The Sibylline Oracle (2 page)

The Columbia University classroom was packed, as it always was for Alex’s lectures.

“All right, Mr. Staunton questions the reality of the Greek gods.” Alex shrugged. “Anyone else wish to contribute to this discussion?” When no one responded, Alex cocked his head to the side and flashed a crooked smile. “Come on! A group of soon-to-be attorneys and no one is challenging this?”

Despite the fact that Louis Staunton was an irritating human being, Alex always enjoyed their discussions.

Tom Cunningham, Staunton’s not-so-bright friend, took the bait. “Professor, I don’t understand. Last week, we discussed the fact that there
were
no contemporary historians of the Trojan War. All of them were writing from a viewpoint of at least 300 years after the fact. So, how can you now argue that the writings about the Greek gods are accurate?”

Alex nodded, pleased. He tapped his little finger lightly on the podium, the sound from the built-in microphone echoing
through the room. “You’re right to a certain extent, Mr. Cunningham. The subject last week was whether Cassandra, the tragic prophetess of Troy who foretold the Trojan horse, was insane. And, I did argue that the historians of 300 hundred years later had a skewed perspective of a sibyl. The historian’s sibyl presided at the Delphi or other temples by 800 B.C. They believed that communication with the gods was made possible from intoxicants and hallucinogens, such as the ethylene vapors that probably emitted naturally from those sites, ergot-infected wine or the chewing of laurel leaves.

“Cassandra did not reside at the Delphi, or any other temples that were created hundreds of years later. Still, we know that her foretelling of the Trojan horse was not believed.” Alex paused. “Imagine having the gift of vision but not being able to change the outcome…quite a curse rather than a gift.” Alex shook off the thought.

“History is full of examples of how what was in vogue changed the writing of history. Remember that Apollo was alleged to have had numerous male and female lovers. If you recall, we discussed that the origin of those stories was Apollo’s love of others and evolved into physical desire with Homer’s tales of the Trojan War. By the seventeenth century he was described as bisexually promiscuous. So, we attribute these ‘facts’ to seventeenth century imagination as opposed to probable truth,” Alex said, raising a finger toward Cunningham.

“My lecture last week was more concerned with the fact that there were several conflicting accounts of
how
Cassandra received her power and what happened to her. It was not to argue her existence, as Mr. Staunton is attempting to do with the gods.”

Staunton jumped back in. “Professor Morgan, Occam’s Razor states that the simplest explanation is the most plausible.”

“Mr. Staunton, are you really going to do something as pretentious as argue sixteenth century logic in a class called Ancient History?” The class laughed. “We do have a
few
philosophers in Ancient History to choose from.”

Staunton’s feathers were ruffled; he never could catch the subtleties of Alex’s humor. Alex waved an arm and said, “Go on, Mr. Staunton. You’re on a roll!”

“Well, Professor, the simplest explanation is that the gods were fictional—versus the idea of immortal deities or beings from where? Outer space? Or that these so-called gods actually possessed magic. That’s just…ignorance!” Staunton held his head arrogantly, waiting for the rebuttal.

Alex raised an eyebrow. “Ignorance?
So
, we are the enlightened ones
, are we?” He turned to the other students. “By the way, Occam’s quote is ‘entities’—or rather, theories— ‘must not be multiplied beyond necessity.’ We could analyze each of the theories that you just suggested and see which is the most plausible.” The corner of Alex’s mouth turned up slightly in a mischievous grin. “Who knows, it may end up an assignment!” The class booed the idea. “But, consider this. Some of the greatest thinkers in history believed in beings from other planets, and immortal deities, and…magic.”

Staunton narrowed his eyes. “That doesn’t mean I should!”

“Absolutely! Perhaps what makes those beliefs seem odd to you is that they challenge what you have learned all of your life.”

A woman in the front row raised her hand. Women tended to occupy the front row of Alex’s class. But he never seemed to notice them other than as students.

