The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

  “Of course I remember you, Mr. Han. Or do they call you Pastor Han? I’m Jewish, so I’m never sure of what titles you folks prefer.”

  “It is your preference, Miss Cohen. I have no need for titles. And, as some churches do, I am what they call ‘pastor emeritus’ now. Retired. In the way. Honorable title for such an unworthy servant.”

  The gentle Korean man rubbed his hands together as if his bones were chilled, despite the temperate air of the evening. “Miss Cohen, I would have called, should have, of course, but I did not expect to be walking past my old church this evening. Like reminiscing and visiting an old friend. My car is in the public lot down the street. So now that I am here, and you are here, perhaps … a little favor, I may ask, but I do not desire to trouble you in any way. I planned to call this week. You are, after all, the new titleholder of this building, and I wish not to bother you. But there is one thing I believe I have forgotten inside these walls, and I humbly seek a time when I might retrieve this trifling.”

  Samantha hurried her reply. “Well, of course you can come in. Right now is fine. Actually, I was on my way in. I haven’t been inside after dark, and I wanted to see what the windows looked like.”

  Mr. Han bowed slightly. “You are kind, Miss Cohen. Most kind. I must inform you that the windows do lose a certain vibrancy in the dark. But they take on a … how to describe it? In Korean, there is a word for a deeper being, a less transparent quality, and … thicker. Yes, dark and thick perhaps offers the best sense of the word. The images on the windows simply become less transparent and more real, much more so. Yes, the windows grow less visible and grow more real. It is what happens. I am sorry, Miss Cohen. It is the best this poor linguist can do with that odd word.”

  Samantha unlocked the door and opened it, stepped in, and motioned for Mr. Han to follow her in. She snapped on the downlights in the vestibule. They walked into the narthex, then into the main sanctuary silently, Samantha’s eyes going from window to window. A car’s headlights passed, illuminating a robed man, sparkling, for just a second, the image. Then he was back to being thick.

  “Thick is a good word for them, Mr. Han. Visible, yes, but … thick,” Samantha said, agreeing with his assessment. “So, Mr. Han, what was it that you are looking for? Could I help you find it? During the inspection, I don’t think I saw anything of value that was left.”

  “It is such a trifle, Miss Cohen. It was left in the office.”

  They both entered the pastor’s office area, bare except for two wooden straight-back chairs.

  “It was hidden, Miss Cohen. Hidden so well that it was far from view and forgotten. Hidden from the person who had hid the item, I must confess.”

  Mr. Han dragged one of the chairs to the massive stone wall, flanked by two arched windows. He climbed up on the chair with surprising agility and pulled a small stone out of the wall. He turned to Samantha. “The mortar was loose when I moved in, Miss Cohen. I did not damage the stone.”

  He reached in the cavity and extracted a glittery item—a piece of jewelry, perhaps a locket on a thin chain, Samantha thought. Mr. Han carefully reinserted the stone.

  “I would have never known that stone was loose,” she said.

  Mr. Han slowly stepped down from the chair. “Then the hiding place proved most effective, did it not?” the old pastor answered.

  He looked down at the locket in his hand. Samantha could not help but stare. Mr. Han opened the locket. Inside were two miniature photographs.

  He looked up. “This was my mother,” he said softly and touched the picture with the gentlest of touches, his finger tracing along his mother’s face. “And the little boy is myself.”

  Mr. Han seemed to wobble a bit, and Samantha drew close to him and took his arm.

  “Sit down, Mr. Han.”

  He complied, like a doll being placed in a play chair by a toddler.

  “Do you want some water? I could get you a glass …”

  “Not necessary. Just a momentary lapse. I will be fine.”

  Samantha drew the other chair close, ready to steady the old man should he waver again.

  “I always preached the truth in this building,” Mr. Han said, as if confessing some secret, hidden trait. “I think for all the years I stood in the pulpit, God’s eye behind me, I never once knowingly uttered a falsehood.”

