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Keefe
Keefe sat in the front passenger seat of the Mercedes, Papa’s rental, rubbing his chin and searching his memory. Tall evergreens cast long shadows on the lonely road. A tile-roofed house of pale stones and arches sat back from the road, between a vineyard and a field. Blue hills stretched across the distant horizon.
“You worried about something?” Papa, driving with a single palm on the steering wheel, gave him a sideways glance. Wind blew through his open window, ruffling his graying hair.
“Worried? No, er, yeah. I think I forgot to do something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Can’t remember.” The thought had plagued him for the past half hour, ever since they’d left their hotel room. A phone call? No, that wasn’t it. He’d snuck off to call Jarret first thing in the morning but got no answer. Papa hadn’t given him any work this morning. No, it definitely wasn’t a phone call.
He lifted his arm and sniffed his armpit. No. He remembered deodorant. It was something else, something important. Or . . . maybe . . . a warning. Yeah, it almost felt like a warning, like something critical would soon happen to him.
No. He sneered at the idea. It was probably nothing. He hadn’t slept well. He just needed rest. Keefe reclined the seat and took a slow, deep breath.
“Yeah, why don’t you relax?” Papa said. “We’ve got an hour and a half yet. Take a nap.”
It was a two-hour drive to their destination, Bagno di Romagna. They had set out from Florence around ten o’clock, the morning sunlight shining at an angle that gave the city a gloriously ancient appearance. Keefe pictured the great Renaissance men up early and hard at work . . . Michelangelo, in his twenties, with a chisel in his hand as he sculpted David . . . Vasari painting one of his awe-inspiring masterpieces at the request of the Medici family . . . Michelozzo designing the Palazzo Medici palace . . .
“I feel like we’ve missed something, too,” Papa said. He hadn’t had much to say since they hit the road. They had faced too many dead ends on his assignment. He was probably frustrated. “I don’t mind those museums where stored collections are arranged in chronological order or by schools of art. They make the job easier.” Papa shook his head. “But those ones with pieces stashed in one storeroom or another . . . no particular order, where you almost seem to stumble across pieces by accident . . .”
He shook his head again. They had found only one more of his client’s collection and had gained very few leads. “I have a good feeling about Bagno, though.”
“I don’t.” Keefe lowered his window to catch a breeze. The turbulence in his soul had moved to his chest. He sucked in a deep breath of sweet, fresh air. Why wouldn’t the feeling pass? Something was coming. Something was going to happen.
Closing his eyes, Jarret’s face flashed in his mind. Maybe Jarret needed him, needed his counsel. Sometimes they sensed things about each other even over a distance. He could predict Jarret’s moods as easily as a weatherman could predict a storm. Did that explain the feeling? The warning?
Why hadn’t Jarret answered his cell phone this morning? Why hadn’t he called back to tell him if the lost boy had been found? Was he serious about making some girl his first? He’d regret it. Somewhere inside, he knew right from wrong. Maybe he only said it to make Keefe worry. Or maybe he didn’t care about doing the right thing. Jarret cared about himself. He knew himself, who he was and what he wanted.
A twinge of envy disturbed Keefe. Every day in Italy made it clearer. He had no idea who he was or what he wanted. At age sixteen, two years from adulthood, shouldn’t a guy know what he wanted out of life, what was important to him? Maybe the inner turmoil had nothing to do with Jarret or forgetting something or lack of sleep. Ever since visiting the museums, excitement and expectation had coursed through his soul, building daily as if preparing him for something.
A gentle breeze blew through the window, soothing him. He sighed, slouched down in the seat, and pulled his hair over his eyelids to cut the light.
Preparing him . . . for something . . . What about Jarret? Jarret had Roland . . . No. Never listened to Roland. Roland should’ve been here in Italy . . . Michelangelo with a chisel in his hand . . .
~ ~ ~
KEEFE’S HEAD JERKED. He snapped his eyes open.
A strong breeze flung locks of hair across his face. The road curved like a snake preparing to strike. Papa drove fast—too fast!
Keefe’s stomach leaped. He latched onto the dash.
Papa chuckled. “Did you have a nice nap?”
“Are we in some kind of hurry?” His stomach twisted at the view: a sharp drop to his right, a road lower down, and green mountains beyond. He tried focusing on the mountains.
