"THE DIFFERENCE MAKER"
"Christianity, if false, is of no importance, and if true, of infinite importance. The only thing it cannot be is moderately important."
- C.S. Lewis
Dedicated to:
C.S. Lewis (1898-1963)
Warren H. "Warnie" Lewis (1895-1973)
J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973)
Chapter I
16 Park Road
London, England
Midday
On a snowy New Year's Day in 1946, a patient stood in his doctor's doorway. Ordinarily, this would not cause alarm or suspicion, for this patient was not by any means attractive. He was short, somewhat round towards the middle and was poorly dressed, sporting only a brown waistcoat with a tarnished pocket watch that was frozen in place at precisely 12:22:53 in the morning.
Fixing his dark hair and facing a door that pre-dates the century, this man of thirty-four, who at one point was an undergraduate student at the University of New York, looked up at a second story window and thought how inconsiderate it was of Miss Bradley, the doctor's secretary, to leave the bedroom light on.
The nerve of that woman, he thought, you'd think that after your boss' untimely demise that you would show respect and turn off the light. I mean, not that it matters, he's dead, but I wouldn't necessarily be happy if someone left the light on in a room I was sleeping in and they knew I was sleeping there. It's just inconsiderate and rude.
He straightened out his white shirt, which was untucked from his trousers, which were somewhat decrepit to begin with- it was as if he decided to find an old county road somewhere and roll around in dust and grime as a motorcar passed, and knocked on the door.
Footsteps that descended from a staircase sounded more like an elephant walk than a person answering a door, for they were loud, boisterous, and heated.
"Who is it?" Miss Bradley asked somewhat sternly from behind the door.
"It's Sam." The man answered, "Are you going to let me in or are you going to let me freeze to death?"
"That depends," she replied, "are you here to grieve or are you here to stab someone else in the back like you did Mister Wavell."
Sam sighed regretfully, for ever since Christmas he was given the accusation of being at fault for the death of his physician. Seeing his breath dissipate into the air like a memory leaving him, Sam placed his hand on the door again.
"Ma'am," he said, letting his American accent show, "I didn't kill him. If I did I wouldn't be here right now asking to come into his house. I would be wallowing instead."
"Until you show me your evidence, I suggest you go back where you came from." Miss Bradley said as she took a step away from the door, expecting to hear footsteps leaving the small porch and walking towards the Thames, but no such action was heard nor was it committed. Instead all the woman witnessed was the silence of one man's grief, and the silence of a dead doctor's house.
Sam stood there for a moment and even though he wanted to knock on the door again, he didn't. For he understood that, despite the claim being nonsense, the notion that he was responsible for the death of Tilden Pearson Wavell was an accepted theory, even among his friends who were witnesses. Sam sighed in defeat and nodded slowly.
"Have a blessed year ma'am." He said. Sam turned and descended a short staircase before disembarking down the sidewalk which lead to the slow, dreary moving river that honestly didn't care if an American who served in a ghastly war cried on the way to St. Paul's or not. All it knew was that it was New Year's, and that Britain and the world, was finally in a year without a war.
In St. Paul's Cathedral sat a British writer and was not the sort of person you would expect to spend New Year's in an empty church. However, there he was sitting in a pew admiring the soaring ceilings and the beautifully adorned walls which were populated with angelic choirs that consistently sung of Hallelujah as if it were the only task worth performing with breathing being the only exception, when the priest, Thomas Craig, entered the sanctuary carrying a small green Bible in hand.
Dressed in priestly robes, Thomas walked over to the man in the pew with a smile on his face. "Happy New Year, sir." Thomas said, "May I sit down?"
Having wrinkles along the brow, slightly graying and receding hair, but a smile that spoke of tenderheartedness and good will towards all who spoke with him, the writer turned towards the priest and noticed that was he his senior by thirty-seven years.
"Not at all," the writer answered moving over a bit expecting Thomas to sit down next to him. Instead, the priest chose the pew directly in front and scooted down slightly so he could turn and see the writer better.
"What brings you to St. Paul's?" Thomas asked, "Don't you have family to celebrate the occasion with?"
The writer nodded and smiled but spoke rather solemnly as if he had lost the happiest person in his life. "I do," he said, "They are aware that I'm here. However if you must know the reason, Father Craig, I'm here because a dear friend of mine has recently passed and this was his church."
"I see," Thomas replied, "may I ask whom it was?"
"Tilden Wavell, sir." The writer answered. "Did you happen to know him?"
