Unwritten

by Charles Martin

“What do we do about the finger that strikes it?”

  He waved his hand across the expanse. “We build cathedrals with them.”

  With Steady there was no pretense. Everything was what it was. And God knows I loved him for it.

  He stood, wrapped his sweater about him, and pointed outside to the circular platform tucked beneath the trees, the blue water just beyond, where he heard other priests’ confessions. He waved. “Walk with me.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, too.” He smiled, nodded, and buttoned his Mister Rogers sweater. “It’s nearly eighty degrees outside and you’re wearing a sweater.”

  “My body is old. My spirit is not.” He motioned again. “Walk.”

  “I’m not going out there.”

  He pointed.

  “I’m not a priest.”

  “You’d have made a good one.”

  “I’m not even Catholic.”

  He turned. “Come.”

  I gave him my arm. He didn’t need my help. He knew this. I knew this. And he knew that I knew this. He took it anyway. Our footsteps echoed, followed by the sound of his cane tapping the marble. I spoke. “I saw this once in a Godfather movie. Didn’t really go all that well for the guy making the confession. He ended up in diabetic shock.” He kept walking. We neared the platform. I stopped him, shook my head. “Steady, I love you, give you the shirt off my back but not today.”

  His nose wrinkled. “I don’t want the shirt off your back.”

  He walked behind a fig tree, facing the other way. The branches separated us. The leaves were bigger than my hand. Masking him. He fingered his cross, rubbing his thumb along the wood. Oil from his fingers had darkened it over the decades. He proffered, “Try, ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.’ ”

  I pulled down on the limb. Poked my head between the branches. “Are you forgiving me or God?”

  A knowing nod. “Told you you’d have made a good Catholic.”

  “You don’t mind me questioning you?”

  He smiled, shook his head. Leaves rustled beneath him. “I’d mind if you didn’t.” He pointed behind him. “But remember, you sat in my chair.” He studied me. “You have bags under your eyes. You drive all night?”

  Old, yes, but that didn’t make him blind. He didn’t miss much. “The fish were biting.”

  He reached out, took my hand, and smelled it. His eyes narrowed. “Are you really going to lie to me on Christmas?”

  I shoved my hands in my pockets.

  He nodded. Pleased with himself and, I think, me. “And how is my friend Edmund?”

  What amazed me about Steady was not what he didn’t know, but what he did. “He’s fine.”

  “Working hard?”

  “Something like that.”

  He let it go. “How long have we known each other?”

  “Seems like all my life.”

  He nodded. A slight laugh. “True.” He turned to me. “You realize, of course, I probably have fewer days left than you.”

  “You’re still pushing for the confession, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  I shrugged. “Let me make this simple. You know the ten commandments, right?”

  He chuckled. “Seems I’ve heard of them.”

  “Well, I’ve never killed anybody.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

  “That doesn’t count.”

  “Killing yourself is still murder.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Don’t kill the messenger.” He shifted his weight. “That’s an admission. Not a confession. Start with what hurts the most.”

  “It all hurts.”

  He took a deep breath. “I’ve got time.” Then he shrugged. “Well, maybe not as much as I once had.”

  “Father, I—”

  He waited, shuffling around in circles—like a one-legged duck.

  I thought back, shook my head.

  He was quiet a moment. “Do you have a favorite word?”

  I thought a minute. “ ‘Epilogue.’ ”

  He tilted his head to one side. “Good word. Interesting choice, but good.” He nodded slowly. “Got another?”

  I shrugged.

  “Mine is ‘do-over.’ ”

  He often talked in circles. Or spirals. More like strands of DNA. Nothing was wasted. Everything connected. He waved me around the tree, hooked his arm inside mine, and led me away from the platform. The ocean lapped on our left. A southwest wind had flattened it. I took a deep breath. Salt filled my lungs. He nodded as we walked. “Yours is a painful story. It hurts to hear it.”

  “But I didn’t tell it to you.”

  “Your face tells me every time I see you.”

  Bait fish schooled beyond the swells. “Ought to try living it.”

