Knight Light: The Powerful Story of Virgin Mary's Husband

© 2012 Roger L. Bennett. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 2/29/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4520-7457-3 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-2138-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011903609

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CONTENTS

Prologue

Prologue #2 (A First)

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

Photo Gallery

Dedicated to Zeno of Cittium, the founder of Stoicism, and to my sons Parker L. Bennett and Scott M. Bennett for their loyal, unquestioning acceptance of my destiny.

Also to John F. Kennedy Jr., heir to Camelot and son of a president, who died off the costast of Massachusetts as the plane he was piloting crashed with his wife aboard.

"From the top of the first page

to the end of the last stage.

From the start in your own way

Just one somebody listen to what I say.

Doesn’t matter who you are."

Square One

From Coldplay’s Album X&Y

Knight Light

The Powerful Story of Virgin Mary’s Husband

Roger L. Bennett

Prologue

The Mystery of Birthday #49

My alarm went off as it has on many mornings with its inside the head instructions in the manner of an Army General shouting orders to His First Sergeant, a situation that’s kept my Knight Light buried under a bushel basket for the past quarter century.

God’s price for absolute Truth.

When this ring happens I know it’s five a.m. without looking at the clock. Time to get to work.

Got confirmation of an idea today that’s been bugging me: whether to tell my firstborn son to come here to celebrate his 49th birthday. He doesn’t know me as the Knight of the living dead, a title bestowed on me by my Queen.

You’ll read Her Majesty’s Most Gracious Speech sprinkled throughout this book, a work of nonfiction that might better be labeled a novel biography.

After devouring a plate of hot links and scrambled eggs and toast slathered with my favorite Smucker’s cherry preserves, I got my place cleaned up. Dusted, vacuumed the rug, mopped the kitchen floor, and then walked over to the Jewel food store on Division Street to buy the right stuff for tonight’s meal, including a six-pack of quality beer.

By then it was 8 a.m., time to phone Parker on my landline, a Mickey Mouse phone with 12 buttons that’s actually a rotary dialer, so I hear the click-click-click of each number punched in starting with 10-10-636 plus 1 and the three-digit area code followed by his seven-digit number. In case you didn’t count that’s 18 button pushes necessitated by everybody in America now owning a cell phone so they can talk while walking on the street, in movie theatres, restaurants, etc. and be rude anytime anywhere they choose. Strange definition of freedom.

Hello he croaked. Then I heard him whisper to his wife, It’s the Bennett family patriarch in Chicago, my dad Roger.

Expecting me to be the first to wish him a happy birthday at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m. in the Disney Kingdom of Burbank, California where Parker’s script writing talents took him and the drama queen two decades ago, I surprised him by saying: Need you to hop on a plane and spend tonight with me.

Whoa, he managed to say before being interrupted by the joyful screams of Happy Be-e-e-e Day daddy, coming from my two little grandsons pouncing on the bed. Guess I woke them up too.

There’s a family secret I want to share with you, I continued in his ear, at the exact time in your life that it was shared with me in mine. Then you can decide whether it should only be passed down from one generation to the next, or whether we could develop it into a book and make some big money.

Parker’s latest attempt to put food on the munchkins’ table while waiting for President Barack Obama’s stimulus program to fix America’s economic tailspin was a sitcom script for a television show titled Pigs that he was sure would prop up that fabled HOLLYWOOD sign out there. First it was hot, then it was not.

I’ve got you booked on Southwest’s flight at 12:20 p.m. from Bob Hope Airport, arriving here in time for dinner. Enjoy a birthday brunch with your family this morning and tell the kids you’ll be back tomorrow for the full celebration.

But dad, he managed to say before I countered with No butts about it Parker, and hung up.

After what I imagine was a small family feud, he no doubt convinced wife Tish to drive him to the airport in their Honda.

Later in the day I pictured him with seatbelt buckled some 25,000 feet above the ground listening to the pilot announcing the plane’s approach into Chicago’s Midway Airport. After he lands I figure it’ll take him under an hour on the shuttle bus to get to my apartment on Maple Street in the Gold Coast nearby Walter Payton High School.

Just now I got a call from our security guard that he’s in the lobby and on the way up to the 19th floor, so I open my front door a crack and continue my preparations in the kitchen.

I hear the sound of Parker dropping his carry-on bag in the hall, followed by a shouted I’m here! From his vantage point every white wall in my entryway is covered with original art. There’s a big oil painting titled Lost Soul by Parker’s godfather Jack Lundstrum, my best friend who died of cancer as God’s price for me to survive the tour I endured of His hidden sanctuary of knowledge. There’s also a lithograph done by my sister Jordan McLeish, Night Windows, which is in the Vatican’s permanent art collection, and two colorful cartoons of the Knight done by me. Plus a statue of Yoda.

