THOUGH IT WERE TEN THOUSAND MILES
By Joan Stephens

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Chapter Six

 

Martha was late today.  She was usually there by 10:00A.M. and Catherine was up, dressed, and ready by 8:00 on those days.  It was a wonderful break from the monotony of her day.

 

Shortly after that July 4^th(she would forever think of it as her epiphany) she had asked Gabriel, in person--one of the few times he allowed her to personally speak with him--if she could enroll in a correspondence course.  It galled her to have to ask him for anything, but she was aware that he had quite an ego and enjoyed flaunting his power and prestige whenever he could.   This and the fact that he would do almost anything to insure the health of the baby gave her the incentive to ask for what she wanted.  One of these days, she thought, his ego will be his downfall.  He had casually sauntered into her room as if it was an everyday occurrence and, when she told him that she would like to take a correspondence course to eventually become a teacher, he smiled his cold smile.  “Do you really think you will live to teach?” he asked coolly. 

 

She shrugged her shoulders.  “I have my hopes,” she answered.

 

Gabriel snorted in disdain.  “I wouldn’t put too much hope in your future unless you give me your child legally.  If you do, I will let you and Vincent live.  Otherwise . . .”

 

“You’ll kill us,” she stated.

 

“Yes.”

 

She stared at this man who held her life in his unconscionable hands then slowly shook her head in disbelief.  “I think you know the answer.  If I gave our child to you, I would lose anyway.  It’s a no-win situation.  I would never give my child to you.  Never!  I could not live with myself if I did.  The answer is no.”  She turned away, abruptly dismissing him.

 

Tight-lipped, he replied, “So be it.”

 

Well, there goes my chance at the correspondence course, she thought as he slammed the door on his way out.  She was completely surprised when she was ushered, none too gently, by one of her guards into Gabriel’s office later that day.  Handing her an enrollment form, he said, “I will have a tutor come three days a week to help you.  Make sure you use an alias.”

 

Completely taken aback by his acceptance of her request, she glanced over the papers.  “Teachers College Columbia?  Very prestigious,” she commented.  “I might have known.  Nothing but the best, right?”

 

“Yes, I have connections there.”

 

“I’m sure you do,” she observed, dryly.  Returning to her room, she filled out the forms then sent them to Gabriel by one the guards.  Considering this afternoon, she thought that in an odd sort of way he was very generous when and only if it served his interests.  And one of his interests was to see that the baby was healthy and contented, and that made her very important as her well-being directly affected the baby.  As much as she hated the thought, it made them allies in the care of her child, but with that in mind, she knew he was only humoring her; she had no illusions about that.  When he no longer needed her, she would be discarded.

 

Gabriel had thought long and hard about who should act as the tutor.  It had to be someone that was completely trustworthy, someone who would never dare to cross him.  Martha Converse came to mind.  She was so afraid of him that she would do as he asked and never reveal who her student was.  He called her into his office that afternoon and explained her new duties to her.  Meekly, she agreed, even though it caused a conflict in her schedule.  She knew he expected her to arrange her schedule to suit him, and she knew she would do it without question.
 

                                                     *********************  

 The next day when Martha Converse was admitted her room, Catherine thought to herself, Another person owned body and soul by Gabriel.  The woman was tall, rawboned, in her late fifties, early sixties  with dark and haunted eyes.  There were deep lines about her eyes and mouth.  Her laughter was bitter and self-deprecating.  Impeccably dressed in a grey pinstripe suit, its severity relieved by a fluff of lace at the neck of her blouse, she walked in loaded down with books.

 

“I’m Martha Converse,” she announced, “Gabriel sent me.  I understand you want to be a teacher.”  Juggling the books, she extended her hand. 

 

Relieving her of some of the books, Catherine took the proffered hand, shaking it happily.  Another soul to converse with.  “Catherine Chandler.” 

 

Brusquely returning the handshake, Martha dropped the books on the desk, saying, “All right, let’s get started.  Oh, Pope has to check everything we do.”

