1

~Start Writing~

*Trigger Warning: Child endangerment; violence; sensitive language*

Chicago, Illinois

September 16th, 1998

Last night, Jerome Nadier dreamt a series of nightmares. It was not the first time, and he knew it would not be the last.

It was 8:30 a.m. The silver crucifix that hung around his neck clattered against the marble sink counter while he scrubbed his teeth. As the middle-aged man with greying hair struggled to forget the images, he spat the last of the foamy toothpaste into the running faucet, returned the toothbrush to the cabinet, and then rubbed his eyes.

Why did he have to dream such horrible things on this beautiful, exciting day?

"Calm my mind, Lord," he prayed, but thought of the images anyway.

In the nightmares, the sky turned red. A screen that said "JUSTICE FOR AHDAM" stood above a field of burning corpses. He didn’t know who Ahdam was, or why he needed justice. Subsequently, he dreamt of an earthquake. The earth crumbled and fell apart. After the earthquake, he saw humans leap from the sky, fall like hail, and smash against the earth.

"Save us from tribulation!" the people screamed as they plummeted.

Jerome shivered. He splashed water on his face and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. He allowed himself a slow, quivering smile. Today was supposed to be a life-changing morning, but his skin looked pale, and his eyes were red from restless sleep.

"Please, God… don’t let them think I’m high." Jerome reached for the green hand towel on the wall and wiped his face. The prayer sounded ridiculous, but he couldn’t stop worrying. In less than two hours, he would meet someone very special, and he was convinced he would ruin it for himself. He was accustomed to the anxiety. It wasn’t new. Even at fifty-three, Jerome accepted reality: anxiety and nightmares were burdens he was destined to carry. Yes, he’d contemplated medication, but the last time he attempted such a thing (a couple years ago) he experienced a panic attack that left him in the hospital for hours.

By coincidence, it was how he first met Todd Caravan, a young police officer who arrived on scene prior to the ambulance. Now, even more coincidentally, Todd and his wife Mary (who was pregnant with a daughter) lived three houses down from him and planned to attend St. Michael’s—an Eastern Orthodox Church approximately fifteen minutes away from the suburb.

St. Michael’s was special, particularly because Jerome prepared to hold the title of "Father" in just a few weeks and assume the role of the church’s lead priest.

But today, the priest-to-be would become a father in a different manner. In downtown Chicago, at the Grand Hotel, a baby boy from Russia awaited his arrival.

"You’ll be a great dad, you’ll be a great dad," Jerome repeated ten times. He checked the time and left the restroom. The floors creaked as he blundered about his humble two-bedroom, one-bath home. He circled the living room. Then, he went up and down the hall, desperate to find his special New Balance shoes he’d purchased for the occasion as a proper "dad joke."

"There," he exclaimed, and grabbed the shoes from the mantle above the fireplace. He wasn’t sure why he placed them there. Quickly, Jerome sat on the couch and began to lace up his shoes. Outside, he heard a distant siren.

And the nightmares returned with a vengeance.

"JUSTICE FOR AHDAM!" the screen said as sirens broke across the bleak atmosphere.

Jerome rubbed his forehead and stood. For a moment, he blinked, as if fluttering his eyelids would make the terrifying images go away. He was frustrated with himself. He’d always had these dreams. In fact, he used to journal about them because he loved to write.

But he hadn’t written for years.

Jerome blamed it on lack of time. Considering he had worked as a University of Chicago theology professor for fifteen years, it was an easy thing to blame. However, he knew time wasn’t the primary reason he struggled to pick up a journal.

"Writing journals is for nancies," his father had told him when he discovered little Jerome scribbling away in the attic.

It wasn’t the last time Charles Nadier would berate him about being a "nancy" simply because Jerome loved to express his thoughts and feelings through words. Unfortunately, Charles had labeled his son’s soft-spoken, empathetic, and nurturing tendencies "nancy behavior" as well. So when Jerome came out as a gay man years later, the old man was not shocked.

"Makes sense," Charles scoffed, and flicked his cigar. "There are cures for that, you know. Well-researched and all. You like research. Maybe make that your next project to study."

Jerome grabbed his wallet from the coffee table. His mouth felt dry. His head pounded. Why was the anxiety worse today?

