Shawn combed the youthful locks of blond hair out of his face with his fingers. Hoping to see something, anything, of where they were, he rubbed at the foggy glass by his side with a fist. At first all he saw were the constant drops of rain meandering down the outside of the car windows.
After a few moments he ignored the droplets and focused on the dark evergreen trees that loomed suddenly as the headlights caught them, and just as quickly returned to the darkness, only to be reborn for an instant in the eerie glow of the tail lights.
Shawn remembered something he had just learned in school: if the trees were a pure spectral green, and the tail lights a pure red, the trees wouldn’t show up at all. But he knew from experience that he was free to have such thoughts, only as long as he kept them inside the sanctuary of his own mind.
At the same time another part of his attention was searching for something familiar, something safe, something to reassure him that they were still on planet Earth. Again he rubbed away the condensation and strained to see a house or a motel, even a sign telling him how far it was to something.
“Now I’m sure we’re lost,” came the shaky voice of his mother from the front passenger seat. She had been going though a similar search, straining to see something familiar and reassuring. Rain constantly pelted the windshield in front of her, to be repeatedly removed by the wipers, as the family journeyed on into the darkness. “We’ve been going down this road for thirty-five minutes now and no sign of the Interstate. The navigation screen is still
dead. What are we going to do, Tom?”
“Look, it’s a good back road, and roads this well maintained go somewhere,” the voice of the Reverend Tommy Mitchell reassured his family as he smoothly guided the new model Cadillac around the curves in the road with his large hands resting solidly on the steering wheel. “Ever since we went over that pass up there, we’ve been heading in the general direction of Portland. Won’t be too long before we find a nice little motel or something.”
“What about the mobile phone, Dad?” Shawn asked from the back seat.
“I’ve tried it. The hills must still be blocking our reception.”
“Some vacation,” muttered Shawn.
“That’s enough, Son,” corrected his father in a firm voice.
Shawn decided to keep his next few thoughts to himself.
Ten more minutes of driving through the darkness at twenty to thirty miles per hour brought what seemed like millions of additional fir trees, and an occasional spruce or maple, into and out of view, but no signs of civilization. Shawn was looking ahead now, his face wedged between the front bucket seats. The digital clock on the dash changed slowly from 10:50 to 11:00. All three searchers simultaneously spotted a large cabin, but an examination in the high beams showed it to be completely dark and shuttered, with no vehicles to be seen, and a padlock on the front gate. Their briefly rejuvenated spirits settled back into a silent brooding.
No more than a minute later Shawn’s mother could stand it no longer.
“Pull over, Tom. I think we’re going the wrong way. I think we’re on that other road I saw on the map. Stop so I can find out.” She began frantically digging in the glove box.
“We’re not, but I’ll stop at the next pull-off if it will make you happy,” said the reverend, knowing this was one of those times to placate, instead of counter, his wife’s wishes. He began looking for a wide place on the side of the road as his wife half opened, half tore the road map.
It wasn’t long before he thought he could see a pull-off, but it was difficult to tell how large it was because of the darkness, the sheeting rain, and the torn map rattling in his face. He guided the car slowly off the road, heard gravel under its tires, and brought it to a gentle stop.
“Look, Tom,” his wife said while jabbing at the map. “If we are on this road, then we’re not going toward Portland at all, but back toward that God-forsaken wooden bridge over that river that’s about to overflow and maybe has by now!” she said, venting her frustrations and breathing fast.
“But honey, we were on this state highway here, and we turned left. So we can’t be on that road. We’re either on this one, or maybe this one.”
“Let’s just drive,” Shawn interjected.
“Please be SILENT, Son,” his father commanded.
Shawn slumped into the back seat.
“I just hate this not knowing where we’re going, Tom,” Shawn’s mother said in a pleading tone.
“Okay, Honey, here’s what we’re doing,” the reverend began in a firm voice.
Shawn couldn’t tell if his father had sensed his mother’s need for someone else to make a final decision after she had vented her feelings, or if it was just how he always did things when others were afraid and indecisive.
