Cross Roads (6 page)

“Indeed.” Jack nodded soberly, as if that might comfort.

Tony buried his head in his hands trying to think, resisting as best he could the irritation he felt growing. They both sat silently looking back up the road.

“Anthony, you do know me, not well and not truly, but substantially, hence your invitation.” Jack’s voice was sure and measured, and Tony concentrated on what he was saying. “I was an influence on you when you were a young man. That
guidance and perspective
, shall we call it, has undoubtedly faded, but its roots remain.”

“My invitation? I don’t remember inviting anyone to anything! And you don’t look familiar to me at all,” Tony asserted. “I don’t know who you are! I don’t know Jack from Ireland!”

Jack’s voice remained calm. “Your invitation was many years ago and probably remains at best but a vague feeling or longing for you. If I had thought to bring a book and you could smell its pages, that most assuredly would help, but I didn’t. We never actually met, at least not in person, until now. Would it surprise you to know that I died a few years before you were born?”

“Oh, this just gets better,” Tony exploded, standing up a little too quickly. His legs were rubbery, but his anger propelled him a few steps back up the road in the direction from which he had come. He stopped and turned around. “Did you just say that you died a few years before I was born?”

“I did. On the same day Kennedy was assassinated and Huxley died. Quite the trio turning up, as they say, at the ‘pearly gates’…” He said this using his fingers to form quotation marks. “You should have seen the look on Aldous’s face. Brave new world, indeed!”

“So then, Jack from Ireland, who says he knows me”—Tony again moved closer, his tone controlled even while he could feel his ire and fear pushing the perimeters of internal boundaries—“where the hell am I?”

Jack hoisted himself to a stand and took a position not even a foot away from Tony’s face. He paused, his head
slightly cocked as if listening to another conversation before he spoke, carefully emphasizing his next words.

“There is indeed a sense that the word hell might be an appropriate word for here, but then, so would the word home.”

Tony took a step back, trying to process what Jack had said.

“Are you telling me that this is hell, that I’m in hell?”

“Not exactly, at least not in the sense that you imagine it. I am certain Dante is not lurking anywhere nearby.”

“Dante?”

“Dante, with his inferno and pitchforks and all. Poor boy is still apologizing.”

“You said, not exactly? What do you mean, not exactly?”

“Tony, what exactly do you think hell is?” Jack’s question was calm and measured.

It was now Tony’s turn to pause. This conversation was not going in any direction he’d anticipated, but he quickly made a mental decision to humor this curious man. After all, he might have information that would prove useful or at least helpful.

“Uh, I don’t know… exactly.” No one had ever asked him so directly. The question of hell had always been an assumption. As a result, Tony’s response came out more a question than a statement. “A place of eternal torment with fire and gnashing of teeth and stuff?”

Jack stood listening as if waiting for more.

“Uh, a place where God punishes people he is angry with because they are sinners,” continued Tony. “Uh, where bad people are separated from God and good people go to heaven?”

“And you believe that?” asked Jack, again cocking his head to one side.

“No,” responded Tony adamantly. “I think that when you die you die. You become worm-meal, dust to dust, no rhyme, no reason, just dead.”

Jack grinned. “Ah, spoken with the certainty of a man who has never died. If I may, might I ask you another question?”

Tony barely nodded, but it was enough and Jack continued, “Does your believing this, that dead is simply dead and that is ‘all she wrote’; does your believing it make it true?”

“Sure! It’s real to me,” retorted Tony.

“I didn’t ask if it was real to you. Obviously it is real to you, but what I asked was if it was true.”

Tony looked down, thinking. “I don’t get it. What’s the difference? If it’s real, isn’t it true?”

“Oh, not at all Tony! And to make matters even more convoluted, something might be real but not actually exist at all, while truth remains independent from what is real or perceived to be real.”

Tony raised his palms and shrugged, shaking his head. “Sorry, this is way beyond me. I don’t understand—”

“Oh, but you do,” interrupted Jack, “much more than you realize, no pun intended; so let me give you examples that will clarify.”

