“Good thing Arthur doesn’t know what was in his quasi-possession,” Justice finally said. “Because he knows Edward has it, and he’s seen its people-moving power.”
Jason felt the pace of his heart speed up even as Edward cried out in anger. “What do you mean he knows I have it?”
“I mean,” Justice said, sighing. “I mean I went to see him today; you know; show him that Midge and I forgive him, without giving away that, well, you know who is still alive,” he began.
“Continue,” Masao urged, his eyes fixed on the man.
“As I was speaking to him he said Mark had told him someone named Edward – not sure if he knows your last name or not, Man – well, that someone named Edward has the mirror and that others have traveled through it. It was apparent he wasn’t sure who came through, but he had been given that information,” Justice said. “And as far as I know, that was Mark’s doing, too.”
He paused a moment, clearing his throat. Jason glanced at the clock and then moved his eyes back to his friend’s face as he continued speaking.
“And, FYI, if you haven’t already heard, Mark went to visit Arthur, too, not too long ago, it seems. And whatever it was he said now has Arthur believing Mark’s the one who should be – and should have been – behind bars all this time.”
What on earth, Jason thought. What could Mark possibly have said to get Arthur to believe that? Of course, maybe Arthur believed it all along and Mark just gave him a boost of confidence to say it? But still… Mark never mentioned… or did he?
“Um, but what…,” Edward voiced.
“I don’t know. Could have been in Arthur’s head; could have been a real conversation. Who’s to say, but Arthur definitely knows a lot more than we thought he did,” Justice told them, glancing around to look both Masao and Jason in the eye a moment. “A whole lot more.”
Jason could see the man’s Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. Was it more words, or was it fear?
“Well, this has been an enlightening day,” Justice finally said, his voice low but firm; resolved, even. “And I think I’m going to need a few days to process it all. I can’t even get into what else I learned; this is more than enough.”
Edward and Masao moved to agree before Jason could even decide on what to say, and so he concurred.
There was a lot to consider and ponder, indeed.
Twelve
Boston, Massachusetts… January 23, 1942
Shannen moved to the window, waiting to watch Steven as he walked out of the apartment complex to head for work, water heating on the stove as their daughter played quietly with a doll Liraz had made for her.
Moments later, there he was, but instead of turning north, as she expected, he turned south. Again.
That’s the third time in a month, she thought. What’s going on? First missing money, and now this? IS he even going to work, or is he just taking another route?
She heard her mother, Liraz, stirring in the other room as the water pot began to scream at her; Liraz reached it first. Shannen Rose, sitting in one of their newly acquired kitchen chairs – where had Steven found them? They were so beautiful – continued to play with the doll, light from the window highlighting its brown yarn hair and bluebell-colored button eyes. As she played, Shannen Rose murmured something unintelligible under her breath, and Shannen laughed.
“What could there be to worry about,” her mother had asked her more than once. “He still comes home to you; still brings in a check; still goes to work and spends time with us all, and with his brothers and their families, to boot. I mean,” she would amend. “All of them but Warren.”
Ah, yes, Warren was a different matter.
Warren, who had stayed behind in Gloucester to fish and care for the house they’d grown up in.
Warren, the quietest of the bunch; the one who everyone else thought might be a little slow sometimes, because of how little he spoke. But Shannen knew better; quiet isn’t the same as slow. Many times, they were the opposite. The man was more intelligent than some of the business owners Steven had introduced her to over the years, she was nearly positive of that.
Her brother-in-law was a gentle man; a man who knew what he wanted, and why. A man who didn’t bother to worry what other people thought of his plans… and a man who was certain Rose would come home. That, somehow, some way, she would find the family again… and he wanted to make sure he was that link for her, if possible, to find the way. He was the lighthouse shining in the dark; the beacon of hope she would need, he had repeatedly told them all, to learn to belong again.
