The Greatest Spiritual Secret of the Century (2 page)

“This weekend?”

“It's really not gonna be a good weekend for me,” she said.

“I understand,” he said, his vision blurring in the cold wind on his face. “I'll call you next week.”

“You do that,” she said. “And have a great weekend.” Her voice had a forced perkiness to it.

The line clicked; his coins dropped into the bowels of the phone, and a dial tone filled his ear. Paul looked at
the receiver as if seeing it for the first time, his stomach feeling like he'd been punched, and slowly hung up the phone. “Good bye to you, too,” he said softly, as the receiver fell into the cradle.

He turned and stepped back into the flow of people on the busy afternoon street.
She was only a friend
, he said over and over in his mind. And then,
It was just a casual relationship, even though I'd hoped for more. She couldn't have helped my career, and wasn't really interested in my future. She has her own career to worry about.

A block down, along Madison Avenue between 43
^rd
and 42
^nd
streets, he started to walk by a large bear of a man with neatly-cut black hair and a thick black beard, wearing a red-and-black plaid winter hunting coat and green army pants stuffed into tall black boots. The man stepped in front of him and abruptly established eye contact. Instinctively, Paul started to look away—eye contact in Manhattan can be dangerous, a lesson he'd learned well in his three years living there—but the man grabbed his right arm at the bicep and said in a loud voice, “Are you going to heaven, brother?”

“What?” Paul said, compounding his eye-contact mistake by violating Manhattan's unspoken, never-respond-to-them rule. He immediately realized his mistake and tried to pull his arm from the man's grip.

But the man held him tightly, the bond forged by Paul's response, and said, “I mean are you saved?
Have you accepted Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior?”

Paul felt a return flush of the resentment and bellicosity he'd experienced just ten minutes earlier in Mack's office. Who the hell did Mack think he was, telling Paul that a reporter shouldn't report the news if it made a big company uncomfortable? And who the hell did this guy think he was asking if Paul was “saved”?

“Is that what I have to do to get into heaven?” Paul said to the guy, his voice trembling with outrage, as if the man were a stand-in for the hypocritical Mack who'd just shattered his life.

“Accept, believe, be forgiven, and repent!” the man proclaimed, raising the index finger of his free right hand in the air. “And you'll spend eternity in heaven!”

“Lemme get this straight,” Paul said. “If I do these things, then I go to heaven when I die?”

“Right! An eternal paradise!”

“And you're going to be there, too?”

“Of course!” the man roared.

Paul laughed, what he knew was a sarcastic and cutting laugh, and said: “If that's where you're going, then I think I'd rather be somewhere else.”

He pulled away from the shocked man's grip and continued his walk down Madison Avenue.

“You'll bum in hell forever!” the man shouted at his back. “You're running scared and you better be scared,
because you're gonna die in sin and burn in hell! The God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob will get you, because he's wrathful and jealous! That's right-run away. You can run, but you can't hide!” The man's voice, his rant, faded into the sounds of traffic as Paul kept walking briskly down Madison, along with the sea of other people all pretending to be totally oblivious to the man shouting threats behind them.

But as he walked, Paul remembered his teenage years, the time he'd gone to Billy Graham's sermon at Shea Stadium and walked down front for the altar call, and the church he briefly attended after that, where the pastor's favorite theme was original sin and damnation. He eventually stopped attending the church, to a gnawing feeling of guilt.

What does it all mean?
he wondered as he walked.
Was everybody born evil and hated by God because of a mistake some now-dead woman made thousands of years ago? Was it possible? Would any father, even a Heavenly Father, torture and murder his own son to save the people he created from his own wrath? Could it really be that this was the purpose of life, to escape the wrath of the one who created us? Or is there something deeper, something more comprehensible, something more compassionate, perhaps even right there in the Bible?

“I'd give anything to know the answer to that one,' Paul said from his heart, half aloud, a little corner of his mind also thinking that it would be a reporter's ultimate story. He caught himself,
wondering if any of the people around had heard him talking to himself. He looked around cautiously as he stopped with the flow of people for the red light at 41
^St
Street, but nobody seemed to have noticed his lapse. Or, if they had, they were obeying Rule One of life in New York: avoid eye contact.

As he was scanning the crowd, he glanced across the street and froze in shock. For a terrible moment, he watched in horror as a little girl, perhaps five years old, broke the grip of her mother's hand on the other side of the street and dashed into the crosswalk. A delivery truck roared down the street, intending to run through his green light full-bore.

The girl's mother screwed, people gasped, and Paul awoke from his trance.
She'll die if I don't do something
, he knew. Nobody was moving: the scene was eerily in slow motion. Looking at the child again, he swallowed and surged into the intersection.

