He turned on every light available and checked the windows, reaching behind the drapes to make sure they were locked, but not daring to look. Only when he was satisfied did he move to the bed which dominated the room and lay back, trying to calm his heart. But even bathed in light, he trembled. He could still feel the darkness, the night, waiting out there, pressed against his window, looking for him. The fear that had festered in the pit of his stomach for most of his life was growing worse. It had made him young again; not the youth he craved, not the vitality and strength of it, but the uncertainty. It was the superstitious, smothering fear of every child when the world turns black and closes in. When he is alone. Afraid.

Nothing in the dark can hurt you, dear. God protects his children.

His mother’s words had rung true in the past. But what about now? He had led a cynical adulthood. There had been little of late to bolster his faith—these days even the town minister was rumored to visit porno shops in Bedford. Was there enough belief left in crusty old George Bailey? Was he still one of His children? Or had the Lord forgotten another elderly man, just as society and the world seemed to do? He couldn’t help but think of poor Ida Fleming sitting before that television and praying her hardest and waiting, waiting for something to happen. Had she been forgotten too? Had they all?

He knew how Ida would have answered that. She would have said that her disappointments were her own fault, that she expected too much, that her own faith was not strong enough, not yet at least. And she would be right back there tomorrow, in front of that television set, quoting scripture and making out checks for their crusades and ministries and holy amusement parks and praying that maybe tonight it would be enough.

He lay there on the bed without undressing, and he prayed for the rest of the night. He spoke in a soft voice that only God could have heard and he asked for strength never granted and courage never fulfilled. And he prayed for dawn. Hours later when that last prayer was answered he finally relaxed and let himself sink deeper into his pillow, exhausted. And he clutched to his chest the ornament he’d carried since he came into the room, the one he had taken from the nail on the wall.

The big rosewood crucifix had been an heirloom from his wife’s family. When he slept, he dreamed of her.

Part II: The Reckoning

PART II: THE RECKONING

7

Chapter Seven