 

“I thought as much,” Catherine observed.

 

                                                         *******************

 After Martha left, the doctor and the nurse entered for the weekly examination.  Catherine had finally learned the name of the stone-faced nurse: Tenko.  Somehow it suited her, it sounded as cold as she was.  “Well, your baby is very healthy.  A very strong heartbeat.”

 

“He has a strong kick, too,” Catherine added, rubbing her sides.

“Are you taking your vitamins and resting?”  He was abrupt, wanting to be away from her.  Knowing what was in awaiting her made it difficult for him to look her in the eye.

 

“Faithfully.”

 

“Good,” he answered and fled the room, Tenko trailing in his wake.

 

                                                     *******************

 Later that evening as she was doing her homework, the TV turned low, she heard the news commentator tell of a murder and attempted rape in a small campground near Middlefork, Ind.  Ordinarily, this would not make the ten o’clock news but for the strange fact that it involved what was thought to be a Bigfoot.  A young man had been killed and a young woman was almost raped.  The rape was prevented by the man/beast.  The only explanation that the authorities could come up with was that it was someone wearing a Bigfoot costume.  Why someone would be in costume at that time of night they couldn’t explain, but Catherine knew who it was and her heart leaped in her breast.  “Vincent,” she whispered.  “Be careful, my love, be well.”

 

                                                       ********************

 Joe was at Tim’s Cigar Stand buying a pack of gum when he noticed the headlines of the ‘New York Confidential: Beast Man Saves Woman.  Quickly buying two copies, he hurried back to his apartment.  After reading the article, he was convinced that it was Vincent.  Now there was something totally unexpected.  Whenever he pictured one of Catherine’s dates, he always pictured a rich, corporate type: manicured, impeccably dressed, and from the cream of society.  Vincent was not what he had expected.  If Cathy loved him, he must be an extraordinary person, and he was looking forward to meeting him.  For the present he had to get this news to Jacob.  Jacob had told him that Benny, the courier, was a helper, and that if he ever needed to send any news to him, he could send it by Benny.  Joe picked up the phone and called the courier service and asked that Benny be sent there right away.

                                                         *******************

 Father was in the library, going over the next day’s work assignments, when Kipper ran in and handed him a copy of the ‘New York Confidential.’  “This is from Joe Maxwell, Father.”

 

“Thank you, Kipper.”

He unfolded the paper and the headlines jumped out at him.  “My god, it’s Vincent,” he said in relief, falling back in his chair.  He quickly scanned the article.  “In Indiana.  How did he get so far from home?”  He could hardly contain his excitement.  Wherever Vincent had been taken, he was free and obviously trying to get home.  If only there was some way he could get in touch with his son but that was impossible.  He had no idea where he was now.  But that left the question of Catherine’s whereabouts.  Apparently they had been separated, and if he knew his son, he was on his way back to her. 

 

The paper found its way into every hand and was read by everyone in the tunnels.  There was a feeling of joy that he was coming home mixed with worry that he might not make it safely.  Every night prayers were said for Vincent and Catherine’s safe return.

 

                                                     ********************

 “This damn book.  The code is almost unbreakable.”  Elliot had been unable to find anyone to crack the code without going public.  That could be extremely dangerous.  Whoever he was, was very powerful.  He called Manning into his office. 

 

A tall, powerfully built black man, Manning was light on his feet with the reflexes of a cat.  His dark good looks masked an intelligent and well-informed mind.  His entire office was working on this case.  “What can I do for you, Elliot?” he greeted the other man affably and sat down in a well-padded easy chair.  The whole office radiated wealth and power.  Two entire walls were made of glass glazed to mute the sun’s rays.  Against an opposite wall stood an architect’s stand flanked by two large leafy trees.  Elliot sat behind an enormous highly polished black maple desk on which sat a telephone and a computer.  Several chairs were arranged around a table in the far corner of the room.

