He seemed surprised. 'Hurts why?'
'Because I like you, Jake. I think you're special.'
He was silent. His hands trembled, and the pencil ticked against the table. He glanced at me, heartbreaking vulnerability in his eyes. He shyly looked away.
'Who said those things to you?' I asked.
'You know. Kids.'
'Kids here at Saint Bart's?'
'No. Kids before the ocean and the bell and the floating away.'
In this world where too many are willing to see only the light that is visible, never the Light Invisible, we have a daily darkness that is night, and we encounter another darkness from time to time that is death, the deaths of those we love, but the third and most constant darkness that is with us every day, at all hours of every day, is the darkness of the mind, the pettiness and meanness and hatred, which we have invited into ourselves, and which we pay out with generous interest.
'Before the ocean and the bell and the floating away,' Jacob repeated.
'Those kids were just jealous, fake, see, you could do something better than anything they could do.'
'Not Jacob.'
'Yes, you.'
He sounded dubious: 'What could I do better?'
'Draw. Of all the things they could do that you couldn't, there wasn't one thing they could do as well as you can draw. So they were jealous and called you names and made fun of you-to make themselves feel better.'
He stared at his hands until the tremors stopped, until the pencil was steady, and then he continued working on the portrait.
His resiliency was not the resiliency of the dumb but of a lamb who can remember hurt but cannot sustain the anger or the bitterness that brittles the heart.
'Not stupid,' he said. 'Jacob knows what he seen.'
I waited, then said, 'What did you see, Jake?' Them.
'Who?'
'Not scared of them.'
'Of who?'
'Them and the Neverwas. Not scared of them. Jacob's only scared he'll float wrong when the dark comes. Never seen where the bell rung, wasn't there when the bell rung, and the ocean it moves, it always moves, so where the bell rung is gone somewhere new.'
We had come full circle. In fact I felt as if I had been on a merry-go-round too long.
My wristwatch read 10:16.
I was willing to go around and around some more, in the hope that I would be enlightened instead of dizzied.
Sometimes enlightenment descends upon you when you least expect it: like the time that I and a smiling Japanese chiropractor, who was also an herbalist, were hanging side by side, bound with rope, from a rack in a meat locker.
Some difficult guys with no respect for alternative medicine or human life were intending to return to the meat locker and torture us to get information they wanted. They were not seeking the most effective herbal formula to cure athlete's foot or anything like that. They wanted to tear from us information regarding the whereabouts of a large sum of cash.
Our situation was made more dire by the fact that the difficult guys were mistaken; we didn't have the information they wanted. After hours of torturing us, all they would get for their effort would be the fun of hearing us scream, which probably would have been all right with them if they'd also had a case of beer and some chips.
The chiropractor-herbalist spoke maybe forty-seven words of English, and I only spoke two words of Japanese that I could recall under pressure. Although we were highly motivated to escape before our captors returned with an array of pliers, a blowtorch, cattle prods, a CD of the Village People singing Wagner, and other fiendish instruments, I didn't think we could conspire successfully when my two words of Japanese were sushi and sake.
For half an hour, our relationship was marked by my sputtering frustration and by his unshakable patience. To my surprise, with a series of ingenious facial expressions, eight words that included spaghetti and linguini and Houdini and tricky, he managed to make me understand that in addition to being a chiropractor and an herbalist, he was a contortionist who had once had a nightclub act when he had been younger.
He was not as limber as in his youth, but with my cooperation, he managed to use various parts of my body as stepping-stones to eel backward and up to the rack from which we were suspended, where he chewed through a knot and freed himself, then freed me.
We stay in touch. From time to time he sends me pictures from Tokyo, mostly of his kids. And I send him little boxes of dried, chocolate-covered California dates, which he adores.
Now, sitting across the table from Jacob, I figured that if I could be even half as patient as the smiling chiropractor-herbalist-contortionist, and if I kept in mind that to my Japanese friend I must have seemed as impenetrable as Jacob seemed to me, I might in time not only puzzle out the meaning of Jacob's oblique conversation but might also tease from him the thing that he seemed to know, the vital detail, that would help me understand what terror was fast approaching St. Bartholomew's.
Unfortunately, Jacob was no longer talking. When I had first sat down at the table, he'd been mum. Now he was mum to twenty powers of ten. Nothing existed for him except the drawing on which he worked.
I tried more conversational gambits than a lonely logomaniac at a singles' bar. Some people like to hear themselves talk, but I like to hear myself silent. After five minutes, I exhausted my tolerance for the sound of my voice.
Although Jacob sat here in the tick of time that bridges past and future, he had cast his mind back to another day before the ocean and the bell and the floating away, whatever that might mean.
Rather than waste time pecking at him until I wore my beak down to a nub, I got to my feet and said, 'I'll come back this afternoon, Jacob.'
If he looked forward to the pleasure of my company, he did a superb job of concealing his delight.
I scanned the framed portraits on the walls and said, 'She was your mother, wasn't she?'
Not even that question drew a reaction from him. Painstakingly, he restored her to life with the power of the pencil.
CHAPTER 22
AT THE NORTHWEST CORNER OF THE SECOND floor, Sister Miriam was on duty at the nurses' station.
If Sister Miriam grips her lower lip with two fingers and pulls it down to reveal the pink inner surface, you will see a tattoo in blue ink, Deo gratias, which is Latin for 'Thanks be to God.'
This is not a statement of commitment required of nuns. If it were, the world would probably have even fewer nuns than it does now.
Long before she ever considered the life of the convent, Sister Miriam had been a social worker in Los Angeles, an employee of the federal government. She worked with teenage girls from disadvantaged families, striving to rescue them from gang life and other horrors.
Most of this I know from Sister Angela, the mother superior, because Sister Miriam not only doesn't toot her own horn-she does not have a horn to toot.
As a challenge to a girl named Jalissa, an intelligent fourteen-year-old who had great promise but who had been on the gang path and about to acquire a gang tattoo, Miriam had said, Girl, what do I have to do to make you think how you're trading a full life for a withered one? I talk sense to you, but it doesn't matter. I cry for you, you're amused. Do I have to bleed for you to get your attention?
She then offered a deal: If Jalissa would promise, for thirty days, to stay away from friends who were in a gang