Papa rounded another curve, picking up speed. “Eh, we’re a bit behind schedule. But that’s your fault. So hold onto your lunch. I don’t want you shooting the cat in the rental.”
“You’re blaming me? I’m not driving. Aren’t there speed limits out here?”
“We got a late start on account of you.” Papa rounded another curve, the road going steadily downward.
“Me? What’d I do? I didn’t think we had a schedule.”
Papa threw a sideways glance. “This isn’t a leisure trip. We have appointments in Bagno di Romagna. With you sneaking off to call Jarret this morning, we got a late start.”
Keefe’s face warmed. He thought Papa had bought his excuse when he’d said he needed some air.
“We’re almost there.” Papa took his eyes off the twisty road. “When we get into town, I’m going to the basilica, and you’re going to make phone calls. We’re supposed to meet with two people today. We have an appointment with one, which you’ll have to change since we’re going to be late. The other hadn’t set a time. Give them the option of today or tomorrow.”
“Okay. Where’re you going to be?”
Papa took his eyes off the road again and smirked. “Aren’t you listening to me? I’m going to the basilica. Catch up with me there.”
“How will I find it?”
Papa grinned, amusement in his eyes. “Can’t miss it. Look for the clock tower. It’s not far from our hotel.”
“Watch the road!” Certain dread overcame him.
~ ~ ~
BAGNO DI ROMAGNA, ITALY.
Rivers and lakes, lush hills and mountains surrounded the town. Nearby forests gave the air a pure, clean scent. Fresh thermal waters made it a famous thermal resort.
Keefe gazed out the open car window, soaking in the peaceful energy.
They drove down a road bordered with low rock walls and decorative bushes. People strolled along clean sidewalks under the shade of trees. Pale buildings with red-tiled roofs, arched walls, and flower boxes under windows added to the old-world beauty of Bagno. The place gave a feeling of health, life, and renewal.
Papa left Keefe at the hotel so Keefe could make phone calls.
White sunlight flooded through the glass balcony door of their second-story hotel room. Beds, square and tightly made. A shiny wood floor. The room had a clean, antiseptic feel to it.
Keefe sat on the bed and flipped through folders, searching for the names and numbers of the people he needed to call. He wanted to explore. He really did. But the turbulence in his soul wouldn’t allow him to rush for anything.
He grabbed the landline, punched the first number, and stretched out on the bed.
~ ~ ~
AFTER MAKING THE SECOND call, he hung up the phone and sat up.
What was Jarret doing now? Given the time difference between Italy and South Dakota, it would be early morning there. He couldn’t call, and he shouldn’t think about it.
Keefe returned the phone to the dresser and went to the bathroom to freshen up.
His hair hung to his shoulders in a mess of dark, wild curls. He hadn’t bothered fixing it back today, and the wind had had its way with it for most of the two-hour drive. Running his fingers through it, he met with tangles. With a shrug, he pulled it into a ponytail and splashed water on the top and sides.
During the whole trip, he had rarely scraped a razor over his jaw, but he could only see a trace of growth, not enough to bother with. So he brushed his teeth, renewed his deodorant, and set out.
The mild, high-seventy-degree weather refreshed him. Most of the people he passed on the sidewalks smiled or nodded. He nodded back. He kept his eyes open for the clock tower, thinking he ought to see it rising above other buildings. After strolling down a few streets and not seeing it, he finally asked directions.
“Santa Maria Assunta?” the old man he had stopped repeated. He pointed over his shoulder. “Sì, è nella piazza.”
A few minutes later Keefe stood in the piazza.
When Papa had said basilica, Keefe pictured the spectacular Florence basilicas, each one a masterpiece of Renaissance architecture. He hadn’t pictured this, and only after verifying it with two passersby could he believe it.
The Basilica of St. Maria Assunta, while massive in size, was an old and unassuming building. It had a medieval Romanesque façade of uneven gray bricks, a few high narrow windows, a circular window in the front, and there—the bell tower. Tall and reaching to the clouds, the bell tower cast a long shadow on the piazza.
Keefe mounted the steps, yanked open the door in the arched Romanesque doorway, and stepped inside. A sign with the words miracolo and eucaristia hung in the vestibule.