"Probably because you’re about to be a new dad," he convinced himself, and he slipped his hands in the pockets of his jeans to locate his keys. The metal scraped his right hand, and he pulled the keys from his pocket. "Relax," he said, looking at the keys as if they were the culprit of his anxiety. "Let’s go get our son."

Jerome reversed the white Buick from his driveway and drove past the other suburban homes. He felt blessed with a comfortable, safe place to live. He directed his appreciation to God, as well as the income from his former job as a professor. Now he was excited about his new calling as a priest.

For a temporary time, Jerome had left his home to attend seminary in New York, but his journey to priesthood had not been without extensive questioning.

"Is it your desire to marry before entering the priesthood?"

Jerome, after hesitating, replied, "No."

"Any reason why?"

Jerome shifted his eyes away from the Bishops speaking to him.

"Jerome. You can talk to us."

Easier said than done. It was uncomplicated to say he simply had no desire for marriage. But to admit that his only interest in companionship was in—

"Males," he uttered the word with no prior comment, staring at the trembling hands upon his lap. "I experience same-sex attraction."

It sounded so dirty. So wrong, and he hated the fear and shame that shook his heart when he spoke the words.

"Jerome, you do wish to follow the guidelines of the Church, correct?"

Jerome nodded, recognizing that he would soon be held to a vow that eliminated all chances of a relationship.

In the weeks to follow, he’d endured more questioning, but he explained to them that he was not tempted to act upon it. He had no desire for a relationship except that with the Church. It’d always been that way for him. He didn’t believe it was fair to keep other couples from attending, but that was something he hoped and prayed he could change within the church.

It took Jerome thirty minutes to reach his destination. Hoisting the black backpack over his shoulder, he approached the hotel, and his head fell backwards. The red brick building stood fifteen stories high. An American flag flapped tautly in the wind on the overhang of the entrance.

Trying to slow his racing heart, Jerome gritted his teeth as he walked towards the spinning doorway. With a forceful push, he entered the glass enclosure and then stepped into the lobby. His eyes darted around the room.

Heels clicked on the marble floor, phones rang, and voices mingled as people passed each other in the lobby. Water rushed from an enclosed fountain in the center of the room. Nearby sat a self-playing piano. It played a soft, classical tone that otherwise might have been soothing had it been any other day for Jerome Nadier.

Clutching the straps of his backpack, he walked towards the fountain. He’d forgotten the name of the woman he was supposed to meet.

Angela. That was it. Now—where was she? Was he too early? She said she would wait for him by the fountain.

Scanning the area, he noticed many people mulling about the fountain. Talking. Eating.

He felt nauseous as he began to question the location; the person the agency said he would meet; the time; if he had made some kind of mistake.

Stop it. Jerome closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again. Immediately, he met the eyes of a heavyset woman waving him down by the fountain. She wore a grey skirt, jacket, and kitten heels. Eagerly, he returned her wave and moved forward.

It was almost time, and he wanted to do a jig.

"Mr. Nadier? I’m Angela." She extended a hand. Clipped in a bun, her brown hair contained many strands of grey, and the pearl necklace around her neck glistened in the overhead lights.

Jerome grasped her hand. "Jerome. Pleasure to meet you. I’m very excited." Puzzled, he gulped. "Where—?"

"Oh relax, Mr. Nadier," Angela laughed. "He’s down the hall in a conference room. We wanted you to meet him in a quieter room." She turned halfway and looked at him again. "Are you ready?"

Was he?

No going back now.

Jerome nodded. "Very."

"Follow me, then."

Jerome nearly stumbled over his own feet as he followed her past the seating area, the elevators, the gym, and down a long, carpeted hall. The scent of the chlorinated pool filled his nostrils.

Angela glanced at him. "He was a bit of a crank about an hour ago, but hopefully he’s calmed down since. Either way, don’t take it personally. He’s just tired." She approached a door to their right and grasped the handle.

When the door opened, Jerome felt his heart roar within his ears. It did not take long for him to lay eyes upon his new son.

The conference room had very bright lights. In the center was a long wooden table with multiple chairs. On the other side of the table, a young woman with a long ponytail sat bouncing a child of nine months on her lap. She leaned into him, bumping her forehead against his, babbling nonsense.

He giggled.

And it was beautiful.