It was a valiant hope; one she prayed would come to fruition, in spite of all the time that had passed since Rose, and then Miss Roisin, had disappeared through the mirror.
Shannen glanced toward the piece, partially covered as it was, that sat in the corner of the living room. It reached nearly to the ceiling, and they’d had to find somewhere it fit, to begin with. It was large; over six feet tall, and nearly two and a half feet wide, the wood not included; with the wings, it was closer to four.
Liraz handed her a cup of tea, and the pair sat down together.
Shannen glanced at her mother, always beautiful. For the first time in months, she really looked at her. She was beginning to look her age: the hair that had once been a deep, rich brown-black now had rows of white twined throughout. Her face, once soft and unlined, now began to resemble a map, the wrinkles creating little valleys and ridges, though her skin was still soft thanks to the cream she insisted on applying each morning and evening. Her body, once thin and nimble, had begun to widen at the hips and shallow at the chest.
“So,” her mother said, “why is your face long, even though you laugh?”
Was she that obvious?
“It’s Steven again, he…”
Shannen glanced to her daughter before continuing. What could she safely say? And how would it be received?
“He’s walking south instead of north,” she said, forcing her voice to remain even. As she let her mother process the comment, she moved to blow on her tea and take a sip; it was still too hot, and felt as if it bit her.
“Alright, so he walked south, does this prove anything, Shannen? Or could it be that he has a reason for doing so; a good reason?”
“What good reason could there be,” she wanted to yell. “What reason could there be for money to disappear, and for him to walk in the opposite direction as work even when he says he’s going straight there? What reason could there be for him to ask his brother – his youngest brother – for money, and a lot of it?”
But she didn’t.
Instead, she set the cup down and smiled at her mother, like she’d been taught, and waited until she could say something nice. But what could she say?
“It isn’t impossible,” she finally replied. “Just not very likely,” she muttered under her breath.
“What was that last part, Dear? I didn’t quite hear you,” her mother asked.
“It’s fine; nothing to worry over, Imma. We must just… we must just trust God that He is watching over Steven and helping to guide him, that’s all,” she said.
Yes.
Prayer.
That’s what was needed, and a lot of it.
Steven hurried along as he made his way toward Skeeter’s place, worried he’d be late for work.
How had he gotten himself into this mess, anyhow?
It wasn’t as if he didn’t know that gambling was something to steer clear of, and yet, there was something about it that drew him.
At first, it had been about the companionship; a bunch of guys being guys without the women around. Without the children screaming, the bosses bossing, the wives asking questions, and the mothers-in-law taking over.
Not that Liraz took over much, or Shannen always asked too many questions. Come to think of it, he rarely heard Shannen Rose scream, either… but maybe that was because he was home less often.
It had been fun then, these get-togethers. Poker and gin rummy and d
ice. Sometimes, instead, they’d go bowling or to a movie, just for variety.
But after a while, they began placing bets on the dice, the power, the gin rummy. A few pennies at first, and then, dimes, quarters. Dollars. Fives, then tens, and last week, it upped to twenties. There was no way he could keep up with it; he already owed three different people as a result.
Not healthy for him; not good for his family.
Five blocks down, he spotted his friend, already standing outside, uniforms hanging over his shoulder. Even though he was only 5’9”, he was hard to miss, his heavy navy blue coat and uniforms whipping around in the wind as snow began to fall for the second time that morning.
“Ah, ya made it,” the man said, his accent giving away the fact that he was not – definitely not – from Massachusetts.
As he began moving slowly toward Steven, the wind growing around them. Steven picked up his pace in the thin layer of white that had spread like a blanket around them.
“Yeah; just have a few minutes. I’m running late, as is, and my boss is beginning to wonder about me. Pulled me into his office not too long ago. Apparently he saw me leaving the stadium after I was supposed to be on the clock from lunch,” he told Skeeter, whose real name was Lamar.
