The Last Bridge

THE LAST BRIDGE

by

Terry A. Smith

Published by arrangement with Michael A. Smith at Smashwords

Publishing history

Authorhouse Print edition/2002 (Available at most online retailers)

Brands-to-Books Audio edition/2009 (Available at Audible.com)

Michael A. Smith Smashwords edition/2011

Copyright 2002, Terry A. Smith

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission.

For Information address:

Michael A. Smith

Smith_Michael_a@hotmail.com

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Foreword

Part One – The Call

Chapter 1 Lonely Stranger

Chapter 2 Midsummer Night

Chapter 3 Morning Light

Chapter 4 Dark Passage

Chapter 5 Another Place

Chapter 6 Unexpected Meeting

Chapter 7 Welcome Home

Chapter 8 Amazing Gift

Chapter 9 Steady Course

Chapter 10 Grassy Sea

Chapter 11 Higher Ground

Chapter 12 Waking Dream

Chapter 13 Ancient Story

Chapter 14 Golden City

Part Two – The Task

Chapter 15 Saddest Thing

Chapter 16 Gladdest Thing

Chapter 17 Personal Choice

Chapter 18 Strange Task

Chapter 19 Soaring Flight

Chapter 20 Faithful Friend

Chapter 21 Windward Sail

Chapter 22 Last Goodbye

Chapter 23 Time Passed

Chapter 24 Cold Reception

Chapter 25 Wayfaring Strangers

Epilogue BY ANOTHER HAND

About the Author

Foreword

This tale – if I may paraphrase the illustrious J. R. R. Tolkien – grew in the telling, and continues to grow. Along with most if not all people who believe in the reality of Heaven and the life after this one, I have often wondered what it will be like. The Last Bridge began as an effort to put imagination together with thirty years of studying the Old and New Testaments, and come up with an answer to that question which, although admittedly speculative, would have at least some authenticity.

But something happened not long after I took my first hesitant steps down that road. The action which became the story shouldered its way onstage and took control. I discovered, as so many authors before me have discovered, that I had become the vehicle of something which wanted to be said… a tale desirous of being told. Over the long months of intermittent writing fitted in whenever possible among the demands of a busy pastor’s life, I found myself in the strange but exciting position of going on Michael’s exciting journey with him, not knowing the next steps until he and I took them together.

Now, months after the completion of the book, I feel as strongly as ever that I was given the story you are about to read, as something to be shared. I claim no private insight into the geography of Paradise – and yet there is truth in what I have written which goes beyond me.

Thanks to the many friends who served as readers and critics during the long birthing process of this book. You will see the suggestions you made so kindly have greatly improved the final product. Thanks to my son Michael, who lent his name and some of his personality to the hero of The Last Bridge, as well as hours of fruitful discussion of the concepts and plot twists. The sequel is coming, Mike. And last and best: thanks to the wife of my life, Tina, for so much I could not list it if I took the entire book. Your directness and faithfulness is the illumination of Ramona’s character.

May the tale of Michael’s journey speak the words of the Blessed One to you, dear readers.

Terry A. Smith

Spring 2002

PART ONE - The Call

Chapter 1 – Lonely Stranger

I was walking along what was probably the thirty-fourth grubby side street since I’d left the apartment that morning – when it happened again.

All of a sudden, I saw her. She was coming up the other side of the street, just passing a seedy old antique shop. The speed of her stride sent her long auburn hair sweeping back over her shoulders. Head up, shoulders straight, arms swinging… her usual enthusiastic pace. Before my brain could kick in and stop me, my mouth had already opened.

Ramona! I yelled. Over here!

She turned at once, her radiant smile lighting up her face. Hi, ol’ buddy! came the clear, ringing answer. Easing gracefully between two parked cars, she started across to me – just as the big CTA bus turned the corner and zoomed down the block at full speed, its diesel emitting a low, threatening drone.

Look out! I screamed… too late. The monstrous vehicle hit her with a sickening THUD!, sending her body flying back into one of the parked cars. She collided with its windshield, shattering it… bounced rag-doll fashion over its roof… and landed heavily on the sidewalk she’d just left.

I screamed again, an inarticulate cry of horror, and launched myself into the street as the bus roared on. I was so terror-stricken I didn’t even think about being hit myself -- or how strange it was that the bus never slowed down. Pelting across the street, I squeezed between the cars, steeling myself against the sight of my young wife’s broken body.

