the small set of steps and getting ready to knock on the door. The female he recognized. Her name was Justine Dawson. His heart skipped a beat. Even with ten years having passed, she was still breathtakingly beautiful. Dressed conservatively in a gray skirt suit, black blouse, and black pumps and wearing a silver necklace with a cross, what he initially mistook for her black hair was a modest habit. He realized she had taken her vows and become a nun. Next to her was a man he didn't recognize with a light taupe skin complexion, wrinkled and baggy eyes, and Hispanic features, wearing blue jeans and a medium-gray shirt. By his Romanesque collar, he knew his male guest’s occupation--priest.

  “It’s been quite a few years. So you went and made the jump? Guess I should call you sister?” Michael commented to Sister Justine as he wiped the sweat from his head and flicked the excess toward the ground. “Who's this?” he asked as he glanced over to the unknown man. “Your new boy toy?”

  Father Hernandez was taken aback by the comment from the lean man with golden-brown skin and mildly curly dark brown hair, his right hazel eye looking more muted in color than the left one, and who appeared to be in his early thirties. He surmised that Michael had interracial parents.

  Michael detected a hint of anger in Sister Justine’s expression while she attempted to present a look of indifference.

  “Look, I followed through on what was best, that was serving in the Church,” she retorted.

  “Yeah, some church.”

  “You can't expect the answers to be smack in your face all the time. You have to...”

  Michael interrupted by reaching out his sweaty right hand to shake the unknown man's hand. “I'm Michael Saunders. And you, boy toy, would be?”

  Father Hernandez reluctantly reached out to shake Michael's hand, wiping Michael's sweat off his hand on his trousers when they finished. “I'm Father Jose Avis Hernandez, senior priest at Our Lady of Light parish. I'm not sure what's going on here...”

  Michael interrupted again, “What do you both want?”

  Father Hernandez responded, “We're here because we’re told you were an expert with...”

  Sister Justine interrupted this time, “I believe Abriel is back.”

  Father Hernandez turned sharply toward Sister Justine, amazed at her comment. Michael's attitude of mild anger and sarcasm changed to stoicism. “Are you sure?”

  “Bishop Grielle sent us.”

  “Why do you think Abriel is back?”

  “Because of what happened at the funeral home.”

  Michael's eyes widened, “What happened at what funeral home?”

  “Still don't follow the news? Even after all these years?”

  “Not all the time. I don't need to hear about the stupid things stupid people do. What happened?”

  “One of the funeral homes here in town, 101 dead.”

  “So?”

  “There’s one possible witness, who immediately went blind after the event.”

  Father's Hernandez's head volleyed back and forth during the discussion between Sister Justine and Michael, whirling with the surprise of a history between the two that Bishop Grielle didn't pass on to him during his late-night visit. Michael reached in the pocket of his jogging shorts, pulled out a key, and unlocked the door to his house.

  “Let's go inside,” Michael directed to his guests.

  Father Hernandez and Sister Justine entered the small Spartan-like decorated home. A simple beige cloth couch and plain oak coffee table occupied the living room. There were no pieces of artwork, paintings, or photos anywhere on the off-white walls. It wasn’t clear whether their hue was intended or the result of fading over the years. An unadorned analog clock hung on the accent wall; it was an hour slow. In the dining area, the only furniture was a simple country-style dinner table with four wooden chairs standing sentry to a traditional Shaker-style China cabinet in the room. The walls were bare and the same off-white color as the living room. Next to the dining room was a bedroom converted into a library and office area. It contained a desk cluttered with papers, file folders, magazines and a couple of religious journals. Two of the walls in the room staged several bookcases filled with an assortment of disorganized books. Outside the door of the study, a laundry basket rested on the floor filled with crumpled clothing. It wasn’t clear whether the clothes were clean or dirty. A couple of the articles appeared to be female blouses. Sister Justine ignored the oddity; Father Hernandez didn’t notice.

  “I'm going to take a shower. Make yourselves comfortable in the study,” Michael commented going into his bedroom. Looking into the mirror on his bureau, he thought, What the hell is she doing here? She was no longer in his life. He wanted it that way after hearing from her those years ago, “Michael, we can never be together. My plan is to serve God. We can only be friends.” She made her decision by rejecting his marriage proposal. Just being friends would’ve been too hard. He assumed she was using the church as an excuse because she was afraid of how serious they had become and possibly being pregnant. Instead of bogging himself down in reflecting on the past Michael forced himself to undress and proceed with his shower.