“Professor?” she asked, as she fluttered her eyelashes and waved her hand. Alex nodded to her. “I follow your thinking. It’s like the Swedish burying fish to rot and then eating it. We call it trash, they call it dinner!” Several students laughed.

“Exactly!” he said, while the girl garnered nods from her female classmates.

Staunton had been silenced and sat in a near pout with his arms crossed. Alex continued, “Mr. Staunton invalidated the idea of immortal and powerful gods because those ideas are not within his reality or understanding.

“My only point is that if you can accept the concept that the human spirit is immortal and came from another body or from the breath of God, how big of a leap is it really to think that maybe there are other deities? Or that we, as spiritual beings, reincarnate? How big of a leap is it to believe that out there, somewhere in the heavens, are other life forms? ”

“Professor Morgan, while I understand your intent, if there had been immortals—what happened to them?” Staunton challenged.

“You haven’t met one lately, have you?” Alex flashed a perfect smile of even white teeth, and the class laughed again. “Do you
know
that they disappeared? Speaking of myths, were you aware that the giant panda was considered to be a myth until 1918? Haven’t you heard reports of flying saucers or Sasquatch? There’s a lot out there that we don’t know about!”

As the hour ended, Alex leaned against the podium and raised his hand. “Oh! Professor Dean will be taking over this class, beginning next week.” The students grumbled.

“I know you will be as respectful of Professor Dean as you have been of me. It’s been a pleasure.” Alex lifted a finger, then added, “Well, except for you, Mr. Staunton.” Alex winked and the class laughed, even Staunton.

∞

From his office, he glanced out his window, appreciating the view. He liked Columbia, but hoped that this was his last fall quarter here. Shrugging on his jacket over his maroon turtleneck, Alex walked quickly across campus. He noticed the female students trailing him but, as was usual after this class, there was no time for being social. Alex glanced at his watch; he had timed the light the past few days and guessed it to happen sometime between 9:45 and 10:15 a.m. He could make it there in thirty-five minutes, so he had plenty of time. He liked it when he could walk—it distracted him and he could watch for her.

Alex went over what he would say for the hundredth time. He’d had a long time to practice. He took in the smell of the city; he loved Manhattan. If he had to be in a city and away from his home, this was it! It was faster to cross campus and walk down Amsterdam. But if he could get out of class on time, he preferred walking down tree-lined Broadway. The leaves were turning and the air felt refreshing. He passed the coffee shop on the corner and the owner waved to Alex’s nod.

As he entered the northwestern rim of Central Park, there were some suspicious thugs standing around. It was no time to take chances. Alex cut down to the 110
th
Street entrance. He knew she would be coming off the loop around the park, and every day he tried another route to see if she might be there. He watched for her long, brown hair and the camelhair coat that he’d seen in his vision. He watched all potential candidates, knowing her face so well that it would never be mistaken for another.

Arriving at the corner of 5
th
and East 76
th
, Alex glanced to the south. Juan wasn’t at his booth. Alex would check with Rosendo in a few minutes. Glancing to the north, Alex noticed the milky-white color of the sky. He drew in a deep breath—this could be it! He reminded himself that he had thought the same thing dozens of times before. But still, the temperature felt right, and the sky looked perfect. If it was the day, then he still had a couple of minutes. He walked the few steps toward Juan’s stand.

“Hey, amigo, where’s Juan? Is he late?” he asked causally to Juan’s brother, Rosendo. He secretly hoped that, as in his vision, Juan was not simply late.

“Juan’s daughter had her bambino,” Rosendo responded with excitement. Alex gave Rosendo’s shoulder a congratulatory pat—though his joy was more for himself than Maria’s little one. Alex found his breathing getting a little uneven.

“Well, I probably won’t be around much after this week. So, please tell Juan congratulations and please give him this for his grandchild.” Alex pulled out his wallet. Rosendo first saw the triangular tattoo on Alex’s hand and then saw the many bills in his wallet. Handing Rosendo five crisp one hundred dollar bills, he said, “For the bambino.” Rosendo’s mouth dropped.