But -- it wasn’t there. The dirty sidewalk was empty, except for a few newspaper pages and broken bottles. I looked frantically around. Then I noticed… the car’s windshield where she’d struck was NOT broken. I straightened up, slowly beginning to realize the truth. Sure enough, there was no sign of the bus… and no lingering odor of diesel fumes.

Damn!

Once again… it was all just a waking, lying… dream. A hallucination. Different from the last one and the one before that, and the one before THAT… but also the same. Nothing had taken place at all, except in my fevered brain and in my pounding, once-again broken heart.

No, of course the event wasn’t real. Ramona’s been gone for twelve years, you dummy – and her death wasn’t an accident. God’s mistake, maybe. But the cutting pain just beneath my breastbone was as real as the sweat running down my face.

I looked around in desperation for someplace to hide while I tried to recover some semblance of normality. Across the street, just beyond the spot I’d reached when the hallucination hit me, was a church. A decrepit, somewhat derelict-looking church, true; but even from across the street I could see, beside its big front doors, a bulletin board announcing the times of services. Would the building be open, though, on a midweek afternoon? It was worth a chance, I decided; I HAD to get inside somewhere -- anywhere.

Recrossing the street, I climbed the half-dozen uneven cement steps to a small landing in front of the ten-foot-high double doors. Even in my distraught mental state, those doors impressed themselves on me. Weathered almost black; heavy wrought-iron hinges with long pointed flanges; knobs too big to fit in my hand, above a keyhole at least two inches high. Those doors belonged on a castle somewhere in the Black Forest, not a grimy little brick church lost in the beehive neighborhoods of Chicago's northwest quarter. I was certain they'd be locked – they LOOKED locked.

But although the bulky knob on the left-side door was stubborn -- I had to use both hands, like a small child -- it turned. That door was solid, heavy, a good four inches thick; but it swung open without even one creak, releasing a draft of cooler air heavy with that musty smell peculiar to old churches. A memory flickered, like an old black-and-white movie: July, thirty years ago, Sunday School, coming in out of the warm grassy-smelling Connecticut morning to that same characteristic odor. Time to stop playing and quiet down -- we're in God's house! Long ago and far away, I thought… but thank goodness it’s open, anyway. I stepped across the threshold.

The entryway fitted the outside of the building: dark, gloomy, run-down. I tugged the door shut behind me, click-BOOM. All at once the hazy brightness of the afternoon was blocked out. Only a varicolored twilight filtered softly through small stained-glass windows on both side walls. The entry was about ten feet on a side, with coarse stuccoed walls of indeterminate color which on some long-ago day must have been bright and fresh. A doorway in the left corner revealed narrow stairs winding upwards; choir loft? bell tower? Against the right side wall leaned a table piled with brochures and small books. Directly opposite the tall outer doors were two more, smaller, covered with what appeared to be dark green vinyl fastened around the edges with rows of tacks, like upholstered furniture.

I stood just inside the door for several minutes, while my breathing gradually returned to near-normal; and as my brain recovered from the shock of the delusion I’d just passed through, a sound began to intrude gradually upon my consciousness. When the outer door closed, it had shut out not only the afternoon light but also the noises of the street, and the interior was hushed, still. I became aware the sound I was hearing was a voice, rising and falling upon the quiet. It was human speech, but it wasn't ordinary speaking -- the cadences and intonations were not right, somehow. I couldn't quite make out the words, but the voice was coming from beyond the second set of doors. Walking slowly across the entryway, I discovered the inner doors were barroom-type, double-hinged and free-swinging (Barroom? Swinging? In a church? Never on Sunday; the clown in my mind had recovered, at least). I pushed my way through.

Beyond the swinging doors, as I expected, was the church sanctuary. The light in here was a bit brighter because of two large stained-glass windows on each side wall. The walls themselves were the same stained and dusty stucco, the pews the same dark wood as the outer doors; but these four windows converted the room's tackiness into dignity the way a little skillfully applied makeup and the right lighting can transform a dumpy middle-aged spinster into a lady of distinction. Old and run-down it might be; but the room welcomed me.

I'd never seen stained-glass like this. The two windows on my left were representations of a lion and an ox, and on my right were a man and a flying eagle. More impressive than their subjects, however, was the quality of the workmanship. These windows were GOOD. You could almost hear the lion roar, smell the musk of the ox, see the man's eyes twinkle. And as for the eagle -- the feel of the high free air beneath his wings, the chill of the mountain pass over which he flew, simply invaded me as I looked at him. For a moment it was hard to remember I was only looking at colored glass, on the other side of which was the hazy, smoggy city afternoon I had left only moments before. These windows spoke forcefully of another world.