  Entering Michael’s study, Father Hernandez and Sister Justine had to sidestep an open 2-foot by 2-foot square cardboard box half filled with unread newspapers, some bound with string, some rubber bands, others still inside plastic bags, resting just inside the doorway. Looking around Michael’s office-library, Sister Justine scanned book titles covering angelology, religion and society, Spiritism, church history, a Greek and Hebrew lexicon, a couple of different types of concordances, bible dictionary, and several other religious titles. Father Hernandez found himself more interested in the questions he ruminated over concerning Michael and Sister Justine. On the wall, another analog clock displayed the incorrect time, again an hour slow. Sister Justine leisurely walked to the bookshelf nearest the door and scanned the numerous titles. Father Hernandez glanced at the desk, observing a couple of stacks of papers with grades.

  Several minutes of quiet passed when Father Hernandez decided to ask one of his questions. “Sister Justine, just what is the nature of your background with Michael Saunders? Is there some sort of history between you two that I should be aware of?”

  Sister Justine paused for a few minutes to thumb through a medieval history textbook, noting that Michael was one of the contributing editors. Finally she spoke, “We grew up together, since we were kids all the way through high school and college. Early on in college, I felt the call to serve God as an educator. That's why I
joined my particular order. Michael followed along and wanted to become a priest. I was dedicated to my pursuit and would challenge him on his devotion from time to time.” Sister Justine held back that she and Michael were in a serious relationship years ago before her decision and commitment to become a nun. In ways, Michael never admitted to himself, she knew they could never be together.

  “Is that why he's so aloof with you, because you challenged him in his beliefs?”

  “That, and after the disappearance, many of his friends and family went missing. He felt in every way possible that God had left him, at least what he thought he believed to be God. That crushed his faith, which I don’t think was that strong to begin with.”

  Father Hernandez moved some books over to the side of a black-cushioned futon in the corner and sat down. “So, then, why come to him to find information concerning our investigation. Surely there's someone who has more of a belief in this disturbing incident?”

  “I believe you'll find Michael to be well qualified for this.”

  “Would that have something to do with someone you referred to earlier called Abriel?”

  Sister Justine was silent. Father Hernandez pressed on, “Who is this Abriel? And what does he or she have to do with the funeral home incident?”

  “I'm sorry Father, I can't tell you yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Probably because that snake Monsignor Grielle told her not to say anything,” Michael chimed in, standing in the doorway in a T-shirt, faded jeans, and no socks with hair still damp from his shower.

  “He's a full bishop now Michael,” Sister Justine commented. “One of the last ones promoted in years.”

  Michael reached into the laundry basket and pulled out a red and yellow flowered Hawaiian shirt. He took a quick sniff and put it on. “Bishop Grielle huh? I’m surprised he's not a cardinal, or hell even the Pope.”

  “God and the Church promote when they deem fit,” Father Hernandez interjected.

  “Hey, the boy toy chimes in,” Michael quipped.

  “Mr. Saunders, I would appreciate it if you referred to me as Father,” Father Hernandez said sternly while standing up.

  Michael, surprised by the genuine forcefulness in the father’s voice, perceived he was attempting to establish himself as the dominant male. He had considered the priest’s sense of humility to be a cover for being reserved and introverted.

  Michael raised an eyebrow and displayed a small grin. “Awright, I guess I can do that Father boy toy,” he said.

  “Michael!” Sister Justine exclaimed angrily.

  “Don't worry about it Sister, he's just being driven by his human nature,” Father Hernandez said patiently.

  “You know, neither of you even corrected me about the bishop being a snake,” Michael commented as he moved over to his desk and sat in a faded blue swivel chair.

  “Look, he’s not a snake and we're not here about Bishop Grielle,” Father Hernandez countered. “We're here to get some background about what happened at the funeral home and the possibility of an angel causing the death of over a hundred poor souls.”

  Michael slouched in his chair and stretched out his legs. Father Hernandez noticed he was still barefoot. “What do you wanna know?” Michael asked.

