by C
“Well, freedom always means having a choice. That’s the risk God took. He let us be free so we could choose good, in order to love. But that also means we can choose a lesser good … and that’s where you find the origin of evil. People need the law that’s inscribed on their hearts to guide their conscience to the truth. And it’s the truth that sets us free.”
“I’m following my own understanding of right and wrong. I don’t need someone else to tell me what to do. I’d say I’m doing alright. I’m free and I’m happy.”
“Happiness can be fleeting. It comes and goes, but joy … joy springs forth from the deepest recesses of your soul. No one but God can produce that.”
A taxi sped by, its horn blaring. He paused a moment to let it pass and then continued, “Many movies and books feature zombies: the living dead. The reality is that ‘zombies’ are everywhere: people who go about day-in, day-out without knowing the purpose they were created for. They eat, they sleep, they work … but there is no life, no real freedom within them.”
“Despite our connection, Morgan, you and I live two very, very different lives.”
“Then, come, see my life. Just walk around the cathedral with me sometime.”
A strong breeze rushed by, causing a flapping noise from behind them. Brushing a few curls from her face, Amanda turned around. Hanging from the cathedral beneath the United States flag was a large white banner. The banner bore an image—a man with a furrowed face whose piercing eyes stared back at her from behind silver glasses. Red piping lined his black cassock, and a large crucifix hung on his chest.
She stood up and walked closer, squinting at the picture. “Who’s that on the banner? I could have sworn I saw his face before somewhere, but I’m drawing a blank.”
The breeze brushed the banner again, unfurling it farther to reveal a heading in large Gothic typeface: IN MEMORIAM. Beneath the image were the words: BISHOP STEPHEN FISHER.
“Oh,” she exhaled, as though she had been kicked in the stomach by an unforeseen enemy.
The memory came: the bishop’s face as he stood on the stage, facing all of the graduates on that perfect May morning. She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the next recollection: the agonizing screams of her fellow graduates, burning to death in front of her.
She sensed a movement next to her. Morgan came to stand before the banner too. His close presence comforted her. He understood because they had shared that horror together.
She turned to him. “Do you think about that day often?”
“All the time.”
“I guess you can never erase a memory like that. I know because I’ve tried so many times.” She stuck her hands deep in her pockets. “Morgan, I’ve been meaning to tell you—I’m sorry. I … I never really thanked you for saving my life.”
“It is a life worth saving.”
She smiled for a moment, but then scowled. “And the graduates who died? What about their lives? God didn’t consider them worth saving?”
“God loves every soul eternally and unconditionally. The people who died that day died because of freedom—an abuse of freedom. Didn’t you listen to Bishop Fisher’s speech?”
“I listened. I guess I don’t remember much of it, though.”
“He was assassinated because of those words.”
“What are you talking about?”
He cast a furtive glance around and, stepping a little closer, lowered his voice. “The NCP lauds the uninhibited freedom of everyone … unless you inhibit the party’s ends. The NCP will protect this ‘freedom to do whatever you want’ to the point of eliminating those who resist their agenda. The Justice and Protection Division protects the NCP, not the people of this nation.”
“I don’t know, Morgan. This sounds a little like a conspiracy theory.”
“If only it were theory! In reality, it’s too genuine. Valor Academy was one of the NCP’s targets because it was a hotbed of opposition, raising up young leaders who wouldn’t go along with the current popular opinion, but would rather take a stand against the NCP’s philosophy and tactics. The JPD conducted the bombing. And that’s why Valor is now closed—just one more religious institution shut down.”
“What? Valor is closed?”
“Yes. Oppression, intimidation—it’s all around you. And don’t jump to the conclusion that the targets are any particular creed or religion … or any religion at all. Summer Zünd—the councilwoman from Queens who’s been publicly criticizing the NCP for months—hasn’t been seen for two weeks now. The imam in the Bronx who had been encouraging his congregation to distribute anti-NCP fliers was found by his wife last week, dead in his mosque. And in the Upper West Side, the famous Buddhist leader, Do Quang Huyen, just fled to Vietnam after he appeared on television last month, voicing concerns about our current political climate.”