Also visible through the open bathroom door is a huge gold-framed poster from the 1933 Chicago World’s Fair.

Wash up, I yell over sizzling sounds of meat in the skillet, dinner will be ready in a minute.

And a minute later, after plunking down stoneware plates of steak ‘n’ bake and salad on the white round Knoll table in my living/dining room that I’ve had since the 1960s, we come face to face. He gives me the once over and then we do our usual half-hug handshake.

I’m about 6 feet tall and 185 pounds with a ruddy complexion and bald dome where once was a thick mane of red hair that Parker has. He’s maybe 3 inches taller than me and stockier. We’re both dressed alike in blue jeans and a polo shirt; mine is forest green, his black with a Gap logo. My son prefers loafers to my trademark white New Balance shoes.

As many times as I’ve been up here in this cozy room, he says, the panoramic view through your twin floor-to-ceiling windows knocks me out. He goes up to the glass facing south and takes in all the splendid skyscrapers outside, each one architecturally distinctive. To the east after a peek at Lake Michigan, the view starts with the X-designed John Hancock building on the Mag Mile, past Bloomingdale’s and gothic Tribune Tower and the gleaming 92-story silver-blue Trump Tower by the Chicago River. Then over to the Kennedy family’s massive Merchandise Mart and westward to that big-shouldered stack of black boxes topped by twin antennas poking holes in the sky; formerly the Sears Tower, it’s now the Willis Tower (but nobody calls it that), and has a terrifying glass ledge observation deck so tourists can look straight down 1,353 feet to the streets below.

It was twilight when we sat down, clinked ice cold bottles of Berghoff Sundown Dark beer, and I offered a toast to startle him: The King is dead. Long live the King!

Then, with Jerry Mulligan’s quartet softly playing Here’s That Rainy Day, we dug in with knives and forks.

"After lots of snappy jokes and one-liners from Southwest flight attendants, but no food, I’m famished. And I gotta say, dad, you sure know how to burn a T-bone steak while leaving it rare in the middle."

Tastes pretty good, if I do say so myself. I gave him a look. Now shut up and eat.

When done he helped me clear the table, and commented on my stiff movements.

Signs of old age Parker. The joints tend to stiffen.

I poured coffee and we returned to the table. Behind the aqua director’s chair I had him seated in there’s a credenza holding my flat screen TV, stereo speakers for a large collection of jazz CDs, and a shelf filled with 24 three-ring notebooks containing material I’ve collected over a long period of time, sort of a diary of stuff I got whenever the spirit moved me with sufficient insistence to get out of bed and write down the prevailing thoughts. After I turned off the music and sat down again, we got down to business. My purpose in asking you here on your 49th birthday, Parker I began, is because it was on my 49th birthday that your grandfather Lyle Bennett revealed his True core to me in such a shocking manner that I still sometimes have nightmares about the incident. It happened in Lyle and Lucille’s retirement home outside Austin, Texas in August of 1984. A place so strange that Coach Ara Parseghian at Notre Dame once called it the ‘Land of the Giants.’ That’s where and when I first learned about royal bloodlines, Mafia insiders and the divinity of Kings.

So much for that weird champagne toast with beer! Parker says. All I remember is you spending two years down there, but not much else.

Well that’s to be expected. It was a hell of a long time ago and you were what? 24 and writing your first movie script.

Parker nodded. What I never could understand was why your second wife insisted that you go. My mother Amy Anne Foley, may she rest in peace, would never have allowed such a lengthy separation.

"It’s too complicated to cover tonight, son, other than to say the Queen’s wish is my command. Just as it was for Lyle when commanded to rough me up on that fateful 49th birthday. He got in my face with the fury of Hitler that caused the German people to think he was God. Red as a beet, Lyle pushed me to the floor with arms of iron. As I looked up into those baby blue eyes — same color as yours and mine — they frosted over and turned to stone! They were like the white marble eyes of a Roman statue. Then he yelled at your grandmother, Don’t ever make me do that again, Lucille.

Pretty sure that Parker felt a zydeco shiver run up his spine, and thought but did not say Tell me you’re NOT going to do that to me tonight!

And I didn’t. Instead I took a sip of coffee and calmly continued in an even tone. There’s so much about the family you don’t know. That’s why I wanted you to come here this evening and collect the first rough draft of a manuscript for my autobiography.

Jesus, dad, he blurted, "Why couldn’t you have just mailed it to me?"

Temper, temper, kid. I thought about it but couldn’t risk it. There’s only this one copy and in it you’ll find the missing pieces of your heritage. Priceless, precious discoveries you can use as source material for the book I felt I ought to personally ask you to write. You’d do me a great honor in so doing.

Sorry for the outburst he mumbled and re-crossed his legs the other way, shamed as I intended.