  Father Hernandez sat back down on the futon and in a calm, focused voice directed his question to both Michael and Sister Justine, given that she had remained quiet during the trip over to the house not answering any of his questions. “First off, what do you both know about angels?”

  Michael answered first, “I know that I studied them quite extensively before I left seminary. Lots of people say they've seen angels, especially over the last ten years during all these presumed visitations at funerals. I don't know if I believe in them. I've learned the use of angels is a basis for a common mythos to validate a belief in an afterlife,” Michael noted, with a look of dawning understanding on his face. “I really should develop that more.”

  Father Hernandez was visibly surprised. He hadn’t fully comprehended Sister Justine’s earlier comment. “You were in seminary? Studying to be a priest?”

  “Yep, almost all the way through. Just about ready to execute the rite of ordination. I quit right after the disappearance.”

  “What happened?

  “Because a lot of Catholic, Evangelical, Fundamental, Mormon, and other churches with different kinds of Christian belief systems were still populated with large numbers of good-hearted religious believers here on this mud ball, a lot of people, like myself, believed there definitely was no rapture. Then you have portions of the population of Muslim nations, Jews, and Hindus, along with other religions who were never the true converts or believers in their native religion, all also disappearing. Maybe the New Agers were right that the missing were whisked away to be reeducated and then to be returned with a renewed sense of global awareness, or some crap like that.”

  “So you didn’t think anything religious happened with all of those disappearing?”

  “To summarize Justin Chamberlain, I've come to see religion as a social construct, building common norms and standards as a means to establish a moral and social foundation that binds cultures and societies together. I never saw any proof of a God.”

  “You were influenced by Justin Chamberlain’s, Myth, and It’s Power in Culture.”

  Michael responded to Father Hernandez with another large grin, “The reference of the metaphor in religious traditions is to something transcendent, which is literally not anything.”

  Sister Justine, although finding the conversation somewhat interesting, felt these two could go on talking for some time and lose focus on the assignment. But at least they weren't badgering each other. She put back an old physics textbook she had taken from a shelf and said sharply, “I'm glad you both found some common interest between the two of you. Now it would be great if you could remember why we're here and get back on track.”

  Sister Justine's directness amazed both men.

  “Well my dear, aren't we more of a straight shooter these days?” Michael quipped. “If you were more like that ten years ago, you could've prevented a lot…”

  “Let it go Michael,” she interrupted.

  “You don't understand what......”

  “Michael stop. We're not going to have that discussion now or ever. The past is the past. It’s either a guidepost or hitching post. Move on and let it be.”

  Father Hernandez recognized it was his turn to steer the conversation back onto the original topic. “Mr. Saunders?” Father Hernandez interjected.

  Michael raised an eyebrow at the father's formal address.

  Father Hernandez continued, “We’d like to discuss with you some of your opinions as to the funeral home incident yesterday.”

  “And what did Sister Justine tell you so far padre?”

  “She hasn't revealed much at this time.”

  “Really, because I don't know how I can help. The research notes I had from last time were stolen by the Sister's slime bag of a bishop.”

  Sister Justine ignored the sharpness of Michael's comment, feeling the need of a new tactic to counter Michael's antagonism. “We don't know if that's what happened to our notes, Michael.” She calmly replied.

  “Research notes on what?” Father Hernandez questioned.

  Michael gave Father Hernandez a small smirk. The Father was not sure why Michael was being so smug. Michael focused his attention on Sister Justine, who was entertaining herself with perusing the books on his smaller, unfinished, oak bookshelf.

  “Research on the previous trip down to, wait a minute, you never told him about Aguascalientes?” Michael asked Sister Justine.

  “No.” She answered timidly.

  “Hmmm, well I gotta teach a class in about an hour, and you know what? I'm hungry,” Michael remarked while grabbing a stack of graded papers from his desk and shoving them disheveled in a faded brown, soft-case leather attaché.
Closing the locking tabs, he clutched it and departed from the room without saying another word. His two guests were astonished to be alone.

  “Sister, why are we here? He's not going to help us. We have God's work to do,” Father Hernandez noted.

  “Father, just wait,” she pleaded.

  Michael popped his head in the doorway. “You two coming? We can talk while we eat at my favorite deli.” He flashed a playful grin towards Father Hernandez. “Lunch is on you boy toy.”