Beaming, the woman looked at Jerome and stood up with the baby. "Look," she said softly. "Your daddy’s here. Wanna meet him?"

The baby, who had a full head of black hair, giggled again and then looked at his father with wide, blue eyes.

Jerome stopped breathing.

"Hi buddy," he croaked. Were his feet frozen to the floor?

The young woman came around the table. "Mr. Nadier, I’m Anna. Come say hello to your new son."

The older man approached her. His hands shook. "Um."

"Don’t be shy! He won’t bite, I promise."

Slow, trembling hands reached forward. He lifted the boy from the table and hoisted him onto his arm. "Hi, Mariel," he said softly. "I’m your dad."

Mariel grabbed Jerome’s forefinger.

For several seconds, man and boy assessed each other with awe and curiosity.

"Mariel Christian Nadier… you’re beautiful," Jerome said, and tears stung his eyes when he realized he must have found extraordinary favor with God. "You’re so perfect."

Mariel cooed.

"Are you ready to complete the remaining paperwork and take him home?" Angela asked.

Jerome nodded, and he kissed the child’s forehead. "Let’s do it."

Half an hour later, the adoption finalities were complete, and Mariel was ready to go home. The two women escorted Jerome to the lobby after he retrieved his new baby carrier from the car.

"Thanks so much," Jerome said, securing Mariel within the baby carrier, straightening up, and extending his hand to Anna and Angela. "You have no idea what this day means to me."

Angela returned his gesture with a firm grasp. "My pleasure, Mr. Nadier. I love seeing that look on new parents’ faces. Good luck." She glanced at Anna. "I’m heading to the restroom and then we can grab dinner."

Anna nodded and then shook Jerome’s hand. "Good luck, Jerome. You will be an amazing father." Her tone turned serious. "Remember that when he is grown."

It seemed like an odd statement, but Jerome shook it off. It was still encouraging. "Thanks. I will. Have a good flight back."

Anna smiled. "As long as I don’t get nauseous again, I will. Oh, and Fr. Jerome?" She came forward a little and slapped him playfully on the side of his arm. "Start writing, okay?" Anna whirled and walked away.

Jerome stared at her. Had she read all of his files? How did she know to call him Father Jerome? And secondly—

"How did you know I write?" the confused man called across the busied lobby, but Anna did not respond. She lifted a hand and disappeared into the women’s restroom.

Perhaps he’d misunderstood her. After all, he was getting old.

When he left, the air felt thicker with humidity, and the warm wind seemed far more aggressive.

He looked up at the sky. The hot sun illuminated the city, but storm clouds approached from a distance.

"Wanna see your new home before the weather gets bad, hmm?" Jerome spoke in a hushed tone to Mariel, whose eyelids drooped.

As Jerome looked in the rearview mirror at his sleeping child, his heart burst with emotion. Love. Excitement. Peace. Nervousness. Fatherhood was a desire that had maintained top priority throughout the years.

Once he felt ready, he’d started researching. Then he enrolled in foster care and adoption classes. Jerome originally believed he would adopt a child within the States but, when the agency matched him with an infant from Russia, he knew he wanted him.

It felt right.

The agency did not divulge much about the boy’s past but explained he’d been orphaned soon after birth.

"I pray I can provide you a healthy, happy life, son," Jerome murmured, looking in the rearview mirror again. "Your happiness is my happiness."

* * *

The sky had further darkened over the neighborhood when Jerome returned home.

As he drove towards the Caravan house, he saw Todd, a stocky, brown-haired man with a goatee, wave him down with ecstatic vigor. In his yard stood another familiar face—a skinny, young man with red hair that could only belong to one person.

Philip Jameson.

As Phil turned and raised an eyebrow, Jerome grimaced and then forced a smile. He knew Todd wanted to meet his new baby, but he didn’t want to stop the car and interact with Jameson.

For only being in his low twenties, the young man certainly had a lot of opinions about the world around him.

Jerome wasn’t prepared to deal with Phil’s itinerary of judgments for the day.

He didn’t hate Phil—but the man who’d berated Jerome in theology class for the entire Fall semester of 1992 did not know when to end an argument. It didn’t matter what you said—even if you agreed with Phil, the red-headed beanpole found fault in that.