“We’re going to continue on down this road, slow and steady, and if we find your bridge again, we’ll know you were right, and we can take this county road here toward Salem,” the reverend said, pointing at the map. There was a finality in his statement that neither wife nor son dared contradict. “If we happen to come to this small town, or this one, then in either case we’ll know where we are, and we can continue toward Portland.” He gently but firmly took the map from his wife, folded it as best he could, and handed it back to her.
Shawn realized that handing the map back to his mother, instead of just putting it away himself, made her feel part of the decision.
The Reverend Mitchell put the transmission into forward, and the car began to move, but suddenly there was a spinning sound and the back end of the Cadillac swung quickly to the right and downward.
“Tom!” his wife screamed.
“Whoa!” Shawn said, rolling melodramatically sideways on the back seat.
The reverend jammed on the brakes, and after slipping a few more feet, the car finally came to a stop. “Everybody stay still and be calm!” he commanded, pulling on the emergency brake and shoving the transmission
into park.
Shawn had no intention of arguing, and stayed lying on his side.
“Honey, hand me the flashlight in the glove box, please,” the reverend said. As soon as she had done so, he rolled down the right rear window with the controls on his door.
The teenager shrank away from the opening. “Hey, it’s cold and wet out there!”
“You’ll live,” his father said, shining the light out the window. “Good,” he said, rolling the window up. “It’s just a little low spot. We’re in no danger.”
He released the brake and moved the transmission lever again. This time the car didn’t slide any further, but the right rear tire could be heard spinning.
“Shit!” exclaimed Shawn, and then instantly realized his mistake. “Oops, sorry Dad.”
“You had better be, young man. I’m going outside to look at the situation.
You two stay dry in here,” the reverend said, putting up the collar of his coat.
“Tom, take an umbrella!” his wife said.
“I need my hands free,” he said, opening the door with some effort due to the angle of the car, slipping out, and letting it close behind him.
For the next few minutes, those inside the vehicle could occasionally hear something brushing or scraping against the side of the car, but could not tell much about what the Reverend Tommy Mitchell was doing. The engine idled softly and the clock on the dash moved from 11:13 to 11:27. With nothing else to occupy his mind, Shawn thought back to his 16th birthday, remembered a girl named Nancy who had kissed him on the cheek at the party his father had arranged at their church, and wondered what his 17th birthday would bring.
Suddenly the driver’s door opened and the reverend dropped into his seat, shivering, his wet hair plastered to his head. “I managed to get some sticks and branches around the wheels,” was all he said before putting the car in gear and stepping on the throttle. Again the rear wheel spun wildly and sank deeper into the mud. He pressed harder on the throttle, the tire whined, the car continued to tilt.
Finally his wife screamed, “Stop, Tom!”
His foot came off the throttle.
After a few moments of complete silence, his head lowered onto his arms on the steering wheel and he softly began to sob. No one else in the car made a sound.
Several minutes later he had collected his emotions, and the other two heard him whisper, “Jesus, please give me strength.”
His wife was deeply touched by this admission of weakness, the likes of which she had not seen in her husband in many years. Soon she too was crying as she put her arms around her husband as best she could in the slanted vehicle.
“I’ll go for help!” Shawn enthusiastically burst out, reaching for the door handle.
“No!” his father said, turning to look at his son. Then he continued more softly, “That’s what I should be doing.”
Their eyes met, perhaps for the first time in a situation that was demanding humility in the elder, maturity in the younger.
“We’ll both go, Dad.”
The reverend couldn’t think of anything to say to his son. He was beginning to feel more pride in the young man than he had felt in a long time.
“You two certainly aren’t leaving me here to sink slowly into the mud,”
Shawn’s mother asserted. “We’re all going.”
“But, Honey...” the reverend started to protest.
“I said we’re all going, and we’re taking umbrellas,” she said. “Our son is practically a man, and I’ve got more life left in me than you give me credit for, Thomas Mitchell. You’re just shivering because you got your head soaking wet. Got your umbrella, Shawn?”
“Sure
do!”
