Chapter 16

The next pen belonged to the St. Joseph Cathedral in the old man's hometown. It was large parish with a   school beside it where the old man had attended as a youth, being raised Catholic. But he had not returned there since, except for his neighbor's wedding which was the occasion where he swiped the black pen from the table in the foyer where the guestbook lay, being the ninety-eighth and final recorded guest at the affair.

After finding no clergy in the foyer, the old man entered the chapel. The ornate and spacious sanctuary full of statues, Sistine-like murals on the
rotunda ceiling, and the hanging crucifix had not changed in the sixty years since he had taken his first communion. In fact, it seemed the very same Gregorian choir–whom the old man as a boy thought lived in the walls–had never aged nor stopped for so much as a breathe of air, but continued their eternal sanctus faintly heard through the sound system.

And there it was...the old wooden confessional with scarlet curtains-still just off the stage-which he had often entered to receive sacramental penance for the misdeeds of his youth. 

Suddenly, out of the confessional, stepped a parishoner-a dark-looking young man in a hooded sweatshirt-who profaned the reverent air with cursing as he rushed out of the sanctum.

Still unable to find someone to return the pen to, the old man approached the confessional and knocked on the wood and whispered,"Pardon me, Father-"


"Enter, my son, and I shall hear your confession,"whispered a voice thru the curtain.


"Oh I don't think I need to confess, I just wanted to-"


"The Lord will judge that, my son."


Reluctantly, the old man entered the confession booth and rested on the kneeler. It was much smaller and lighter than the dark dungeon he remembered as a teenager, but as he knelt he seemed to magically regress to the age of sixteen.

The screen opened and he could see the meshed and gravity worn face of a priest who oddly resembled one whom he had confessed his dangerous and immoral behavior to long ago. He still remembered his words:

"Be grateful you did not die in your sin, my son–for no unclean thing can enter the Kingdom of God." 

He recalled the murky swamp of guilt bathing and pickling his soul and then the tsunami of peace that washed over him when the priest uttered the words,"You are forgiven, my son." 

"Father, forgive me, for I have sinned,"said the old man as if addressing the crucifix hanging in the small window.

"Continue..."said the Father.


"Well, I don't know if it is a sin, actually,"continued the old man," but a few years ago, I was attending a wedding here and upon signing the guestbook, I pocketed this long black pen." 

Then old man slid the pen thru a small grid hole to the priest.

"Was this a pen you coveted, my son?"

"No, I have no need for pens..I have plenty of others."


"And how did you obtain these other pens?"


"Well...in the same way, I guess-"


" Are you familiar with the commandment: Thou Shalt Not Steal?"


"Yes, Father. but I have been returning them all.."


"Ahh, restitution is as important as confession. A truth some young people do not like to hear."


"Yes-he seemed very upset," agreed the old man, assuming the Father referred to the young man who had stormed out. When he realized–by the Father's silence–that he was challenging a confidence, the old man redirected the conversation,"Are there sins for which no restitution can be made?"


"Yes."

"Which ones, Father?"


"Thou shalt not commit adultery. For once the virtue of a woman is taken it cannot be returned."


"Then what hope is there for such a sinner?"


The rhythm of their conversation was broken again by a long pause. Then the Father said, "You are forgiven, my son. Go thy way and sin no more."

Seconds later, what sounded like a gun shot echoed thru the cathedral. And then sneakers squeaking across the marble floor.

The old man quickly slid his curtain and saw the hooded young man run out of the cathedral. 

Then he saw the quarter-size hole in the curtain of the center booth and flung the cloth open.

The priest had his hand over his heart on his black robe.

"Oh dear...dear God!" he cried in a trembling voice, seeing the wet crimson stain on his palm.

"You're shot! I'll get help-where's–"the old man began.

"No..time...please take this," begged the dying priest, handing the black pen back to the old man,"Take my confession."

The old man snatched a program from the previous day's mass in a nearby pew,"Okay...go ahead."

"Father, f..forgive me...for I have sinned..."he whispered laboring,"I...always tried...bring honor to the Church...but I...I was weak once... fathered a child...Will not implicate her...know they are taken care of...Oh God, Please...forgive...will sign..." 

The priest scribbled his initials at the bottom,"Give to the bishop–"

Suddenly, the priest's whole countenance changed from the heavy forlorn look to one of tranquility and joy, as if the heavens had opened to his view and light had filled his veins.    

"Oh, such peace!...finally, the burden gone...H..How is it done?" cried the priest.


"His name is The Restitution,"said the old man as he held the old priest's face. Then he whispered the words again so that the priest could inhale them with his last breathe,"His name is The Restitution."

And the priest died.



Soon, the ambulance arrived along with the bishop to whom the old man gave the note, and the pen, and he went on his way...