 

Elliot snapped off the computer.  “Have you finished downloading the book into your computer?”

 

“Yeah, we just finished.  Here’s the book.”

 

“Have you made any progress at all?” Elliot asked as he placed the coded book into his wall safe.

 

Manning shook his head.  “So far we’ve just figured out two business names.  This is one tough cookie.  But we’ll find someone to crack it.  I know of a navy code breaker who might be interested for the right price.”

 

“Whatever it takes, Cleon, I want this code broken.”

 

                                                      *********************

 August was exceptionally warm.  Catherine would go into the garden late at night when it was cool to send her thoughts to Vincent and to pray for his safe, quick return.

 

She had attempted to make friends with Martha, but the woman was all business and refused to let her guard down.  Martha relaxed only when she was teaching.  She genuinely enjoyed the give and take of the classroom, and she was an excellent teacher, then again Catherine was a fast learner.

 

One day Catherine asked her if she played chess.  “Yes, I do,” she answered.

“Would you play against me?” 

 

Martha thought for a few minutes then said, “Sure, if it’s all right with Gabriel.”

 

The next day after class she asked, “Where’s that chessboard?”

 

Ecstatic that she finally had someone to play against who might possibly be better than she, Catherine quickly retrieved it from the closet shelf and was soundly trounced in a very short game.

 

“I see I have much to learn,” she said with a rueful laugh.

 

“Why do you wish to learn chess now?” Martha asked as she set up the board for another game.

 

“I want to surprise someone I love.”

 

Martha glanced away.  From the little that she knew, the young woman’s bravery in the face of such insurmountable odds made her ashamed.  She should have been brave instead of knuckling under.  What if she had lost her career or worse, at least she would have had her pride and self-respect.

 

“I have time for one more game,” she said gruffly.  “Better practice if you’re going to beat me.”  After this she began to relax a little, but she still kept everything on a business level.

 

Catherine’s days became a little more bearable with the advent of Martha into her life, but Vincent was the center of her thoughts, day and night.  He was a constant force in everything she did.  She began her day with a prayer for his safety and ended the day sending him her love before she closed her eyes to dream of their future.

 

                                                 *********************

 Sometime around the first of September he entered Ohio.  The bond with Catherine was growing stronger the closer he came to her.  He spent the first half of the month traveling through Ohio.  There were so many small towns that he was very cautious about which roads he traveled close to and where he slept at night.  Skirting Columbus and Newark to the north, he reached New Concord situated close to I-70.  He hoped to find some kind of truck he could ride in at the truck stop he came upon.  At Bowman’s Truck Plaza in the east side of town there was half of a double-wide mobile home sitting in the parking lot close to the edge of the field he as hiding in.  Hoping it was headed east, he loosened a corner of the plastic and crawled in.  He laid there not moving until he felt the trailer move.  He was lucky, the truck cab and trailer headed into the early morning dawn.  East of Harrisburg the trailer turned south.  Vincent dropped off at the next truck stop and headed east once again.  This had been one of the easier parts of his journey.

 

In a small depression that could be called a cave only by a stretch of the imagination, he built a small fire.  Staring into the fire, he saw Catherine’s face in the flames.  The rose she had given him was the only bit of personal property he still had left.  Holding it brought her so much closer.  He felt her yearnings, her deep desire to be with him, and her fear for his safety.  His feelings matched hers in intensity.  Soon, Catherine, soon I will be with you.  Be patient, be brave.  I am coming.

 

                                                ********************** 

Gabriel preferred meeting on the darkest of nights: no moon and outdoors.  Moreno wondered what he wanted this time.  He had the book, so Gabriel was safe.  Joe had been effectively silenced and Catherine Chandler had disappeared.  What new task did he have for him?

 

Moreno sat waiting, uneasy, in the darkness of the park.  He felt exposed and vulnerable.  Why did Gabriel always have to meet him in the park at night?  It wasn’t safe.  Maybe for Gabriel but not for him.  He nearly fainted as Gabriel startled him, and he reached for the gun he always carried.   “Walk with me, John.”  Moreno dropped his hand as the other man clapped him on the shoulder, and he fell in step beside the man who owned him.