The reverend could think of nothing further to say, and besides, he was now feeling proud of his faithful wife as well. He had over-reached his limits, she had seen his weakness, and was still beside him. With a sigh he shut off the engine, and the three of them were soon outside opening their umbrellas in a cold, dark, January rain somewhere in the Pacific Northwest. They trudged the few muddy yards to the firm asphalt surface of the two-lane road, Mrs. Mitchell carrying their small flashlight.
“Well,” said the reverend after a moment of thought and reflection, “we
know what’s to the left for a long ways.”
Shawn chuckled as his mother said, “That, Honey, is one of the greatest understatements you’ve ever made.”
“So, are we all in agreement on the necessity of going to the right?”
“All in agreement, Dad,” Shawn said.
They began their trek walking single file on the left side of the road, as good pedestrians should. But after about a quarter of an hour, the little flashlight began to dim out to a weak glow. Shawn’s mother gave a moan of disappointment, switched it off and slipped it into her coat pocket.
No one said anything. They already knew they could keep going, as enough light was coming through the dense clouds from the hidden stars and moon to let them vaguely see the center line and edge lines of the road. They were relying on, Shawn realized, the highly light-sensitive but color-blind rod cells in the retina of the eyes, those involved primarily in peripheral vision.
So they continued onward, grouped loosely side by side around the center line of the road.
As they walked, Shawn pondered the events back at their car, where he had seen his father weak and ill-prepared for the first time that he could remember. He was almost surprised to realize that the pride he usually felt in his father had not been tarnished when he had then seen his father frustrated and in tears. His father, Thomas Mitchell, in addition to being his father and a well-known television preacher, was human. That was okay.
After about another quarter hour of walking they had found nothing, save for a lone speed limit sign. They stood gazing up at it for a long minute, as if hoping that this symbol of civilization could somehow invoke its makers. By that time the rain had penetrated every layer of their clothing, and all three of their heads were wet, as gusts of wind were repeatedly yanking their umbrellas almost out of their hands. They trudged on, hoping the activity of walking would help keep them from freezing.
When they rounded the next curve they could barely, because of the sheeting rain, see the straight stretch of lighted road, the left and right turn lanes, and the illuminated sign. They were at first too cold and numb, too intent on their walking, to remember that they had been looking for something. The reverend seemed to come to his senses first. He stopped,
looked ahead at the sign, and lowered his useless umbrella to his side.
“What is it?” he muttered, shivering from the cold.
His wife and son peered at the sign with him.
“Ly...ceum,” Shawn read, knowing he had heard the word somewhere, but unsure of its meaning.
After a moment of silence, Shawn’s mother said, “Well, whatever it is, I’m sure they’ve got a phone, don’t you think, Honey?”
“I certainly hope so,” her husband said. The others could not hear the tone of doubt in his voice over the constant sound of the rain on the pavement. He led the way, his family close behind.
As they approached the lighted sign, Shawn found it unusual that it contained only the one word, and nothing like Private Drive, AAA Approved, MasterCard Accepted, Keep Out, RV’s Welcome, Beware of Dog, or any of the other annotations he was used to seeing. Just Lyceum. Strange.
As no one could think of anything else to do or say, they all turned into the entrance road and kept walking. Its paved surface wound through the trees, and small lamps along the sides cast a comforting glow, even at that late hour in a miserable, drenching, freezing rain.
They had only gone about a hundred yards when they came to an intersection with illuminated signs pointing out destinations in three different directions. Shawn read them to himself. Those to the left all seemed to be private places, like Residence Halls, Maintenance, and things like that. To the right were parking lots for all kinds of places, too numerous to remember.
But straight ahead was a Welcome Center and Passenger Loading/Unloading.
That sounded like the way to go.
His father had been reading the signs also. “I don’t like it. How could all these places be out here in the woods, on that deserted stretch of back road, and we can’t see hide nor hair of any of them, and nothing tells us what this place is all about, and there’s not a soul around anywhere? I just don’t like it.
There’s not even a car to be seen!”
“It
is the middle of the night, Dear,” his wife reminded him in a trembling voice.
“Main Parking Lot is to the right, Dad. Why don’t we look in there?”
