Virtual Eternity (the Serialized Novel) Episode 28 - The Crossed-Paths: Searching for the Art Thief

This is Episode 28 of the serialized version of the novel, Virtual Eternity: An Epic 90s Retro Florida Techo-Pro-Life Love Story and Conversion Journey. These 52 episodes are presented here free for you every Friday. You can buy the paperback version from Mike Church’s Crusade Channel Store or from Amazon. 

Or you can start reading at the Table of Contents: here

The Crossed-Paths: Searching for the Art Thief

Chapter 3: Perspective - Revealed

In which Jonathan seeks to know the Holy Trinity, by means of imitating It and accepting Its revelations

The third Sunday of Advent, the second-to-last Sunday of shopping, rose with the sun in the southeastern sky. In five days, the solar season would end. The sun would complete the cycle I had watched with such curiosity: from its northernmost, when it set over the river behind a storm, the night I again awoke from my slumber and explored the perfect, in the form of Lana; to its midpoint, when it set behind more clouds at the music festival; to its southernmost, when it set beyond Winnie and the city as I viewed it from the bridge. What would be my state be when the sun returned to its midpoint in the west?

In the cycle, I had found between two and three dozen female forms. Bodies exposed themselves before me. In Winnie, and in most of the others, I knew only the body. I knew none of the essences attached to them. Beauty was unattainable without both.

None of them knew me. None knew my essence, choices, intentions, or the meanings I attached to their bodies and essence. Only I knew. They heard my poetry, but the words drifted into the air like the chirp of a bird in the desert.

I gave the verses on paper only to Lana. She must have handed them to someone else. Who would have become affected by them? I must speak to him. Maybe when he read the poems, he actually had stirred others. Who else had it stirred?

I got little rest that night. Finally, my curtains brightened.

Slightly before nine o’clock, I arrived at Winnie’s apartment. The Sunday brought peace to the inland apartment complex. Silence. A few birds, more Northeastern visitors, rustled and trilled in the pine trees overhead while every renter slept. I crunched the pine needles as I walked the concrete sidewalk to her door. As I approached it, I shuddered. Leave. I would wake her. She would rebuke me again. She would yell and cry. I would disturb the neighbors. For what? She would insult my poems again.

But who knew my poems? A new friend? A prankster? Maybe they ridiculed me, as Lana did, as Winnie did, as Mike did, as all the girls I bedded did. Why else would Lana share them? I returned to my car. Now I must leave Florida without telling anyone.

As I ducked inside, a familiar hum burst the quiet of the trees. I waited, and the droning neared. Through the wooded parking lot, it wove around trees and speed bumps. I stood.

“Maureen?”

She parked near the apartment buildings and popped out. The tiny girl smiled and walked toward me. Her yellow and light green flowered dress banded below her waist fluttered against her as she walked. Her image from only two nights before gathered in me.

“Jonathan? How are you?”

“Hi, Maureen. You’re up and about early this morning.”

“I was at Church. You may’ve heard of that?”

“Oh yeah! I remember! It’s that pointy building where families and old people go on Sundays. It’s where some guy in a colored robe talks, and they play bad folk music and read stuff.”

“Kinda.” She laughed. “Yep, I’m the religious one, remember?”

“Right. Do you go every Sunday? Why?”

“Most of them,” she said. “To receive the Sacrament. And sometimes I go out of curiosity.”

“Curiosity?”

“Sometimes I go looking for answers. Or for a reminder of where the answers are.”

“Well, you look wonderful, for so early in the morning.”

“Thanks, I guess. Well, looks like Winnie’s already left. She took off about an hour ago.”

“Oh. What are you doing here?”

“I live here. For a couple more weeks anyway.”

“Really? Which apartment?”

“I lived with Winnie. Didn’t she tell you?”

“No, she didn’t. How long have you lived here?”

“Almost two months.”

“You’re moving out? Why?”

“It wasn’t working.”

“That’s understandable,” I said. “It seemed like Winnie had a few difficulties.”

“Yeah, maybe. Would you like some coffee? Wait. Should you be the one inviting me in?”