I was so lost in the windows I'd forgotten completely what had brought me in here, until the sharp jangling of a bell jerked me back to my immediate surroundings and my eyes to the front of the sanctuary. A priest was in the midst of serving Mass, and the bell was the one used in the liturgy to call attention to the most solemn part of the ceremony. The voice I'd heard earlier was the priest, chanting. Somewhat embarrassed by being caught standing out in the center aisle during the service, I slipped into the nearest pew and sat down.

The priest was celebrating the Mass alone. He'd even rung the bell himself -- a task always delegated to altar boys in churches I'd been in years ago. Indeed, as I looked around I realized that the church was completely empty except for myself and the white-robed man at the altar. Of course, it was the middle of an August weekday afternoon -- not an hour when you'd expect many people to be in church. But, I wondered, why would he go through a service with no one here? Oh well, different strokes for different folks. Suddenly I realized how tired I was. The hallucination had departed; but as always, it had left me completely wrung-out. I sank back gratefully in the pew. It was hard but not really uncomfortable. I returned to my contemplation of the remarkable windows, somewhat puzzled at how this incredibly good artistry -- and expensive workmanship -- had wound up in an evidently minor-league building in such an out-of-the-way place.

The flying eagle had once again captured my attention several moments later when I heard footsteps on the flagstone floor. I turned to find the priest walking toward me down the center aisle, the Mass evidently completed. He still wore his robes and the stole of his office, and was apparently curious about the one-member congregation he'd discovered upon turning away from the altar. (He had been conducting the Mass facing the altar with his back to the pews -- another thing I seemed to remember being done differently elsewhere.)

Sizing him up as he approached, I saw a man I guessed to be just on the shy side of fifty. Hair almost black, not recently trimmed, thinning at the crown, salt-and-pepper at the temples; a full beard, more salt-and-pepper especially on the chin. About my height, I found as I stood up; a little heavier maybe, though the robes made it hard to be sure.

Bless you, my son.

The traditional clerical benediction-greeting, made just slightly unusual in that instead of raising his hand in the typical priestly gesture, he thrust it out firmly towards me for a handshake, and accompanied it with the broadest and most genuine grin I'd seen in quite a while.

Er -- thank you. Hello.

Words are not my forté, especially on-the-spot conversational words with people I don't know. That's as far as I got. He didn't let the exchange languish, however.

I'm Father Nate. I was pleasantly surprised to see you. Thursday afternoon Mass doesn't exactly attract great crowds. (The grin flashed again.) It's not raining outside, is it?

Uh, no -- just kind of gray and hazy.

Some of my compatriots in the clergy complain frequently that bad weather keeps people away from church services. My experience here has been quite the opposite. Nothing like a sudden shower to bring 'em in. Again the captivating grin; and I was starting to wonder why that grin of his wasn't turning me off the way such grins usually did on the insincere, too-chummy faces of other clergy -- the ones who made me think (lacking in due respect as I am) that they'd be better off selling used cars with banana skins in the crankcases. Partly, as I've said, his grin was so genuine and unself- conscious. It wasn't a three-piece-suit kind of smirk, professional and perfect. This grin belonged in a worn sweatshirt and jeans. Its teeth were a bit crooked, and it even included a shiny steel molar in its lower right corner.

Something else hit me about Father Nate, though, just as he made the remark about rain bringing people into church. His eyes. They were dark, under heavy brows. And they were sad; eyes that had seen too much of the kind of futility and heartbreak there is too much of in this world. It was strange, the effect those eyes had, legitimizing the grin a few inches below them. Because of the wordless sadness in the eyes, I somehow knew the grin was a real grin. Maybe it was just balance or something; but this man knew sad as well as happy.

You hungry, son?

I beg your pardon? I returned, surprised.

I said, are you hungry? I'm going around the corner for some coffee and appropriate accompaniments just as soon as I get rid of my battle dress here -- a sweep of the hands indicated his vestments -- and you're welcome to join me.

He thinks I'm a panhandler. Well, I guess I do look sort of shabby; I haven't taken much interest in my appearance lately.

That's very nice of you, er, Father, but I'm not --

Oh, do me a favor and come along. Old Elena Kazakis makes the best Greek pastries in the Western hemisphere, but her conversation wears thin from too much repetition of her medical misfortunes. They’re real enough; but she's done rather well in life after all. If I have someone with me she'll let me alone this afternoon. I'll trade you some food for some friendly talk and we'll both come out ahead. We have a deal?