Shawn suggested.
“Let us do just that!” the reverend said in a defiant tone, as if he doubted they would find one, and led them off in that direction.
They came to it quickly, strode right in, and a moment later could see the huge lighted lot that could probably hold a thousand or more vehicles, but currently only contained about twenty cars and one large tour bus, all grouped fairly near one corner where a covered walkway led through the trees away from the lot. Shawn noticed that his father seemed to relax a little.
“This is looking more promising,” the reverend said.
“I bet that walkway goes to the Welcome Center,” Shawn said, hoping his father would take the hint.
Mrs. Mitchell shivered violently. “Please, Tom, let’s find some place warm.”
They hurried to the covered path, and just getting under a roof was a great relief to all of them. Shawn was the only one whose fingers weren’t too cold to collapse the umbrellas.
“The so-called Welcome Center is probably open nine a.m. to five p.m., May through September,” the reverend warned, based on his experience with off-season, out-of-the-way tourist attractions.
“We’ve got to give it a try, Dad,” Shawn said as they headed along the lighted path away from the parking lot. “Mom’s really cold.”
“Or maybe we can find someone at those Residence Halls,” his father said as a contingency plan.
A minute later they were standing beside a loop of road and looking at a modern, almost futuristic building that identified itself as the Lyceum Welcome Center. It had one long roof, but two separate buildings underneath with a walk-through arcade between them. The section on the right was almost completely walled with glass, and inside could be seen comfortable benches and chairs, potted plants, displays and information racks.
“Probably locked tight as a drum,” the reverend predicted.
“Then why are all the lights on?” challenged his son. “I’ll try the door.”
And hardly before he had finished speaking, it opened to his pull. “It’s warm inside! Come on!”
The reverend urged his shivering wife in, but looked around warily, as if
expecting some new problem to descend upon them. “Now maybe we can figure this place out,” he said, as he let the door close behind them.
Inside they quickly peeled their outer clothing with shaking hands and hung the dripping wet garments on a coat rack. The reverend found a table with an urn of hot water, an assortment of hot drink packets, and a basket of cookies and crackers. He made his wife a cup of hot cider and tore open several packages of cookies for her, and then he and Shawn began to scan the display boards, maps, and racks of brochures, hot drinks in hand.
“It’s a religious place, Dad!” Shawn said excitedly.
“It also has something to do with the United Nations, and you know what we believe about that evil institution. I don’t like this one bit.”
“Here’s a phone that connects directly to the Main Office, which is open all night.”
“Yes, I saw it, and I don’t want you to use it without my permission. We don’t yet know what this place costs.”
Shawn continued his reading, but began to keep his findings to himself.
He knew they could afford whatever the place might cost, and that his father was obviously engaged in some matter of pride, to which Shawn didn’t relate, especially under the circumstances. He finished one cup of hot chocolate and started on another. His mother kept drinking hot beverages and eating cookies, but most of her clothes were still wet and she could not stop shivering.
“Tom, we can’t stay here all night, can we?” she pleaded.
“If you don’t want to use the phone, Dad, there’s a covered walkway that goes all the way to the Main Lobby,” Shawn explained, looking at a large map on a display board. “You can see it from here, across that big open plaza out there,” he said, pointing through the glass walls.
“Yes. We need to get your mother warm,” the reverend agreed, not sure what else to do.
“Hey Dad, do you have any change?” Shawn asked. “There’s a donation can on the snack table.”
The reverend dug in his pockets and a worried look crossed his face. He went to the coat rack and dug in his coat pockets. Nothing. “Looks like I
dropped my wallet somewhere, probably back at the car.”
“Oh, no, Tom, all those credit cards,” his wife worried.
“I’ll take care of it, Honey. Here’s about a dollar for the donation can, Son.
It’s all I’ve got right now.”
“We must have eaten five or ten bucks worth of stuff, Dad!”
“I know, I know, lay off, will you!” he burst out at Shawn.
“Please, Tom. We need a room or something. It wouldn’t hurt to ask these people, would it?”
