I hear him come up behind me. “Sometimes it’s difficult to be the bearer of a sword,” he says gently.
Dad’s known for being tough, the guy who’s called in whenever some big baddie needs a slap-down. Phen talked about him like he was the bad cop in the “good cop/bad cop” scenario, the one who smacks the criminals around. In the old artwork Michael’s always the stern-faced angel hacking up the devil with a sword. His nickname is the Smiter, Phen said. That job would definitely suck. But when I try to peek inside Dad’s mind, all I get is joy. Certainty. An inner stillness like the reflection on the surface of Jackson Lake at sunrise.
I glance over my shoulder at Dad. “You don’t seem too conflicted about bearing a sword.”
He reaches down and picks up my half of the broom, holds the pieces together for a few seconds, then hands the broom back to me in one piece. My mouth drops open like a kid at a magic show. I run my fingers over the place where it was jagged, but I find it perfectly smooth. Not even the paint is marred. It’s like it was never broken.
“I’m at peace with it,” he says.
Together we turn and walk back toward the house. Somewhere off in the trees I hear a bird singing, a bright, simple call.
“Hey, I was wondering….” I stop and work up the guts to bring up something that’s been in the back of my mind ever since he mentioned the word sword. “Would it be okay if Christian trained with us?” His gaze on me is steady and curious, so I go on. “He’s having a vision of using a flaming—I mean glory—sword, and his uncle’s been training him some, but his uncle’s not going to be around much longer, and I think it would be nice—I mean, I think it would be useful for both of us—if you trained us together. Could that be part of the plan?”
He’s quiet for such a long time I’m sure he’s going to say no, but then he blinks a few times and looks at me. “Yes. Perhaps when you’re home for Christmas break, I’ll train you together.”
“Great. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he says simply.
“Do you want to come in?” I say at the edge of the porch. “I think I can scrounge up some cocoa.”
He shakes his head. “Right now it’s time for the next part of your lesson.”
“The next part?”
“You remember how to cross?”
I nod. “Call the glory, think of the place, click your heels together three times and say, ‘There’s no place like home.’”
“I’ve seen that movie,” he says. “One of your mother’s favorites. We watched it every year.”
Us too. Thinking about it makes a sudden tightness in my throat. WOO, she called it. She read the book to me out loud every night before bed when I was seven, and when we were finished, we watched it on DVD, and we sang the songs together, and we tried to do that walk they do when they’re on the yellow brick road, stepping over each other’s legs.
No more WOO with Mom, ever.
“So now what?” I ask Dad, refusing to let myself get choked up again.
He grins, a wicked grin, even though he’s an angel. “Now you get yourself home.”
And just like that, he vanishes. No glory or anything. Just fft. Gone.
He expects me to cross back to California on my own.
“Dad? Not funny,” I call.
In answer, the wind picks up and sends a bunch of red aspen leaves into my hair.
“Great. Just great,” I mutter.
I put the broom in the hallway, near the door, in case we need it again. Then I wander back into the yard and summon a circle of glory. I check my watch and determine that Wan Chen’s going to be in class for another hour, so I close my eyes and concentrate on my room, the lavender bedspread, the small desk in the corner that is always messy with papers and books, the air conditioner in the window.
I can picture it all perfectly, but when I open my eyes, I’m still in Jackson.