Heading back to the intersection, Alex evaluated the sky. The sun was about where it should be.
Today could be it!
He had to stay alert. Of course, he had spent years hoping. But today, everything seemed to be where it should be. The diffused light showing through between the buildings to the east was perfect. As were the remaining leaves with their bright orange, red, and yellow hues. And Juan was absent for the first time in years. The light wasn’t quite right, but that could change in a New York minute. Alex knew it would be as he’d seen it. She would be coming from the park. When the cloud moved, he knew this was the moment.

Valeria was asleep on the floor between two books,
Money Magazine
’
s 50 Smartest Things to Do With Your Money
and
100 Best Vacations to Enrich Your Life.
The book she was actually reading was still on her lap, her finger subconsciously holding the page, when she was rudely awakened by the intercom buzzer. She struggled to open her eyes and then tried to focus on her watch. 7:30 a.m. What was anybody doing at her door, and especially at this god-awful hour of the morning? Although, it was only this week that 7:30 seemed early to her.

Pulling herself up from the floor using the overstuffed couch as leverage, she straightened her legs and dropped her book. Then she pulled her long, brown hair back into a ponytail holder and padded across the wood floor to her intercom. “Yes?”

A woman’s voice came over the speaker. “Would you just frigging open up? It’s cold out here!” It was her best friend, Weege─who was really her only friend. Five years ago, Weege had been her first employee after she’d negotiated and won several large floral contracts and could no longer handle all of the orders. Six months ago, Valeria had been offered more money for her little floral shop than she thought she would see in her entire lifetime. Without hesitation, she had sold it.

Valeria had never intended to grow her business. In fact, she had been happiest when she was creating all of the designs herself and selling them on the street near Central Park. But all of that changed when her designs became popular. She had been forced to lease a shop. That was fine. But then the large hotel accounts began to come in. Valeria was out of room and required a delivery service, purchasing department, and bookkeeper. For these duties, she had hired Weege. But Valeria insisted on hand selecting all of her own flowers and would never hire anyone else to design. Later, she caved in when she needed help keeping up with the contracts—and her body seemed to require
some
sleep.

“Weege? What’s going on? Everything alright?” Valeria answered, concerned. Only delivery men ever showed up at Valeria’s apartment, and on occasion, and only briefly, when it was scheduled weeks in advance—David. Weege didn’t answer Valeria. To her chagrin, Valeria heard Weege hitting up one of her neighbors who was entering the building.

Weege’s voice was thick with New York. “Hey…excuse me…sir? Sir? Yeah, I mean you!
Is there another sir
anywhere around here?
Hey, I forgot my key. Help me out, huh?” Valeria rolled her eyes, praying that the neighbor didn’t see Weege come to her door. Why didn’t she just wait five seconds for Valeria to hit the button and let her in, instead of lying? Valeria heard an irritated grunt from the neighbor, followed by the sound of the door opening. Weege whispered into the intercom as she went in, “Never mind. Coming up!”

Minutes later, Valeria heard the pound on her door. Too loud, she cringed. She opened the door and Weege stomped in without invitation or greetings.

“What the hell am I doing?” Weege breezed past Valeria into the living room and began pacing. Eventually, she stopped to notice the books, a pizza with two missing slices, an open bottle of wine still two-thirds full, and a half-empty glass of wine sitting next to it. She glared critically at Valeria. “You aren’t hung over with, what? One glass of wine?” Weege sighed and looked at the books. “Any answers?”

“I don’t know. I mean, what do I want? What do I really need? I like my brownstone! I don’t want to move just because of money. And I don’t really want to travel alone.”

As Valeria glanced around, she knew it would take something very special for her to consider ever giving up her apartment. She loved that it wasn’t set up to focus on a mind-numbing television set, but rather a built-in bookcase that took up the entire length of her living room. Her dining room was a simple table set up as you walked in the door. She loved the huge windows in the kitchen and bedroom. The colors were a subtle pastel that seemed to deepen as the sun rose, making it look larger than it was.