“Okay, Honey. We’ll ask.”
Soon they had their wet coats back on, and were heading out the double doors that led to the Main Plaza, of which they could see little due to the obscuring sheets of wind-driven rain. They kept to the covered walk that skirted one side of the Plaza.
Again the reverend took the lead and set a brisk pace, hoping to keep his family warm in the process, and assertively deal with any over-charging night clerk they might find in the office.
Several times they passed walkways crossing theirs, coming from the plaza on their left and going to destinations that were completely dark somewhere on their right. His father seemed to take no notice of them, but Shawn pondered with interest the signs to the Asian Garden, the Amphitheater, and many others.
The path took them near two large, circular buildings with glass walls. It was dark inside both of them, and there seemed to be no way to get in, so they continued moving at a fast pace.
Finally the walkway approached the well-lighted front of an even larger building, took them up a ramp, and left them under an entry awning with four sets of double glass doors before them. Lights were on inside, and Shawn was sure he could faintly hear passages of classical music coming from within that were vaguely familiar.
They moved closer and stood there, gazing through the glass doors into the warmly-lit interior of the huge building. They could make out potted plants and seats, and occasionally coming into view, a small figure, seemingly dancing to the faintly-heard music. The reverend reached for a door handle, gently pulled, and to his surprise it opened. They all quickly stepped in and
stood on one of the large mats just inside the door.
Shawn looked around the room. It must have been more than a hundred feet across on the inside, and all around the perimeter were large archways, out of which came hardwood floors that converged at the center where there was some kind of sculpture and fountain. Between the wooden floors were spacious triangles of carpeting with arrangements of couches, chairs, coffee tables, planters, and fireplaces. One of the fireplaces contained a crackling blaze.
Shawn immediately recognized the music by Felix Mendelssohn written for Shakespeare’s play A Midsummer Night’s Dream, and his gaze was captured by the small, slender girl, dressed in tights, small wings, sequins, and other accessories becoming of a delicate fairy, dancing to the music in an advanced ballet style on those parts of the floor that were polished hardwood.
The fairy seemed to notice them and danced closer as the music progressed, until finally, as the piece ended, she stood directly in front of them and curtsied deeply.
She rose, looked at all three of them in a confident but innocent way, and spoke in a very youthful voice. “You guys look drenched and frozen. Please come in! There’s a fire burning over here. Will you stay, as my guests?”
“We have a little problem with credit right now, and would like to speak to someone in charge,” the reverend began.
Shawn noticed that the girl, who must have been about seven or eight, had a large area of scar tissue on the right side of her face and neck. He wondered what had happened to her.
When his father had finished talking, the girl responded with more confidence than Shawn had seen most adults maintain in the presence of the Reverend Tommy Mitchell. “Actually, Brother Fred is in charge of Security right now, but I think he was about to go out on rounds... no, here he comes now!”
A large black man, completely covered in a bright yellow storm coat and carrying a long flashlight, was entering the huge room through one of the archways. He approached the group and said, “Hello, folks. Is Sister Sarah taking care of your needs?”
The reverend repeated his statements about credit problems and inquired
about the possibility of a tow truck.
“They’re my guests!” the girl informed the security man with pride.
“Well, you’re in luck. Sister Sarah can handle all those arrangements for you, and since this monkey suit I’m in is rapidly roasting me, I’ll head out on my rounds. You feel comfortable with all that, Sarah?”
“Yep!”
The man grinned, and then headed out into the driving rain, leaving the reverend looking somewhat confused.
A smile crept onto Shawn’s face as he watched the little girl — Sister Sarah
— skip over to a couch near the crackling fire, and pull a communications pager out of a gym bag. She pressed some keys on it, and while waiting for a response, waved for them to follow her.
With Shawn in the lead they all crossed the large room. Just as they gathered around the welcome fire, a groggy voice came through the little pager.
“Good morning, or whatever it is. This is Sister Jean.”
“Hi, Jean! This is Sarah.”
“Night Owl! What’s up?”
“I have guests who are wet, cold, and tired. Do you have a room for three with a hot tub or something?”