As he entered the nave, he stopped trying to translate the sign. Simplicity, silence, and a strange peace surrounded him.
People, probably waiting for Mass, sat in plain brown pews. Several high arches opened to nooks on each side, where long white candles burned before statues and pictures.
With an eye for Papa’s client’s collection, he gazed at the few Florentine works of art in the church: a colorful nativity in a gold frame, a terracotta relief, a polychrome statue of a female saint . . . No, Papa wouldn’t have much to look through here. Maybe they had other pieces in a—
His heart skipped a beat at what he saw next, and he found himself drawn forward for a better look.
Upon the altar stood an ornate reliquary of silver and gold, but he couldn’t make out what it held. Everyone else seemed used to it, seemed to know what it meant. What did it mean? Why was it on the altar?
He inched down the main isle, eyeing the reliquary, a strange anticipation growing within him with each step.
No one appeared to notice him. No one made a sound. All eyes seemed fixed upon it. Upon what? He drew nearer, nearer until he realized what he saw.
Blood! The reliquary displayed a white linen cloth with drops of what looked like fresh blood. Why would there be—
All else faded from view. The silence deepened. Golden, pulsating light appeared like a great halo around the bloody cloth. The light expanded to the extent of his peripheral vision, inviting him spiritually to the Blood.
Suddenly, nothing else mattered. Keefe neither could nor wanted to look away. No one needed, now, to tell him upon whose Blood he gazed.
The golden light pulsated around him, through him. Waves of merciful love washed over him.
He fell to his knees, transfixed by the penetrating gaze of Christ. God loved him. Loved him. As if he alone existed in the world. The Lord had been waiting for him for so long, waiting, finally drawing him here to this place to show him this sign of His love.
His Precious Blood.
Christ loved him so intensely that He came down from heaven and shed His blood to save him.
Keefe yielded to the gentle waves of Christ’s love. Motionless, silent, gaze fixed—
A hand landed on his arm.
Keefe gasped but couldn’t break his gaze.
“Keefe.” Papa stooped beside him and whispered in his ear, “Come on into the pew.”
How long had he been kneeling here? Keefe yielded to his father’s prompting, letting Papa lead him to a pew in the middle of the church.
The golden rays faded and disappeared. The miraculous bloody cloth remained on the altar, but Keefe lost the profound awareness of the Lord’s presence. The feeling had moved inward, so he bowed his head and let Jesus speak to his heart.
“I am with you always.”
The words reverberated deep within his soul. Then, surrounded by a mantle of mercy, Keefe saw things of himself, things he hadn’t wanted to but needed to see, things long hidden, long ignored. Sorrow welled up inside, and he wept.
~ ~ ~
SOMETIME LATER, THEY left the church in silence. Once outside, Papa had said one thing about it and never brought it up again.
“I felt it, too.”
Disjointed thoughts scrambled through Keefe’s mind, but it wasn’t something he wanted to or even could talk about. Not yet. The experience had touched him too deeply, had been too profound. Words could not describe it. Somewhere inside he felt a determination to return the love he had only begun to realize God had for him.
“Listen,” Papa said, standing by a huge decorative planter outside the church. “I need to talk to someone at the rectory. Why don’t you take a walk? What time is our appointment?”
“Uh.” Keefe struggled to reign in his thoughts. “Four o’clock. And the other appointment’s tomorrow at noon.”
Papa nodded. “That’s fine. Meet me at the hotel at three.” He strode back to the church.
Having no idea what to do with himself and hours to do it, Keefe walked. It would feel good to stretch his legs and breathe the fresh air. On the other side of the piazza, he came to a road and a sidewalk that ran along a river. He passed hotels, a playground, park benches, and long strips of grass, all the time moving farther from the river.
When he reached the end of town, to where only fields stretched out in the distance, he decided to head back, but then something stirred his soul.
He closed his eyes and turned his heart to God. The love of God, the Spirit of God, spoke to him without words.
Wanting to return love for love, on impulse he whispered a promise. I will listen to Your voice. I will live knowing You are with me and that You love me, knowing that You shed your blood for me. I will not forget, no matter whom I’m with or what temptation I face.
He made this promise, knowing well that Jarret would be his greatest source of temptation. He could no longer go along with Jarret’s bad schemes just to keep him from doing worse things.
Keefe turned and headed back.