Glancing up at her nine-foot ceilings, Valeria crinkled her nose. “David’s not really fun to travel with.”

Eyeing the cold pizza, Weege slid onto the floor and shoved a slice into her mouth. “He’s a diplomat. He doesn’t have to be fun or interesting.” Valeria rolled her eyes at the paradox. Weege mumbled through her bite, “That’s why you need to hire someone. Really, Val, I wish I had your problems. Now me, I have
real
problems.” Weege looked at the bottle of wine and, deciding it was a reasonable vintage, drank from Valeria’s glass as she shoved another bite of pizza into her mouth.

“Okay,” Valeria said, waving her hand to signal that Weege should begin.

In mock contrition, Weege shook her head. “Nah. You don’t really care how awful things are for me, do you?”

Weege was in her mid-forties with short, gray hair and a face that was so expressive you knew in one glance what she would say—or rather, what she wanted you to know. Still, Valeria smiled and didn’t answer. Weege knew Valeria would solve the problem.

“Those assholes in big business think they know everything! I told them that the Waldorf expected crystal vases…not plastic! Crystal! But they tried to do it with—”

“No! They wouldn’t!” Valeria covered her mouth in horror.

“Can you imagine cheap, plastic vases going into that place?” Weege said between bites.

Feeling her outrage swell, Valeria cried, “They can’t do that! I gave the Millennium and the Waldorf my word that nothing would change. Townsend
promised me
when they bought Secret Garden that there would be no change in quality or service. I’m gone one week and…What kind of person does that?”

“Lawyers and accountants!” Weege answered, taking another swig and emptying the glass of wine. “Ramsey at the Waldorf is, of course, threatening to pull his account. And, as you well know, there is only one person who can handle Ramsey when he’s like this!” Weege tilted her head to the side, in a dramatic pause. “He still wants you to meet his son,” she said, enticingly.

Valeria plopped herself onto the couch next to Weege. “The contracts at The Millennium and Waldorf state ‘Glass or Crystal.’ You know it’s my integrity on the line here, not theirs! And the hotels, well, they’ll just get another vendor.”

“And then, I’ll be out of a job. I’ll be known as the woman who lost all the key contracts—all within one lousy week. Val, I don’t even want to talk to Ramsey.” Weege sighed.

Rolling her eyes, Valeria said, “I’m out of this Weege. I gave them six months and I’ve transitioned now. It’s their company and you are the general manager for this branch. I know you can fix this.”

“Oh, no! Don’t tell me that!” Weege crawled up onto the couch, next to Valeria. “Besides, you told me Ramsey reminded you of your poor, old dad.”

Shaking her head in disgust, Valeria challenged, “Are you
really
playing the connect-with-your-dad angle?” There was no use in even trying. Valeria knew that Weege could manipulate her easily, especially when it came to the florist shop. It was her baby, and now someone else owned it. And that felt strange. Still, during the six month transition, Valeria had vowed that she would not hang onto the shop as hers and would let it be theirs. It was at that point now.

Weege shrugged. “I’m kinda desperate.”

“You know I wasn’t very close to my dad.” That was an understatement.

“He was an asshole,” Weege offered.

“I never said he was an asshole,” Valeria countered.

Weege’s mood immediately transitioned to mildly upset. “No! You never say anything, about anything! I tell you
everything!
And, you repay me by telling me
nothing!
I have to assume things, like even with David. He's the one who told me you were engaged! You never told me!”

Valeria eked out, “Sorry.” She didn’t really want to be that secretive about her life. She guessed she had just learned it was better to keep her personal affairs to herself. She ran her hand over her face. “Weege, how did you make this determination about my father?”

Cringing, she mumbled, “Now, don’t go nuts on me…” Weege hunched her shoulders. “I read your journal. And yes, he was an asshole! Did he even realize he was raising a daughter?”

