Reginald Cook: The Hammer of God

He fastened his ice white, high collar shirt, and slipped into his favorite suit, dark and slightly wrinkled. A wood framed full-length mirror, as old as the building he worked in, caught his attention and forced him to look upon the ugliness he so abhorred. He turned away, chest heaving, mouth dry, and plopped down in a blue leather swivel chair behind his desk. Losing a love that brings me such childlike joy is not something I’m prepared to do. Chocolates, he thought. I’ll start with chocolates, then a shower of gifts. It’s a bit pretentious, but it’s a start.

Charles smiled at himself in the mirror, his jet black hair and boyish good looks overriding the monster that now retreated within. He checked his watch. I’m late.

He grabbed the tools of his trade and headed for the door, the monster in the mirror right behind him.

S trikingly exquisite, the ten foot stained glass image of the Assumption of Our Lady, surrounded by twenty-three angels in a montage of red and multiple shades of blue handcrafted glass impressed Robert Veil. Church was not his favorite place to be during the middle of baseball season, but sitting there in a spiritual ports-of-call that had played host and home to Chicago’s eighteenth century Northern Italian immigrants, Robert’s heart pounded and his palms moistened. He was about to lay eyes on his godson, Samuel, for the first time in almost six months.

“I bet he’s grown an inch or two,” Robert whispered to Donovan Napier, Samuel’s father.

“An inch and a half since you last saw him,” Donovan whispered back.

“Shhhhhh,” Donavon’s wife, Alison, hissed. “You boys will have plenty of time to stick your chests out over Sam when service is over.” She gave Donavon a sly smile and sat back against the naked wooden pew. Donavon gave Robert a “ we better do as mommy says” look. He smiled back. She’s your mommy, not mine.

Robert, born Catholic, defected as soon as he could slip from under his mother’s radar, and had forgotten how opulent Catholic Churches could be, Chicago’s Assumption Church especially.

Below the stained glass masterpiece up front, hung a stunning recreation of Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece, The Last Supper, which would’ve made the Italian master proud. Smaller, but every bit as impressive, was an extensive splattering of stained glass images, in addition to dazzling mosaics and murals prominently displayed on the walls and ceiling. Robert counted five different types of Italian marble on the altar rail, and a dozen museum quality statues standing sentry on three sides of the remarkable sanctuary. Under their feet lay a sea of deep royal blue carpet so rich, that walking on it seemed a sin.

Robert glanced over at Donavon and Alison. They were still making goo-goo eyes after ten years of marriage. Seeing his old friend so happy amazed Robert, especially since ten years earlier, while they were working a CIA surveillance assignment in Bohn, Germany, Donavon swore off the lifetime confinement of matrimony, saying he’d rather roll around naked in broken glass.

“After service there are a few people we need to meet,” Alison whispered to Donavon, who took a deep breath and bit his lower lip. He looked over at Robert. S ave me.

Marry one of Chicago’s treasures, and that’s the price you pay, thought Robert, wanting to laugh.

Melodic Latin phrases from a male falsetto echoed throughout the sanctuary, and Robert watched his godson, Samuel Napier, lead a priest, three other altar boys and an altar girl down the center aisle.

Samuel, draped in a white satin vestment, along with the other altar adolescents, looked deadly serious holding an elaborate silver and gold cross stretched out in front of him toward the sky. They marched toward the altar at a pace more fit for a funeral procession than a spiritual celebration.

One look at Samuel and Robert was sure that he had grown more than the inch and a half Donovan mentioned. The dirty-brown haired boy’s shoulders were starting to broaden, and Robert could already imagine the ten year old birthday boy playing linebacker or center field.

After readings from the book of Isaiah, and several more from Matthew, John and Luke, Robert listened to the priest, Father Charles Tolbert, launch into an additional series of chants, and a sleeping pill of a sermon that Robert vaguely surmised as an exultation to pray for one’s enemies and those that hate you. The need to yawn was almost more than he could bear, and water welled up in his eyes as he fought back the urge.

Samuel and one of the other altar boys, a portly, jovial kid with fiery red hair, freckles and friendly eyes, set up the altar for communion.

When Samuel turned to resume his position on the far left of the altar, Robert noticed that he flinched slightly as he passed Father Tolbert. M ust be a little nervous, thought Robert, remembering Alison’s earlier comment that it was Samuel’s first time setting the communion table.

After communion, more prayer, benediction, and then dismissal, Samuel, cross held high, led the evangelical parade back down the aisle and disappeared through ivory painted, gold encrusted double doors. Ten minutes later, Robert milled around outside in front of the Church with most of the congregation, watching them chat, laugh, and wish each other well.

Chicago’s summer season, in full motion, sported a dark overcast sky, blowing crisp air, but not too cold. The notorious wind, for which the city was well-known, toyed with parishioners’ hats and coats for sport, all subtle precursors to the harsh winter that always followed four or five months later.

Robert watched Donavon and Alison work the crowd like seasoned veterans. Alison flashed a smile that could disarm the most hardened heart, and Donavon, standing slightly behind her, put on a stellar performance worthy of an Oscar. It was like watching a President and the first husband campaign.

“Uncle Robert! Uncle Robert!” yelled Samuel.

Robert looked over his shoulder and spied his godson in full sprint, arms pumping, face bright and excited. A foot or two away, Samuel leapt through the air into Robert’s arms and wrapped his legs around him, almost sending his godfather backwards to the ground.

“Well hello, birthday boy! I’m happy to see you too!” Samuel thanked Robert but didn’t release his grip. When Robert finally pried him loose and lowered him to the ground, he took a step back.

“Let’s have a look at you,” he said, hands on his chin, as if inspecting every inch of the boy.

“I’ve grown two whole inches,” said Samuel, beaming with pride.

“I see that,” said Robert. “You’ll tower over me soon.” At this, Samuel’s smile broadened and his back straightened. He took Robert’s hand and led him over to his mother and father.

“Well, I see you’ve found your favorite playmate,” said Alison, kissing her son on the cheek.

“Yes,” added Donavon. “Now we won’t get an ounce of sleep over the next few days.”

“Oh, like you won’t enjoy it yourself,” chided Alison. “I’ll have to find a place to stay for the next two days, the way you three carry on.”

“We’re not that bad,” Robert joked, knowing that they were.

When he visited Samuel, the kid inside of him shook loose, and he loved it. It was like reclaiming something he’d lost in his own youth, the day his father was murdered.

“Where’s Aunt Nikki?” asked Samuel.

“She’s going to meet us at the restaurant,” answered Robert. “She said to tell you she wouldn’t miss your birthday for the world.” Nikki Thorne, Robert’s partner and best friend, was a Baptist, as much as he was a Catholic. Thorne passed on morning mass, opting instead to visit an old friend, which Robert knew without asking meant a visit to Nelson Reynolds, a detective on Chicago’s police force, and an old flame.