Chapter 15

It was a clear plastic pen, except for the lettering on the side and apparent piece of wadded up paper stuffed around the ink tube which the old man had never bothered to removed. But the mere sight of it made him hungry for blueberry pancakes, for the cabin resort that the Graves Bed and Breakfast monogram on the pen represented was famous for its hotcakes, eggs and sausage griddled over an open fire, served at sunrise sharp.  Although the cozy rustic accommodations and peaceful secluded countryside were more relaxing than a drugstore sedative, the old man got little sleep in the bed anticipating the breakfast the last time he came and hoped to return in time for another generous helping.

But when he stopped for gas pre-sunrise in the nearby town he learned he would likely never taste the famous blueberry pancakes again.


"The whole place burned down a year ago,"said the station clerk,"Barn's still there...and one very sad atheist."


"Who's that?


"Milton Graves-the owner. Buried his wife and child on the property,"said the clerk.

"That is very disheartening to hear."


"Not to mention what it does to your stomach. But I can offer you donuts and coffee."


"No thanks-you say he's still up there?"


"Never left since."


In dawn's early light, the old man went on his way, down the long country road that winded around the mountain just beyond the town until he ended up at a barn and a large pile of wood and rubble where the bed and breakfast once stood. After knocking on the barn door for some time and getting no response, he found some deep muddy tire tracks near the burned ruins that he followed over a blind hill behind the property. They led him to an overturned tractor peaking out of a large debris-filled hole at the foot of the mountaintop.

As the old man climbed his way down he could see the thin torso and peach colored head and beard of a seemingly lifeless middle-aged man, his legs trapped under the massive machine.


"Sir!" he called to the man,"are you alive? Milton!"


There was no response.


As if on cue, a ray of sunshine peaking over the mountaintop spotlighted the stranded man's face and his eyes began twitching their way open. His parched lips soon followed as he saw a blurry human figure over him.

"No...I w..wish,"he cried in a scratchy faint voice,"Can't die and  I can't get out."


"Well I'm here to help!"said the old man,"with the latter." I don't know how!

The old man assessed the situation, for he did not want to worsen it: The man's legs were apparently caught under the bucket of the front end loader.


"Is anything broken?" asked the old man.


"Just me...and the tractor."

"I mean any bones?"


"Legs, maybe. But I can't hardly feel them to know."


Confident there was little risk of further injury the old man tried to budge the bucket. "How long have you been down here?"

"This is the third day. Hydraulics have locked it up, unless you can start it that bucket ain't goin' nowhere."


After failed attempts at starting the engine, the old man said,"I'll call 911. Can I use your phone?"


"Be my guest-you'll just have to find it in the rubble.


"Then I'll drive into town-"


"Nearest firetruck's an hour south a here. If we had local services God knows, I wouldn't be here in the first place...and I'd still have a wife and child. I take that back, God don't know nothin' 'cuz there ain't one."

"I don't nor does He agree with you. But I am sorry to hear about your loss. Perhaps you should give Him one more chance."


The old man examined the arm of the tractor.


"No I've given him too many chances and he blew it. Blew up in my face every time.."


"That gives me an idea: You said hydraulics-isn't this the oil supply line?"asked the old man pointing to a rubber tube.

"Yeah-you'll need somethin' pretty sharp to puncture it though-"


"A pen, perhaps?"said the old man pulling out the pen from his jacket..."By the way this belongs to you. May I borrow it a little longer?"

With consent, the old man stabbed the supply line. Oil squirted onto the face of the trapped man as the loss in pressure nudged the bucket just enough to allow the victim to be pulled out from under it.


"Thank you-I think,"said Milton.


Although the old man helped him significantly, surprisingly, the mud had absorbed enough of the impact to keep the man's legs from breaking and the two made it back to the barn.


"You sure you don't want me to drive you to the hospital?"asked the old man.


"And be trapped again? No-I just need water...and food. I know it's a bit past sunrise, but would you care to join me for some blueberry pancakes and eggs?"


Inside the barn which had been converted into a meager living space,  the old man observed the only picture on the wall-a fire stained family portrait. He recognized the dark-haired, olive skinned, woman as the cook from his previous visit and the child shared her mother's beauty. "You have a beautiful family,"he remarked.

"Had,"Milton corrected,"nothing was left when the place burned down. No letters, no keepsakes, nothin'. That picture is all I have left."

With little more conversation, the two enjoyed a hearty Milton Graves Bed and Breakfast feast cooked over an open fire tasting just as good as the old man remembered.


But as he had a mushy maple syrup-soaked bite of cake still in his mouth–that he would much rather devote his tongue to tasting–the old man felt words come that he could not hold back,"Milton, I appreciate the heavenly meal, but I must tell you whether you believe it or not: God does exist."