  He shook his head, staring south, back several decades. Bald head. His face a road map. Wrinkle leading into wrinkle. “Mine is enough.”

  He was quiet awhile, mumbling to himself. He always looked like he had one ear in this world, one ear in the next. He turned, studying my mouth. He nodded. “Your speech has really improved.”

  “It’s amazing what you can do online these days.”

  “Wish it had happened sooner?”

  “I wouldn’t trade it.”

  “I’ve been told that most stutters stem from a father wound.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that.”

  He raised an eyebrow and did not respond. A few moments passed. He leaned on me, heavier. The air was thick. He was going to say something but changed his mind.

  I loved this old man.

  The path led to an old coquina building. Spanish residue, which due to four-foot walls survived hurricanes Wilma, Andrew, and others. The walls kept it cool in summer and winter. The priests used it as their chapel. Slate roof, arched ceiling, no glass in the windows meant it was open to the elements. It looked more medieval or European than South Florida.

  We walked through the doorway. I shook my head.

  He said, “What?”

  “Seems like you ought to have a door there.”

  He trudged forward. “Not trying to keep people out.”

  “Forget people. Try mosquitoes.”

  We walked down the narrow aisle, mahogany pews on either side, and sat down at the end. A padded bench staring out over an expansive eastern view. The stone floor amplified his shuffling.

  “Sit with me and soothe the soul of a dying man.”

  “You talking about you or me?”

  He nodded. “You don’t miss much.” He chewed on the inside of his lip and spit a piece of dead skin. “If you could paint one single picture that would explain you, what would the picture, or scene, look like?”

  I thought a moment. “When I was a kid, I was working down on the docks. Odd jobs. Whatever I could do to make a few bucks. One of the fishing guides ran out of gas. Gave me two dollars and asked me to get him a cupful of gas to prime his engine. I stuffed his money in my pocket, ran to a trashcan and pulled out the biggest cup I could. One of those Big Gulp things. Sixty-four ounces or something like that. Ran across the street to the gas station. Paid the attendant. Set the cup on the ground and began pumping in two dollars. And then watched in dismay as that two dollars’ worth of gas ate through the Styrofoam and spilled across the parking lot. I’m the cup. Life is the gas.”

  Moments passed. I had come to look forward to the stories he told me here. Finally, he spoke. Tit for tat. “We were bottled up. Hemmed in on all sides.” I had not heard this one before. “Couldn’t get the wounded out. Couldn’t get medicine in. Gangrene became a problem. The smell was always with us.” He ran his finger across his top lip. “We wore Mentholatum to combat the smell. Our triage tent looked like something out of the Civil War. We were reduced to working with a handsaw and a hot iron. We told the men that amputation was voluntary and that we had no morphine. Their call. They’d hold out a few days, hoping. Praying for air support. But the bullets were still flying, bombs still dropping, and their limbs
were swelling, and the smell was getting worse. One by one they lined up. By night’s end, the doctors were so tired they couldn’t hold the saw. Passed it to me. By morning, I passed it back.” He fell quiet. “I used to wake up nights, sweating, hearing those men scream, my hand cramped.”

  I leaned against the wall. He sat, staring a long way off. “Then came Christmas 1944. I was freezing my butt off at the Battle of the Bulge.” His thumb unconsciously traced the bezel of his watch. “My platoon’s sixth engagement. In a month, we lost more than nineteen thousand and treated forty-something-thousand wounded.” He shook his head and spat. “Blood filled the tank tracks, froze, and stained our leggings. We’d stack bodies two high on one stretcher. I had to tie my hands to the stretcher because I could not physically carry another man. That night, I was leaning against a tank. Letting the exhaust warm me. Dead on my feet. Staring back out across the battlefield. My captain saw me and threatened to take away my stripes if I did not return to the battlefield. I waved my hand across the mangled trees, dead men’s legs poking up through the snow like jacks and broken barricades. ‘Sir, it’s not fear. I’m not afraid, not anymore, but where? Where do I start?’ He understood. He leaned against the tank. A good man. He lit his pipe and said, ‘Steady, we can’t help the dead. So leave them to God.’ He drew on his pipe and blew the smoke from deep in his lungs. Then he waved his hands across the tree line. ‘But… rescue the wounded.’ The next day I carried him off the field. Before they buried him, I took the pipe from his shirt pocket.”