“No. I mean, yes. No, on the coffee. But yes, I’d like to come in. And no, I didn’t stay here last night. Let’s just say it wasn’t working.”

“Yeah, it seemed like Winnie had a few difficulties,” she said.

I followed her up the pine needle path.

“This is a terrific place,” I said. “It’s quiet here, except for our cars.”

“You mean your car. Mine purrs like a kitten. It needs to last another five years or so.”

Inside, a cat dashed around, avoiding or greeting us, depending on her mood, finally nudging my shin. “Nice view,” I said. A picture window framed the forest outside. We could look out at grass, tree trunks, and birdhouses. “I only have a parking lot view myself.”

“Yeah, this is a fantastic apartment. I’ll miss it. All the birds have been coming down for the winter. Sometimes I just watch them. Can I get you some water, or iced tea or orange juice?”

“Iced tea would be fine.”

I slumped into the overstuffed white sofa and sank into its pillows. The low-angled morning sun flowed through the apartment, reflecting off the synthetic black lacquer finishes and acrylic tables.

“Is this furniture Winnie’s?”

“Yes,” she said as she placed our drinks on the coffee table. “She likes all the straight lines and glass. All my furniture is at my mom’s old house, north of here.”

“I came to ask Winnie something, but you might be able to answer it for me. Winnie told me last night...” Should I expose my humiliation to her?

“Yes?”

“Well, it all started... I’m a little embarrassed. It all started when I read Winnie a poem I wrote.”

“A poem?” She cleared her throat. “Really? What happened?”

“She recognized it. Someone had read it to her before. She said it was her boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend? Did she tell you who it was?”

“She refused. That’s what I’m trying to find out. I thought you might know, since you’re her roommate.”

“Hmm. I’m not sure.”

“Who’s she dated in the past three or four months? Who’d she go to the Gala with? I’m trying to piece this together. I only gave them to one person: Lana Schon. I’d like to know who she gave them to. They apparently impressed someone. He was the only one.”

“The only one who liked them?”

“I believe so,” I said as I petted the cat. “He liked them enough to read them to her. He may have only laughed at them. Do you have any idea?”

“Kevin?”

“She said it wasn’t him.”

“I wonder why she wouldn’t tell you who,” Maureen said.

“She was very upset when I asked. Maybe that’ll jar your memory. It was someone who she seemed to love deeply. It was painful for her to talk about.”

Maureen was silent. She looked down at her lap and shook her head.

“This is very embarrassing for me. Are you thinking?”

She cleared her throat again. “Um, yeah. I can’t remember.”

“Who were some of the guys she dated? I’d like to talk to them.”

“Oh, Jonathan, I don’t recall any of them.”

“Were there a lot? Were there any?”

“Um, I guess.” She rubbed her forehead. “Maybe there weren’t any.

Maybe she’s playing a game. You could call her in Texas later. I have her phone number.”

“If she didn’t tell me last night, she won’t tell me over the phone. I kinda don’t want to talk to her again. I could ask Lana. But I didn’t want to speak to her either. It’s probably not worth all the trouble.”

Birds flitted past the window. A pair of cardinals, one red, one brown, perched on the tree closest to the window and glanced around. They tilted their pointy heads and jumped about on a branch.

Confronting Lana was my last recourse. But I should abandon this search. The entire project was useless. Maybe my talent never ripened. What had I accomplished? I led a life most men envied. I eclipsed the goal I had set in previous years: to rise in the respect of my peers through distinguished acts of hedonism. But no one realized I had risen above vulgarity. With the poetry, however, I had wasted countless hours. Without others to recognize my ideas, I failed. I was only a carouser.

“I’m sorry, Maureen. I was thinking.”

“Yeah, me too.”

I stood. “I appreciate this, Maureen. I’m sorry to bother you so early. I’m totally embarrassed.”

“That’s okay,” she whispered. “What’ll you do now? You’re not gonna ask Lana, are you?”

“No. I’ve had enough of poems. It’s not worth it.”

She winced and looked away. “Really?” Her voice cracked.

“Are you alright?”

She coughed. “Maybe a cold coming on.”

“Thanks again, Maureen. Good luck finding a decent apartment.”