Disbelief overrode Valeria’s embarrassment and more than minor irritation. The anger and outrage would come after she had thought about it more. Valeria stood and put her hand on her
hips. “
You read my journal?
When?”

Weege shrugged innocently. “Every day.
What?
You kept your whole epic tale back there in the accounting office! You expect me to sit back there and do the bookkeeping with
nothing
to keep me interested? Why do you think I kept the door closed? Because I, for one, respect your privacy. I didn’t want any of those other jerks seeing your private journals!”

Valeria’s jaw dropped and she felt the heat rise in her face. All of her fears and concerns and desires had been laid out there for someone to read. She took a deep breath. She would deal with this later; she could change nothing right now. She reached down and grabbed her journal off of the coffee table by its black cover. Then stomping into the bedroom, she tossed it into her bedside table, slamming the drawer loudly enough for Weege to hear. Then, taking another deep breath, she walked calmly back to the living room. Valeria had left her journals at the office because they were under lock and key. Although Weege had the key, Valeria never imagined that her friend would violate her privacy to that extent.

“I thought it was really sweet when you’d start your diary entries with
Dear Kitty
,” Weege said, grinding salt into her fresh wound.

“I was a kid then! That was my Anne Frank stage.”

“If your dad didn’t love you, he was an asshole!” Weege justified. Valeria also knew that Weege meant it. But it hit a chord and Valeria didn’t like discussing it with anyone, not even Weege; and not the endless stream of social workers who had always wanted to know how she felt about things, her dad and his death in particular.

Coffee. She needed coffee! Valeria walked to the kitchen and, before grinding the beans, said, “I think he was just heartbroken,” she said, defended him for Weege’s benefit. Valeria poured the purified water into the pot. “By the way, I
went to his plot yesterday and do you know that all of the flowers I planted last month were dead!”

Weege popped up. “What do you pay those people for? When I’m dead, just cremate me!” She looked around. “Can I sit on your hearth, in one of our fancy urns when I’m dead?”

“No!” Valeria had to laugh.

Throwing herself dramatically back onto the sofa, Weege felt something under her. She reached down and pulled out the copy of
Sense and Sensibility
that Valeria had been reading. Weege’s face filled with utter consternation as she marched to the kitchen with the book and the box of pizza. Valeria had just started getting the first drips of coffee when Weege waved the book in the air as her evidence. “So, you were reading
this
instead of the books that I brought you?”

“It’s like an old friend.” Valeria grabbed the book and sighed—busted.

“You just need to face up to the responsibility of your wealth and take me with you on the best vacations.”

Leaning on the kitchen counter, Valeria looked up. There was something odd about the whole business of selling her company and no longer needing to fight for a living. How could she possibly explain it to anyone without feeling…ungrateful? It was like, now that she didn’t have the shop, she felt empty. Interestingly, the money didn’t seem to fill that void. “Weege, you know, you think it will all feel great. I expected to feel great. And it did when we were signing the sales contracts, I guess. But, I keep thinking
what’s next?
How long can I vacation? And making more money from good investments just isn’t very interesting to me.”

“You need a hobby.” Weege picked up another piece of pizza. “Can I have a coffee?”

Valeria poured herself a cup and then glanced over at the framed and matted, oversized picture of David on the wall—not a loving picture of the two of them, but a corporate portrait. David’s short, brown hair was smartly parted and combed back neatly, his brown eyes and strong chin just a tad arrogant. His crisp white shirt and Windsor knot looked overly formal for a man of thirty-five. It was an 8x10 and much too big for her small home. She mumbled to herself, “I need a life.”

“Weege?” Valeria asked quietly.

“Yeah.”

“Do you know, only a couple of his old pub buddies even came to Dad’s funeral? He deserved more.”

“So did you. Now, are you going to meet with Ramsey?”

Valeria sighed, but nodded yes.