Parker, with your script writing abilities, you’re a natural. Done right, I’m sure what I’ve tentatively titled ‘Imagination’s Source’ can be a best seller. Whatever royalties may come from it, you’ll get your fair share. They’re my promised present to you for your 49th birthday.

I took our empty cups and rinsed them in the sink, then got in his face. It’s not just gold from the Kingston mine, it’s pure gold from the mind of God. But it comes with one condition that must be met.

Looking perplexed he simply asked What?

I want you to solve the mystery of who killed me.

But you’re not dead yet!

Parker, I’ve been dead as a doornail ever since I walked among Giants in that otherworldly brain-searing place where time stopped, and only with your grandfather’s help did I manage to escape.

I still don’t know what to say, dad.

No need to say anything Parker. Just take that FedEx box on the credenza back to California with you tomorrow. It contains 295 pages of what no one on earth knows. That’s the main reason I couldn’t risk shipping it. After you’ve had time to read through what I confess is a shambled mess that needs editing, we can discuss any questions you may have over the phone or through e-mails. Puzzled, he queried, Are you authorizing me to plagiarize your notes?

You should be able to lift quite a few whole chapters from ‘Imagination’s Source’ intact, I answered. Don’t consider it stealing, think of it as me lending you ideas. So yes, I suppose I’m authorizing you to take whatever you need to publish. How does the title ‘Old King Soul’ sound?

Kind of corny, dad. I’ve got a better one. You know how Tish signs her e-mail ‘Love & Light.’ Well, that gave me this idea: what do you think of ‘Knight Light?’

Hey, smart choice, pal. I couldn’t have come up with anything better myself. ‘Knight Light,’ I like it. We can set the title really big. Stack it in two lines and print it in shining armor silver!

With that I rose and walked to the hall closet, pulled out fresh sheets and a pillow and tossed them to him. But before I retired behind my bedroom door I leaned out and said, Just remember, ‘Knight Light’ must solve the mystery of who killed me and why beyond a shadow of a doubt. And do so up front so readers know who’s who right off the bat.

While bending down to spread a sheet on my rust-colored couch Parker twisted his head around so he was looking at me and asked, Is it the motive that you’re after?

I came back into the room and thought a long time before answering, then slowly said, Think of it as me being taken out of the game by a person or group or spiritual force — like the Knight being taken off the chessboard by the King or Queen or perhaps some combination move using the Bishop.

Scratching the back of my shaved head I went on: Assume that each piece is part of the same Family of Man, not wood or metal, but living flesh able to feel some measure of love for one another. If so, who would want to kill me? That’s what I’m after.

I watched Parker stretch out on his makeshift bed as I left the room wishing him a good night, but knowing he’d spend the night staring up at my white cottage cheese ceiling deep in thought. Sleepless Parker’s first thought — which he related to me next morning — was of a kindergarten scene he and Tish observed when the children were playing musical chairs, and what happened after the song stopped and there was no place for their son Carter and a little girl to sit. Carter wasn’t mad, but he was puzzled when he realized everybody in the class got a seat but him. Then he noticed the little blonde girl also standing and smiled.

On the couch Parker had smiled at the thought, propping himself on an elbow so he could see his godfather’s painting of the Lost Soul in the hall, and I heard him whisper to it like Nixon used to do in the White House: I seem to recall, he said, "it must have been 1979 near the end of dad’s 20-year marriage to mom when I was home in Milwaukee on Spring break from the University of Wisconsin. Back then dad was training director at Miller Brewing Company. My brother Scott and I walked into the kitchen as dad was opening a package of Oscar Mayer bacon for breakfast and he pointed to the last two strips in the package which were shorter by half than all the rest, and told us ‘We’re always two short.’

What do you think of that Mr. Soul? Ever wonder if those missing two pieces on America’s chessboard are democracy’s King and Queen? Perhaps left behind in London. Or are they just two hapless humans at whom the cruel finger of fate happened to point?

I peeked out my bedroom door as Parker rolled over on his stomach and looked down at the living room rug, noticing for the first time how the beige surface was sculpted in a chessboard pattern. That’s when it started to rain, with lightning flashes bright enough to illuminate the room and thunderclaps so loud they rattled the windows. He was going to have a bumpy flight back to Burbank in the morning.

Prologue #2 (A First)

Virgin Mary Blessed or Not

Back in Burbank, California next day Parker was met curb side at Bob Hope Airport and greeted by a boys chorus of welcome homes and warm smiles. Against all rules of writing in 2009 I now wave the magic wand that once belonged to Merlin during King Arthur’s reign, so we can listen in on what’s being said a couple thousand miles away:

It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine, says Parker, hopping into the Honda. How about stopping off at Burger King on the way home and grabbing a Whopper? I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.

We don’t eat horses, daddy, replies Reeve. We own one that mommy rides, Carter adds. Then they start chanting in unison Cheeseburga! Cheeseburga! Cheeseburga! and off they drive.