“Do I have a choice?” Tony acquiesced, still at a loss but more interested than aggravated. Somewhere in this man’s words was hidden a compliment, and while he couldn’t grasp it, he could sense it.

Jack smiled. “Choice? Hmm, good question, but for another time. To my point, there are those who ‘really’ believe there was no Holocaust, that no one has actually walked on the moon, that the earth is flat, that there are monsters living under the bed. Real to them, but not true. Closer to home, your Loree believed…”

“What does my wife have to do with any of this?” reacted Tony, more than a little defensively. “I suppose you know her, too, and just so you understand, in case she’s lurking around here, too, somewhere, I have no interest in talking to her.”

Jack held up his hands in surrender. “Tony, calm down, this is just an illustration, not a reprimand. May I continue?”

Tony folded his arms and nodded. “Yeah, sorry; as you can see, not a favorite topic of conversation.”

“Yes, I do understand,” resumed Jack. “That is also for another time. Again, my question: Did Loree at any time believe that your love for her was real?”

It was bold and almost absurdly personal in the current circumstances, and Tony took a moment before answering candidly. “Yes,” he admitted. “There was probably a time when she believed my love for her was real.”

“So, you think it was real to her?”

“If she believed it was real, then yes, it was real to her.”

“Then it begs the question, was your love for her real to you, Tony? Did you truly love her?”

Instantly Tony felt an internal guard go up, the discomfort associated with a perceived accusation. Normally, now would be the time to change the subject, to make a witty or sarcastic remark to deflect the emotions being exposed and turn the river of words toward more lighthearted and irrelevant banter. But Tony had nothing to lose in this exchange. He would never see this man again, and he was intrigued by the moment. It had been a long time, he thought, since a conversation had gone so deep so quickly, and he had allowed it. Such was the safety of dreaming.

“Honestly?” He paused. “Honestly, I don’t think I knew how to love her, or how to love anyone for that matter.”

“Thank you, Anthony, for that admission. I am certain
you are correct. But the point is that she believed in your love, and even though it didn’t exist, it became so real to her that she built a world and life around it… twice.”

“You didn’t have to bring that up,” muttered Tony, again looking away.

“Just an observation, son, not a judgment. On to a second illustration, shall we?” He waited for Tony to catch up and then began. “Let’s just suppose, for the sake of this example, that there is truly a God, a being of—”

“I don’t believe any of that stuff,” interjected Tony.

“I am not trying to convince you of anything, Tony,” maintained Jack. “Not my job. Keep in mind that I am dead, and you are… confused. I am simply positing something to amplify the difference between real and true. That is our subject if you recall.” He smiled, and Tony couldn’t help but respond with one of his own. There was a kindness in this man that was disarming, almost deeper than genuine.

“So let’s suppose this God is good all the time, never a liar, never a deceiver, always a truth-teller. One day this God comes to you, Anthony Spencer, and says this: ‘Tony, nothing will ever separate you from my love, neither death nor life, not a messenger from heaven nor a monarch of earth, neither what happens today nor what may happen tomorrow, neither a power from on high nor a power from below, nor anything else in God’s entire created cosmos; nothing has the power to separate you from my love.’

“So, you listen to God tell you this, but you don’t believe it. Not believing it becomes what is real to you, and you then create a world that holds not believing the word of this God, or the love of this God, or even in this God at all, as a fundamental cornerstone of your life’s construction. Here is one question nestled among many others: Does your inability to
believe the word of this God make what this God has said not true?”

“Yes,” Tony responded too quickly, and then, thinking, changed his mind. “I mean no. Wait, let me think about this a second.”

Jack paused, allowing Tony to sift through his thoughts before speaking.

“Okay,” Tony replied, “if what you assume about this God is true… and real, then I guess my belief wouldn’t change anything. I think I’m beginning to understand what you’re saying.”

“Do you?” challenged Jack. “Then let me ask this: If you choose not to believe the word of this God, what would you ‘experience’ in relationship to this God?”

“Uh, I would experience…” Tony was struggling, looking for the right words.