Uh, well, okay. I'd recalled during his observations about the elderly Elena Kazakis that I hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast; and breakfast was at least ten hours and twelve miles ago. But I can pay for my own food, I added.

I don't doubt it, son, but if we go together you're my guest, and my guests don't pay. Another day maybe I'll be your guest. That suit you?

Okay -- thanks.

Don't mention it. He paused. Tell you what; if you wait here while I go doff my petticoat, I won't be five minutes. He turned and walked back up the aisle to the front of the sanctuary. Picking up a long-handled candle snuffer which was leaning against the wall, he proceeded deliberately and carefully to extinguish the six altar candles. Then he disappeared through a small door beside the altar.

After he had left, I continued to look around the sanctuary. Since my attention had been drawn to the altar area by Father Nate's ecclesiastical housekeeping, it wasn't long before I discovered a major feature of the church's appointments I'd missed earlier in my fascination with the windows. It was a painting, hanging behind the altar. In a Catholic church -- I supposed this to be some variety of Eastern Catholicism, since it didn't seem quite Roman -- one expects to see a crucifix behind the altar. I knew that painted icons are a big item in some Eastern churches, but all the icons I'd ever seen were small, no bigger than two feet by three. This was a large, framed picture, at least six feet wide by eight high.

The altar was in an alcove at the front of the sanctuary, and not much of the light from the side windows reached in that far. I couldn't make the painting out too well in the dimness, so I walked towards it to get a closer view -- only to be stopped dead in my tracks as I reached the altar rail.

The painting was a full-length, life-size rendering of Christ; that much was obvious. He was dressed in a robe which I guessed was supposed to be white, though the painting was rendered in such dim and somber hues that if you'd turned a bright light on it the color of the paint would probably prove to be a bluish grey. He was standing in the right half of the painting, beckoning to the viewer with an outstretched left arm. His right arm was pointing in back of him, where beyond his right shoulder was a door standing open. This was actually what had brought me up short.

I said it was a door. It was a set of double doors. They were the front doors to the church building I was standing in. I'd only seen them once, not a half-hour earlier; but those doors had a way of impressing themselves upon you. The artist had rendered them faithfully, dark wood, wrought-iron hinges, hulking doorknobs and all. Except, in the painting, they weren't attached to a church -- or to any building. The entire left half of the painting, except for the area of the doors themselves, was an abstract mass of dark blues, greys, violets. There were no clear forms. At one moment it seemed to be a stormy sky; the next, you'd swear you were looking at the shadowy side of a mountain; then that too would fade.

I said the painting was dim and somber. Mostly true, except for two places. One was the face of the Christ. An artist would have said it was rendered in middle values -- not brightly illuminated except by comparison with its background. And yet, somehow, it… shone. This sounds very hokey -- go ahead and laugh -- but it shone with love and compassion. It hit me like a wall falling over -- starting slowly and then WHAM! The artist had used the trick of painting the face with the eyes looking squarely at the viewer; and it nailed the impact of the face's expression to you -- you alone. Together with the positioning of the arms, it was an invitation with your name on it; and your eyes responded to the invitation -- they could hardly help it -- by following the gesture of the arms to the other bright spot on the canvas: the rectangle between the open doors.

Light came through that opening. It was the only light source in the entire painting. Even the face of Christ, turned away from the doors as it was, shone with that light reflected off something outside the scope of the painting. But when you looked through the opening between the doors, at the source of the light, the major focal point of the painting, you saw -- what? Nothing objective -- the area was as abstract as the rest of the background. But the rest of the painting was dark, somber, muddy, flat; beyond the doors you saw light, joy, clarity, distance -- without seeing any specific THING. Blue was there; but it was the deep, high blue of the clearest July day. And there was gold: the pale singing gold of a May sunrise. White of new January snow, red of an October sunset; all together -- blended yet also, somehow, distinct. This two-by-four-foot rectangle between the doors revealed a tantalizing glimpse of a different world from the one in which Christ was standing, there in the foreground.

The sound of footsteps told me Father Nate was returning, and distracted my attention from the strangely compelling painting enough that I noticed the heavy-looking frame around it: carved, ornate, darkly varnished. Centered on the bottom member of the frame was what I presumed to be the title plate. Curious, I stepped up closer to the altar to read it. It was not made of brass as you might expect, but of a lighter wood; and carved into the wood was a single word:

AVABA

Father Nate came back into the sanctuary, looking very different. He was dressed in jeans, sneakers, a blue shirt with open collar, and a somewhat ratty-looking grey sweater. No tie, no clerical collar. If I'd met him outside I'd never have taken him for a priest.