“I sure do! Bring them to... let me see... Cinnabar, and I’ll have the water running when you arrive.”
“I think they’ll need some dry clothes.”
“As soon as they’re in, you can get some bath robes from Stores, and then run their wet stuff over to Laundry. And they might be hungry, so you should pick them up some snack trays too. Can you handle all that?”
“I think so,” she said.
“I’ll go warm up Cinnabar.”
“Thanks, Sister Jean!”
“No problem, Honey.”
Sister Sarah slipped the pager into her gym bag as she shouldered it, and said, “Is it okay if we do the tow truck in the morning? Maybe the rain will stop by then.”
The reverend looked like he wanted to say something, but was at a loss for
words.
“Go ahead, tell her, Dad. We’re her guests, and she’ll understand,” Shawn said.
Reverend Mitchell took a deep breath. “You see, I was hoping to get out there sooner, because I dropped my wallet somewhere while I was trying to get us out of the mud.”
The little girl looked at him and said, “I think I understand. You’re worried about someone stealing your wallet?”
“Exactly.”
“I’ll call someone who can help.” She guided them out of the Main Lobby through one of the archways. As they all walked along the completely enclosed and softly lighted corridor, she again spoke to someone through her pager, describing the car stuck in the mud and the lost wallet.
“It sounds like we can just winch the car out, and then he can drive it here?” the male voice queried.
The reverend replied. “Yes, I think so.”
They entered another lobby, smaller than the first. A registration desk was unattended at that hour, but a phone sat there invitingly. They had little time to look around, as Sarah guided them through and immediately down one of several dimly lit hallways. Shawn saw that each door they passed had a name instead of a number: Carillon, Chameleon, and finally, with light and the sound of running water coming through the open door, Cinnabar.
They entered to see a middle-aged woman turning back the bed covers.
Beyond her, at the far end of the room on a wooden deck, a hot tub was filling with steaming water. The entire room was decorated in subtle shades of red and maroon, and it occurred to Shawn that one of them matched the color of the mineral cinnabar, but he couldn’t remember its chemical formula.
“Welcome to Lyceum,” Sister Jean greeted them. “There is a shower in the bathroom, plenty of towels and such. Ice is here, and Sarah will bring you some goodies in just a few minutes. If you will put your wet stuff in this laundry basket, Sarah will get it washed and dried before you know it.”
At that moment a young man wearing work clothes knocked on the open door.
“Thanks, Brother Tim,” Sarah said, taking the armload of bath robes from
him and setting them on one of the beds.
“I imagine you want to come along since we’re looking for your wallet?”
Brother Tim began.
“Yes, I’d prefer that,” the reverend said.
“As soon as you’re in a dry robe, we’ve got some warm coats and rain gear you can put over it.”
“Okay,” Sister Jean took charge, “let’s step out and let these good people get warm and dry.” She ushered Sarah and Tim out of the room and pulled the door closed.
Out in the hall, Brother Tim said, “I’ll wait here. He looked anxious to go.”
“I’ll go raid the kitchen,” Sarah said.
“There are always trays made up just for this purpose in the blue refrigerator. Just add a pot of hot water. I have an early shift, so I’m going back to bed. Good work, Sarah!” Sister Jean said, giving her young friend a hug.
“Thanks, Jean. Thanks, Tim. The only part that was a little scary was when he wanted the tow truck right away.”
The two females headed off in different directions, leaving Brother Tim to await the man who had lost his wallet.
About an hour and a half later, at a little after three in the morning, the Reverend Tommy Mitchell yawned as he opened the door to the Lodge room named Cinnabar, and entered the almost dark room to see his wife sleeping soundly in bed, a room service cart filled with a variety of snacks and beverages, and his sixteen-year-old son relaxing in the hot tub and reading something by the light of a nearby lamp.
Shawn heard the door open and turned. “Hi, Dad. Mom soaked until she was warm, then crawled in bed and was instantly asleep. I’ll get out if you’d like the tub now.”
“No,
that’s
okay.”
Shawn settled back into the steaming water.