  Steady pulled the pipe from inside his robe, packed and lit it. He drew hard, his cheeks touching his yellowed teeth, and then blew smoke rings out across the pews. He shook his head. “I’m a priest with a blade. And my robes are stained.” He turned his arthritic hands. Gnarled like old stumps. Dotted with age. “This may be my last walk across the battlefield.” He was quiet awhile. A bony finger poked me in the chest. “It will be painful as hell, but I’m offering to cut out your gangrene.”

  “You or God?”

  He smiled, his lips spreading. His eyes wet. “You are a good Catholic.”

  He wiped his face with a white handkerchief. Moments passed.

  “Steady…” I searched his eyes. Shook my head.

  He poked me in the chest with a crooked, arthritic finger. “In all your running, what have you gained?”

  “Freedom.”

  He shook his head. “People in hell have more freedom than you.” He drew deeply, his cheeks drawing tight against his teeth. He nodded once.

  We sat an hour. Neither talking. Him breathing out. Me breathing in. Steady didn’t need to speak to counsel me. The concert of his life spoke so loudly that I couldn’t hear him even if he did open his mouth. A shrimp boat in the distance.

  He paused, pressed his finger to his lips, and then straightened as the blood drained out of his face. He looked as if a steel rod had been shoved up his spine. Whatever had been bothering him since I’d arrived bubbled to the surface. He’d connected the pieces. Something clicked. He stood. Whispering aloud. “But, when the sun goes down and—” Urgency in his voice. “I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Name it.”

  He glanced back at the space in the trees, raising both eyebrows.

  “Name anything but that.”

  “I’ll explain while you drive.” The sun had fallen. Dusk had set. “We may be too late.”

  I was in the process of objecting when he raised a finger and cut me off. His voice stern. “You owe me.”

  I chewed on my lip. “So… after this we’re even?”

  He shook his head. Sweat breaking out atop his forehead. “Not even close.” His pace quickened. “We might not have much time.” We turned a corner.

  “Where’re we going?”

  “Sky Seven.”

  I stopped. “You mean the place behind the big walls that’s monitored and guarded by ex–Navy SEALs?”

  He nodded, walking faster.

  “Just how do you plan to get in? They’re rather protective of the famous gazillionaires who live there.”

  He dangled two keys.

  “Where’d you get those?”

  No response.

  I crossed my arms. “And the gate code?”

  He tapped his temple with his index finger.

  “You know, the guards carry guns and probably don’t need much of a reason to use them.”

  He pushed open a door. “I’ve been shot at before.”

  “Yeah, but I haven’t.”

  He waved me on. “You’ll get used to it. Besides—” He glanced over his shoulder. A slight smirk. “What do you care? You’re already dead.”

  I nodded and spoke to myself. “Somebody should tell my heart.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Steady began speaking before we’d pulled out of the church parking lot. “What I’m about to tell you is not a break in confidentiality. I’m not telling you anything you can’t read in a gossip rag, popular magazine, or”—a shake of the head—“a counterfeit biography. Reams have been written and very little of it is true.”

  I knew him well enough to know that if he was prefacing his story with why he was telling me, then it was important to him—which meant it was important to me.

  The rhythm of the turn signal interrupted the silence. He paused and squinted, staring beyond the end of the road, suggesting that this story would last the duration of our trip. Finally, he sat back and crossed his legs. How he started was evidence that he’d given it some thought. “She’s the one. The one in a million. The standard by which others were, and are, measured. From Annie to Dorothy to Juliet to the queen, she’s played them all. On the stage, she has performed before monarchs, heads of state, and on the screen, before the tens of millions. All have sat at her feet, marveling and moved—ranging from pin-drop quiet to raucous applause. I have seen women weep. Grown men cry. Children laugh. I have seen her make believers out of the cynical. And, when she’s finished, reeled them in, I have watched as they all jump to their feet. Demanding role after role after role.” He nodded. “And, to her detriment, she has obliged.

