Date:         Sat, 18 Jun 1994 18:19:41 EDT
 
 
 
MORTAL WAYS AND MIRACLE PLAYS
 
A Forever Knight Story
 
 
By Susan M. Garrett
 
 
 
        Staring at the television, Nick was only dimly
aware of the ringing phone.  For a moment there was
nothing but the wide screen, the roar of the crowd as the
center forward deftly eluded a defender and the puck
whizzed across the ice, toward the goalie.
        The message on his answering machine kicked in
and Nick held up his hand absently, as if to ward off the
message, attention still centered on the screen.  The
deafening shouts of the crowd nearly drowned out the
announcer's joyful pronouncement of "He scores!"
        "A hat trick," he murmured in disbelief, as the
announcer echoed his words, although in more exuberant
terms.  Of course, it wasn't his team who had just scored
their third consecutive goal in the first twenty minute
period.
        "--I really need your help," said the voice on the
machine.  "Nick, as soon as you get back--"
        His mind identified the owner of the voice, and the
urgency the tone implied, at just about the same time.  It
was Myra Schanke.  Nick backed away from the television
screen, still watching in disbelief as the camera panned to
the rink, which was covered with baseball caps.
        Wonderful.  A hat trick on 'Hat Day' at the rink.  It
would take them a half hour to clear the ice before play
could resume.
        Picking up the phone, he said, "Myra?  This is
Nick--I'm sorry, what can I do--?"
        "Nick, thank God!  I'm at my wit's end."
        Any residual interest in the game faded at the
desperation in her voice.  "What's wrong?"
        "Oh, it's Don--"
        In the background, Nick's sensitive hearing
managed to pick up the sounds of . . . well, if it had been
six hundred years earlier, he would have identified the
noise as two armored combatants hacking away at one
another's shields with broadswords.  "Myra?  What's going
on?  What's he done?"
        Then he heard Schanke's voice, from a distance.
"Myra, have you seen--?"
        "Hang on."  Her voice was muffled, meaning that
she covered the receiver with her hand as she answered,
"Don, I'm on the PHONE.  Just wait a minute."  Then she
returned, her voice softer, almost a whisper.  "He's driving
me nuts.  Nick, if you can't get over here, I don't know
what I'm gonna do to that man."
        Nick's eyes went back to the wide screen.  The
telecasters were now interviewing players.  It would be a
while before the ice was cleared and he could catch the
rest of the period at Schanke's house if he had to.  "It's
okay, Myra.  I'll be right over.  But what's--?"
        There was another bellow from Schanke.
"Myra?!"
        "Gotta go, Nick.  You're a life-saver.  Thanks.
Bye."
        The phone clicked and her voice was replaced by a
dial tone.  Bemused, Nick stared at the receiver in his
hand, then dropped it onto the cradle.  Picking up the
remote, he turned off the television, then tossed the control
onto the couch as he headed for the door.  If he hurried,
he'd might just make the rest of the first period.
        Not that it mattered.  Who'd ever heard of a hat
trick in the first period of a play-off game?
        But his mind wouldn't stay on the game, despite
the fact that he'd tuned the Caddy radio to the sports
station--they <were> still clearing the ice.  There was a
note of exasperation and desperation in Myra's voice that
he'd never heard before.  And that banging/clanging sound
in the background?
        He pulled the Caddy in front of the house.  There
was a light gleaming from the high windows of the garage,
but Nick headed for the front door.  He raised his hand to
knock, but the door opened and a hand grabbed his
forearm, dragging him inside and almost off his feet.
        Myra's fingers dug into his right biceps.  Her eyes
were wide and wild as she gasped gratefully, "Thank
goodness you got here!  I'm about to go out of my mind."
She glanced over her shoulder, toward the kitchen, then
added in a hushed whisper, "If he asks, you've just stopped
by, okay? If he finds out I called you, he'll be furious.
You know how it is."
        Everything in the house appeared normal--as usual,
it looked lived in, but clean.  There was no sign of Jenny.
Still not comprehending, Nick looked down at Myra--her
hair was pulled back, but wisps has escaped the clip and
had fallen down around her ears and along the side of her
face.  "No, I <don't> know how it is," he answered, very
carefully.  "Why don't you tell me what--"
        He was interrupted by a loud metallic banging
sound from the direction of the garage.  Nick raised an
eyebrow and glanced at Myra as the banging stopped,
Schanke gave an unintelligible exclamation, and some
furious language followed.
        "Jenny's at a friend's house," she explained, her
cheeks coloring slightly.  "And he won't close the door--
says it's too hot in there."  With another sigh, she pulled