  “Is that what that window is?” Samantha asked.

  “I am not certain. It is the image that I conjured up at least, and I felt His eye upon me.” He looked up at Samantha, his eyes clear, focused, but as if in turmoil. He smiled, perhaps trying to hide his emotions.

  “Really?” Samantha asked.

  The old man’s smile was knowing, curious. “It is appropriate to be amused by such ideas, Miss Cohen, but I will tell you that many in my congregation believe that this space will always be a place of truth. It will always be holy, even if those in authority above me say it has been officially ‘deconsecrated.’ My people, who worshipped God here in spirit and in truth, are praying that this will continue here, some way, somehow.”

  Samantha sat back, taking in what Mr. Han, with his beatific expression, was saying.

  “I have never told anyone about my past before,” he continued. “I don’t know why I feel I must tell you this now, except that I may never visit this place again. Perhaps to be at peace as I close the chapter in my life here.

  “My mother was a shaman, Miss Cohen. In Korea, she was called a mudang—an intercessor between the gods and humans. She held services, or gut, in order to gain good fortune for her clients and to protect villagers and to guide spirits of the dead to paradise. She alone would meet with the spirits. It is not a job anyone desires. A woman does not want to become a shaman. She is chosen, as it were, following a severe physical malady or a prolonged mental ailment, which indicates possession by the spirits.”

  He sighed and his shoulders sank, as if displaying how burdensome this truth, this secret, had become in its withholding, and now in its retelling.

  “Before she passed, she came from Korea to visit me here once. She hated the blue color in the glass in this building—especially in the round window. Her response was immediate, visceral. She began to tremble and shake when she for the first time stepped foot inside this space. In our national flag, there is the traditional symbol of yin and yang—done in blue and red. Blue always provides negative energy. It is t’argukki—the balancing of yin and yang. Red, good, positive; blue, negative, evil—a sign of confrontation. Blue sums up the power of brutal awareness. She heard me preach once and then, for the rest of her visit, refused to enter this place. Except for the last day. For just a moment.”

  He looked down at the tiny photos in the locket, photos of a beautiful young woman and a cherubic baby. “That last day, she revealed to me a dark family secret. She said that this building possessed a mighty spirit, and that spirit—not spirits, but a single, powerful spirit—forced her to tell me the truth.”

  Mr. Han clenched his fist, as if summoning up the strength to continue. “I do not want to burden you, Miss Cohen, but I feel obligated to tell you this story about this place you now possess.”

  He took a deep breath. “The secret was this: I was born as the result of her being taken by Japanese troops and forced to be a comfort woman, servicing the invading army during the Great War. So that moment, I knew then why I was less Korean than some. In her great shame, I was sent to America to live with my aunt and uncle.”

  He snapped the locket shut and stood up, as if weary from telling the story, as if having accomplished whatever mission he had. He was finished.

  “That is my story, which no one ever knew. Perhaps this building, with the God’s eye window, does have a way of demanding the truth and helping God change people. Perhaps it does make people inside its walls confront what they have kept hidden, for keeping secrets can prevent
true wholeness. God’s power can do that. It is a spiritual place, for sure. I pray that you will only be blessed and empowered by the truth that has always been spoken in this place.”

  He looked around. Then he reached out and touched the stone wall with just his fingertips, as if expecting them to contain some manner of electrical current. “I will miss these stones.”

  “Did she ever come back?” Samantha asked. “Your mother. Did she ever come back?”

  “No. My mother remained agitated during her visit and died within two weeks of returning to Korea.”

  “I am so sorry,” Samantha said.

  “Sorrow is not necessary, Miss Cohen. I was told that the last words on her lips were to acknowledge God—not her gods, but my God. The one true God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. It was the truth that changed her. Perhaps the truth of this place—who can know? So I buried that small locket in this church. To venerate her memory, to keep it close and protected. To keep this heart of hers close to God. Now I will bury the locket in the new Korean church.”

