A Knight Of The Word

“Well, politically incorrect pirates and mat worship, not to mention sports, are easier to deal with than the homeless, aren’t they?” Carole snapped. “Way of the world, Ray. People deal with what they can handle. What’s too hard or doesn’t offer an easy solution gets shoved aside. Too much for me, they think. Too big for one man or woman. We need committees, experts, organisations, entire governments to solve this one. But, hey, mat worship? Pirates chasing wenches? I can handle those.”


Ross stayed quiet. He was thinking about his own choices in life. He had given up the pressures of trying to serve on a far larger and more violent battlefield than anything that was being talked about here. He had abandoned a fight that had become overwhelming and not a little incomprehensible. He had walked away from demons and feeders and maentwrogs, beings of magic and darkness, creatures of the Void. Because after San Sobel he felt that he wasn’t getting anywhere with his efforts to destroy them, that he couldn’t control the results anymore, that it was dumb luck if he ended up killing the monsters instead of the humans. He felt adrift and ineffective and dangerously inadequate. Children had died because of him. He couldn’t bear the thought of that happening again.

Even so, it seemed as if Ray were speaking directly to him, and in the other mans anger and frustration with humanity’s lack of an adequate response to the problem of homeless and abused women and children, he felt the sharp sting of a personal reprimand.

He took a deep breath, listening as Ray and Carole continued their discussion. How much good do you think we’re doing? he wanted to ask them. With the homeless. both the people you’re talking about. Through all our programs and hard work. How much good are we really doing?

But he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He sat there in silence, contemplating his own I failures and shortcomings, his own questionable choices in life. The fact remained that he liked what he was doing here and he did think he was doing some good — more good than he had done as a Knight of the Word. Here, he could see the results on a case-by-case basis. Not all of his efforts — their efforts — were successful, but the failures were easier to live with and less costly. If change for the better was achieved one step at a time, then surely the people involved with Fresh Start and Pass/Go were headed in the right direction.

He took a fresh grip on his commitment. The past was behind him and he should keep it there. He was not meant to be a Knight of the Word. He had never been more than adequate to the undertaking, never more than satisfactory. It required someone stronger and more fit, someone whose dedication and determination eclipsed his own. He had done the best he could, but he had done as much as he could, as well. It was finished after San Sobel. It was ended.

“Time to get back to work,” he said to no one in particular.

The talk still swirled about him as he rose. A couple of other staffers had wandered in, and everyone was trying to get a word in edgewise. With a nod to Ray, who glanced up as he moved toward the elevator, he crossed the room, pressed the button, stepped inside the empty cubicle when it arrived, and watched the break room and its occupants disappear as the doors closed.

He rode up to the main floor in silence, closing his eyes to the past and its memories, sealing himself in a momentary blackness.

When the elevator stopped and he stepped out, Stefanie Winslow was passing by carrying two Starbucks containers, napkins, straws, and plastic spoons nestled in a small cardboard tray.

“Coffee. tea, or me?” she asked brightly, tossing back her shoulder-length, curly black hair, looking curiously girlish with the gesture.

“Guess.” He pursed his lips to keep from smiling. “Whacha got there?”

“Two double-tall, low-fat, vanilla lattes, fella.”

“One of those for me?”

She smirked. “You wish. How’s the speech coming?”

“Done, except for a final polish. The Wiz will amaze this Halloween.” He gestured at the tray. “So who gets those?”

“Simon is in his office giving an interview to Andrew Wren of The New York Times. That’s Andrew Wren, the investigative reporter.”

“Oh? What’s he investigating?”

“Well, sweetie, that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it?” She motioned with her head. “Out of my way, I have places to go.”

He stepped obediently aside, letting her pass. She glanced back at him over her shoulder. “I booked dinner at Umberto’s for six. Meet you in your office at five-thirty sharp.” She gave him a wink.

He watched her walk down the hall toward Simon’s office. He was no longer thinking about the homeless and abused, about Ray and Carole, about his past and its memories, about anything but her. It was like that with Stef. It had been like that from the moment they met. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He loved her so much it hurt. But the hurt was pleasurable. The hurt was sweet. The way she made him feel was a mystery he did not ever want to solve.

“I’ll be there,” he said softly.

He had to admit, his new life was pretty good. He went back to his office smiling.





* * *





Chapter Seven