Ready to go?

He said nothing about where I was standing, though for some reason it embarrassed me to have him find me there. Hope he doesn't think I was checking out the altar ware to see if it's worth stealing, I thought; and out loud I responded: I was just -- um, looking at the painting, gesturing up at it to show which painting I meant -- though it was the only one in the room.

A little overpowering up close, isn't it? He asked with a smile -- not his broad grin again, just a small quiet lifting of the corners of his mouth. I was trying to muster up a reply which would combine sophistication, respect and a bit of critical judgment; but he continued almost without a break: C'mon -- plenty of time to talk while we walk -- and while we eat, too. And he turned and started down the aisle toward the front doors.

I caught up with him in the entryway and followed him out through those huge doors onto the front steps. He gave a casual push to the door after I was out, and it swung closed with a thud and a metallic click from the heavy latch. Without pausing, he started down the steps.

Don't you lock the doors? I asked, as we fell into step on the sidewalk.

He looked at me sideways under those dark brows. Lock? A church? What if somebody wants to come in out of the hot sun; and maybe say a prayer?

I hadn't thought about that. So I did, for a moment. Then curiosity got the better of me.

Haven't you had things stolen out of the building? I mean, there are people who won't think twice about grabbing anything they can -- even out of a church.

Nothing of any importance has ever been taken, he replied casually. Then he cast me another sidelong glance. Besides, the one really valuable thing inside the church can't be stolen. He didn't elaborate further, and I didn't ask what he meant. I thought I knew anyway, and a request for more information -- if I was right -- might get me a sermon I was in no mood for.

So we walked the rest of the way to the end of the block in silence. We turned right around the corner, as Father Nate commented: Just ahead here. I looked up to see a sky-blue sign bearing the single word KAZAKIS in white letters, swinging over the door of a small storefront. Then we were there. I managed to make it to the door a half-step ahead of Father Nate, grabbed the handle and swung it open, standing aside for him to enter first. The wonderful aroma of fresh-baked pastry, combined with the smell of strong and good coffee, surrounded us -- and suddenly it would have taken a determined team of horses to keep me out of that place.

Inside it was small and dark. Bakery shelves lined the wall to the left; a serving counter ran across the rear. Behind the counter were ovens and a doorway to a back room. A half-dozen small round tables, each surrounded by three or four flimsy-looking chairs with bent-wire backs, occupied the front right quarter of the room. A few people were sitting drinking coffee. They were elderly and looked as if they belonged to the neighborhood. A woman lifted her hand in greeting to Father Nate; a man touched his cap. Father Nate's grin and wave included them all as he made a beeline for the table in the front corner, by the large window looking out on the street.

Out from behind the counter came Elena Kazakis. It had to be her -- five feet tall, long black hair with only a few white sprinklings, braided; slender, a little hunched but upright and steady in her determined stride. Black skirt, white ruffly blouse, an apron the same blue as her sign outside. She arrived at our table as soon as we'd seated ourselves.

Good afternoon, Father. A slight bow of the head, and a bright smile which revealed -- surprisingly -- a mouthful of perfect white teeth.

Kaire, Elena, Father Nate replied. My friend and I are tired, hungry and thirsty. Bring us your wonderful coffee to restore us, and whatever pleases you from your ovens; and we will sing your praises both to heaven above and earth below.

Certainly, Father -- immediately. The smile lit up her face again, while wrinkles radiated out from the corner of each blue eye. She whisked away.

Father Nate shook his head and grinned. She's old enough to be my grandmother, but she puts in a workday that would send me straight to the hospital. Starts baking around three in the morning, they say -- never checked it out myself -- and closes up here around six or six-thirty in the evening, six days a week. Goes back to Greece every June for a month or so, and has to shut the store because no one can bake like her. She's tried to get someone else to tend the place while she's gone, but people just stopped coming in until she got back; so now she closes up and goes. Doesn't hurt her business apparently. The rear of this store and the back of my church are close together in the alley. She hardly ever throws any baked goods away -- though I know she gives away her day-old stuff; won't sell it.

His gossip about Elena had given her enough time to make a round trip to the serving counter. She arrived carrying a tray loaded with two large coffee mugs and two plates of pastries. These were quickly transferred to the table before us, and with another smile she left us.