She smiled, but she remained on the linear sofa staring out at the tree trunks.

I left the building, walking over pine needles again. I looked out to the parking lot as I walked. I needed a new passion. The faint humming of the Interstate highway called me to escape.

“Jonathan?”

I whirled. She rushed at me.

“Maureen?”

In reflex, as one would typically do when overcome by an onrushing girl, I engulfed her as if saving her from a fall. She pressed near to me.

“It was me,” she whispered.

“You?”

“I have your poems. I read them to her.”

“You? To Winnie? But--”

“And I loved them. Please don’t stop.”

“What’s going on? You’re crying.”

She wept against my ribs as we walked. Tears rolled off my jacket. She tried not to make a noise, but inhaled deeply, over and over. The calm I had seen in her had burst like an overfilled water balloon. I guided her to a small, wooden bench under the pine trees and cardinals, away from sleeping neighbors. I hated my verses. Of the several hundred lines I had written, they only caused young women to jeer or cry. What was the point?

“Lana gave them to me, Jonathan,” she said as I eased her down. “She did make fun of them, but I thought they were wonderful. They helped me understand things.”

“You read them to Winnie? I don’t get it. Why?”

“We were sort of lovers, Jonathan.”

“Oh!”

“Does that shock you?”

“Of course. Winnie’s a lesbian? A bi? You’re a lesbian?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, emotionally. You can label me what you like. With Robert, I felt imprisoned, almost as if I was his property. With Winnie, I felt free. All I know is that I loved someone. But I couldn’t admit it to anyone. I couldn’t admit it to myself.”

“It’s over now?”

“Yes. Thanks to you. It hurts. Winnie and I loved each other very much, I think.”

“But you feel what you two did was wrong?”

“Probably. It wasn’t even that physical, but sometimes I wanted it to be. But do we ever know for sure? Do you think that sleeping with a stranger is wrong?”

“I don’t know. And I doubt I was ever in love with them.”

“Winnie and I loved each other. Does that make me less wrong than you?” She laughed. “Isn’t it worse to go all the way, like you?”

“I don’t know.”

“So, actually, I’m not as immoral as you.”

“No, you’re more of a sinner than I am.” I smiled.

“Oh, Jonathan. How’d we get into this?”

“Is that how your engagement ended?”

“We broke it off a few weeks before Winnie and I got together,” she said. “Getting engaged was a mistake. Your poems helped me realize that.”

“How?”

“You discovered what love meant to me. My relationship with Robert did not resemble what you said, at all. I realized I’d never find that love with him. No rapture, no Beauty, no careening through life, no boredom with the material world.”

“You know that one.”

“Yes. Lana gave me others, a few every week. She just scribbled my name on the envelopes and stuck them in company mail. I couldn’t believe I was so close to the author. I felt like I’d known you for years. You were trying to bring Beauty and love to life, to give it life. Not Lana, really, but something more eternal.” She smiled up at me, and she closed her eyes.

“It’s wonderful to talk to you about them.”

“Yeah, it is.” A tingle rolled up my back. “And it was something more than that.”

“Then I heard about you,” she said. “People talked. Gina, Mike, even Lana. I couldn’t believe you were that shallow, that corrupted.”

“Corrupted?”

“Yeah. Who would be that indiscriminate? Not the writer of these poems. I started to think you were a phony. I searched in a couple of libraries for those verses, to make sure they were original. Then you slept with Winnie. I felt as if I lost my best friend and my lover.”

“You mean Winnie?”

“And you.”

“Which was I?”

“A little of both.”

She paused. I moved my hand toward hers. We touched. She pulled it away.

“No,” she said. “Don’t. I’m not what you want. I only wanted to say that I liked your poems. But please don’t ---” She leaped up. I heard her sob as she rushed over the needly trail.

“Wait.” I sprang over the bench. “Wait!”

She ran to her building. I jogged after her, but she disappeared into her apartment before I could reach her. A sixty-something couple strolled by with their dog. They glared at me.

Next week: Episode 29 - The Call-Outs: Growing in Love

Copyright © 2022 Christopher Rogers.

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