Phil had never respected Jerome as a professor. And now – since Phil also attended St. Michael’s – he probably wouldn’t respect Jerome as the priest either.

"Hi!" Todd darted towards the car as Jerome rolled down his window. "Did you get the stinker?"

"I did. He’s sleeping." Jerome rolled down the back window. The breeze picked up and rustled the nearby trees. "Isn’t he great?"

Todd peered into the window. "Congratulations. Makes me excited for my kiddo." He beamed.

"Did you pick a name?"

"Esther Marie. Mary’s great-great-grandmother’s name was Esther. I didn’t want to name her after anyone in my family because, well—heh." Todd stopped and rubbed his jaw.

"History there?"

"You can call it that," Todd chuckled. "When your alcoholic father accidentally drowns your baby brother you just—don’t want anything to do with any of that, I guess."

"I’m sorry. How’s your mom?" Jerome’s eyes shifted to Phil, who steadily approached the car with a tight-lipped look on his face. The remaining sunlight reflected against his round glasses.

"She’s great. We’re headed out this evening to go see her."

Jerome looked at the sky. The tree branches waved to and fro, and birds flocked into the sky and away from the oncoming storm. "There are severe thunderstorm alerts all evening, just be careful." He looked at Phil, who now stood by the rear passenger window to scowl at the sleeping baby. "Hi, Philip. How’s life?"

Philip let out a very loud sigh, as if there could only be one answer to that question—bad. When he responded, he didn’t break his stare from Mariel. "Absolutely tremendous," he said, but Jerome didn’t believe him.

In fact, Jerome was pretty sure the sigh was supposed to encourage him to ask Phil what was wrong, but the older man did not want to engage in such a game. "That’s great. Well, I should—"

"—but it’d be better if I’d not been rejected from seminary." Phil finally broke his unwavering stare towards the baby and turned cold hazel eyes to Jerome.

Jerome stared back. His face grew warm. "Phil. You know that wasn’t my fault."

"You could have written the recommendation letter."

"Philip." Jerome’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. "You told me that you thought my ideologies belonged to that of a sinful liberal. All I’d said was that motherhood was not a calling for every woman."

Phil looked up at the sky and spoke through his teeth. "It’s fine. It’s between you and the Lord if you’d rather hold a grudge. Finishing law school is my higher calling anyway." He stared at the clouds, as if he expected the Lord to agree with him that very instant. "Goodness. It looks like the heavens are about to release a torrent of sinners from the sky."

"Save us from tribulation!" the people screamed.

Jerome shuddered.

Todd cleared his throat. "Did you tell Jerome the news?"

Phil shrugged. "What news? Oh." He looked at the baby again. "Carolyn and I are expecting our first child."

Jerome smiled. Despite his distaste for his future congregation member, he still felt happy for him. "That’s phenomenal, Phil. Tell Carolyn congratulations."

"I shall. You know—" Phil scanned his eyes from the baby to Jerome. "Mothers are a gift from God. Good ones, that is." His facial expression changed, as if he were counting in his head and he discovered there were only a select few that were good.

Jerome gritted his teeth and closed his eyes.

“I don’t believe in single-parent adoption,” Phil might as well have said.

Sighing, Jerome opened his eyes and tapped the steering wheel. "Well. I need to get my son settled. Have a safe trip, Todd. I’ll see you two at church this weekend."

The two men stepped back from the car.

While trying to calm his racing heart, Jerome drove onwards as the impending storm blotted the sun and cast a dark shadow over the neighborhood.

* * *

Thunder crashed, lightning illuminated the living room, and Jerome paced back and forth with the screaming baby in his arms. "Please," he whispered. "Tell me how to help you."

He wanted to cry too.

It was 1 a.m.

Mariel hadn’t stopped crying for two hours. Jerome’s heart broke with each scream, but on sudden thought he realized what might be the issue.

"You haven’t pooped, buddy." Jerome chastised himself, primarily because Mariel’s medical history suggested constipation and he hadn’t prepared for an event like this.

Running his fingers along Mariel’s bloated belly, Jerome gave the baby a decisive nod and started searching for his keys. The store would need to deal with a tired father in pajama pants.

"Let’s get you something to feel better, my love," Jerome cooed, hastening to find his flip-flops now that he’d located his keys.