Thomas looked out into space for a moment, his old brain trying to remember the name. He looked towards the main door and closed his eyes, trying to imagine every person that usually walks through it. Finding everyone from Martin "Sully" Sullivan, the local baker who bakes wonderful croissants on Saturdays to Pauline Fryer, a tailor's wife who frequently performs his job due to his incompetence, in his mind, Thomas could not place the face nor the name of Tilden Wavell. The priest opened his eyes and turned towards the writer again, noticing that he had opened a Bible and had it turned to Psalm 10.
"Befitting passage for someone who is in grief," Thomas said. "Do you mind telling me something about this Tilden Wavell of yours?"
The writer read a verse in his head before closing the Bible and placing it back where he found it. He then looked to Thomas and thought of a memory that for him, accurately summed up all one ever needed to know about Tilden Wavell. As his mind raced to find fondness, a knock sounded on the door. It traversed through the pews and up into the dominion of the angels, who looked down on the writer and Thomas in anticipation for one of them to open the door.
The priest slowly moved for the door. The writer simply turned to watch, imagining that this old man of faith was walking on a floor towards a church door, but rather that he walked on a path flanked by tress which were adorned by beautiful white flowers. He saw birds beckoning the morning as a gentle spring wind blew leaves in their rehearsed dances, and for a moment actually wanted to go to this place with him ether so that he could experience something or dwell in his fantasies. All Thomas saw was a doorway and nothing more.
"Can I help you?" Thomas asked upon opening the large door and beholding Sam. The priest noticed two small rivers, one for each eye were running down his face and upon this, Thomas embraced him warmly.
"There, there, son," he said, letting Sam go and ushering him in from the cold and snow. "You're safe in this House of God."
Sam walked into the room seeing row upon row of empty pews and row upon row of a silent unseen procession. He turned towards the writer and nodded simply to him as Sam took a seat in the front pew. Thomas followed Sam and repeated the same welcome.
"Happy New Year sir, may I sit down?"
Sam nodded and scooted over to the left. Thomas sat down next to him and asked the same question as before.
"What brings you to St. Paul's, don't you have family to celebrate the occasion with?"
Sam shook his head but said nothing. He clasped his hands together as if in prayer and looked up towards the dome, looking akin to Caravaggio and Botticelli's work. The eyes looking elsewhere above, the body regretful of the past, the clothes shaded and dark and illuminated in light as if all sins were diminishing and vanquished forever. The angels who were above Sam smiled and looked up towards heaven, pleading to God to permit the sun to come out from the clouds and light the poor man's heart.
The writer returned to his Bible passage but intently listened to the prospect of hopeful conservation, pondering the reason as to why this man, with no coat and no means of family had come. The reason is obvious, the writer thought, for he is grieving just like me. He needs God and Love now more than any point in his life. I pray that you find his heart and mend it, Lord. For the needs of his are greater than those of mine, and even though I weep, he cries out for you more.
Sam was completely content on saying nothing, on leaving the conversation one-sided and allowing the priest to sit there with him, talking to himself like he would a brick wall while he just admire the ceiling. However, Sam discovered the world again and shifted his gaze from the roof to the altar. The small Crucifix which rested on the table, was humble, just as the man who bleed on it was, looked over to Sam and whispered to him words of love.
Thomas turned towards the altar, smiled a moment, and stood. "Would you mind standing for me please?" He asked.
Sam nodded in silence and noticed that Thomas had outstretched his hands as if he wanted him to grab them. Instinctively doing so without being asked, Sam wondered if Thomas was going to do thing the stereotypical thing of priests or to do the just thing of priests and what the man was going to do about it. Thomas, who was smiling back at Sam and taking a moment to himself to admire him, was laughing as he thought of all the absurd nonsense the former academic was thinking.
"You needn't fear of me," Thomas assured, "I'm simply wanting to know if you believe you are loved."
Sam let go of Thomas' hands and allowing his own to fall to his side and flop as he were made of pasta noodles. He then resumed his seat and sighed.
"No sir," Sam said, "I do not believe I am loved."
"Ah," Thomas replied, as he too sat back down, "well I'm sorry to say it my son, but you're wrong. You are most certainly loved by someone."
"Really?" Sam continued, raising his voice as if he were arguing with a spouse over something menial. "Because my friend, my doctor, died last night and no one seems to notice or care what I'm going through."
