Solomon's Grave

The knob was locked. He leaned forward, finding it hard to stand upright. When he glanced behind him, the front door stretched miles away. He couldn’t fall, not here. He let go of the knob, leaned forward, nauseous. It was like the other day after his first service, only much, much worse. He splayed his hands across bent knees, body pressed against the green door.

Please, God, whatever this is, help me deal with it. I need to know.

You need to leave, a voice in his head screamed.

Please help me get through this.

The smell faded, a little at first, but losing even a fraction of its intensity was like a breeze across his face. The nausea passed, lingering in the back of his stomach should he try anything foolish like trying to open the storeroom door again. He took three cautious steps into the middle of the room. Sweat ran like melting ice under his shirt. It matted his hair. Even his shoes felt wet. The Bigness of the back room diminished, like a nightmare dissipating with dawn.

A man’s voice behind him said, “I agree this place needs more decorating, but surely it’s not that bad.” Then the man laughed.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The only thing that kept Nathan from screaming at the shock of hearing the voice was his complete lack of energy. He straightened carefully, not wanting to resurrect the nausea, and faced the speaker. There was nothing immediately worrisome in the man’s appearance, only that he’d just come out of the back room while Nathan was having what felt like a minor nervous breakdown.

The man was sweating almost as much as Nathan. This was reassuring. Maybe the room’s heater was simply set too high. Whatever it was that had struck him so suddenly seemed to be dissipating. Nathan reluctantly offered his hand.

“I apologize for intruding,” he said. “Nathan Dinneck. My dad comes here a lot.”

“Indeed he does. I’m Peter Quinn.” Quinn took his hand. Nathan had a sudden craving to see what was going on in that back room. The door was still open, just a crack. From where he stood, Nathan could see nothing of what lay beyond except darkness.

Realizing the direction of his guest’s stare, Quinn turned and closed the door. “Well, you have my undivided attention. What can I do for you, Reverend?”

Nathan’s skin was cooling uncomfortably. He wiped the back of his neck then put his hands in his pockets. “Nothing, really. I just thought I’d visit the place where my father spends so much of his time.” He felt a twinge of irritation when he said this, fueled by the memory of his mother’s desperation this morning, and this man’s condescending smile.

“An admirable mission for a son. You are interested in joining our humble group?”

“No. Not exactly. Is my father here now?”

At first Quinn simply raised an eyebrow and offered an unspoken answer, looking around the deserted room. “No,” he finally said. “I believe he’s at work.”

Nathan’s irritation became stronger, broiling to anger. He didn’t understand why, but perhaps seeing this place, this man who had likely played a hand in corrupting his father, at least changing him in some way, made the whole situation more tangible. Quinn was someone Nathan could blame. Sin always followed temptation. Still, he tried to remind himself that whatever elusive problem plagued his father, Art Dinneck was ultimately to blame. Not this guy.

 “Looks like this place gets a lot of use,” Nathan said, trying to sound casual. “Is it usually crowded every night, or just weekends?” He wanted to ask does my father come here every night, or just weekends?

Peter Quinn laughed, a full, hands on flat stomach guffaw. “Ah,” he said at last. “It’s very heartening to see how roles between children and parents switch over the years. We’re a men’s club. That’s all. A place for like- minded people to get together and talk outside of their sometimes mundane and restrictive homes. An escape, if you like.”

“Maybe I’m wrong,” Nathan said slowly, “but I never thought my home, or my mother, were overly restrictive.”

He was angry. So much so that Nathan expected to hear steam whistling from his own ears. This rage felt wrong, forced. He didn’t like it. A few minutes ago, he felt helpless, sick and terrified. Now he’d swung to the opposite end of the emotional spectrum. He was furious with everything around him. Maybe this was a defense mechanism, but defense against what? Nathan took a step forward, uncertain why he’d done it. Quinn’s smile faded. His gaze darkened.

“Many things can restrict a man from being what he wants to be, Reverend. Marital strife, even out-dated religious beliefs.”

He was being goaded, knew he needed to step back and calm down. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to find chinks in his faith, in his unwavering belief in God and Christ’s teachings. But this was so sudden, out of context. And it was said with a victorious gloating. I shattered your father’s faith, young Dinneck, the man’s voice implied.

“My father chose his faith, of his own accord. Like everyone.” What was the point in arguing like this? As he stood in a posture that could not be mistaken for anything but “squaring off” with Quinn, his thoughts were too jumbled to remember any specific goals he might have had in coming here today.

Quinn nodded. “And everyone has the right to choose for themselves if they want to learn other ways, serve other gods. Even if such a god proves to be nothing but their own wants and desires.”

The statement struck Nathan mute. Quinn’s voice had taken on a cadence, much like many evangelical preachers he’d listened to in the past. There was a power behind it. Sweat broke out again across his back, down his arms.

Speaking slowly, running his words through his own head once before speaking, Nathan took a step away, then two. “So, is there some religious or faith-based background to your group?”

He looked at the old paintings on the wall, not focusing on them but needing something other than Quinn’s challenging stare to take up his field of vision.

“Any faith or religious beliefs we might have are merely those carried into the doors by our members. We do not condone any specific creed.”

Nathan felt a physical strength in Quinn’s voice, a charisma to his speech. He tried to ignore it. Before him was a woodland scene, creek running through, a flat reproduction but still powerful in its motion, the name Robert Gilbert clear in the corner. Quinn moved with him, matching his slow steps but keeping two paces behind. In the corner of his vision, Nathan detected a trace of a smile.

Another painting, snow-capped peak rising above a vast plain, not as powerful as the Gilbert, but pretty to look at.

He said, “And what about you, Mister Quinn? What do you believe in?” He continued moving slowly, almost sideways across the room, trying to convince himself he was pulling Quinn along rather than being pursued by him. Nathan had gained some control in the short conversation.

“Do not try and convert me, Reverend. My beliefs, and yours, could not be further apart.” Any trace of amusement in Quinn’s voice was gone.

Nathan stopped finally and looked at him. More as a statement than a question, he said, “You’re an atheist, then?”

Quinn laughed. It was a shallow sound, without mirth. “Hardly. I believe in your God very much. I simply choose not to serve him.”

Nathan knitted his brows. The connotation was undeniable. He resumed his slow trek across the room, needing to focus. The way this conversation was heading, he could imagine his father’s angry reproach. How dare you come and preach at my club, he might say. A week earlier he would never have imagined his father scolding him for such a thing. But now... Dad, I don’t think you understand the nature of this place.

And you do?

Nathan was beginning to think he did, at the very least the nature of the man who was behind him right now.