 

They walked in silence until Moreno’s thoughts shifted to the weekend.  He was taking a group of friends and VIPs out on his yacht for a long party.  Anticipating all the fun and sex, he was shocked back to the present when the cold voice spoke softly.   He had to ask him to repeat what had been said.

 

“Do people ever disappoint you, John?”

 

“Sometimes.”

 

“People disappoint me all the time,” the glacial, deadly voice continued.  “You’ve disappointed me.”

 

Moreno steps faltered as a frisson of terror coursed through him.  “Me?” he squeaked.  “How?”

 

Instead of answering him directly, Gabriel carried on, “People don’t do what I want them to do.  Where’s the book, John?”  His voice dripped contempt and deadly menace.

 

“The book?” Moreno asked blankly.  “Oh . . . in my desk safe.”

 

“No, it’s not.  It’s in the hands of Elliot Burch.  Why didn’t you get rid of it when I asked you to?”

 

Intensely frightened because he had failed Gabriel, he stammered, “I–I th–thought . . .”

 

Never raising his voice, Gabriel cut in, “I don’t pay you to think, John.  I pay you to do what I tell you.”

 

“God, Gabriel, I’m so sorry.  What can I do?”  The man was literally shaking in his boots.

 

Gabriel clapped him on the back.  “Don’t worry.  Everything will be taken care of.  I’ll see to it.”  Weak-kneed Moreno sank onto a nearby bench and watched Gabriel fade into the dark of night

 

                                                                 **************** 

A terrified, shaking John Moreno was throwing clothes into a suitcase.  He knew he was slated to die, not that Gabriel would soil his hands with such a minor matter, as the disposal of the District Attorney of Manhattan.  There were people that he paid to get rid of those who had the temerity to cross him.  I have to get away–fast.  Why in the hell did I keep that stupid book?  What was I thinking of, anyway?  Snapping the suitcase shut, he bolted out the door and hurried past the elevator to the fire exit.  No elevators for him.  They were traps to catch the unwary.  Running down the stairs, he cautiously opened the door to the garage.  He slid out the door, stood poised with his back to it, ready to flee at the first sign of another person, surveyed the garage, and waited for five full minutes.  Nothing moved.  There was no sound.  Taking a deep, deliberate breath, he exhaled slowly then walked warily to his car.  Heaving a vast sigh of relief, he opened the driver’s side door.

 

“Moreno.”  His name rumbled from behind him and his heart sank.  He knew that voice.  It was Snow, Gabriel’s top hit man.  Slowly he turned.  “Gabriel says goodbye,” Snow greeted him as his hand raised the gun level with Moreno’s eyes.

 

“No, wait.”  He raised his hands as if he could ward off the bullet that he knew was coming.  “Plea . . .”  The bullet stopped him in mid-word.

 

Snow took the silencer off his gun and put it in his coat pocket then returned the gun to his shoulder holster.  Dark, cold eyes peered out of a deeply lined and craggy face.  Slender, of medium height, his hair was as white as his name.  He stowed the body and suitcase in the trunk and drove to a pier on the East River.  With no moon, the pier was total darkness.  The car disappeared with a sucking sound into the dark waters of the river as an old saying of his mother’s popped into his mind, “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

 

                                                                ****************

 It was–he had to stop and think–about four, or was it five, long and dangerous months since he had escaped from the cage in Washington.  Four months he concluded and he was tired: tired of the constant necessary vigilance, tired of the never-ending yearning for home and safety, tired of being constantly hungry.  He didn’t enjoy the feeling of freedom as he had at first when he had escaped, and the nights blurred into one long night of putting one foot in front of the other–over and over again.  The only thing that kept him going was his desire to be with Catherine, come what may, and to see his child come crying into the world.      