The streetlights blurred amidst the pouring rain. The windshield wipers, squeaking with quick intensity against the glass, barely assisted Jerome in clearing enough rain to see properly. Still, despite the chaotic storm outside, Jerome managed to get to the store without issue.

Humming a tune he remembered from seminary, Jerome prepped his umbrella as the rain poured. His flip-flops squelched as he leaned into the car to grab his crying son.

"We’ll get you something, hang in there," Jerome soothed, and started towards the store named Marty’s. It was "Arty’s" though, because the "M" flickered on and off.

He was exhausted. He wanted sleep, but this was parenting.

He’d wanted this.

Marty’s was a large store with many standard departments such as groceries, home, and kitchen. Soft music from the eighties played as a few employees wandered about with disinterest. They stocked shelves and played on their phones.

After walking in the wrong direction, Jerome muttered to himself and then turned to walk the opposite way. He passed the entrance doors, apologizing to Mariel who, naturally, now cried with far less intensity.

The entrance doors opened.

Jerome caught sight of a white man as he entered the store in a grey hoodie and grimy jeans. Lightning lit up the rainy parking lot. The drenched man stopped and scanned the store in dazed confusion. His body reeked of cigarettes. Beneath the hood, the man’s bloodshot eyes caught those of Jerome. Something stained his neck. Red paint?

Blood?

With a quick nod, Jerome looked away and hurried towards the children’s medication aisle. As he scanned the shelves, he couldn’t help but wonder if he would get the wrong medication. What if he did? What if he read the label wrong? What if he gave his new baby the wrong dosage and—

"You look stressed."

Jerome looked up, his eyebrows raised.

Mariel blubbered and shrieked.

A light-haired woman scanned the shelves, reached for a package, and handed it to him. "For gas pain in infants. Is that what you’re looking for?"

Smiling, Jerome nodded. "Thank you so much. I think at this rate I trust you more than myself."

The woman smiled and tilted her head towards Mariel. "Parenting is rough. Make sure you take care of yourself too." She walked past him, went towards the registers. "And start writing, please."

Jerome blinked. Was he losing his mind? What was going on? Why was she the second person to tell him to start writing?

"God?" He looked up at the ceiling, as if God might be perched in the rafters. Instead, thunder rumbled outside and vibrated the metal. "Huh. Let’s check out and go home, baby boy."

Once he purchased the medication, Jerome hustled against the wind and rain to return to his sedan. The wind howled and nearly tugged the umbrella from his grip while he struggled to unlock the driver’s side door and keep the baby carrier beneath the shelter. He didn’t feel a click when he turned the key and realized he’d left the doors unlocked.

"I’m not thinking normally," Jerome grumbled, and flung open the back passenger door. After closing the umbrella and adjusting Mariel in the car, he dashed for the driver’s seat, entered the car, and shut the door.

But the car had a strong stench… like cigarettes.

Jerome didn’t smoke.

Had he entered the wrong vehicle? It was his first thought, until he realized how everything in this vehicle belonged to him. The crucifix dangling from the rearview mirror. The car seat in the back.

Jerome wished he’d entered the wrong vehicle, because the alternative was far worse.

There was a shadow in the passenger seat.

But it wasn’t a shadow. It was a hooded man.

Mariel started crying, and the man raised a gun towards Jerome’s head.

"Give me the keys," he said, his voice hoarse and deep. "And get out of the car."

Jerome’s hands shook. The lightning forked across the sky, brightening the interior of the car, and watery shadows from the rain-spattered windshield slithered across the dashboard. Thunder crashed.

"Please," Jerome gasped. "Let me grab my son."

A low snarl rumbled from the hooded man’s chest. "I said," he drawled, quieter than Jerome expected, "give me the keys, and get out of the car."

Many thoughts dashed through Jerome’s mind. In fact, it was the fastest his mind had ever worked before, and he struggled to keep up. Some of the thoughts didn’t even pertain to his current situation, and that frustrated him because he needed to get to his son.

Mariel shrieked. Thunder vibrated the car.

"I am going to get my son, and then I will give you the keys." Jerome stared straight ahead at the windshield. The outline of his body looked distorted in the rain, like a monster. But he wasn’t the monster.