What a difference! Father Nate shook his head again. If I'd come in here by myself she would have gabbed away for ten minutes before she took my order, fifteen minutes when she brought it, and twenty minutes when I went to pay her. When I'm by myself I'm fair game, but when someone comes in with me she figures it's either church business or a mission of mercy. Never talks beyond a simple greeting, even if she knows the person I'm with. He chuckled. She's right, of course -- about the mission of mercy, that is.

What do you mean? I asked.

He chuckled again. You're the one on the mission, and I'm the one receiving the mercy. A day's rest for my ears. Well worth the price of the goodies. He lifted his mug. Ever had Greek coffee?

Once, quite a while ago. This smells a lot better than my memories of it.

Just remember to sip it off the top; the mud's on the bottom. Suiting the action to his words, he took a mouthful that strained the definition of sip quite severely, grabbed one of the pastries off his plate, and went to work.

The coffee was black and wonderful; strong but not bitter. The pastries simply beggared description. I understood immediately why Elena's customers would accept no substitutes. Conversation took a back seat for a while.

After the plates were mostly empty, and Elena had brought us two more mugs of coffee (no refills here; two fresh mugs to replace those we'd finished), curiosity moved me to ask Father Nate why he was doing a Mass with no one in attendance.

No one? I was there; you were there. His grin defused the brusqueness of his answer.

But I just happened to come in. It was an accident that I was there while you were doing the service.

There are no accidents, son. You came into the church when you did for a reason. He wasn't arguing, just stating what to him was a simple fact.

He was right, of course; but I shook my head in denial. No I didn't, I insisted. I was just walking around today, exploring some neighborhoods I've never seen. I don't even know why I came in at all; I just didn't have anything else to do at the moment. I hoped that didn't sound too rude; but I didn't want him to get the idea I was looking for a handout or something. Nor did I want to unpack my real reason – even to a priest.

Well, that's a pretty good reason you gave me right there, he replied with a chuckle. Same one some of my not-so-regular parishioners have for coming to church; only they wouldn't ever admit it – to me or to themselves.

His unquenchable good humor nettled me into being a little pushy. But come on, I insisted, you weren't doing the service expecting me to be there any more than I was expecting to walk in on it. Why do you say Mass when there's no one there to hear it? Isn't it kind of a waste of time? Unless you need the practice.

For the first time since I'd met him, Father Nate laughed out loud – a deep, slow, quiet laughter, which nevertheless brought smiles from some of the elderly occupants of the other tables. They’d heard that laughter before. Well, yes, he nodded, I do need the practice. But you're wrong about no one hearing it, you know. God hears it.

Oh no, here comes the sermon, I thought. But he stopped talking, looked at me for a moment and changed the subject.

The painting impressed you, didn't it?

Well... yes. I've never seen a painting like that used as an altarpiece.

It's unusual in that respect, he nodded. There's a story about it. It's supposed to be true; no way to really verify it of course. Care to hear it? He looked at me very directly as he asked the question, a look that told me not to waste his time if I wasn't really interested.

Yes, I'd really like to. Such stories are always interesting, no matter how wildly improbable they might be as actual history.

Okay. He leaned back in his chair, took another sip of coffee. "The church itself goes back a long way. The first building was a wood-frame structure, and when it was built I guess it was out in the country. But by the time of the Chicago Fire the city had grown out to it and it was burned flat along with everything else.

"So when they came to rebuild the people decided -- along with most everyone else around here at the time -- to build with something less combustible. The story goes that they decided on brick because there were brickmakers in the congregation, or something like that. Anyway, it was mostly a do-it-yourself project; they didn't have hardly any money, and only Sundays to do the work.

Of course, that meant it took a long time -- several years, I guess. They started having services in the place as soon as they got the walls and roof up, and that's the way it went for quite a while.

Wait a minute, I said. If they didn't have any money, where did the stained glass windows come from? They must have cost a godawful -- excuse me -- lot of money.

I don't know, he replied with a shake of the head. There's no record of who did them or what they cost. I've wondered the same thing; and I've asked about the windows. Nobody who's still around seems to know.

Anyway, he went on, I was telling you the story of the painting. Just after they'd started having services -- the building was still pretty much open -- an old man started attending. He was a recent immigrant, apparently, though nobody found out from where. There were of course no decorations of any kind in the sanctuary, so he offered to do a painting to hang behind the altar… sort of a thank-you for the church’s welcoming him, I guess.

Isn't that unusual for your kind of a church? I asked. I mean, isn't there usually a cross or something?