Nick through the kitchen, toward the garage.  "Honey,"
she called, "look who's stopped by!"
        Nick's first thought upon seeing the interior of the
garage was that a machine shop had imploded.  The floor
was covered with tools, various nuts, bolts, and screws,
and other assorted hardware.  A large cardboard box had
been opened to full length and was resting against the
garage door windows, as if to keep prying eyes out.  And
Schanke was kneeling on the garage floor, wearing khaki
pants and a blue and green Hawaiian shirt, a wrench in
one hand and a length of pipe in the other.
        He put down the pipe and groaned aloud as he
struggled to his feet.  "So, partner--what brings you
through this neck of the woods."
        Nick was still trying to comprehend the extent of
the mechanical carnage.  He glanced at Schanke blankly,
then let his eyes roam over the interior of the garage,
trying to make sense of the bits and pieces.  "I thought--
you might want to watch the game.  What are you doing?
Building yourself a brain?"
        "The game?  Yeah--almost forgot."  As Nick
stepped away, treading carefully through the hardware,
Schanke nodded.  "Maybe after I'm done.  Myra wanted
me to get a start on putting Jenny's new bicycle together."
        Nick looked up at the comment, then over to
Myra, who was still standing in the doorway. "We
promised her a new bike if her grades were good.
School's over in a couple of days."
        "And you've been putting it off," noted Nick.
Spotting one of the wheels, he picked it up and turned it
over in his hands.
        "We've been busy. Lots of overtime, right?"  When
Nick raised an eyebrow, Schanke had the good grace to
clear his throat.  He gestured toward the mess on the floor
and asked, "How hard can it be?  I put my own bike
together when I was a kid.  And, boy, it was a real
beauty!"
        Replacing the wheel, he made his way over to what
looked to be part of a handlebar.  "Was that before or after
the last ice age?"
        "Real comedian this one," commented Schanke, as
he turned toward his wife.  "You see what I have to put up
with at work?"
        As Nick picked up the handlebar, two of the joined
pieces came apart in his hands.  Waving one toward
Schanke, he asked, "How long have you been at this?"
        "A couple of hours."
        Carefully putting down the handlebars, Nick cast a
surreptitious look at Myra--there was panic in her eyes and
a plea for rescue.  "Why don't I give you a hand?  Not that
you need it," he added, as Schanke's brow furrowed, "but
if you get done quicker, maybe we could head back to the
loft and watch the third period."
        "On that drive-in screen you call a TV?  Sure."
Schanke turned to his wife.  "Myra, we got a beer or two
left?"
        "I think we can find something," she said.  "Nick?
Anything for you?"
        "No.  Thanks."  He straightened, then gave her a
smile, which she matched.  "Don't worry.  I'll make sure
it's safe to ride before I let him anywhere near the game."
As Myra left, he continued searching the floor.  "They
give you instructions with this thing?"
        "Over there."  Schanke made his way through the
mess, to the clear spot he'd left earlier.  "Who needs 'em?
They don't make much sense, anyway.  I think they're in
Japanese."
        Nick spotted the paper and picked it up from the
cement floor.  Schanke was right--the instructions <were>
in Japanese.  But the characters were . . . odd.
        Concentrating, he stared at it a moment longer.
There was no diagram, no listing of parts. "This is printed
<backwards>.  The writing's reversed.  And . . . I'm pretty
sure this tells you how to put together a double-decker
hibachi."  Nick looked up from the paper, to where
Schanke has kneeling on the floor, again trying to fit
together two pieces of a wheel assembly that looked like
they didn't belong on the same planet, never mind the
same bicycle.  "Where did you buy this?"
        "Warehouse outlet.  Got a great deal on it, too."
        "I'll bet," answered Nick.
        Schanke grinned at the tone of his voice.
"Com'on, partner, how tough can it be for two of Toronto
Metro's finest?  You wanna hand me that wrench?"
        Mentally kissing the second period of the game a
not-so-fond farewell, Nick squatted down amidst the metal
wreckage and gave Schanke the wrench.  Picking up the
handlebars again, he tried fitting the two pieces together,
nodding when they slipped into place.
        It <was> only a bicycle, after all.  How hard
<could> it be?
        Then the pieces came apart, falling to the floor
with a loud 'clang' before he could catch either of them.
Schanke jumped at the sound, gave him a look, then went
back to the wheel assembly.
        With grim determination, Nick picked up the
pieces from the floor and tried again.  So what if he
missed the game--it was a loss, anyway.  A hat trick, in the
first period?
        He had a feeling it was going to be all downhill
from there.
 