Three steps out, the voice in his head was now shouting,
you're gonna die
, but he didn't stop. Just five more steps and he could shove the little girl-now frozen in horror staring at the truck, whose brakes were screeching-hard enough to knock her out of the way. One step, then another, lunging forward, his hands stretched out in front of him, his mind racing as he calculated the odds that he could get there fast enough and shove the girl hard enough to knock her out of the
way. If he succeeded, he would then, himself, be in front of the truck that he knew would take his life. But even if he wanted to turn back, he'd already gone too fast and too far.

And then he was flying.

Somebody must have pushed me really hard
, he thought, as his motion through the air blurred. It almost felt as if strong arms had lifted him up under his chest and the tops of his legs, as if somebody were holding him the way he'd held kids in the summer camp pool where he'd taught swimming. And then he was rushing forward, his own hands outstretched like Superman, his feet no longer on the ground from the force of the shove. He grabbed the little girl and sailed with her on past the truck, feeling its bumper nick the heel of his right shoe.

The momentum was gone, and he fell to the ground in a pile, his cheek and fingers skinned, as the screaming little girl landed on her feet and ran into her mother's arms.

“That was one hell of a save!” a fiftyish man in a tan trench coat said, his voice filled with wonder, as he helped Paul to his feet. “Just like Mel Gibson, something in the movies!”

Paul looked down at his scraped-up right hand and brushed the dirt from it, then shook out his coat. “Did you see who shoved me?” he said, catching his breath.

Several people had stepped back from him, not willing or interested enough to get involved. The woman with her little girl, now sobbing softly, ran up to Paul and squeezed his arm, a thankful gesture, and said, “Thank you for saving my daughter's life. You're a good man.”

“You're welcome,” Paul said. “But I think I had some help. Did you see who pushed me?'

She shook her head. “All I could do was stare at my daughter and scream. You took such a chance for her.”

“I'm glad I could help,' Paul said.

She pecked his cheek with a kiss and, embarrassed, turned and walked away with her daughter in tow.

The light changed, the crowd flowed away like a river. The man in the tan coat, his hair combed up and over his baldness, shook his head and said, “That was one hell of a jump you made, to fly like that. You a professional athlete?”

“I didn't jump,' Paul said. “Somebody shoved me.”

The man shrugged and walked off, leaving Paul shivering in the cold wind.

Chapter Two

Ready for the Rains?

Paul Abler's apartment was on the twenty-first (and top) floor of a brick apartment building near Madison Square Garden, in that part of Manhattan known as Chelsea. It was a co-op built by the Garment Worker's Union in the late 1950s.

Paul took his time, walking the mile-and-a-quarter from where he'd saved the child to his apartment, stopping along the way to buy a slice of pizza, browsing store windows. He alternated between feelings of despair at his financial, relationship, and employment situation, and attempts to convince himself that he now had a new lifetime of opportunities ahead of him in all three areas. Part of him knew it was happy-talk, but another part also knew there was a grain of truth to it. Maybe there was something out there waiting for him that was better than working as a drone in a multinational's make-believe
world of what they cynically called “news” Maybe there was a woman out there who'd be more loving and less judgmental than Susan. Maybe life could get better now, and would.

He used his key to open the building's front door, walked into the lobby, and nodded at Billy, the retired cop the building hired as a combination security and maintenance man. Billy glanced at Paul's scraped face and hand, and turned his gray eyes to look out the window onto Eighth Avenue. New Yorkers learn not to ask questions.

During his walk home, a plan had formed in Paul's mind. A short-term plan, granted, but at least it may stave off the eviction notice and keep his credit cards from being cancelled. With that plan in mind, he'd purposely taken his time getting home to arrive just after five.

In the apartment next to Paul's, which shared a partitioned balcony with his apartment looking up Eighth Avenue, lived Rich Whitehead, lawyer extraordinaire. Rich shared Paul's desire to make it big in the Big Apple, but was hindered by an overabundance of what Paul thought of as lust. Rich, of course, called it his love life, or conquest, or, in his more exuberant (and vodka-soaked) moments, “My contribution to making the world a better and more loving place!'

What it all meant was that Rich had gone to Columbia
University's law school specifically and only to be able to join one of New York's largest corporate law firms to get enough money and recognition that there would be an unending stream of women clamoring for his attention. He had the very explicit goal of working his way up the firm's ladder to the point where his income would exceed a million dollars a year, which would support a Hugh Hefner lifestyle. A partnership in the firm would be nice, too, of course, but Rich understood that that was at least twenty years into the future. But doing M & A work-corporate mergers and acquisitions-was incredibly profitable for the attorneys involved, particularly when you could find and publicize dirt on the company to be taken over, thus driving its price through the floor. And sometimes the acquiring companies would even offer the lawyers working on their cases ground-floor opportunities. The success stories Rich told—usually when his mistress-of-the-week was in hearing range—were extraordinary, although Rich was still in the building, so his income clearly hadn't yet hit his goals.