"Would be easier to swallow if my wife and child still existed,"said Milton scraping his tin plate.


"They do. And someday you will see them again."

"Oh yeah?...What proof have ya got?" 

"Two thousand years ago a man was buried in a tomb. And on the third day, he rose from the grave with the promise that all will rise one day."

"But that was two thousand years ago. What proof do I have now?"


The old man pulled the pen out of his coat and handed it to Milton."It is this,"he replied,"this pen I came to return."

"A pen?! It's just an old-"began Milton. Then upon closer examination he recognized it as something more meaningful. "Where did you get this?"he said standing and rolling it thru his fingers,"We kept these at the front desk for guests to sign in with...we got so busy Leana and I would put little love notes inside them from time to-" 

Milton paused and swallowed hard as he pried off the plastic cap and pulled out the paper and read...


Dear Love,
I feel impressed to tell you that I have been praying very hard for a miracle that will convince you to believe in God. And I know God will answer my prayer. I love you with all my heart.
Leana

Milton collapsed in his chair and looked at the old man with tears smearing his oil-soaked face and cried,"Okay, okay, dear God, I believe...Oh Lord! Will I really ever see them again?"

"Yes, Milton, as He rose from the pit of death and sent me to raise you from a pit, so will we all be raised from the dead."

"Jesus...Christ?"

"Yes and His name is also The Resurrection."

"Thank you, sir, for...well...stealing this pen."

"Thank God,"said the old man handing another note to Milton,"and here is my address if you ever re-open for business." 

And with that, the old man went on his way...

Chapter 14

The Great Gilead's Traveling Magic Show was so successful in its time that it had been to every state in the nation including a Hawaiian event in which the Great Gilead–once proclaimed by newspapers to be second only to Houdini–escaped from the mouth of an active volcano while dangling handcuffed upside-down from the chain of a hovering helicopter (which accounted for his lack of eyebrows, thereafter).

But since the old man–who had idolized the magician since his youth–had purchased tickets to a show in Albuquerque–where he saw a woman sawed in half and her legs literally walk off the stage while she watched, and also, where he swiped the magic wand-looking pen–the Great Gilead and his magic show had mysteriously, or perhaps magically dissappeared from the public eye.

What the old man did find back in Albuquerque, was a small magic shop, named The House of Magic where locals said the Great Gilead had retired since falling from a three-story high crane which left him paralyzed from the waist down. 

What an honor it would be to meet him in person! thought the old man, despite the embarrassment of having to confess his thievery. 

Upon entering the magic shop and noticing no one but himself on the store floor, the old man browsed for a bit...

The shop had every parlor trick, gizmo and gadget invented to deceive and amaze from top hats and cards to saw boxes and levitation platforms. On the walls were awards, keys to cities, and pictures of the once famous illusionist smiling triumphantly at adoring fans next to the contraptions he had escaped from. 

"Good afternoon!" said a voice, startling the old man.

He turned to see a young suited gentleman carrying a large rectangular object in his hands covered in a purple cloth. 

Before the old man could even say hello, the young man continued with a gleam of bedazzlement in his eye,"Do you want money to magically appear in your cash register?"  Again, not waiting for a response, the salesman set the object he was carrying against a nearby shelf opposite the old man and pulled off the covering,"Behold, The Disappearing Mirror!"

A tiny flash of light coming from what appeared to be an ordinary full length mirror emphasized the flashy introduction.


"But I don't even work-"began the old man.


"Come stand in front of it and watch yourself disappear,"interrupted the salesman.


The old man obeyed and saw the wrinkled sack of bones refected in front of him. "It's accurate,"he concluded.

"And now,"said the salesman wielding a wand,"I shall use a cliche–no scripted magic words are required as stated by the manufacturer–and so, Abracadabra-Presto!!"

As silly as it seemed, it worked! For in an instant the image of the old man vanished from the reflection in front of him.


"Well, now that is something! How does it work?" asked the old man.


The salesman looked around as if guarding a secret,"The mirror is actually a camera,"he whispered.


"High resolution?"


"The highest. But keep it on the down low. When the cover comes off, a picture is taken of the empty space with the button on this wand and is stored inside. And then, like magic, it becomes a mirror. Once the person is standing in front you, say the magic words, push the button, and it shows the reflection which, (whispering) is actually the photo with the person missing."

"It really is impressive,"said the old man.


"So, how many would you like to take?"


"Ten-if I worked here. But as I have been trying to tell you, I am just a patron here myself."

Then the salesman's phone rang. "What honey? The entire pool?!-Who punctured–? The doghouse floated away–you can't be serious?! "began the salesman on the phone with an obvious crisis on hand.

 Then he put his hand over the phone and handed the wand to the old man,"Do you mind watching this-I'll be right back?"