Later, when they’ve arrived home and sent the kids to play in the backyard, Parker and Tish sit down at their kitchen table where he opens the FedEx box and shows her the manuscript. Dad wants me to author his book ‘Imagination’s Source.’ I think he wants me to convert it from an autobiography to a biography. And best of all he’s offered me a share of the royalties. But there’s a catch.

Of course there is, says Tish. What is it?

He wants me to solve the mystery of who killed him.

"You talked to him for Chrissake, how can he be dead?"

Well that’s the deal, hon, and my Sherlock Holmes side is up for it. As a matter of fact I’m going to get started as soon as our guests leave tonight’s party. It’s still on, right?

Tish squirms in her chair and forces a smile. No, Billy and Nicole couldn’t make the date switch and your brother Scott said he and Jenny had other plans. So I’m sorry, it’ll just be us tonight — no big deal, but I have a nice meal planned.

Whew! That’s actually a big relief. Now I can get down to work. But there’s something I’d like your help deciding. Does it seem kosher to you for me to pose as the author of dad’s words? I mean, they’re his not mine.

Tish grabs the manuscript thick as Yellow Pages, flips through a few pages and says, Your function, besides solving the so called mystery, is to clean up this fine mess. She looks at Parker and cocks her head. Therefore your role is defined as the book’s editor. But if Roger insisted that you be identified as author, than author you must be.

No, no, he never insisted that, he just kind of inferred it. Either way I’ll get a share of the royalties.

Then identify yourself as the editor of Love & Light, that’s the new title isn’t it?

Tish honey, I suggested it, really I did. But dad was adamant about renaming the book Knight Light."

The wife then got busy with Betty Crocker’s cake mix, and editor Parker retired to the small bedroom he euphemistically calls an office. It was baby Reeve’s until they moved him to the bigger bedroom to share bunk beds with his brother. There is where Parker reads the manuscript until dinner, and after the chocolate cake and ice cream continues reading it until falling asleep and being dragged off to bed by Tish.

NEXT MORNING

The family takes breakfast out on the patio around an umbrella table. It’s a crisp fine day with birdsongs in the air and a squirrel who dares to come close enough to get Corn Pops the boys feed him under the table.

Sliding glass doors from the kitchen open to this space which faces a detached garage in the back right corner of the nicely planted yard. The side driveway runs the length of the property, and no sooner has Parker lifted his coffee cup for a first sip when redheaded brother Scott pulls up in his lemon yellow VW bug with a stick-on wind-up key in back.

He gets out and shouts, Belated birthday greetings, bro! After saying hi to Tish and tickling both boy’s ribs, he gives Parker a serious look and says, So what did the old man want?

To give me a royal mystery that I’d like your help solving.

Can you hang around here awhile, Scott? Tish asks. Play Watson to Parker’s Holmes? I’m taking Carter and Reeve out to the stables to horse around; leave you two alone for a spell.

How about it, Scott, let me try out a few of my tentative solutions to who killed dad?

Is dad dead, why didn’t you say so?

No not mortuary dead, Parker says, dead-head dead.

Dad always has enjoyed the ghoulish humor of Charles Addams, so why am I not surprised he thinks someone killed him. Count me in until mid-afternoon when I’ve got a band rehearsal. Looks toward the kitchen. Got any more coffee?

Sure thing. Parker goes in and gets a cup and, after the gang leaves for the stables, tells Scott about the dead thing.

Sounds like a case of ‘who killed the butler in the living room with a knife?’ to me. So let’s play Clue. You go first.

Parker gets up and hands him the heavy manuscript. I skim read this thing last night after we finished my 49th birthday party, and …

Hey man! I’m so sorry we had to miss your party, but Brian Wilson invited band members to a Beach Boy barbeque at his home. We had to attend to keep my paychecks coming.

"No apology needed. It worked out for the best anyway. Enabled me to read enough to reach the conclusion that nothing clarifies Roger’s dilemma more than the fact he wrote his book not in the first person, but in the first persons. Plural.

It’s narrated by star-crossed lovers dad quaintly identifies as HE and SHE. He’s a Knight on a bold quest who considers his second wife a mixed bag. Calls her, get this — ‘the Virgin Mary in contemporary guise.’"

The what? Scotts laughs so abruptly he spills coffee on the table. Hey, you’re talking to a guy who’s paying tuition for both Olivia and Luke to attend Catholic schools, but I’m still not hip to plastic dashboard Virgin Marys.

Parker wipes up the spill with a napkin and jokes, Then we’d better get Santa to bring a red rosary next Christmas.

After tossing the napkin in the trash he grabs the manuscript and opens it to a page he folded down at 2 a.m. Look here, he points, "at how dad’s imagination went into overdrive when he