  Mr. Han slipped the locket into the pocket of his oversized trench coat. “I have bothered you for too long this evening, Miss Cohen. I must take my leave.”

  On the steps of the church, Mr. Han stopped. “I will pray that you will know the truth, Miss Cohen. I will pray that prayer for you every day. And, along with my congregation, I will pray that this place will always be its home.”

  He stopped suddenly, then looked about like a small child, as if seeing the church for the first time, blinking, eyes wide. “You know, Miss Cohen, there are stories in the Old Testament that speak of men building altars to God—to honor and praise Him. And those stories often end with the statement, ‘And the altar is there to this day.’”

  Samantha looked surprised. “Really? They’re still there? I guess I should have paid closer attention in Hebrew school.”

  Mr. Han offered an inscrutable smile. “Perhaps the exact stones are indeed still there. I am not an archaeologist. But what that means—in a spiritual manner, what those stories meant to me—is that once a place is consecrated to God as a place for worship, it remains consecrated. This is a sacred space, Miss Cohen. This may be a concept not present in the American way of thinking. Of course, as owner, you have every right to do with it as you will. But I believe it will always remain sacred, consecrated. One of the last prayers my congregation offered in this place was that whoever follows us here will feel God’s power—and be changed by His love.”

  He wiped at his eyes. Samantha thought he might have been tearing up.

  “We Koreans are a unique people,” he continued. “We have great reverence for place. The birthplace of ancestors. The burial places of parents. God’s temples. They are all inhabited by memories—but only God’s temple is inhabited by power, and only God’s power is forever, Miss Cohen. We have prayed that this place will continue to change people, long after we as a church have departed. You need to be aware of those prayers, Miss Cohen, because they are powerful. Because this … this building … is sacred space. You will be changed as God orders His universe according to His desires.”

  Samantha listened carefully. After a long moment, she replied, “Perhaps God will make me slimmer, Mr. Han? That would be a change I would welcome.”

  Mr. Han returned her smile. “You have a good soul, Miss Cohen. I pray that you will embrace the changes God may provide for you. It would be a remembrance to my mother and an honor to her name.”

  With that, he grinned, pulled the coat close to his throat and, with a renewed lightness in his steps, walked away … slowly at first, then with each step a little quicker than the one before.

  As Samantha watched him leave, a dozen questions gathered, unanswered, in her thoughts.

  “So, did she eat you up over this, or what?”

  Oliver sat in the booth at Denny’s opposite his brother, Tolliver. They had both heard every possible joke and question and had seen every shocked and puzzled reaction imaginable when they were introduced and both of their real given names presented. When Tolliver was in high school, even though he was four years younger than Oliver, he wound up growing taller than Oliver by more than five inches. Since then, everyone called him “Taller.” The name started out as “Taller than Oliver” but was quickly truncated to simply “Taller.”

  Taller was thinner, more strikingly handsome, with a more classical face, his speech more articulate and his bearing more personable than Oliver—at least that’s what Oliver thought, since Taller always received the lion’s share of attention, most of it from young women who seemed to throw themselves at him. Not that Taller ever refused any of their entreaties.

  And Taller quickly grew more distant from his mother, unlike Oliver, who was the good and obedient son. Taller was only three when his father died. After that, Oliver had assumed the role of head of the household and Taller took the role as prodigal son.

  “No. She was … okay,” Oliver answered.

  Taller grinned as he speared at his hash browns. “Come on, Ollie,” Taller said, the only person to call Oliver “Ollie” on a consistent basis. “I know her better than that. A church. A Presbyterian church. A Korean Presbyterian church. And a Jewish woman. Sounds like the start of a bad religious joke. Ma didn’t roll over on this one. That much I am sure of.”

  Oliver salted his eggs again and added four shakes of pepper, one shake at each edge of the over-medium eggs. “She … wasn’t overly happy, I guess.”

  “Not happy? I bet she warned you about causing the onset of the apocalypse if you took the job.”