 

September arrived cool and rainy.  Vincent was cold, wet, and thoroughly miserable, as well as bone-tired.  He needed a place to rest and dry out.  His throat was scratchy and sore, and he was afraid that he was catching a cold.  Slogging down a muddy road, just before sunrise, he came upon a small house surrounded by trees and bushes, just outside a small town called Sligo.  With no lock on the door, it was easy to gain entry into the small shed hidden in the lilac bushes behind the house.  It was filled with the usual odds and ends that people keep: ladders, a lawnmower, rakes, etc.  In one corner an old, battered overstuffed chair squatted on three legs.  It looked so inviting, and he was so tired that he dropped into it immediately.  This was as good a place as any to wait out the rain.  He fell asleep almost immediately and woke himself up, coughing.  Shivering in his wet clothes, he stood to change into the dry ones in his backpack when from behind him came the warning growl of a dog.  He spun around and, suddenly dizzy, fell into the chair.  The hackles of the large German Shepherd mix were standing erect as he growled at the sopping wet man.  Vincent and the dog stared at each other for a few seconds then he shifted his eyes to the woman before him. 

 

She appeared to be between the ages of forty and fifty and was holding the harness of the seeing eye dog.  Even without the dog, Vincent would have known that she was blind from the way she directed her gaze slightly to the right of him.  “Who’s there?” she asked.  Leaning down to comfort the dog, she said, “Hush now, Max.  Stop your growling.   Be a good boy.”

 

Coughing heavily, Vincent managed to get out, “I’m sorry to intrude, but I mean you no harm.”

 

“What are you doing out here?”

 

“I’m trying to find a dry place to rest.”

 

“Well, you won’t find it in this cold, damp shed,” she commented.  “Who are you?”

 

“Nobody, just a traveler caught in the rain--wet and weary.  I will leave now.”

 

Something in the way he spoke touched the deep well of sympathy in her generous heart.  “You poor man.  You will do nothing of the kind.  I could hear you coughing in the house; you’re ill.  You’re soaked.  Come into the house and dry yourself by the fire, and I’ll see what I can find for that cough.”

 

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble,” he protested.

 

“Nonsense, I have extra bedrooms and a fire burning in the fireplace that will get you nice and dry.  Follow me,” she ordered.  “Forward, Max.”

 

Seeing that she wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer, Vincent followed her into the small, neat house where, as she had said, there was a blazing fire burning in the fireplace.

 

“Take your clothes off–don’t worry; I can’t see a thing–and hang them in front of the fire.  I’ll get you a blanket to wrap in and a towel to dry your hair.”  Confidently she walked into the bedroom that was off the kitchen and returned in a few minutes with a blanket and towel in her arms and a bottle of pills. 

 

The fire felt so good on his cold, damp body that he had been alternately turning one side and then the other to the heat radiating from the fireplace, warming every part of him.  She handed him the towel and he vigorously dried his hair as well as he could. Then he gratefully wrapped the blanket around his large body.  His clothes were already hanging on the fire screen, sending up clouds of steam as the rain water dripped onto the hearth. 

 

A small couch was situated in front of the fireplace, bracketed by two end tables on each of which sat an unlit lamp.  Two straight-backed chairs sat on either side of the fireplace.  Against one wall stood a magnificent grandfather clock that he later learned had been her grandmother’s, and in one corner there was a desk and chair.  There was not the usual clutter of miscellaneous items strewn about the room.  He realized that that was due to her blindness.

 

“Sit down, please.  Make yourself comfortable.  My name is Julia Richards.  And yours is?”

 

Doubling over from a coughing spell, he gasped, “Vincent.”

 

“Here take two of these pills.  They should help with the coughing.”  She held out two tiny red pills to him.

 

“I can’t take medicine.  I don’t know what it will do to me,” he answered, getting his breath back.

 

“Allergic?”

 

“Something like that,” he agreed, laying his head on the back of the couch.  Another coughing fit racked his body.