"I'll try not to let it dissappear,"said the old man.


Shortly after the salesman departed, the old man made encountered another old man wheeling down the aisle with a slight drunken weave.

"Is that you, the Great Gilead!?"asked the old man. 
For he barely recognized his once beaming face that had slid to his chin and his pencil sharp moustache that had become a scribbly beard.

The man in the chair laughed and shook his head at the floor, then he looked up with bloodshot eyes and liquored breath and slurred, "What do you want?!"

"Well, first it is a great honor to meet you, sir,"said the old man.


"Well it may have been at one time but not any more,"said Gilead.


"But you were second only to Houdini."


"Do you remember who was second to Babe Ruth's home run record? Or second to Bruce Jenner's Olympic Decathlon? Or second to anything?"


The old man sighed. Then he got out the pen. "No, but I can remember–secondly–that I need to return this wand-ish writing utensil to you which I accidentally stole long ago."

"Ahh yes, I remember this gimmick,"said the Gilead, grabbing it and snapping it in two,"I don't believe in accidents...sir!"

"Neither do I anymore,"said the old man staring at Gilead's knees,"So you don't think that–"


"The man driving the crane was paid off by a third rate Las Vegas mob-funded act. They tried to take me out of the game; out of the limelight I worked years for. And they won."

"So you've given up, then? Surely, you can still perform-"


"Shirley who?" chuckled Gilead,"Well, I do have one trick left: a disappearing act."

"Oh I love those,"said the old man encouragingly,"May I watch?"


"Actually-you may be my assistant."


"T'would be an honor, sir,"said the old man.

Then he followed the Great Gilead into the back storage room of the magic shop. A large pipe ran thru the center of the ceiling. Boxes–many of booze– crowed the room. A furnace sat in one corner. On the opposite wall from him, the old man noticed a framed portrait of Christ atop some boxes. 


"You're a Christian, I presume?"asked the old man.


"Mother was...God answers prayers, she said. Never does mine."

"What do you pray for?"


"That God will show me a sign or teach me how to be happy again. Is that too much to ask?"

"No-I'm beginning to think that too much is His specialty."


"Well let's get on with it. Here,"said Gilead with a thick rope in hand,"loop this around that pipe and tie off this end around the leg of that furnace hot water heater. You know your knots, I presume?"

"I was a boy scout. I'll double hitch it." The old man did as was told.

"So was I,"said Gilead working the other end of the rope,"You know there was only one knot they would never teach me. So I had to learn it myself."


"Which one was that?"


"This one,"said Gilead presenting the tied rope,"the hangman's knot."


The old man swallowed hard, as he saw Gilead drape the noose around his neck and realized what he was about to be an accomplice to.

"Now then, if you will kick this chair out from under me, you sir–my last adoring fan–shall witness the GREATEST DISAPPEARING ACT EVER OF THE NOT–SO–GREAT GILEAD GUNTHER!!" shouted the drunken man.


"Wait!"said the old man as words flooded into his mouth," A magic act cannot rightly be performed without a magic wand now can it?"

"Rightly so."

"And one is hardly an audience, would you agree?"

"This is a private show."

"Well, at the very least you should witness your own last magic act. And I know just where a nice long mirror is and a magic wand as well."

And with that, the old man rushed into the main part of the store and picked up the Magic Disappearing Mirror and wand still abandoned by the domestically distracted salesman.


"Where are you-?"said the confused magician, removing the noose and wheeling after him,"I can't do this alone!"

The old man brought the mirror back into the storage room, set it up opposite the far wall and snapped a picture before Gilead could catch up to him.


"Ok-now then, let's get on with it," said the old man wheeling Gilead in front of the mirror and putting the noose back around his neck,"Now look into the mirror and I'll wave this magic wand and say the magic words and kick the chair out from under you."


Gilead looked at his pitiful reflection and then turned away.


"Please,"said the old man,"be respectful of the performer."


"Very well,"said Gilead turning back to his painful reflection.


Then the old man waved the wand and, pushing the button, pronounced some meaningless magic words.

He then cocked a leg back ready to kick out the wheelchair...


"Wait!"cried Gilead,"Wait!" He pointed to the mirror,"I am already gone. There's no one–"

"But there is,"contested the old man looking into the mirror,"Look closer, Gilead. Look and you will find the sign, the answer to your prayer."

Then Gilead saw the image of Christ in the mirror and began to sob,"How did you do–?"

"I didn't. This represents the greatest disappearing act ever performed by Him and the key to happiness: that a man disappears until His image is all that is seen. For His name is The Magician."

Then Gilead wept and wept, for the joy in his heart had magically spilled out, and said,"And the Balm of Gilead."

And then the old man left his address, returned the mirror to the salesman, and went on his way...