His father shed his bath robe, and felt a little uncomfortable, realizing that he had never been in a hot tub with his son before, or in any other similar situation, for many years, possibly since his son was a baby. But he saw that
the tub could easily hold four people, so he slowly lowered himself into the delicious water, feeling the last remnants of cold and tension melt away.
“Find something interesting to read?” the father asked to make conversation.
“Visitor’s Guidebook to this place. Maps and stuff. The fairy — I mean Sister Sarah — took our clothes, and said she’d have them back by morning.”
“That tow truck driver led me to another building and into a big automotive shop. Put me into a coat they must have imported from Siberia.
We drove out there, and he had some million-candle-power floodlights. I found my wallet right away, about where I thought it would be. He kept the tow truck on the pavement and winched me right out. Hardly got his feet wet.
The car was covered with mud, but when we got back here, he directed me into their car wash, and before I knew what was happening, he had the mud all sprayed off. They do know how to pad the bill. I asked him what I owed him, but he said it was all taken care of since we were Sister Sarah’s guests.
That’s the part I don’t understand.”
“I think that when you’re a guest here, it means like at someone’s house, not like a guest at a motel.”
Shawn noticed that his father was frowning, and decided it was a good time to make his exit. “Well, I think I’ll get in bed before the sun rises. Good night, Dad.” He hopped out of the tub with more of a splash than he had intended, crept into the bathroom to towel himself dry, and was soon asleep in one of the double beds.
His father sat in the hot water for another half hour, many thoughts passing through his mind, until he could no longer keep his eyes open.
When Shawn groped his way to consciousness the next morning, the sun was out in a clear sky, the curtains were open, and far too much light, for his drowsy state, was streaming through the sliding glass doors beyond the hot tub. His parents were sitting at the room service cart sipping cups of steaming beverages and eating pastries. He immediately noticed that the guidebook he had been reading had disappeared from the table where he had left it. Somehow he had expected that, and was sure it wouldn’t be anywhere else in the room either. A slight frown crossed his face, but he dared not say
anything.
“You awake son? Hot chocolate?” offered his father.
“What
time is it?” was his response, wanting to keep his observation unsuspected.
“Ten thirty. I want us ready to check out soon.”
“I thought we were on vacation,” Shawn prodded.
“This wasn’t part of our itinerary.”
Shawn lay there a moment longer, trying to understand his father’s discomfort in the face of hospitality that rivaled any Hilton they had ever patronized. He couldn’t come to any conclusions, not yet. “Yeah, hot chocolate sounds great. Are there any Danish or anything?”
“Freshly baked bear claws!” his mother said, seemingly in a better mood than his father.
Shawn found his clothes washed, dried, folded, and tied in a neat bundle with a name and room tag attached. He smiled to himself, and after dressing ate his breakfast as leisurely as he could, but his father repeated his insistence that they get ready to leave.
As they had brought nothing but umbrellas with them when they first arrived, and the reverend had brought in little from the car later on, they were soon ready.
Out in the hallway, they discovered a surprising level of activity. People were going into and out of rooms at several points, maid carts stood beside open doors, pairs and trios stood talking.
As they made their way to the lobby of the Lodge, where even more people were gathered, a pleasant voice came over an unseen public address system.
“The opening session of the twenty-third annual Scientific Symposium on Cosmic Origins begins at one o’clock in Conference Center Two. Attendees must be registered before the beginning of the opening session. Registration packets can be obtained at the Conference Center Office.” Shawn noticed a couple of people nearby who broke off conversations to go get their registration packets. His father only frowned.
As they continued on, silently walking through the glass enclosed passage that connected the buildings, Shawn saw that beyond the glass on both their
left and right were classical gardens that obviously received constant care. In one of them an elderly man with a small bucket and a pair of clippers was trimming at things that were out of place and picking up a few leaves that had blown in. Then Shawn’s attention was diverted as several ladies from India wearing brightly colored silk saris passed by speaking, he presumed, Hindi.
His father only looked uncomfortable. Before they had reached the Main Lobby, Shawn counted three other foreign languages that had either passed them, or were just behind going in the same direction.