 

“Is there anything that I can get to help you?”  Her concern for him was evident in her voice.

 

“Maybe some honey and little bit of whiskey?”

 

“A hot toddy?  I can fix you one of those.”  Immediately she was on her feet headed into the kitchen.

 

“That would be fine,” he called after her.  Lethargically he closed his eyes.  He didn’t think he could move if he wanted to.  Several minutes later, the couch shifted as Julia settled into it.  It was so hard for him to open his eyes, but he succeeded when she said, “Here’s your hot toddy.  Hope I fixed it right; I haven’t made one in fifteen years.”

 

He took a sip of the hot, sweet liquid.  “It’s very good.”  As he sipped the drink, he began to warm up as the heat of the liquor spread throughout his body, and he felt even drowsier.  He almost dropped the cup when he drifted into a light sleep, and before he could stop her, Julia reached over and felt his forehead.

 

“Her touch was light and brief.  “You have a fever, but I can’t be sure as I don’t have a thermometer.  Wouldn’t do me much good if I did,” she laughed quietly.  “Let’s get you into bed.  We’ll talk more tomorrow.”   Taking his blanket-covered arm, she helped him rise and led him through the kitchen into a small bedroom, which contained a single bed and dresser.  “The bathroom is next door.  If you need anything don’t hesitate to call.”

 

“I’ll be fine; I just need to rest a little and then I’ll be on my way.”

 

“I don’t think you will be going anywhere for a few days.  I think you have the flu, and if you’re not careful, it could turn into pneumonia.  Nothing can be that important that you must continue when you’re so obviously sick.”  

 

“But it is,” he mumbled, too sick and exhausted to argue with her. 

 

Sitting him down on the bed, she pulled down the covers, and he let her push him onto his back.  Pulling the blankets up over him, she said, “You’ll make better time if you are well.  Let’s get you well and then you can finish your journey.”  Before she left the room, he was fast asleep.  Rummaging around in her closet, way in the back, she found what she was looking for: a steam vaporizer.  She hadn’t needed one since the death of her daughter and had forgotten it was there.  Now, she filled the container with water and the cup with mentholatum.  Placing it on the floor in his room next to the bed, she plugged it in.  The hot steam would help with his cough.

 

During one of the times she had come to see how he was doing, she placed her hand on his forehead.  His fever was still too high.  Her hand drifted down over his eyes to his whiskery cheek.  She let out a small gasp when she encountered his muzzle.  What kind of man was he? she wondered.  Curious, her trained fingers thoroughly traced his face, and she had a clear picture of him in her mind.  Vaguely aware of what she was doing, Vincent tried to bat her hand away.  She grasped his hand and was amazed once again at what she found: large hands with clawlike nails, powerful hands, dangerous hands.  Her blindness had given her the ability to read people through their voices and the almost visible--to her--aura that surrounded them.  If she read this man correctly, she had nothing to fear.  He might be fearsome looking on the outside but inside he was a gentle and caring man.  She hoped he wouldn’t get pneumonia; she wouldn’t be able to take him to the hospital.                       

 

He was in and out of consciousness for the next four days, constantly muttering about someone named Catherine and the necessity that he get to New York as soon as possible.  Julia was consumed with curiosity as she sensed that there was an epic story behind this strange man.

 

At last on the fifth day, his fever broke, leaving him as weak as a kitten.  He tried to get out of bed, but she insisted that he remain right where he was until he regained some of his strength.  He apologized profusely for causing her so much trouble, and she promptly told him that she hadn’t felt so useful in years.  That afternoon, on slightly unsteady legs, he padded into the living room and sank gratefully into the small couch.  Rays of sunshine streamed through the windows, filling the room with golden light.

 

Julia had been outside with Max and was surprised to find Vincent sitting in front of the fireplace.  “I thought I told you to stay in bed,” she admonished with mock severity, entering from the kitchen.

 

“I have been in that bed for . . . five days?”  She nodded.  “That was long enough,” he concluded.