The writer, who moved on to a passage in Matthew, and looked up from his reading. Perhaps we are here for the same reason, good sir, would it bother you if I asked a question such as:
"What was this friend's name?"
Sam turned to the man with the hopeful eyes and for the first noticed his face which was truly intrigued to the question he asked, as if the answer to it might provide him with some sort of ending to an unfinished chapter in the book of his life.
"His name was Tilden Wavell, sir." Sam said, "May I be so kind as to ask yours?"
The writer of forty-eight stood from his pew and once again closed his Bible and placed it back where he found it. As he walked towards Sam and Thomas, he stretched out his hand preparing for a handshake and ever so slowly a smile reached his face and by the time he stopped in front of Sam and Thomas standing between them and the altar, he looked happier than a child on Christmas morning.
"Professor Lewis," he said, "but most friends call me Jack."
Sam smiled as he shook Lewis' hand, admiring the man's mature grip. "Why do they call you Jack?"
"I haven't the slightest idea." Lewis replied as he let Sam's go. "Now that you know my name," he continued, "May I be so kind as to ask yours?"
"Sam Blake," Sam obviously replied, "how did you know him, Tilden I mean?"
"Ah, Doctor Wavell was a good friend that I met during the Great War. It was while I was living with Paddy, a dear friend, when I first saw him walk across the street. I thought he was rather peculiar, a mouse walking around the street as if it had somewhere to be, so I walked over and followed him to his destination, which I was surprised to learn was an Irish pub. Anyway, when I thought he was going to walk in he turned around, smiled, and said in an understandably rude way, 'Go stalk someone else, you psychopath!'"
"I'm sorry," Thomas said, cutting Lewis off and shaking his head in disbelief at what his ears had just heard. "But are you implying that a mouse had somewhere to be and that it actually talked to you?"
"Well I'm not sowing and reaping a cheap lie if that's what you're implying." Lewis replied turning towards the priest and smiling a bit as the poor old man simply turned and crossed the room.
"I find it best," Lewis continued, laughing and raising his voice a little so that way it carried further, "if you look at it this way, at least I'm not in a ward!"
Sam laughed and walked back towards the door. "Sorry to leave you professor, but I best be going now."
Lewis followed somewhat slowly, giving Sam room to breathe and himself room to think, "I thought you said you hadn't a family to go home to."
"I don't." Sam replied, "But that doesn't mean I don't have things to do, Professor."
Jack nodded and noticed that Sam's right arm was stiffer than the other, almost as if he were the Tin Man who ran out of oil in his can. "Suffer an injury?" Jack asked.
"Wounded in the war," Sam said, "Tilden saved me from it."
Even though Jack was ten years older than Sam, the writer from Oxford made an effort to stride speedily past him and open the door, not personally caring if the snow ruined his hair or if the weather blew inside. When Sam reached the threshold he turned towards him and smiled.
"Thank you sir."
"On the contrary," Jack said, closing the door as he passed, "Thank you sir, for giving them hell and coming back from it."
Sam did not answer back, instead he smiled and took a right down the un-shoveled sidewalk. Jack Lewis, who did not follow him, watched as his brother's motorcar, a 1939 ivory colored Armstrong Siddeley, turned round a corner and slowly began to halt to a stop. Warren, better known as Warnie, honked the car horn to attract his brother's gaze. Jack simply held up his hand and called to Sam before he became out of earshot.
"May I ask where it is you're heading?"
Sam turned around and noticed that the car and Jack stood waiting for an answer, "Nowhere in particular," he said, "just anywhere that takes me somewhere."
"Would you consider me as an anywhere?" Jack asked, walking to Warnie's car and opening the front passenger door. "That is if you have something better to do than to partake in a cup of coffee."
Sam walked back towards the church, thinking to himself the insanity of getting into a professor's car. As he passed the vehicle he noticed Warnie who was extremely patient as Jack still stood there outside with the door open. Sam turned towards the two of them and smiled, "So, what happened next, after he told you to leave?"
Jack smiled, and entered the car, knowing full well that he had enticed Sam enough to come and talk with him about their mutual friend some more. Before he closed the door he looked up at him and motioned for him to get in the back. Sam did so, and when he was in the seat and the door was shut Jack answered his question. "I left."
Sam laughed at this, even though it wasn't particularly funny, but simply the thought of his friend telling someone like Jack to go stalk someone else for a change was humorous enough to him and he thought of his own story to tell as Warnie drove down the street and back across the Thames.