“If people were actually missing, wouldn’t we hear about it in the news?”
“The press is ‘free’ to cover whatever they would like, except anything that might jeopardize the NCP’s freedom.”
“Are you sure? How is that possible?”
“When freedom is understood as being secured through the action of man, then man sets himself up as the arbiter of freedom. And man’s ‘freedom’ is always empty. It is just an illusion.”
She stared at him. Morgan came across as a normal, well-informed individual. But this tale he was weaving now … it was a little out there. Sure, he adamantly believed it. How could she, though? Ethan and Nikki and their friends—all avid members of the NCP—were decent people. They were, in fact, her favorite people. Just because they didn’t share Morgan’s same religious views didn’t make them bad … and certainly not murderers. Perhaps Morgan was a little more extremist than she had originally thought.
The church bells tolled the hour, interrupting her musings.
Morgan walked toward the cathedral door. “I need to be going. If you meet me here again tomorrow, I’ll have time to help you with your sketch. See you then?”
“Yeah, okay, thanks.” She waved goodbye and began walking to the nearest subway station.
The moment she got off the subway at the South Bronx stop, the clouds let loose a torrent of rain—a steady, drenching shower. She had no coat or umbrella, and within minutes, her saturated clothes stuck to her body like glue. She didn’t care; she strangely enjoyed the rain. Maybe it was because of her favorite painting. Even now the raindrops seemed like tears, falling from the dark storm clouds above. She kept her head down, watching the puddles that she sloshed through. It was just like her painting, except these puddles didn’t contain the face of the beautiful woman who gazed back at her. That treasured painting always made her feel better. It just had that kind of effect.
The rain relented in its fury, and within a block, it had slowed to a gentle sprinkle. She still had at least fifteen more minutes until reaching home—the perfect amount of time to call her dad. A call home was long overdue. She spoke “Call home” into her phone and waited. Ring … Ring … Perhaps her dad stayed late at work today. Sometimes he did that if his crew had a deadline to meet. Ring … Maybe he misplaced his phone again.
Her dad’s voicemail came on—she would have to leave a message: “Hey, it’s me. Sorry for not calling you back sooner. I hope things are going okay. … I’ll try to call you tomorrow.”
Ethan and Nikki were both at work. It seemed like they were spending more and more time there now. Without their company, the evening dragged by. Amanda put the final touches on a still life for Advanced Drawing … one assignment complete, at least.
On Tuesday, after her Visual Perspective and Advanced Drawing classes, she headed toward St. Patrick’s. Rain continued to pour down, but she came armed with an umbrella this time. The bright lights inside the cathedral illuminated the stained glass windows, providing a stark contrast and colorful welcome against the grayness of the dismal sky. She wouldn’t find Morgan outside today, so she climbed the steps and, after taking a deep breath, crossed the thresh
old.
The enormity of the building was evident from its exterior, but it still did not prepare her for the immensity within. Everything about the cathedral and its Gothic architecture was huge; standing there, she was so very, very small. She was plain too, compared to the regal, white marble splendor. The impressive cross-ribbed vaulting soared high above her head on the ceiling. The stained glass windows lined the walls, even more striking from this interior view: the brilliant shades of glass glowing in the light.
Yet perhaps equally astonishing was its emptiness. She had anticipated having to maneuver her way through a sea of tourists snapping pictures. Instead, the only signs of life were bodies lying prone on the back pews, asleep. A man rested just a few feet from her, his baseball cap covering his face, a plastic bag full of soiled clothing perched beside him. Aside from the slumbering Unfit, she was the only person standing in the far back of the church.