  Oliver cut a very square piece of egg white, careful not to open up the yolk just yet. You have to keep the egg white and yolk and toast in the right proportions.

  Oliver knew that Taller knew their mother well. They both knew that playing out this charade any longer fell into the category of the ridiculous.

  “Not the apocalypse, exactly. She nearly promised God’s wrath, though. His damnation, she said, was all but a guarantee.”

  Taller grabbed at the dainty paper napkin on the table and dabbed at his face. He merely looked over to the counter and grinned, and their waitress hurried to the table.

  “What can I do for you? Coffee? I can get you another sweet roll if you like. On the house. They don’t count them or anything. Like, we don’t do an inventory.”

  Taller reached out and touched her bare arm, almost stroking it like you would a kitten. The waitress might have been twenty, with a wholesome look and a sad—abandoned, perhaps, but not jaded—almost innocent grin.

  “You’re sweet—” he said, and Oliver saw his brother’s eyes find her nametag without being obvious about it, “—Emily. I would love another cup of coffee. Could you get a clean cup for me, too?”

  She took off, faster than waitresses were supposed to take off, and returned with coffee, cream, and a new, clean cup, pouring it eagerly.

  Oliver had to raise his cup and call out, “Miss?” twice before she poured him another cup.

  When they were alone again, Taller asked, “So, will you risk God’s damnation and your mother’s scorn to take the job? Offers big money, I bet. Good publicity. Like the job in Butler, on Alice and Frank’s place.”

  Taller worked for Oliver. In some ways, Taller proved the better craftsman. He “listened” to the wood, he said. He became one with it, let it have its way sometimes. He lacked motivation, Oliver thought, but he had a way with wood.

  “I’m not sure. I have a meeting with Samantha on Friday. A couple of questions to iron out. Then I’ll decide.”

  Taller sat up straighter, just a bit, but Oliver noticed.

  “Samantha? We’re already on a first-name basis?”

  Oliver hesitated. In an instant, in his mind’s eye he allowed the present moment to flash forward a month into the future. He saw Taller with Samantha, Taller�
�s charm and good looks and tallness overwhelming the woman. He saw them together, holding hands, and … and he forced the thought away.

  “No. Maybe. She said she prefers being called Samantha.”

  Taller let his face take on that grin that was so familiar to Oliver. “Is she pretty?”

  Oliver shrugged, trying his best to be noncommittal.

  Taller grinned wider. “You’re terrible at poker, Brother. She must be an absolute knockout.”

  Emily was back at the table. “More coffee?” she said sweetly, her attention fixed on the younger brother.

  Taller looked up, directly into her eyes, stared for a long second, then replied, soft and warm, “Emily, I would be delighted to have more of your excellent coffee.”

  She walked away, and Oliver was more torn than ever. It was a really big job, an important job. But could he stand seeing his brother with Samantha if what he thought might happen really happened—and he had no reason to doubt that it might? And then, even as the thought entered his mind, Oliver dismissed it as silly and childish.

  Everyone is an adult here, he told himself.

  And Oliver knew that O. Barnett Custom Construction really needed this project.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SAMANTHA STEPPED OUT of the hot shower, welcomed after a vigorous workout, and wrapped herself in a wickedly thick bathrobe she had bought on her last visit to the Plaza Hotel in New York City. Usually she was not susceptible to those gimmicky in-room sales pitches, like ten-dollar water bottles from hotel mini-bars. But the robe was fabulous, and Samantha loved fabulous—even if it was fabulously expensive for a simple white Turkish cotton robe.

  She wiped at the foggy mirror with her hand. Her hair was wilder than it was before her shower. Water, humidity, and steam gave it a mind of its own. She glanced at her watch. There was no time to blow dry and style. Instead she pulled her hair back and held it together with an elastic band.

  She quickly applied moisturizer to her face. Her image in the mirror, even without makeup—the little foundation, blush, mascara, eye shadow, and lipstick she usually wore—still pleased her. She liked the way she looked both made-up and unadorned.