“Well, I won’t keep you long. I just wanted to find out if you were in for February thirteenth over at Rocky’s place,” came the reply as they slowly walked together toward Steven’s office, and Fenway Park.
Malcolm “Rocky” Rockwell and his wife, Misty, had moved to the area about ten months prior from New York City, looking for a safe place to raise their children. And Steven didn’t blame them: they had seven children, and an eighth on the way, now.
There was a lot at stake.
And because of those stakes, Rocky and Misty had come to Boston, where Misty had been raised; come back to where her father was still around to spend time with and make memories with their children.
“Haven’t decided yet,” Steven finally answered, not sure how long he’d just kept walking; thinking without answering Skeeter in the rush of people that crowded around them for a moment, then was gone.
Thankfully, this time, they weren’t being mobbed. If Finney, Ryba, Dobson, Conroy, Williams, DiMaggio, Tabor, Peacock, or Foxx was with them, surely there would be more of a commotion. Williams and DiMaggio alone caused a stir wherever they went; even church, sometimes, they’d said. Of course, Steven didn’t know them quote “as well as the rest,” and these were the only players he knew that were still around, anyway.
Berg, Nonnencamp, Desautels, Gaffke, and Ostermueller had all moved on, but with newcomers like Skeeter, Steven didn’t feel so out of luck finding people to talk to.
And just the other day, he’d met Dick, the other Newsome. But that was only because Skeeter had a blast trying to convince people the two were related, when it couldn’t be the furthest thing from the truth.
Steven smiled at the thought and shook his head as Skeeter nodded at him; he clapped him on the shoulder as they moved to part ways.
“All right then, just let me know by the tenth, got it,” the man said, unwrapping a piece of gum and sliding it quickly into his mouth.
Round-faced as he was, Steven was always amazed at how the man looked like he had a great big chaw of tobacco in his gums instead of a single slice of gum in his mouth.
Well, we can’t all look alike. How boring would that be, he thought.
Thirteen
Perpignan, France… January 23, 1707
Galya hummed to herself as she walked along the water’s edge, the hem of her dress drinking in water and snow, as she glanced over to where her nieces and nephews were playing blind man’s bluff underneath some nearby trees.
She thought that Gaspar would be here by now; two days late home from rounds to his properties nearby was no laughing matter, so what could have happened?
You’re it,” she heard André shout from behind her. “Anatole-Henri, you’re the blind man now.”
The children clapped, and she turned around, wishing there were a place to sit that wouldn’t ruin her gown. A wet hem was one thing, but dirt and grass stains where people would see them were quite another.
“Mon Oncle,” Amabel suddenly called. “Oncle Gaspar est de retour, tout le monde! Peut-être qu'il nous a apporté des bonbons ou quelque chose...,” she told the little group as Anatole-Henri took the scarf from André’s outstretched hand.
Galya turned in the direction the little girl was pointing, and sure enough, riding a grey palfrey toward them was her husband.
” Ah, vous avez trouvé me out, vous n'avez pas" je n'ai même pas pu vous surprendre, vous êtes tellement bon,” he shouted to them as he continued to approach, a burgundy-colored cape swirling around him in the wind. “"Et J'ai déjà arrêté à Aiton Manor, vous trouver tous dans ce temps froid; vos cadeaux sont là, et je vous présente mes excuses pour avoir été si très tard.”
Galya walked toward the now-dancing palfrey as Gaspar reigned it in to a halt a few feet away. He swung her up into the seat behind him, calling for the children to run ahead.
“Your gifts are ready for you, waiting just inside the door, children,” he told them. It was all the encouragement they needed as the girls lifted the hems of their dresses, following the boys as they all scampered toward the manor. Gaspar chuckled, patting Galya on the leg a moment before turning the horse back toward home.