In his five years with the firm, Rich's power had grown to the point where he currently presided over an empire of two junior lawyers, a paralegal, a clerk, and two secretaries. He passed out thousands of dollars a week in paychecks, and had told Paul many times that he was on the cusp of making Big Money himself.

Maybe, Paul thought, Rich could use a good writer. It could tide him over while he sent out résumés to newspapers around the country and hit
Time
and
Newsweek.

Paul walked to the elevator, took it up to the twenty-first floor, and knocked on the door next to his own. A moment later the peephole flickered, then Paul heard the sound of the three locks being undone and the door pulled open to reveal Rich, standing in a dark-blue terrycloth bathrobe and holding a glass with ice cubes and a clear liquid. He stood a half-foot taller than Paul at about six foot six, with a large barrel-shaped middle. He wore gold wire-rimmed glasses and his pale blue eyes were exaggerated in the thick lenses. Rich's hair was short and corporate, but still an unruly mass of light brown waves.

“Hi, Paul,” Rich said, a touch of reserve in his voice that Paul took to imply he'd interrupted something. “What's up?” He glanced at the abraded side of Paul's face and added, “What happened to you?”

“Oh, nothing,” said Paul. “I fell on the street, up on Madison. Pushed some kid out of the way of a truck”

“Playing the hero?” Rich smiled. “Maybe we should sue the trucker”

Paul smiled and shrugged. “It was really no big deal. Got a minute? This won't take long”

Rich stepped back and waved into the room. “Come right in.”

Paul walked into Rich's living room, which was decorated in black leather, glass, and chrome. It smelled of pot and shampoo and leather. Signed Dali prints adorned the walls, and the carpet was a startling pure eggshell white. A big-screen TV dominated the far corner, near the window out over the balcony, and in a chair next to it sat a stunning blonde woman, wearing only a silk bathrobe with a dragon embroidered down one side. Her hair was damp, and she looked like she was in her very early twenties. She looked Paul up and down quickly, and turned on a professional smile, all teeth and eyes, and said, “Hi!”

Flustered, Paul said, “Hi,” and turned to Rich. “I didn't realize you had company…”

“No problem,” Rich interrupted. “Paul, this is Cheryl. Cheryl, Paul. Paul is my next-door neighbor, a hot-shot reporter for the
Tribune.”
He turned to Paul and said, “Cheryl is a model and student at FIT.” FIT, Paul knew, was the Fashion Institute of Technology, just down the block at 27
^th
Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues, and a magnet that drew beautiful women from all over the world…a fact not lost on Rich when he was deciding where in Manhattan to live. Plus, the neighborhood was experiencing a bit of a renaissance, with lots of trendy restaurants, bars, clubs, and shops opening. Great places to meet the women from FIT.

Rich sat down in a chair next to Cheryl, and gestured Paul to the black leather couch that faced the window. “Would you like a drink?”

“I think I'll pass,” Paul said. “I don't want to interrupt you two…”

“We just took a shower,” Rich said with a wink. “I've got to head back to the office in a few hours, so we're going to dinner at Krour Thai after this drink” Defining the parameters of the time available to Paul, which was to say very little.

“Well,” Paul said, “I left the
Tribune
today.”

“Hey!” Rich said, standing up and saluting with his glass. “Congratulations!” He took a sip, while Cheryl watched with a Siamese-cat expression on her face. Paul often wondered who was the user and who was the used; the women Rich picked up often seemed far more intelligent—or at least far wiser—than Rich himself.

“Yeah, well, it wasn't something I'd probably have chosen. We had a disagreement about the meaning of the phrase ‘work ethic'”

Rich raised his right eyebrow. “They thought seventy hours a week was too little?”

“They thought it was too much. I was making people nervous”

“Ah, so. Same in the law. Build your alliances first, line up your allies. Establish your empire. Then you go for the jugular/' Rich sat back down, nodding his head
like a wise old man who'd seen it all. “So now you've learned a good lesson and you're free for a new beginning.”

“I guess so. Somewhere out there is a newspaper who's not afraid to hire a
real
investigative reporter. In the meantime, though, I'm a little tight, cash-wise. So I was wondering if you knew of any opportunities at your firm for part-time work. I'm a pretty competent wordsmith.”

Rich glanced at Cheryl, who smiled back at him, then took a long, slow sip of his drink. “You know, the Russians make the best vodka in the world,” he said. “And the worst. The secret, of course, is knowing which is which”

Paul nodded, having heard many times Rich's story of when the firm sent him to Moscow and he learned All About Vodka And Russian Women.

