Dad shakes his head. “People often mistake it for a flaming sword, from the way the light ripples, but it’s made from glory, not fire. A glory sword.”
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “A glory sword? Why?”
He hesitates. “It’s part of the plan.”
“I see. So there’s a definite plan. Involving me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Is there a copy of this master plan written down that I could take a peek at? Just for a minute?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s a work in progress. So, are you ready?” he asks.
“What, now?”
“No time like the present,” he says, which I can tell he thinks is a joke. He goes over to retrieve the bicycle, and together we meander slowly back toward Roble.
“How’s school, by the way?” he asks, like any other dutiful dad.
“Fine.”
“And how’s your friend?”
I find it bizarre that he’s asking about my friends. “Uh—which one?”
“Angela,” he says. “She’s the reason you came to Stanford, isn’t she?”
“Oh. Yeah. Angela’s doing okay, I think.”
The truth is, I haven’t hung out with Angela since that day at MemChu, almost three weeks ago. I called her this past weekend and asked if she wanted to go to the new gory slasher film that came out on Halloween, and she blew me off. “I’m busy” is all she said. She’s also not interested in going to parties or even poetry readings, which I assumed she’d be all over, or doing much of anything besides going to class, and even in our Poet Re-making the World class she’s been oddly quiet and nonopinionated. Lately I’ve seen more of her roommates than I have of Angela: Robin is in my art history class on Mondays and Wednesdays and a lot of times we get coffee after, and Amy and I always seem to show up in the dining hall for breakfast at the same time, where we sit together and chat up a storm. It’s through them that I know that Angela’s either been hanging out at the church or holed up in their room, glued to her laptop or reading big intimidating-looking books or scribbling away in her good old black-and-white composition notebook, wearing sweats most days, sometimes not even bothering to shower. Clearly something more intense than usual is going on with her. I figure it’s her purpose heating up—her obsession with the number seven, the guy in the gray suit, all that jazz.
“I always liked Angela,” Dad says now, which startles me because as far as I know, he only met her that one time. “She’s very passionate in her desire to do what is right. You should look out for her.”
I make a mental note to call Angela as soon as I have a minute. We’ve reached Roble by this point, and Dad stands looking at the building with its ivy-covered facade while I park the bike on the rack outside.
“Do you want to see my room?” I ask a bit awkwardly.
“Perhaps later,” he says. “Right now we need to find a place where we won’t be disturbed.”
I can’t think of anywhere better than the basement of the dorm, where there’s a study room with no windows. People mostly use it to make phone calls when they don’t want to bother their roommates. “It’s the best I can do on short notice,” I say, as I lead Dad down there. I unlock the door and hold it open for him to see.
“It’s perfect,” he says, and goes right in.
I’m nervous. “Should I stretch out or something?” My voice echoes strangely in this claustrophobic little room. It smells in here, like dirty socks, sour milk, and old cologne.
“First we should decide where you would like to train,” he says.
I gesture around us. “I’m confused.”
“This is the starting point,” he says. “You must decide the ending point.”
“Okay. What are my options?”
“Anywhere,” he answers.
“The Sahara desert? The Taj Mahal? The Eiffel Tower?”
“I think we’d make quite a spectacle practicing swordplay at the Eiffel Tower, but it’s up to you.” He grins goofily, then sobers. “Try somewhere you know well, where you’ll be comfortable and relaxed.”
That’s easy. I don’t even have to think about it for two seconds. “Okay. Take me home. To Jackson.”
“Jackson it is.” Dad moves to stand in front of me. “We will cross now.”
“And what is crossing, exactly?” I ask.
“It’s …” He searches for the words, finds them. “Bending the rules of time and space in order to move from one place to another very quickly. The first step,” he adds dramatically, “is glory.”
I wait for something to happen, but nothing does. I look at Dad. He nods his head at me expectantly.
“What, I’m going to do it?”
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You brought your mother back from hell.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Brick by brick, my dear,” he says.
I swallow. “What, I’m like building Rome now? Maybe we should start with something smaller.” I close my eyes, try to center myself in the now, try to stop thinking, stop processing, just be. I listen to my breath drag in and out of my body, try to empty myself, forget myself, because only then can I reach that quiet place inside me that’s part of the light.
“Good,” Dad murmurs, and I open my eyes to glory’s golden wash around us.
“In this state,” he says, “you have access to anything you ask for. You must simply learn how to ask.”
“Anything?” I repeat skeptically.
“If you ask and you believe, yes. Anything.”
“So if I really wanted a cheeseburger, like right now …”
He laughs, and the sound echoes around us like a chorus of bells. His eyes are molten silver in this light, his hair gleaming.
“I suppose I’ve had stranger requests.” He holds out his hand, and something golden brown appears in it. I take it. It’s like bread, only lighter.
“What is it?” I ask. Because it’s so not a cheeseburger.
“Taste it.”
I hesitate, then take a bite. It explodes on my tongue, like the best buttery croissant I’ve ever had, almost melting in my mouth, leaving a faint aftertaste of honey. I scarf down the rest, and afterward I feel completely satisfied. Not full. But content.