Shawn had trouble estimating the number of people in the Main Lobby, as they were constantly entering and leaving through the seven large archways and the doors to the Plaza, but he was sure it was at least three hundred, and the room seemed to be absorbing them perfectly well. Groups of all shapes and sizes were in conversation all over the huge room, both sitting and standing. A sign over one of the archways caught his attention. “Dad, I want to check out the Art Gallery!”
“We don’t have time for that,” was all his father said, a scowl on his face.
The announcer spoke again with her unseen voice. “The Islamic Association of Portland is presenting an introduction to Islam and a guided Islamic worship service in the Ecumenical Temple at noon. This event is open to the public.”
“All manner of anti-Christ garbage,” the reverend muttered to himself bitterly.
Just at that moment Shawn spotted Sister Sarah, now dressed in a very nice blouse and skirt, and standing with a couple of other young people near a large information counter. Her long hair was arranged straight down on both sides of her face, and it almost completely hid the scarred area. A moment later she spotted them, said something to the other youth, and walked quickly toward her guests. Shawn read her badge as she approached: Lyceum Information and Assistance — Sister Sarah.
“Good morning everyone! I reserved a table for you for lunch.”
“We have to be going,” the reverend said, and his son could hear a caustic tone in his father’s voice.
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, and it’s almost lunch time now, Tom,” Mrs.
Mitchell said with completely innocent intentions. “I’m surprised to see you
still up after doing all those things for us last night. Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Well, last night was pretty exciting, and I had a little rest at about five, but I almost never fall asleep.”
In a cold, judgmental voice, the reverend looked down at Sarah and said,
“The Devil’s minions never sleep!”
Both his wife and his son were so shocked by his statement that they stood in silence with their mouths open. Shawn knew from his father’s tone of voice that he was quoting something, but Shawn couldn’t even begin to think of what it was. Sister Sarah also stood in silence, but Shawn could see tears gathering in her eyes. She looked for a moment at Mrs. Mitchell, then at Shawn, then off toward some wall, not knowing what else to do.
The Reverend Tommy Mitchell was the one to act. Guiding them with his large hands, he said to his family, “Come on, Honey, Son. We’re going over to the office, and if they won’t charge us, I’ll leave a donation for what the room and tow truck would have cost. I won’t let it be said that I accepted anything from this evil place!”
As his father herded them away from Sister Sarah, Shawn kept looking back at her, standing there alone with tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” he tried to say, but his throat was so choked with feelings that little sound came out.
Shawn stood by his mother as his father waited for his turn at the counter.
Part of him wanted to scream at his father, part of him wanted to comfort little Sarah, and part of him just wanted to run away. He saw a lady, also wearing a name badge, stop to talk to Sister Sarah, who immediately buried her tears in the other’s embrace. He heard his father’s voice talking roughly to one of the people behind the counter, rejecting the person’s every attempt to offer him something to make amends.
Shawn’s gaze fell upon a booklet lying unattended on a nearby table. He could tell from the cover that it had something to do with Lyceum. He glanced at his parents, and saw that their attention was focused away from him, as his father was coldly thrusting fifty dollar bills at the person behind the counter. He quickly stepped to the table, slipped the booklet into his coat pocket, and stepped back to where he had been standing.
The Cadillac moved down the two lane road away from Lyceum. It passed
many other cars and several buses going in the opposite direction. Shawn Mitchell sat in the back seat, hunched up with his arms around his knees, as far away from the driver’s side of the car as he could get, trying to understand what had just happened. There was much, very much he didn’t understand, but there was one thing he knew for sure. He’d be back. Someday, he’d be back.
After awhile he reached for a magazine that was beside him on the seat and opened it.
“What are you doing, Son?” the reverend demanded.
“Reading a magazine. Do you mind?” he said, not even trying to hide the bitterness he felt.
“What kind of magazine is it, Honey?”
His wife glanced back at her son. “One of your church magazines, Dear.”
Shawn easily found the page he wanted. Tucked inside the magazine was the little booklet he had picked up entitled Introduction To Lyceum.