The Veritas Conflict (11 page)

Johanna fished in her pocket for a dollar and dropped it into the quivering cup. The woman nodded her thanks.

Johanna walked a few steps farther down the more sheltered side street and tripped on her shoelace. As she bent down to retie the offending lace, a car pulled up beside her and a familiar figure stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Mansfield
. She scowled and bent her head to avoid meeting his eyes.

Mansfield didn’t notice her, and Johanna watched as he walked back toward the
homeless mother.
Probably going to give her a few pennies and lecture her on the consequences of premarital sex
, she thought. “What’s your name?” she heard Mansfield say.

“M-Maggie.”

“And who is this?”

“She be Princess.”

“Princess, eh?” The genial voice chuckled. “I thought perhaps she was a little boy.”

“They didn’t have no pink blankets at the charity closet.”

“Maggie, you know that Massachusetts guarantees a place in a shelter to every homeless person, don’t you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Do you have a place to stay tonight?”

“I’m too late. They close the doors at eight.”

Johanna heard shuffling behind her. She started as Mansfield appeared at her side, still talking.

“Well, I know a place that will take you in this evening and get you some help.” Johanna watched from the shadows. Mansfield had one hand on the woman’s arm, guiding her down the sidewalk. He chucked the baby under the chin. “And will help look after this little one, too. Is that okay? Do you have someone else you’d like to call?”

The woman’s glance was scornful. “Ain’t got nobody. And ain’t got no tokens for the T.”

“You don’t need the T.” He gestured toward his car still idling nearby. “I’ll take you there.”

The young woman pulled her arms tighter around her baby and stepped back a pace. “Look, man, I don’t know what you want, but …”

“I don’t want anything except for you and your baby to get out of this weather. This is a church shelter I’m going to take you to. It’s not far from here. And church people run it. They’re good people; you’ll like them.”

The woman peered at Mansfield’s face, then at the car. “Well, if it’s church folk, I suppose …”

Mansfield’s eyes smiled as he ushered the young woman and her baby into the backseat. He folded himself into the driver’s seat, and within seconds the car was gone.

Johanna stood slowly, her mind grappling with what she had just seen.

The memory still irritated her.

For the rest of that semester she had taken a perverse pleasure in her office-hours debates with the professor.
Like scratching an itch
, she thought.

She made a face. The pleasure had ended the day three students from that Christian group had walked in during one such session. They had jumped all over her, until Mansfield had asked them to wait outside. When she asked why they were so rude, he
apologized but explained that they were passionate about their faith, about Jesus, and that individual Christians sometimes didn’t reflect the loving nature of Christ as well as they should.

“What is there to be passionate about?” she had asked scornfully. She shook her head at the memory. Was
that
the wrong question to ask! He had told her the whole Jesus story. She had been eager to escape his office. It was just like that church she’d gone to as a kid: The whole thing made her uncomfortable.

She reached the darkened conference center and hurried quietly to her room. Thank goodness she was an independent adult now and immune to such silver-tongued myths and traditions.

NINE

A
LITTLE OUT OF BREATH
, C
LAIRE AND
S
HERRY
approached Room 105 in Emerson Hall. Two minutes past eleven. Two minutes late for the first session of Introduction to European History. They were going to have to figure out a quicker way across campus from their nine-thirty classes if they were ever going to get here on time. They slipped into the back of the room. They had already heard yesterdays horror stories of how some professors, on the first day of class, made an example of anyone walking in even a minute late.

The two girls exchanged relieved glances at the buzz of conversation in the lecture hall. Below them row upon row of seats were arranged in an amphitheater, overlooking a raised platform that held a podium, whiteboards, and multimedia equipment. They found two empty seats together near the top rank of seats.

The room quieted as an older professor and several TAs moved through a side door and toward the platform. All conversation stopped as the silver-haired professor rapped on the podium and turned on the microphone clipped to his belt.

“Greetings, everyone. You are in the class Introduction to European History, which will meet here every Tuesday and Thursday from eleven to twelve-thirty, with occasional sections conducted by my teaching assistants in smaller classrooms. As the airlines say, if you’re not in the right place, I would suggest that you depart before the plane leaves the gate.” Scattered laughter punctuated the room.

“Let me tell you what we’re going to be doing here today. First, I’ll tell you a little about myself and outline what this class will be about. Today will be a shortened teaching session: We’re only going to cover the first half of chapter one in our text. At the end of the class I’m going to introduce you to my team of assistants, who will be helping to guide this rather large class through the semester.” He gestured to the five TAs standing off to the side.

Claire couldn’t help staring at the poised men and women on the platform, especially an attractive young man wearing a distinctive striped shirt. She nudged Sherry, who nodded approvingly when she pointed.

“The teaching assistants will provide some of the one-on-one attention that I can’t possibly provide in such a large class. Before you leave, we’ll hand out a sheet showing
how we’ve divided the class into sections. Each of you will be assigned to the section of a particular TA.

“But first things first. My name is William Mansfield, and this is my fifteenth year of teaching at Harvard.” The professor walked slowly up and down the front of the room, recounting his experience in Washington, D.C., moving backward through time. “Before that stint as the president’s policy advisor, I spent several years in colonial Williamsburg as a professor and consultant on the original writings of the founding fathers.”

As he described his fascinating career, he frequently looked out at the serried rows of desks in front of him. “Now,” he smoothly switched gears, “let’s begin our overview of European history with the latter years of the Roman Empire.” A rustling sound filled the room as one hundred notebooks were flipped open. “Roughly eighteen hundred years ago, the once-mighty Roman Empire found itself in an increasingly troubled situation.…”

Claire sat at the piano in the tiny rehearsal room in Paine Hall, intently picking out the notes on the score in front of her. She had only half an hour to familiarize herself with the music before her final audition for the Harvard-Radcliffe Collegium, the school’s most prestigious choir. She had breezed through the preliminary auditions last week and had been delighted to see the respect on the choir director’s face as he listened to her voice. She had eagerly agreed to commit to the choir if selected.