She began to walk up the center aisle, staring at the columns lining either side and analyzing their features. They had foliated capitals, another Gothic characteristic. Back at Valor, she had taken a Greek civilization class. She wrote a term paper about their architecture styles … and now recalled that their columns had three kinds of capitals. What was the name of the one most like these? It must be Corinthian. The block capitals of the Romans later on had an even relief in line with the walls; these capitals moved diagonally in space, toward the interior. The labor involved in producing the individual leaves and vines must have been outstanding. The foliated capitals served no architectural purpose, but, as ornamentation, they were finely produced.
Amanda spied Morgan in his crisp white dress shirt kneeling in a pew toward the front and went to stand next to him.
He lifted his head after a moment, made the Sign of the Cross, and then turned toward her. “Very good timing. I just finished praying for you.”
“Well, if praying actually accomplished something, then I guess I would say thanks.”
“Pray with me sometime. Then maybe you’ll understand.”
“I know about praying. I could say the ‘Our Father.’ I went to Sunday school growing up. You don’t need to teach me anything. Life has already taught me enough. Life has shown me that praying is nothing beyond empty, habitual words. I don’t pray to anyone; if I need something, I’ll pray to myself. So you keep on doing what you do, and I’ll keep my safe distance away.”
“If you should ever change your mind, I would like to ask you the favor of saying a prayer for my work.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You want me to pray for you? What could possibly be so bad that you’re desperate enough to ask me for prayers?”
“It’s about my job. It has become increasingly difficult.”
“Well, what kind of work are you doing? Maybe I can help you with something?”
“Yes, you can help: your prayers are the best help you can give me. But you are free to do as you will. Anyhow, I think we’ve spoken enough. Shall we?” Morgan rose and motioned toward the doors. “I believe you have a sketch to complete.”
She returned his smile—it was hard not to.
They traveled toward the Met, walking together under the umbrella. Morgan held it, but to his own disadvantage.
She glanced at his shirtsleeve, exposed to the steady rainfall. “You should move the umbrella more toward your side. You’re getting wet!”
He laughed. “The rain doesn’t bother me. It’s fine.”
“If you’re sure.” She shrugged. “This better be my last trip to the Met. I’ve never struggled with an assignment this much. But it ends today. I’m getting it over with, come hell or high water. Then everything can go back to normal.”
“What do you mean? What is going back to normal?”
“Well, there’s this boy I know …”
“A boyfriend?” His voice remained neutral, but he flattened his lips into a thin line.
“Yeah. You could call him that. It’s time he and I get closer. And once I have this sketch behind me and no longer consuming my time and energy, we can take our relationship to the next level.”
“Hmm.”
“Well, what about you? Any special woman in your life?”
“Yes … I suppose you could say that.”
“Really? What’s her name?”
Morgan stopped walking, and Amanda, huddled under the umbrella, came to a halt beside him. He studied her for a moment—a penetrating, searching gaze that seemed to probe deep inside her. She stood, holding her breath. The moment of silence lengthened, and her expectations mounted.
He turned away. “This might be a conversation better suited for another time.”
Amanda’s cheeks burned, and her stomach knotted. Her words came out a little too quickly, her voice a little higher than normal. “Yeah, sure—absolutely. No problem.”
She began walking, staring at the laces of her sneakers. Had she missed something? She couldn’t deny that her connection with Morgan was something special. But it was strictly platonic. At least, that’s how she’d always understood it. Was it possible that he felt differently?
They entered the Met. Morgan didn’t pay for her admission—a reassuring sign. There was no conceivable way this could be misconstrued as a date, then. No, this was strictly business: a friend helping a friend. He must see it that way too. She cast a glance at him. He walked with a smile, swinging his arms by his sides. His face seemed composed, and his eyes darted back and forth between different art pieces. Maybe she had misinterpreted his statement. She started chewing on a fingernail.
They came to their destination, and he bounded forward to sit on the bench before Portrait of a Mother. “What a marvelous piece of work! I wish I could stare at her all day.”