"A crucifix -- yup, or sometimes an icon. According to the story, the old man's offer wasn't looked at with much favor. But he said he'd do the painting on his own and if they didn't like it they could just turn it down. So they told him to go ahead.

The intriguing thing about it is that he painted it right there in the sanctuary; worked on it on a makeshift easel up against the back wall. But -- again, according to the story -- no one saw it until it was finished.

Huh?

Nothing unusual in that itself, of course -- most artists I've known don't like to show anyone their work in progress. He painted at night when no one else was here, and covered it with a heavy cloth in the daytime, asking that no one disturb it. I guess the people respected his grey hairs enough to honor the request.

How could he see what he was doing if he worked at night?

Father Nate gave a shrug of the shoulders. Kerosene lanterns, I guess. He got it finished, anyway, and somehow convinced people it should be unveiled hanging behind the altar. After all, he said, that's the place I painted it for; you should judge it where it's supposed to fit.

That makes sense. But it must be awfully heavy; that frame must weigh a couple hundred pounds.

The frame comes a bit later, Father Nate said. He got a few men to help him put the painting in position -- still under the cloth -- and then it was unveiled one Sunday morning. Everyone was so taken with it there was never any question about it remaining there. They asked the old man about a frame, and he built one -- the one that's still on it. They took the painting down just long enough to fasten it in the frame. It's been back on the wall ever since; never been moved. You're right about it being heavy; it's fastened to the wall with metal brackets of some kind.

It's quite a painting; and that's an interesting story. Something else struck me, and I said: The doors in the painting -- they're exact copies of the front doors of the church. Clever idea for a message, but the old man either had a phenomenal memory or did a lot of running back and forth while he was working -- and at night?

Father Nate was looking at me with the same small smile I'd seen back in the church when he'd commented about the painting's being overpowering up close. That's the strangest part of the story -- and the hardest one to believe; but the people who tell it insist it's the truth.

What?

He didn't copy the front doors. There were no front doors on the building when he did the picture. People were so impressed by the doors in the painting that two men of the church who were woodworkers built the front doors from the painting.

They copied the painting for the church's doors?

I know it sounds a little weird, but… yup, he said. Went up on a ladder, took the measurements from the painting, scaled 'em up to the right size, built 'em right in the sanctuary, got a local blacksmith to make the hinges and knobs.

Why go to all that trouble? I mean, they're impressive all right, but if the church was strapped for money... After all, doors are doors. Aren't they? I knew church people spend money on some pretty weird things, but this seemed stranger than usual. Doors?

Did you figure out where the doors in the painting lead? Father Nate asked.

I remembered my impression, standing there in front of the altar. They lead to another world. Aloud I said: I don't know -- heaven?

A nice religious interpretation for a painting hanging over a church altar. His grin was back again. Was that really your impression?

Well, the word itself didn't occur to me then. They just seem to lead to someplace very different -- and nice. A place I'd like to be, I think.

Exactly! He pointed a finger at me for emphasis. Almost word-for-word what everyone I've ever talked to about it says. Isn't it remarkable -- you can't see anything in that other place except colors, and yet you get this strong feeling of attraction to it? The grin had vanished; Father Nate was serious. I've been attached to that church for six years now, and I've been fascinated by the painting the whole time.

During our conversation the afternoon outside had begun to darken toward evening. Father Nate seemed to notice this suddenly. He glanced at his watch and exclaimed: Lord! I've got another Mass in twenty minutes; must get moving. Coming? He bounced up from the table, went back to the counter to settle up with Elena, and headed for the door.

As we went out into the street, I began to take my leave by thanking him again. But he stopped me: Aren't you coming back for another look?

Well... The truth was: I didn’t want to be alone, which I would be as soon as I left him; and now that I knew a bit about the history of the painting and the building it was in I very much did want another look. But I started making the usual polite disclaimers, all the same. I don't want to impose. You have another service to do, probably other things too; and you'll want to get back to your family... maybe I could come back tomorrow...

Yes, and maybe we'll both be dead tomorrow. Grin. Seriously, though… come on along; that is unless you've got better things to do than poke around in an old church. There should actually be a few people at evening Mass, but after that it gets pretty quiet. The rectory's right next to the church, so I'm not going anywhere. You're the first person from outside the parish in quite a while to express such interest in the place; good company for me. I'm a classic bachelor priest -- live alone except for a housekeeper old enough to be my grandmother. Play chess?

Uh, yes -- not very well.