Nothing was certain until the final list went up, she reminded herself sternly, but wouldn’t it be awesome to be in one of the most prestigious college choirs in the country? The director had told the auditioning group that the choir did one national and one foreign tour each year and this year’s summer tour was to Singapore, Malaysia, Hong Kong, and perhaps even mainland China!

Claire knew committing to the choir would mean a lot of rehearsals, and she wouldn’t have time for any other activities. The choir would be her home, her friends, her study mates. And the rehearsals conflicted with the Friday evening meetings of the Harvard Chrisdan Fellowship, including the first meeting in two days. But there were sure to be Christians in the group she could have a Bible study with or something.

Knock-knock-knock!
“Claire Rivers, you’re up next!”

Claire jumped and grabbed her music. She paced in front of the audition hall, reviewing the soprano line one last time. For some reason she felt a little uneasy and tried to shake it off. Smiling confidently, she listened through the closed door to the muted sounds of the current quartet. Her favorite and best singing style was how the
Collegium did it’s final auditions—in four-part harmony, with three current members singing the other lines. She paced a bit to stay loose, but the uneasy feeling returned. What
was
what?

She gasped.
I haven’t prayed about this! I should’ve asked if this is what God wanted before I committed to it
. Feeling slightly foolish, she stood in a quiet corner.
Lord forgive me for not seeking Your face about this. I give this audition to You. May Your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven
—

“Claire Rivers!”

She took a deep breath and walked through the double doors…

 … and Gael received his orders. He swept in quietly, taking an unseen position between Claire and the director. His eyes were sympathetic as he gently placed his hands on her shoulders.

Less than five minutes later, Claire walked blindly out the doors, down the hallway, and into the sunny courtyard in front of Paine Hall. What on earth had happened? She hadn’t been able to sing one phrase correctly. She had even started on the wrong note after the director had just played it, for crying out loud!

She had sung a few lines off-key until the director had cleared his throat and stopped her. Her face flush with embarrassment, Claire saw the other singers glance at each other. She could practically hear them thinking,
How did she ever get this for?

The director had laughed the mistake off. “You must be a bit nervous, Claire. Don’t worry. Just start again.”

She had agreed with heartfelt thanks—and proceeded to make even worse mistakes. She couldn’t follow the director’s tempo—a simple thing she had learned in second grade!—and was off-beat as well as off-key. It was a relief when the director had stopped the piece halfway through. “Thank you, Claire. That will be all. We’ll be posting the final choir roster tomorrow.”

Out in the late afternoon sunshine, Claire plopped dully down in the shade of a big tree. She watched hundreds of students walk by without really seeing them.

She flopped onto her back, sticks and dry leaves crackling underneath her, mentally kicking herself. She hadn’t really liked the other choir or the a cappella group she had visited. Maybe she should’ve kept her options open until being sure of the Collegium … but no, she just hadn’t felt comfortable in those other groups. They had seemed aloof and supercilious, and as much as she wanted to sing, she knew being cooped up with a group of snooty people would be even worse.

Another student from the music program came out of Paine Hall, and Claire looked away and picked up a book. She breathed a sigh of relief when the student walked in the other direction.

She slammed her book to the ground.
Why, Lord?

To her mind came the image of her last-minute prayer before the audition. The memory stopped her complaints cold. Conviction washed over her. “Forgive me, God. Forgive me for my stupid pride.”

A demon hovering above her suddenly received an almighty blow, spinning him high into the air, through the trunks of several trees, and around the corner of a nearby building. He had been soaking up strength and pleasure from the last few minutes of torment he had inflicted on the girl. But now he found himself abruptly tossed out of range.

Muttering viciously, his head throbbing, he worked his way back toward that tree—and found himself stopped short by the massive sword of a watch-care angel.

“You have been cast aside. Take your foul intentions away from here.”

The demon growled, furious that weeks of careful strategy had been ripped to shreds in one instant of connection between the accursed girl and his eternal Enemy. Then, looking over the angel’s shoulder, he saw the girl pull a yellow piece of paper out of her backpack, and his eyes narrowed. No, he would not force a further approach with the flaming sword at his throat. He might be invited back in soon enough.

He folded his arms haughtily and looked back at his adversary. “You are weak—always so willing to watch out for these pitiful ones who are so double-minded, so willing to work against all you are striving for. You could’ve been so much more powerful, so much more effective, in the hands of my master.”

He glanced over at the girl again and smiled with anticipation, eager for her destruction, her humiliation.
I will win. It is only a matter of time
.

Claire sat up and pulled her yellow class schedule out of her backpack.

Now what? She could technically get away with carrying only four classes, but no way would she face the admonishing gaze of Ms. Tabor-Brown. She needed to put
something
where choir had been. It would be nice to have a class that looked impressive on her freshman transcript. She had always been one of the smartest students in her high school classes and had always felt on top of things. But here everyone had been the smartest person in his high school classes, the most academically proficient, the recipient of the highest grades.

She was determined to prove that a midwestern girl from a Christian high school could hack it with the best of them. If Sherry could handle it, couldn’t she? Maybe eliminating choir was a godsend, a message to fill that slot with a really difficult or prestigious class—something that would set her apart from the pack. After all, she had to make sure that she would get that scholarship for next year. And she wanted something that would look good to potential employers, something that would impress all these confident freshmen sauntering by on the paths around her. So many students came to Harvard as if it were their birthright, from Exeter, Andover, or some other exclusive prep school. She wasn’t a second-class citizen, and she would prove it.