She plopped down beside him, flinging her book bag onto the floor and bending over to rummage for her sketchbook. “Better you than me.” She flipped to her unfinished sketch, displaying her work for him to see. “Okay, what am I doing wrong?”
He took the pad into his hands, examining it. “Let me ask you a question first: Why do you want to do this sketch?”
Amanda stopped herself from rolling her eyes and laughing. “Isn’t it obvious? I don’t want to flunk my Studio Painting course. But even more than that, I want to show everyone, especially myself, that I can finish this. I have the skills to sketch her: it’s up to me to do it.”
“There’s your problem.”
“My problem is that I want to do the assignment?”
“Your problem is why you want to do the assignment.” He shook his head and handed back the sketchbook. “It’s all about you. It’s pride; it has nothing to do with Portrait of a Mother. You just want to conquer.”
“And how else am I supposed to approach it?”
“The greatest works of art are an emotional response to something. There is something powerful about a work of art. It’s more than lines, colors, and texture. Art speaks to us … sometimes in a mysterious way that the artist does not even realize. There is meaning behind the image, just as there is meaning behind our words. You are missing something in your sketch. You are missing who this mother is—her inner spark, so to speak. That is making your sketch one-dimensional—lines and shadows without feeling or life.”
“How am I supposed to know a mother’s ‘inner spark’? I’m not a mother—and I don’t even have one anymore.”
“But you do. You have always had a mother. And you still have a mother.” He stood up.
“Wait a minute! Where are you going?”
“I gave the help I have to offer. You have what you need to complete the sketch.”
“Really? That’s all you’ve got?”
“Spend time with her.” Morgan gestured to the painting. “Put your proud ambitions aside for a moment and be with her. Become acquainted. Learn who she is. When you have done that, begin sketching again.” Waving, he turned and walked away.
Amanda stared at the painting, furrowing her eyebrows. I have to finish this assignment. And someho
w I need to know you to do it. … So here I am. Teach me who you are.
She sat—for ten minutes, for forty minutes, for an hour. She was still, silent … directing her thoughts away from deadlines or acclaim. Instead, she put forth all her effort to enter into the mystery of the painting before her—something she was skilled at with her own work. She had become an expert at tapping into that internal wellspring of inspiration that guided her personal work. It was not a skill; in truth, it was a kind of gift, one she did not wholly understand, one she maybe didn’t even fully appreciate. Portrait of a Mother was a bit of an enigma, but so, too, were her own creations. Was there a key to understanding? Something that originated in the quiet recesses of her soul that drove her brushstrokes?
The longer she stared and contemplated, the more she began to see. She had tried to sketch those honey-brown eyes, but her initial attempts missed something. Those windows of the soul revealed humble wisdom: the mother did not look arrogant or haughty, but she was intelligent, brilliant in her own way. Amanda had also attempted that smile. It seemed, at first glance, a bemused smile, perhaps in response to the baby’s movement. But, no … that wasn’t quite it. The mother directed her smile to the viewer, not the child. It was as though she was encouraging the viewer, inviting him or her to stay. Maybe it was even a smile of recognition. Soft, rosy patches graced her cheeks, granting her a sign of joyful vitality and life.
Not wanting to lose the revelations opening in her mind, Amanda reached for her pencil and began again. Her strokes and shadings became faster: she felt driven by the impulse that she’d at last began to understand.
A long time later, she sat up straight and examined her work. It wasn’t a perfect likeness. No, not quite—she hadn’t fully acquainted herself with the mother. But it would have to do for now. She packed her bag, stood, and started to leave. Where the hallway turned, she paused and took a final glance over her shoulder at Portrait of a Mother. It had been an obstacle that she’d wanted to rid herself of. Now she was free at last, this part of the assignment done and finished. Why, then, did she feel like she had just met someone she would have liked to have known better, but had missed her chance?