 

Marching up to him, she tried to feel his forehead, but he evaded her questing fingers.  “No, Julia, please.  I do not want to frighten you.”

 

“I have a confession to make, my friend.  I’ve known what you looked like since the first night you were here.  You were unconscious, and I wanted to see if your temperature had gone up.  I . . . uh . . . accidentally touched your . . .”  She stopped, uncomfortable, not knowing what to call his . . . uh . . . nose?

 

“Muzzle . . .” he supplied with a small smile she couldn’t see but heard in his voice.

 

“Ah . . . ok . . . I touched your muzzle.  Then my curiosity got the better of me and I traced your face.  Usually I don’t do that unless I ask first, and I’m sorry if I have offended you.”  Settling down beside him, she turned her sightless eyes to his.  Vincent noticed for the first time that her eyes were a startling shade of purple.  He had never seen such a beautiful color before.

 

“No, you have not offended me.  I hope I didn’t frighten you too much.”  Reaching over, he took her gentle hands in his.  He vaguely remembered them soothing his hot forehead, and suddenly he blushed as he remembered her removing his clothes.  Thank god, she was blind, but her educated fingers could read what her eyes couldn’t see.

 

Julia chuckled.  “Frightened? . . . no; startled? . . . yes.  But I knew that you were a gentle man.”

 

“Sometimes I’m not,” he said unhappily.

 

“Then I’m sure you must have good reasons not to be.”  As if needing to lighten the mood, Vincent’s stomach rumbled, and he grimaced in embarrassment.  Laughing lightly, Julia asked, “Are you hungry?”

 

“I am starved,” Vincent declared.  The chicken soup she had fed him while he was ill was very good but not filling.

 

“Good!  I’ll fix dinner and then you can tell me about this Catherine that you talked of while you were so ill.  She must be very important to you.”

 

“She is my life.”

 

                                                         *******************

After a plain but filling dinner, Julia and Vincent repaired to the living room, bringing their tea with them.

 

“Are you tired?  Yesterday you were flat on your back.  We can talk tomorrow if you need to rest,” she was treating him as if he was a member of the family, and his heart opened to welcome this remarkable woman into his life.

 

“I am fine.  Sitting here with you is almost like sitting with Father over a chess game.”

 

“Your father?  Is he anything like you?”  She had so many questions to ask this unusual man but held her tongue, waiting for him to tell her his story.

 

“No, there is only me.”  The stark loneliness in his voice gave her more insight into him than would have been evident in a paragraph of words.

 

“How lonely you must have been,” she sympathized, reaching over to find his hand.  He met her questing fingers with his own and gently squeezed them, thankful for her tender concern.

 

“Yes, until Catherine.”

 

“Do you feel like telling me why you were walking in the rain?  About Catherine?”  She perched on the edge of the couch, waiting for him to tell her.

 

“I have been traveling, walking mostly, for a long time.”  He took a sip of his tea then set the cup on the end table beside him.

 

“It must be very important to have you on the road in this kind of weather.”  She guided her cup to her lips then settled back into the cushions of the couch.  “A bus or train is out of the question, right?”

 

“Yes,”

 

“Are you wanted by the police?”

 

“No, but you took a great chance when you took me in.”

 

“Not so!  Max would have protected me.  Anyway, I liked the sound of your voice; it is the sound of a well-educated man, and your aura is that of a kind and gentle man,” she answered as she carefully placed her cup on the end table.  “Now, tell me why are you on the road and what it has to do with Catherine?”

 

“It’s a long story,” he said.

 

“I’m not going anywhere; neither are you.  Tell me.”

 

He smiled as she used the words Father used so many times when Vincent had something important to say.  He nodded, then realizing she couldn’t see the nod, said, “All right, I will.  It all started the night I found Catherine in the park . . .”

 

The grandfather clock was striking three in the morning when he finished his tale.