“Again, so sorry I was late,” he told her quietly. “I ran into… unforeseeable issues at one of the vineyards in Languedoc. Though we have yet to prepare the soil for the coming year, it seems that one of the workers is complaining of the work. He is from Spain; speaks little French. During the off-season, I allow him to stay on and help around the grounds in other ways, thinking of his family. And yet, with all of the complaining bringing other workers down, I had to… I hated to do it, but I had to dismiss him from his duties yesterday.”
Galya tried to imagine the fields, asleep for the winter, waiting for a new season to begin; she pictured the rows of vines that would come to blossom and fruit several months into the future. Then, she imagined a family, now without provisions for work, and it brought a frown to her face.
How must the family be feeling now, she wondered. And where would they go?
“If it is any consolation, my Love,” Gaspar continued. “I offered them transportation back to Spain so that they could rejoin their family and find work where they are more used to the surroundings. He had only worked for me two years, and his parents still live on the other side of the mountains; so does his wife’s mother and an uncle.”
He patted her leg again, pausing the palfrey’s steps long enough to give her a kiss on the nose. “I believe they will be fine.”
Galya, not as sure, took the hand he kept at rest now on her knee and held it a moment. “I just cannot help but wonder…,” she began, cutting off her own words. “I cannot help but wonder how the man feels now. If he believes he has let his family down, or that this is a good thing.”
“Very commendable of you, my Dear,” he told her.
Commendable?
She didn’t know that word, but it sounded alright. Was it a good thing?
“I believe he sees the error of his ways, as well as the blessing of being able to get his family home again. That was his goal when he arrived; to pay passage for them all. I believe he has enough, but still, I must insist on paying. It will give them a head start as they begin again. He is a father of three boys, all of them that… how do I say it?”
He paused a moment, turning back to the horse, encouraging him to move forward again. Galya could see the manor now, in the distance, as it loomed closer.
“Each of the boys has some sort of… special need, I guess you might say. It is the same among them, but because their ages are spread out, it makes things difficult for their family. I believe they are three, nine, and eleven. I do not know if there is a name for what is happening. They… in English, I’m not sure how to say… Il
s ont tous agir comme il y a vingt choses qui doit être effectué en une seule fois, mais n'ont aucune concentration de l'un quelconque d'entre eux à tous. C'est comme si ils étaient marionnettes tiré par forces invisibles de plusieurs façons… arraché par l'incapacité à… de décider ce qui est le plus important et ce qui ne l'est pas,” he continued, then paused once more.
“Yes… unique or maybe… special needs. That’s what I was trying to say. They are… marionettes to the whims of everything around them,” he said again. “Too many choices, and they do not understand what is happening.”
Galya thought back to the children she had known in Israel. A few, including one of her little cousins, was this way. “Are you sure they will be…?”
She allowed her voice to trail off as they entered the stables.
“I believe all will work out for the best,” he reassured her again, nudging the horse inside, and then helping Galya dismount before doing so, himself. A groom came to tend the horse, and they thanked him before moving through the snow-covered grass in the twilight.
Moving up the stairs companionably, in silence, Galya wondered if the boys Gaspar mentioned were anything like her little Isaac, or the other boys she had known. Do they suffer the same destiny, Lord, she thought. Do they spend their lives as castaways amidst a sea of people who do not take time to understand?
It wasn’t as if Isaac and the other children had anything wrong with them; they were quite smart, she believed. But Gaspar was right… they were as much affected by whims and urges as a slave or a puppet. As out of sorts as one entering a new life, a new country, not knowing the language or any of the people.
As out of sorts as she had felt when she tripped into the mirror… and sometimes still felt, when she wasn’t quite sure what to do or who to ask for help. She wasn’t taught to seek out help; not from people, only from God. It wasn’t her family’s way, though Great Uncle Timothy had tried to explain to her mother, Abigail, that sometimes, it is alright to ask.
“Even Paul asked for help,” he had said more than once as her mother prepared the meal for Shabbat. “Even Paul, and very definitely some of the other apostles,” he would tell them.
The Angels' Mirror Pack 2: Books Four through Seven Page 40