I can’t believe I’m hearing this. “A glory sword? Why?”
He hesitates. “It’s part of the plan.”
“I see. So there’s a definite plan. Involving me,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Is there a copy of this master plan written down that I could take a peek at? Just for a minute?”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “It’s a work in progress. So, are you ready?” he asks.
“What, now?”
“No time like the present,” he says, which I can tell he thinks is a joke. He goes over to retrieve the bicycle, and together we meander slowly back toward Roble.
“How’s school, by the way?” he asks, like any other dutiful dad.
“Fine.”
“And how’s your friend?”
I find it bizarre that he’s asking about my friends. “Uh—which one?”
“Angela,” he says. “She’s the reason you came to Stanford, isn’t she?”
“Oh. Yeah. Angela’s doing okay, I think.”
The truth is, I haven’t hung out with Angela since that day at MemChu, almost three weeks ago. I called her this past weekend and asked if she wanted to go to the new gory slasher film that came out on Halloween, and she blew me off. “I’m busy” is all she said. She’s also not interested in going to parties or even poetry readings, which I assumed she’d be all over, or doing much of anything besides going to class, and even in our Poet Re-making the World class she’s been oddly quiet and nonopinionated. Lately I’ve seen more of her roommates than I have of Angela: Robin is in my art history class on Mondays and Wednesdays and a lot of times we get coffee after, and Amy and I always seem to show up in the dining hall for breakfast at the same time, where we sit together and chat up a storm. It’s through them that I know that Angela’s either been hanging out at the church or holed up in their room, glued to her laptop or reading big intimidating-looking books or scribbling away in her good old black-and-white composition notebook, wearing sweats most days, sometimes not even bothering to shower. Clearly something more intense than usual is going on with her. I figure it’s her purpose heating up—her obsession with the number seven, the guy in the gray suit, all that jazz.
“I always liked Angela,” Dad says now, which startles me because as far as I know, he only met her that one time. “She’s very passionate in her desire to do what is right. You should look out for her.”
I make a mental note to call Angela as soon as I have a minute. We’ve reached Roble by this point, and Dad stands looking at the building with its ivy-covered facade while I park the bike on the rack outside.
“Do you want to see my room?” I ask a bit awkwardly.
“Perhaps later,” he says. “Right now we need to find a place where we won’t be disturbed.”
I can’t think of anywhere better than the basement of the dorm, where there’s a study room with no windows. People mostly use it to make phone calls when they don’t want to bother their roommates. “It’s the best I can do on short notice,” I say, as I lead Dad down there. I unlock the door and hold it open for him to see.
“It’s perfect,” he says, and goes right in.
I’m nervous. “Should I stretch out or something?” My voice echoes strangely in this claustrophobic little room. It smells in here, like dirty socks, sour milk, and old cologne.
“First we should decide where you would like to train,” he says.
I gesture around us. “I’m confused.”
“This is the starting point,” he says. “You must decide the ending point.”
“Okay. What are my options?”
“Anywhere,” he answers.
“The Sahara desert? The Taj Mahal? The Eiffel Tower?”
“I think we’d make quite a spectacle practicing swordplay at the Eiffel Tower, but it’s up to you.” He grins goofily, then sobers. “Try somewhere you know well, where you’ll be comfortable and relaxed.”
That’s easy. I don’t even have to think about it for two seconds. “Okay. Take me home. To Jackson.”
“Jackson it is.” Dad moves to stand in front of me. “We will cross now.”
“And what is crossing, exactly?” I ask.
“It’s …” He searches for the words, finds them. “Bending the rules of time and space in order to move from one place to another very quickly. The first step,” he adds dramatically, “is glory.”
I wait for something to happen, but nothing does. I look at Dad. He nods his head at me expectantly.
“What, I’m going to do it?”
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you? You brought your mother back from hell.”
“Yes, but I didn’t know what I was doing.”
“Brick by brick, my dear,” he says.
I swallow. “What, I’m like building Rome now? Maybe we should start with something smaller.” I close my eyes, try to center myself in the now, try to stop thinking, stop processing, just be. I listen to my breath drag in and out of my body, try to empty myself, forget myself, because only then can I reach that quiet place inside me that’s part of the light.
“Good,” Dad murmurs, and I open my eyes to glory’s golden wash around us.
“In this state,” he says, “you have access to anything you ask for. You must simply learn how to ask.”
“Anything?” I repeat skeptically.
“If you ask and you believe, yes. Anything.”
“So if I really wanted a cheeseburger, like right now …”
He laughs, and the sound echoes around us like a chorus of bells. His eyes are molten silver in this light, his hair gleaming.
“I suppose I’ve had stranger requests.” He holds out his hand, and something golden brown appears in it. I take it. It’s like bread, only lighter.
“What is it?” I ask. Because it’s so not a cheeseburger.
“Taste it.”
I hesitate, then take a bite. It explodes on my tongue, like the best buttery croissant I’ve ever had, almost melting in my mouth, leaving a faint aftertaste of honey. I scarf down the rest, and afterward I feel completely satisfied. Not full. But content.