"I will fucking shoot you if you don’t give me the goddamn keys and get out the fucking car!" the man roared, and slipped his finger to the trigger. His voice shook, like he wanted to cry.

Tears stung Jerome’s eyes. His heart smashed against his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing emerged.

He needed to make a decision.

If he gave the keys to this man, he might never see Mariel again. Or perhaps the man would grant him mercy and allow him to take the baby. After all, if he was getting carjacked, why would the criminal want to take a screaming child with him?

But, could this man think logically? If he was deranged, Jerome’s decisions might quickly become a game of Russian roulette, and the new father wasn’t sure he wanted to take that risk. So as Mariel Nadier screamed in the car, Jerome took action, and he begged God that it was the right move.

It was the fastest he’d ever moved, especially in his fifties.

Jerome grabbed the nose of the gun and pushed. As he slammed the man’s wrist against the radio, he punched, and his fist cracked against the criminal’s jaw.

The man grunted. Wrestled back.

Jerome wasn’t strong; he never had been. Athleticism was not his strength. As the storm raged outside the car, he felt weak, but something about the innocent life in the back seat created a surge of power he never realized he had.

The vehicle shook.

The man punched him.

His teeth rattled. Time blurred. His ears rang. He thought of Mariel, and heard the baby scream. For his son, Jerome fought harder, but he couldn’t keep track of the violence. He bit, punched, wrestled, pushed. Blood filled his mouth; the scent of blood, old cigarettes, and stale sweat filled his nostrils.

Jerome never thought he would have to kill someone. After all, nancies didn’t have a violent bone in their bodies. Nancies wrote journals and talked about their feelings.

Until they became parents. This nancy was a dad now, and he’d do anything to protect his child.

Wind howled.

"I’m going to kill you." The man’s yellow teeth bared in Jerome’s face. He wasn’t even out of breath. Was he smiling or was he crying?

Jerome gripped the man’s wrist. The gun tilted towards his head. The man’s finger crawled towards the trigger guard. Gasping, Jerome grasped the nose with both hands and pushed towards the windshield.

The gun went off. With a flash of light similar to the lightning, the bullet pierced the windshield. Maybe someone would come to help. Maybe that gunshot would save his life and Mariel’s, but Jerome steadily weakened.

The man struck him in the kidney. Tears blurred his eyes, and his fingers loosened. A finger jabbed his eye. Limbs twisted; he wasn’t sure whose, but he could feel the momentum shift. The arm that held the gun tilted the opposite direction.

Towards Mariel.

“You realize people like you can’t ever have kids when you’re – that way, right?” That woman with the pink pointy glasses from his college years had said.

Please God! Jerome wasn’t certain if he spoke the words or thought them. As he attempted to fight through the pain, he shifted upwards. Frantic, he tried to push the pistol’s aim away from his baby.

Too late.

The man fired.

Jerome screamed.

White light flashed again, and time slowed.

Was it the cruelty of the harsh world that brought him here? Or something else? Jerome didn’t know.

How was it that he saw the bullet move through the air, tormenting him as it approached his son without mercy? What sin had he committed that subjected him to this judgment… watching his brand new son die in slow motion by violence?

Mariel’s crying ceased.

But Jerome’s face went from horror to shock when the baby’s small arm came up and closed his fist around the oncoming bullet.

The child’s eyes – wide, blue, and round – appeared to be in awe of his own action.

Mariel cooed a little. Dropped the bullet. It thumped against the seat.

For a brief moment, the two men forgot they were enemies. They were human beings – souls attempting to process the impossible.

Humans could not catch bullets.

No one could.

In shock, both men stared.

The gunman muttered something… something about blood. He shoved the nose of the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger for the third time that night.

Blood and flesh sprayed across the passenger window.

Jerome and Mariel Nadier were alone once more.

As thunder crashed and rain poured, Jerome sobbed. He reached for his son. He unbuckled him, grabbed the child, and stumbled out of the car and into the rain.

The wind screamed. A tornado siren wailed across the town as he fumbled for his phone to call 911. The call taker answered the line, and the future priest fled through the weather. He stumbled towards the store in desperate hopes to get away from the dead man in his car–

And the inexplicable event he’d just witnessed.

Humans could not catch bullets.

But Mariel Christian Nadier… did.

Next Chapter: Chapter 2: You, Handsome, You