 

“My god, Vincent, what a story.  It’s almost a Greek tragedy.  To know a love like that, how marvelous.”  She wiped a stray tear from her cheek.

 

“I must get to her before the baby is born, or Gabriel will kill her and take our child.”

 

Reaching out to him, she said, “You can’t let that happen.  We’ve got to get you healthy so you can continue on your way.”

 

He took her hand in his.  “She is my life.  I will save them; I know it.  I believe we were destined to meet and fall in love.  Everyone has one true love waiting for them.”

 

“And you found yours.”

 

“Yes, though it amazes me still that a woman like Catherine could love someone like me.”

 

“What’s not to love, Vincent?  She sounds like a smart woman; she knows where her life lies: with yours.”  Holding his hand, she listened to the fire crackling in the hearth for a few seconds.  At last she broke the companionable silence, “Your life has not been easy, has it?”  She brushed her fingers back and forth over the hair on his hand.

 

“I know rejection, Julia, fear, hatred, and mistrust.  It’s not easy but it can be overcome.  I know it; I live it every day of my life.”

 

Nodding her head, she said, “Well, we better get to bed.  It’ll be light soon.”  She rose to her feet and unerringly headed toward her bedroom.  “Sleep well, Vincent,” she called over her shoulder as she closed the door to her room.

 

“Good night, Julia.”  Vincent turned into the small bedroom with the dinky bed.  Even though he had slept for almost four days, he was dead tired and drifted into a deep sleep after listening to Catherine’s calm, happy thoughts.  She was dreaming of the two of them being together with their child.

 

                                                            ******************* 

In silence, Julia and Vincent sat on the back porch swing, watching the sunrise and listening to the birds greet the rising sun with their morning song.  Vincent broke the silence.  “The sunrise is beautiful this morning.  All reds, yellows, and oranges.”

 

“That’s what I miss the most: the colors,” she sighed.

 

“I have spent all my life in the tunnels.  I walk the streets at night.  Rarely do I see the sun or the light of day.  I know how you feel about the colors.”

 

“I can’t even remember them anymore.”

 

“You were not always blind?”

 

“No, when I was five, I had the measles.”

 

“Hmm.  If you cannot see them in your mind, what about your other senses: touch, smell, hearing?”

 

“They’re greatly enhanced, but they don’t help with the colors.”

 

Vincent thought for a while.  “Let me see, maybe I can describe them for you.  Red is hot.  Red feels like fire.  Can you visualize that?”

 

“Yes. Yes, I can.  Wonderful!”  She rested her head on the back of the swing, visualizing the color red, seeing it in her mind’s eye for the first time in many months.

 

Vincent continued, “Blue is cool like the feel of lake water on a cool, spring evening.”

 

“Oh, I can see it.  It’s so beautiful.”

 

“Yellow is the warmth of the sun on your skin.  Now combine the warmth of yellow with the coolness of blue and you have green.”  He handed her a leaf.  “Green in the color of life, of growth.”

 

“Oh, yes, Vincent, I can see them.  I see them.  They’re so beautiful.  Describe the sunrise to me again; I want to see it.”  Excitedly she sat up, waiting for him to begin.

 

With great care, Vincent described it for her.  “The sun is just now breaking over the horizon.  Even that small amount dazzles the eye.  There’s a layer of clouds--our storm I think--lying close to the horizon, shot full of reds, pinks, yellows, and oranges.  Higher up the clouds are pink and yellow and the sky is a deep, deep blue almost purple.”

 

“Thank you, Vincent, for showing me the sunrise.  It is truly beautiful.”  A single tear ran down her cheek more eloquent then a flood of tears.

 

He sighed deeply.  “I have seen more sunsets and sunrises on this journey than I have seen in my entire life.  I am storing them away in my memory to take out and look at in the coming years.”

 

“I wish I had had that opportunity . . . Oh well, no use crying over spilt milk.  It’s time for breakfast.  Shall we go in?”

 

Vincent took her by the elbow, raised her to her feet, and walked with her into the house.