Sounds like my game all over. What do you say?

Well… as long as you're sure it's no trouble.

Not a bit.

So back we went, around the corner, up the block, through those doors again, into the church. There were people there now; not many, mostly older, poor-looking. With a cheerful Talk to you later, Father Nate left me in the sanctuary and hurried away to his back room. I went over to an outside back corner of the sanctuary and sat in the last pew.

With the fading of daylight the church was dimmer than ever. There were some nondescript hanging lamps here and there, and someone had switched them on; but they didn't put out much in the way of candlepower. Votive candles flickered away here and there across the front of the room, but neither they nor the six altar candles Father Nate was even now lighting provided much real illumination either.

I was really only interested in the painting. I couldn't make out any of its details from where I was sitting, and I wasn't about to move up nearer the front while the service was in progress. Now that I had seen it up close, though, the appeal of the painting reached out to me through the gloom. The bright area between the doors was easily discernible; the face of Christ was a soft glow; and imagination, now informed, could fill in the rest. So I sat there quite contentedly (being content was a feeling I'd almost lost touch with) while the Mass went on. My ears picked up the quiet chanting of the priest and the dignified, sonorous responses of the three dozen or so worshipers, while my writer’s mind wandered on, pursuing the tantalizing questions.

Who was the old man with the artistic genius? Where did he come from? Is there a real place like -- what you can almost see, through those doors? Or did he just somehow catch colors that tap our unconscious longings for peace, beauty, security? Is that it? Can you explain the painting psychologically? What would it be like actually to live in a place like that? I remembered having dreams in which I lived in a beautiful, utterly safe and unspoiled place, knowing somehow that I'd never have to leave it. The mornings following those dreams were tinged with a sense of loss because I'd awaken to the knowledge I wasn't really in the beautiful place; that it only existed in dreams. The doors to dreamland... Never-never Land... second star to the right and straight on 'til morning... except in the morning you wake up and you're back in this hard ol’ world.

Kyrie eleison, the people chanted -- Lord have mercy on us all...

* * * * * * *

How can you sleep with all that Greek coffee in you?

I came awake sharply to find Father Nate standing next to me. He was still clad in robe and stole, but we were once again by ourselves in the church. I sat up straight, rubbing my eyes, embarrassed to be caught sleeping.

I'm sorry; I didn't mean to go to sleep. I walked a long way today; just a little tired, I guess.

No need to apologize, son. You still feel like coming over to the rectory for some chess? Maybe Anna can give us bacon and eggs or something.

Sure, let's go. You want me to wait for you out here?

No, there's a hallway through at the back; c'mon along.

We walked through the dimly-lit sanctuary. As we passed through the door beside the altar, Father Nate paused long enough to flip several switches on the wall, and behind us lights went out. We stepped almost directly into a small robing room, where he swiftly hung up his vestments and led the way to another door against the opposite wall. This, in turn, opened onto a hallway about ten feet in length, windowless, lit by a single bulb halfway along it. Still another door at the far end led into the rectory itself. We were at the back of an entry hall, with the front doors to the house at its other end and a stairway going up one side. Unlike the church building, here in the rectory the floor was carpeted, wall-to-wall. It warmed up the place considerably, in the entry and also the dining room we crossed to get to the sitting room at the front of the house.

The sitting room wasn't showy, but it was comfortable -- to look at, and to sit in. A few overstuffed easy chairs were accompanied by occasional tables and lamps. The two side walls were lined with books, and most of the front wall was taken up with a large bay window looking out on the street. Father Nate said he was going to see the housekeeper about fixing a late supper: Make yourself comfortable.

Being a booklover, I strolled over to check out his library while I waited. I was surprised at the variety of books packed indiscriminately onto the shelves. There were some theological titles among them; but the volumes about history, geography, and the arts seemed just as numerous. Novels abounded too, both in paperback and hardbound. Among these were an especially large number of the fantasy-and-science-fiction genre. I saw Tolkien's Ring trilogy, several Heinleins, and Asimov's Foundation series.

On one of the tables was the huge hardbound museum book Monet In The Nineties, from the exhibit held a few years before at Chicago's Museum of Fine Arts. I had just opened it when Father Nate returned.

Anna's a wonder. Bacon, eggs and all the trimmings in half an hour. He saw me looking at the book. Did you go to the exhibit?

Me? No -- I wasn't in Chicago then.

"Monet saw colors most people don't even guess at. He'd paint the same trees, over and over; and they hung all these identical trees up beside