“Separation?” Jack filled in the blank. “Tony, you would experience a sense of separation, because separation is what you thought was ‘real.’ Real is what you believe, even if what you believe does not exist. God tells you that separation is not true, that nothing can ‘really’ separate you from the love of God—not things, behaviors, experiences, or even death and hell, however you choose to imagine it; but you believe separation is real, and so you create your own reality based on a lie.”

It was too much for Tony and he turned away, rubbing his hands through his hair. “Then how does one ever know what is true? What is truth?”

“Aha!” exclaimed Jack, slapping Tony on the shoulder. “Pontius Pilate speaks from the dead. And there, lad, is an ultimate irony! Standing at the fulcrum of history in the very presence and face-to-face with truth, he, as so many
of us are wont to do, declared it nonexistent, or, to be more accurate, declared ‘him’ to be nonexistent. Thankfully, for all our sakes, Pilate did not have the power to turn something real into something that wasn’t true.” He paused before saying, “And Tony, neither do you.”

The moment was frozen for a brief second and then the ground shook slightly, as if a small tremor had occurred deep beneath their feet. Jack smiled his enigmatic best and declared, “Well, I think that means my time with you, for now, is finished.”

“Wait!” objected Tony. “I have questions. Where are you going? Can’t you stay? I still don’t understand where I am. Why am I here? If this isn’t hell exactly, what is this? And you said something about it not being exactly home either? What does that mean?”

Jack turned back to face Tony one last time. “Tony, hell is believing and living in the real when it is not the truth. Potentially you could do that forever, but let me say something that is true, whether or not you choose to believe it, and whether or not it is real to you.” He again waited. “Whatever you believe about death and hell, it is truly not separation.”

The ground shook again, this time a larger statement than previously, and Tony steadied himself against the rock wall. When he turned back Jack was gone, and night had fallen.

Suddenly, Tony felt exhausted, tired to the center of his bones. He sat down once again, rested against the colossal structure, and looked out at the road and scenery that were quickly exchanging their colors for shades of gray. His mouth dry and clammy, he felt around him, hoping Jack had left his flask, but his searching hands found nothing. Drawing his knees up into his body, he secured a little place
of protection, a huddle against the cold that had begun a relentless creep inside, like a thief stealing away fragmented pieces of warmth.

It was too much! An icy wind had risen, blowing his questions away like bits of paper scattered by a gale. Was this now the end? Finally? Could he hear the groaning approach of emptiness, a swallowing nothingness determined to extract from him the last vestige of heat?

He was shivering uncontrollably when a light appeared, a bluish luminescence that surrounded the most beautiful dark brown eyes he had ever seen. It reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t remember who. Someone important.

Fighting to stay conscious, Tony managed to form the question, “Who am I? No, wait, where am I?” A man sat and cradled Tony in his arms, and carefully poured another warmer liquid into Tony’s mouth; he could feel it expanding and soaking into his frozen center, spreading outward. His shaking slowed, then stopped, and he relaxed into the man’s embrace.

“Safe,” the man whispered, and stroked his head. “You are safe, Tony.”

“Safe?” Again Tony could feel darkness descending. His eyes were heavy, his thoughts thick and slowing. “Safe? Never been safe.”

“Shhhh.” Again that voice. “It’s time to rest a little. I am not leaving. I will always hold you, Tony.”

“Who are you?”

If the man answered, Tony didn’t hear him as the night, like a blanket, wrapped him in a tender caress and he slept safely without dream or even wishful thought.

S
unlight?

It was sunlight, again. But this time different, muted and softer. Tony sat up with a start. Now where was he? With the question everything instantly returned: the tunnel, the trails with the myriad of choices, the door, Irishman Jack, the other man.

The other man? That was the last he remembered. Was he still dreaming? Was he in a dream inside a dream? He had been asleep, or dreaming that he slept. The sun streamed through curtains, lighting the room well enough to reveal he had awoken in a makeshift bedroom. A thin mattress covered a sagging spring frame. The blanket he had slept under was tattered and ragged, but clean.