  “Her sales are unprecedented. She owns the silver screen. The first twenty-five-million-dollar woman. Studios are lined up to pay it. And while films pay the most, Broadway is her love. Front-row tickets routinely sell for five hundred dollars. Box seats a thousand to fifteen hundred. Backstage twenty-five hundred. Internet scalpers can get twice that now that she’s won a third Tony. Sold-out shows are the norm and have been for a decade. Even the critics are kind. Using words like ‘otherworldly’ and ‘angelic,’ and phrases like ‘Not humanly possible.’ ”

  He paused. Reflecting. “Fame has brought homes, jets, glitter, a perennial residence in the top five, a staff of attendants, a personal trainer, world-class chef, crooning cosmetic companies, a twenty-four-hour spotlight, the loss of anonymity, a pedestal made for one, and her own private priest.” Steady raised both eyebrows and slightly bowed. “The world has rolled out the red carpet and given her all it has to offer… including loneliness on a silver platter.

  “Several men have tried to keep pace. Strong chins. Six-pack abs. Three-day stubble.” He touched his ear. “A single diamond stud. Maybe a hat tilted sideways. Fresh tattoo to match their attitude. A hedge fund, record company, or clothing line and a designer fragrance in the works.

  “With each, she gave unselfishly. Invested fully. Herself, her money, and her resources. They’d stand stoically. Resolute. Inching ever so slightly forward. Taking in while giving little. Truth was, they had little to give.

  “Each a house of cards.

  “Each had the same need. To be seen, known as the one who’d summitted and conquered her. She was a trophy. They’d bask in the glow but what they thought was their own private spotlight was little more than the residue of her reflection.”

  He shook his head. “They couldn’t hold a candle.”

  “They’d stay awhile. Sleep in her bed. Brag about the sex. Attend the parties.
Smile for the magazines. Take her money, drive her fancy cars, fly first class, demand better service and more champagne. As if everyone cared about them.”

  A final shake. “No one really did.”

  He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “Ever noticed how a spotlight is a focused beam? Not a flood? They were and would always be little more than footnotes and gossip fodder—never stepping out of her shadow. Didn’t take them long to clue in. They couldn’t cope so they stiffened. Became cold. Aloof.

  “So, one by one, they packed up. Disappeared. Leaving her to deal with most of their baggage. Their parting words were fiery darts. Especially the ones they spewed through the papers and talk shows. She thought her tough exterior would shield her, maybe deflect them. Their words were silver bullets. Shrapnel.

  “It didn’t happen all at once. In her twenties, she found herself with a different last name and tied to no one. She was old-fashioned so this surprised her. Always believed in ‘’til death do us part.’ Death had nothing to do with their parting. Unless death looks like a six-foot-two silicon blonde working the strip in Vegas. A few more years, a second last name later, she again found herself alone and shaking her head. Not to mention the two miscarriages that got lost in the shuffle. The doctors blamed a hectic schedule. Said she needed some time off. Slow down. Breathe some mountain air.

  “She wasn’t so sure. Neither was I.

  “The view from the top of the world is endless. Stretches forever. ’Course, the reverse is true, too. Those below you—which is everyone else—can see your every move. Life under the microscope. Loved by all, yet known by none?

  “Then, about a decade ago, for reasons I do not understand, things changed—for the worse. She’s never revealed to me the reason, or reasons, but whatever it was, it is still painful to her. Maybe even the source of.

  “She’s pretty tough so she held off for a while, but then her weight dropped, she retreated to the pills, and occasionally, me. Sold-out shows were canceled. Her team of publicists stepped in: ‘She needs rest. A performance schedule that was a little too aggressive.’

  “She checked herself in. A desert oasis. The name on the gate said ‘Spa’ but those inside knew better. Her people kept it a secret. Weeks later, she was back on the stage, rejuvenated, clean, her voice, her presence, her command—stronger than ever.