“Anyhow,” Rich continued, “I don't know. I'll ask around. Sometimes we hire temps or freelancers, although usually they're paralegals or lawyers who just work on the side, if you know what I mean.”

“I figured…”

“But I'll check it out!' Rich said with a decisive tone, standing again. “I'll certainly check it out and get back with you.”

Paul caught the cue and stood up, allowing himself to be guided to the door with Rich's arm reaching over his
shoulder, murmuring reassurances until Paul was back in the hallway and the door was closed.

Paul turned and walked to his own apartment's door, used one key on the dead-bolt lock, the other on the doorknob lock, pushed the door open and walked in.

As familiar as the apartment was to him, Paul still noted the contrast between his place and Rich's. His was considerably less elegant, with simple light brown carpet, two tan fabric sofas—one long and the other short—an easy chair, and a ten-year-old faux teak wall unit that held his TV, stereo, and books. He walked through the living room to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of white wine from the refrigerator, and went back to the living room, noticing that he was limping slightly. His muscles ached. As he reached for the TV remote control to check the day's news, he heard a knock at the door, a rapid and forceful rap-rap-rap. He stopped in mid-reach and carried his wine-glass to the door. Pulling aside the cover to the peephole, he saw an old man in a brown tweed jacket. The fellow looked to be in his seventies, with trim white hair and beard, his jacket middle-buttoned formally over his tie, holding a clipboard. He was smiling broadly.

Paul opened the door. “Yes?”

“Hello, young man,” the gentleman said. “You're Paul Abler, and I have a few questions for you, if you
don't mind. I'm doing a survey.” There was a faint accent to his English, a guttural quality shared by Middle-Easterners and Slavic people.

“I've had a really miserable day,” Paul said, thinking the man must have gotten his name off the mailbox downstairs, probably had followed somebody into the building to get past the front-door lock. “Maybe another time.”

“I hate to press, but if you answer these questions, there's a real premium at the end of this. Believe me, this is not a gift you want to say ‘no' to. Much larger than anything you can imagine.” Paul saw the man's eyes glance over his scratched face, the dirt and tear on the collar of his white shirt, and a small smile-perhaps a smile of sympathy-came to the man's face. “You look like you could use a gift.”

“I'm fine…” Paul began, recognizing the old door-to-door ploy and preparing to close the door on the man. But the man's smile reminded him of the summer he'd spent during his first year of college selling magazines door to door, paid on commission, and all the doors that were slammed in his face. How he kept trying to smile at all the fearful or angry or apathetic people who wouldn't even listen to how he could get them their first year's subscription for free if they'd just sign up for two years. And they almost never smiled back. It was a miserable job, and when the end of the
summer came he was relieved to get back to college. It was his first solid realization of how cold and uncaring people could behave toward strangers. He felt the doorknob, cool in his hand, and pulled it further open, thinking,
I was fired today; the last thing I should be doing is making somebody else's job harder.
“What the heck” he said. “Come on in.”

The man followed Paul into the living room, closing the door behind him, and walked to the short sofa under the window that looked up Eighth Avenue. “May I sit down for a moment?” he said.

“Sure” Paul said, sitting on the longer couch, diagonal to the man. The pizza had upset his stomach, and he was thinking of taking a couple of aspirin and letting himself turn into a TV zombie with the remote control in one hand and the glass of wine in the other. It was a rare indulgence, but sounded appealing; as soon as the salesman left. He added, “But let's try to get this over with quickly, ok?”

“Of course” the man said, with a glance to his clipboard. “The first question is, ‘Do you believe in God?”

Paul remembered the evangelist on the street earlier and felt a flush of anger. “Are you from some church or cult?”

“Oh, heavens no” the man said, his brown eyes twinkling, smile lines showing around them. “This is for the Wisdom School.”

The smile disarmed Paul. “What's that?”

The man got a momentary faraway look in his eyes, then looked back at Paul. “Every hundred years or so, when the secret seems the most lost, some people will step forward and share it again with the world. That's our work.”

“Sounds like a cult to me,” Paul said.

The man shrugged. “I'm not here to recruit you. You asked for this.”

“That's a joke.”

“No,” the man said. “It's serious. You asked right after you so deftly handled that evangelist on the street this morning.”

Paul thought back and felt a moment of disorientation as he remembered his half-whispered comment that he wished he knew the answers to the spiritual questions that had haunted him since childhood. He looked at the man and heard his own voice drop as he said, “You were standing beside me on the street?”

“After a fashion,” the man said, smiling. His smile seemed so heartfelt and genuine, like Paul, when he was a child, had imagined Santa Claus would look.

“I don't get it,” Paul said. “This is too weird, and I'm thinking that no matter how hard door-to-door selling is, I shouldn't have let you in. You followed me here.”