'Either you believe in God or you don't,' Schiltz said. 'There's no middle ground.'
Jack looked at his friend. They'd spent so many years dancing around this topic, holding it at bay for the sake of their friendship. But a line had been crossed tonight, he felt, from which there was no turning back. 'No room for debate, no movement from beliefs written in stone.'
'The Ten Commandments were written in stone,' Schiltz pointed out, 'and for a very good reason.'
'Didn't Moses break the tablets?'
'Stop it, Jack.' Schiltz called for the check. 'This is leading us nowhere.'
Which, Jack thought, was precisely the problem. 'So what happens now?' he said.
'Frankly, I don't know.'
Schiltz stared into the middle distance, where a couple of dateless women who had given up for the night were dancing with each other while Elvis crooned 'Don't Be Cruel.'
His eyes slowly drew into themselves and he focused on Jack. 'The truth is, I'm afraid to go home. I'm afraid of what Candy would do if she found out, afraid of the disgrace I'd come under in my church. I can tell you there are friends of mine who'd never talk to me again.'
Jack waited a moment to gather his thoughts. He was mildly surprised to learn that whatever anger he'd felt toward Egon had burned itself out with the bourbon they'd thrown down their throats. The truth was, he felt sad.
'I wish I could help you with all that,' Jack said.
Schiltz put up a hand. 'My sin, my burden.'
'What I can offer is another perspective. What's happened tonight is a living, breathing test of your iron- bound faith. You live within certain religious and moral lines, Egon. They allow for no deviation or justification. But you can't fall back on any religious fiction. God didn't tell you to have an affair with Ami, and neither did the devil. It was you, Egon. You made the conscious choice, you crossed a line you're forbidden to cross.'
Schiltz shook his head wearily. 'Would Candy forgive me? I just don't know.'
'When I saw her earlier tonight, she told me in no uncertain terms just how strong your love is for each other. You've been through bad patches before, Egon, and you've managed to work through them.'
'This is so big, though.'
'Candy's got a big heart.'
Schiltz peered at Jack through the low light, the beery haze. 'Have you forgiven Sharon?'
'Yes,' Jack said, 'I have.' And that was the moment he realized that he was telling the truth, the moment he understood why her unreasoning outburst had cut him so deeply.
Jack cocked his head. 'So who are you now, Egon? You see, I can forgive what you've done, I can look past the part you play, the lies you've maintained, and still love the man beneath, despite your betrayal of Candy and Molly-and of me, for that matter. You're my friend, Egon.
The Everly Brothers were singing 'All I Have to Do Is Dream.' The two listless women on the dance floor seemed to have fallen asleep in each other's arms.
'This is a chance to get to know yourself, Egon, the real you that's been hidden away for years beneath the Bible. I've seen bits of him out in the woods with our daughters, fishing, looking up at the stars, telling ghost stories.'
Schiltz downed the last of his bourbon, stared down at the table with its empty glasses, damp rings, crumpled napkins. 'I don't believe I fully understood you, until tonight.'
He turned away, but not before Jack caught the glimmer of a tear at the corner of his eye.
'I don't…' Schiltz tried to clear the emotion out of his throat. 'I don't know whether I have the strength to get to know myself, Jack.'
'Well, I don't know either, Egon.' Jack threw some money on the table. 'But I'd lay odds that you're going to try.'
THIRTY
THE SPANISH Steps, running on Twenty-second Street, between Decatur Place and S Street NW, was part of the luxe, lushly treed Dupont Circle area of Washington. Its formal name was the rather dull Decatur Terrace Steps, but no one, especially the residents of the Circle, called it that. They preferred the infinitely more romantic name that conjured up the real Spanish Steps in Rome. By any name, however, it was a delightful stone-and-concrete staircase guarded on either side by ornamental lampposts and crowned at its summit by a leonine fountain. By day, children could be seen running and squealing around the mouth of the great beast from whose mouth water spewed in a constant stream. At night, it gathered to itself a certain Old World charm that made it a favorite assignation spot of young lovers and adulterers alike.
Calla stood waiting for Ronnie Kray at the top of the steps. She had arrived a few minutes before midnight so that she could drink in the nighttime glow that illuminated the steps in a sepia tint. One of the lamppost lights on the right was out, and the resulting pool of shadows spilled across the stairs in a most pleasing manner. Couples strolled arm in arm, perhaps kissed chastely, then ran across the street laughing or stood on the corner, waiting for their radio-dispatched taxis to arrive.
Though she worked long and hard for the First American Secular Revivalists, and was as rational as the members who sat on either side of her, she was, at heart, a true romantic. Perhaps this was why she was drawn to Ronnie. Though she knew he was in his mid-fifties, he looked a decade younger. Perhaps that was because he was possessed of a romantic streak with which she could identify. Besides, he treated her like a lady, not like a kid, the way many at FASR did, especially Chris and Peter. She hated that they never took her suggestions seriously. Ronnie did. Ronnie got her, and she loved him for that.
She couldn't help furtively watching a young couple sitting on the steps, perhaps halfway down, necking. Calla imagined herself in the girl's place, her lover's hands on her warm flesh, and envied her. She'd come to Washington three years ago from Grand Rapids in search of a husband with a good job and solid family values. But finding that kind of man proved more difficult than she had imagined. She'd dated men who were either windbags or hopeless narcissists. And she'd deflected a number of married men who wanted to bed her, sometimes desperately. Switching to plan B, she'd thrown herself body and soul into FASR, a cause she believed in-fine for her sense of justice, bad for her love life.
As if from an invisible vibration, her head swung around and she saw him coming, stepping off the street onto the rectangular plaza at the top of the stairs where she waited for him.
'Hello, Ronnie,' she said softly as he bent, his lips brushing her cheek.
'You came.'
'Of course I came!' She looked deep into his dark eyes. 'Why wouldn't I?'
'You could have changed your mind,' Kray said. 'People do, at the last minute.'
'Well, I don't,' Calla said firmly. He had taught her to stand up for what she believed, even with Chris and Peter. Terrifying and exhilarating all at once, like being on a roller coaster.
She shivered in the gusts of wind swirling around the fountain. The lovers on the steps had left, no doubt for a warm bed somewhere. The steps were clearing of people.
He put his arm around her. 'Are you cold?'
'A little.'
'Then let's get some hot coffee into you. Would you like that?'
Calla nodded, rested her head on his chest. She liked the bulk of him, the heft. She often thought of him as a sheltering cove.
He began to lead her down the steps.
She tugged against him gently, almost playfully. 'Don't you want to go to Cafe Luna?'
'This is a special night.' He continued to steer her down. 'I've got a special place in mind.'
