The Book of Joby (123 page)

He gazed into the middle distance and shook his head. . . . He really had talked with God. . . . Face-to-face. . . . That would never cease to astonish him. And he had been a king in ancient England too . . . and still remembered most of it. He had put the Grail to his lips—at least once, maybe twice. He often longed to drink from it again, but once or twice would have to do, he suspected. He had befriended fairies, and seen a patch of Eden, and palled around with angels, and, oh yes, been Merlin’s grandson.
The
Merlin! He’d even been dead, and gotten to come back—a couple times—knowing now that there was nothing all that frightening about dying, if you’d lived even a little well.

He drew a heavy sigh.

Ironically, all that was just the problem. Having done so much before the age of forty, what was left to occupy all of his remaining years—especially as it seemed his heritage was causing him to age so much more slowly than most. He’d once have thought that talking face-to-face with God would leave every mystery and problem solved, but it had only left him with a whole new set of even broader mysteries and a lot of insight that explained, but somehow didn’t change, so many things. The Creator had implied that Joby had unfinished business still ahead of him, but had refused to say what any of it was. Joby was still waiting for some clue.

He caught himself straightening his desk again, and almost slapped the guilty hand.

When the subject of reward had been broached, Joby had first asked if all the children killed in Taubolt might be brought back to life, but the Creator had explained that they’d each accomplished what they’d lived to do, and were already deeply tied to marvelous new lives, which they would likely leave as reluctantly as they had left their last ones. When Joby had asked about being allowed to live his own life over as it should have been without the wager, the Creator had conceded even that was possible, if Joby truly wished it. But then He’d pointed out that doing so would mean undoing all that Joby had accomplished, putting all those lives, not to mention all that angelic evolution, back at risk until someone else had succeeded or failed as the wager’s candidate in his place. Joby had not, for an instant, entertained any thought of putting all creation back at risk just to get his own little pig-in-the-poke back.
And the thought of
choosing
to put someone else through what had been done to him was . . . just not thinkable.

There was only one other thing that Joby truly wanted now: another chance with Laura and his son. He wanted them back desperately, but had quickly realized how awful it would feel to think they might be with him only because the Creator had somehow compelled it. The Creator had sadly concurred that Joby would have to win them back himself or, if that failed, accept that loss with all his others.

So far, however, Joby hadn’t even found them. He was immensely grateful now that Hawk had left him just before the end, still shuddering to imagine his son caught up in what had happened, but when Joby had tried calling Laura, the number Hawk had given him was disconnected with no forwarding number. So, he simply waited now, praying that one of them would find
him,
though unsure of how they’d go about that either.

After Taubolt’s destruction, Joby had said good-bye to his grandfather, whom the Creator had kept behind for some mysterious other business, and returned to Berkeley. There he’d found Sarina raising her and Gypsy’s son and running this nonprofit counseling center. Joby hadn’t even known that she was pregnant when he’d fled town after Gypsy’s death and had feared at first that she might despise him for having left without so much as a goodbye, but she’d just been delighted to see him again, and offered him work screening her new clients. He’d told her very little of what had really happened to him in the intervening years, sure that if he’d done so she’d just have offered him
services
rather than employment.

His desk well straightened now, Joby went out to the waiting room to find a magazine, smiling to discover more headlines about the sudden cessation of hostilities between India and Pakistan, and the wave of reconciliation spreading across Africa. No, for all he’d lost, he’d have changed nothing, knowing what he did now.

Which was not to say that he’d avoided the “Why me?” syndrome altogether.

In the Garden, the Creator had shown Joby not only how deeply he had been deceived, but how his parents’ lives had been manipulated too, leaving Joby filled both with grief and gratitude for all they had endured on his behalf. He visited them often now, as close to them as he had been before the bad old days had started. But when he watched them loving each other in their countless little ways, Joby found it hard to imagine ever finding such a love himself. Not anymore.

“’Scuse me, man. You the guy I’m s’posed to see for counselin’?”

Joby looked up to see a tall black man standing in the center’s entrance. His tattered clothing did nothing to diminish his athletic build and chiseled features. His large brown eyes seemed more fitting for a doe than for a man. This guy could leave the streets to do modeling work tomorrow, Joby thought, not that he’d ever be caught suggesting such a line of work to anyone again.

“I’m the guy you see
before
the counselor,” Joby said. “Come into my office.”

When the man had seated himself, staring around with wide-eyed fascination at the office’s rather dull furnishings, Joby handed him the first of several forms. “Just basic information,” Joby said, “to give us an idea of what your skills and background are, the issues you want to work on with us, that sort of thing. You want any help filling this out, just ask.” A lot of their clients had trouble reading or writing.

“Huh,” the man grunted, examining the form with the same childlike interest he had devoted to the rest of Joby’s things. Not very bright, Joby suspected. The good-looking ones never seemed to be, he thought, wondering why that was. A moment later, however, the man began writing in a lovely hand faster than Joby could credit.

When the man had handed back the questionnaire, Joby looked down to get his name, and said, “So . . . Rafe, is it?”

“Short for ‘Raphael,’” the man explained.

“Great,” said Joby. “Do you have a last name, Raphael? You’ve left that blank.”

“Just Raphael,” the man said, sounding concerned. “That all right?”

“Sure.” Joby shrugged. He looked farther down the form, and froze. In the “Past and Present Employment” section, there was only one word written: “Angel.” He felt his skin prickle, and looked back up at the man’s perfect features and doe-like eyes, wondering how he could possibly have been so blind. He was about to ask the angel what it was doing here, when he paused again, suddenly unsure. This
was
Berkeley. Half the people living here thought they were angels, or demons, or Jesus Christ, and this
was
a counseling center after all. If, by some weird chance, this guy
was
just one more paranoid schizophrenic, Joby didn’t want to say things virtually designed to inflame his psychosis.

“Well, Mr. Raphael,” he said. “It says here you were, or are, I guess, an angel?”

“Yes,” said Raphael soberly.

“Right,” said Joby. “That’s a great profession. Mind if I ask what an angel would need counseling about?”

“I’m jus’ here to work on the whole independent livin’ thing,” the man said. He looked back toward the door. “Tha’s what the sign says, right? ‘Independent Livin’ Skills’? Tha’s the new thing out here now, but I gotta confess, it’s been a very—” He turned back to Joby, looking appalled, and said, “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“What?” asked Joby.

“ ‘I gotta confess,’ ” the man said uncomfortably. “Did that offend you?”

“Of course not,” Joby said, less certain than before whether this was an angel or just a very good-looking lunatic. “Why would that offend me?”

“I don’t know!” Raphael exclaimed. “Tha’s just what I’m talking about. He wants us makin’ all these decisions for ourselves now, but I can’t even tell what’s gonna offend folks anymore. This new ‘everybody start thinkin’ for yourself’ thing is a real . . . What’s that thing they all say down here? A real bitch?”

“They do say that,” Joby grimaced, “but I might not use that one, if I were you.”

“There you go!” the angel said, throwing up its hands.

“So let me get this straight,” said Joby, nonplussed. “Angels actually need human counselors to work through independent living skills now?”

Seeming suddenly unable to contain himself, Raphael threw back his head and laughed, looked at Joby again, then bent double, laughing twice as hard. “Not too bright, huh?” Raphael grinned when he’d finished laughing. “Is that what I just heard? The
heroic
ones aren’t either, it seems. Why is that, I wonder?”

Immediately recognizing his own earlier thoughts, Joby’s face began to burn.

“That’s right.” Raphael grinned. “You may have saved the world a little, but don’t get cocky, Rocky. You ain’t the judge of me.” He laughed again at Joby’s reaction. “That’s a good one, isn’t it? ‘Don’t get cocky, Rocky.’ Yeah, I got all kinds a good ones since I started hangin’ out ’round here, man.”

“I thought it was considered rude to read minds without permission,” Joby said.

“That was before we started thinking for ourselves.” Raphael smiled.

“So, you can’t have come all the way from Heaven just to yank my chain,” Joby said, trying to suppress his irritation. “Don’t tell me He needs another crash-test dummy.”

“Ooooh. We still a little angry, are we?” Raphael said, his brows raised.

“As you say, I may have saved the world a little,” Joby drawled, “but now I find myself a little cut adrift, except for visits from the occasional comic angel.”

“I see you’ve started working on that self-pity thing again too,” the angel mused.

“Sorry,” Joby sighed. “You’re right. Old habits die hard, don’t they? To be honest,” he said wistfully, “I was kind of hoping you’d come because He did need something. I think I’d even handle being a crash-test dummy better than this boredom.”

“I’ve come to deliver a letter,” Raphael said more soberly, removing a pale green envelope from the pocket of his coat, and laying it on Joby’s desk.

Joby picked it up, wondering what kind of letter required delivery by angel mail. The outside was completely blank. After a glance at Raphael to see if this was going to be another joke, Joby opened the flap and removed the single sheet of stationery inside, unfolded it, and caught his breath. He’d have recognized her handwriting in the dark.

Dear Joby,

Hawk and I are together here, and miss you very, very much. Your grandfather has explained everything to us—the things you went through all your life, and what was really happening in Taubolt, and, dear God, what happened after Hawk left. It’s been a lot to absorb, but I can hardly deny any of it when I’m surrounded every day now by things that seem like miracles. Am I the only one who can’t pull apples from the air, or change into an animal? Hawk tells me even you can do some of these things. Is that true?

What I’m trying to say is that I wish I had known any of this, and been there when you needed me. We both do. Your grandfather says you’ll understand. I know he’s right.

Joby, both Hawk and I love you very much, and wish that you were here, if you wish to be. I hope you wish to be. While we’re alive, there’s nothing that can’t be patched up, is there? I don’t know what else to say. Your grandfather tells me this will reach you, though he hasn’t told me how. He says I mustn’t tell you where we are now, which I guess I understand, and I’m not sure we have an address at the moment anyway. But he says that you will find us.

Come find us, Joby.

I love you,
Laura

 

P.S. Dad, this is Hawk. I know what you chose, and I will never doubt you again. I love you too. Come home.

 

P.P.S. I finally know how Measure’s tale ends. . . . Tell you when you get here.

“So,” said Raphael, resuming his comedian routine, “y’all gonna sit here fertilizin’ your self-pity, or go grab the good things you still got?”

“Where are they, Raphael?” Joby said, wiping tears from his face, clear at last about the nature of his unfinished business, and overwhelmed with gratitude. “Why can’t she just tell me where they’ve gone?”