***
 
        "Ow!"  Nick jumped up and back, sending the
second wheel assembly skittering across the concrete floor
of the garage.  He stuck his thumb in his mouth and glared
at Schanke, muttering, "It's not supposed to bend that
way."
        "Yeah, but you see --"  Schanke pointed to the
crossbar that they'd been fitting into place.  "It goes here.
And we're going to have to bend it."
        "Not <that>.  My finger."
        "Sorry," muttered Schanke.
        Nick took his thumb out of his mouth and, satisfied
that it wasn't beyond repair, looked down at the bits of
assembled bicycle scattered about.  His thumb was much
better off than Jenny's bicycle, from what he could see.
And she'd probably graduate college before they finished,
never mind them making the third period of the hockey
game.
        "Looks like the Wright brothers are at it again,"
said Natalie's voice.
        She was standing at the doorway to the kitchen,
arms crossed and leaning on the molding.  Her grin was
maddening.  "Thought I'd drop by--Myra said she had
some Skin Pretty samples for me."
        Nick wasn't buying the excuse for a second,
especially after he caught sight of Myra's guilty expression.
When Natalie wandered past him, he whispered, "She
called you?"
        "Said you might need some help."  Her eyes
widened as she took a look around the interior of the
garage.  "And I can see why."
        "We're almost done," said Schanke stubbornly, still
trying to fit together the crossbar and the wheel connector.
"Another ten minutes or so."
        "Looks like you've done a great job."  Natalie
walked through the wreckage, then picked up a twisted
piece of metal.  "What happened to this?"
        Nick moved quickly, taking the piece from her
hand.  "I bent it."
        She met his eyes and smiled--she didn't need him
to explain that his frustration had caused him to let his
control over his vampiric strength slip.  "So, bend it back,"
she whispered.
        He ran his hand along the edge of the pipe and
looked away.  "I did."
        "And."
        "I bent it again."
        Placing her hands over his on the pipe, she said
softly, "Still looks pretty sound.  Bend it back again.  For
me."
        Nick did as she asked, then released the pipe to
her, adding under his breath, "I'll <buy> her a bike."
        "You will <not>," hissed Natalie, so fiercely that
she surprised him.  But the smile was back in an instant.
"Looks like you guys have everything pretty well in hand.
You deserve a break.  Why don't Myra and I finish up
here?"
        "You could still catch the last half of the game,"
prompted Myra.
        "Third period," Nick corrected, absently.  He
shadowed Natalie, as she walked from piece to piece, her
lips pursed.  "We <can> do this, you know."
        "So I see.  You've done a great job so far."
Coming to the handlebar assembly, she squatted down
beside it.
        "Nick did that," said Schanke, looking up from the
crossbar that was still giving him trouble.
        He was proud of that bit--it had taken him twenty
minutes but he'd finally gotten it together.  But no approval
was forthcoming from Natalie.  And she bit her lip as she
looked over it.  "What?" he asked anxiously.
        "Oh . . . nothing."  She flashed him what was
meant to be a comforting smile.
        "What's wrong with it?"
        "Nothing.  Really."  As she rose, Natalie brushed
past him, whispering, "It's <backwards>.  It's a girl's bike,
the handlebars on that model go the other way."
        Nick's eyes narrowed as he stared down at the
handlebar assembly.  "The instructions are in Japanese,"
he muttered, in his defense.  "And backwards.  And
they're for a hibachi."
        "What about these?"  Natalie picked up another
piece of paper from the floor, glanced at it, then handed it
to him.
        English.  A diagram--and that was <most>
definitely a bicycle.
        Nick was ready to swear the paper hadn't been
there a moment ago.  But when he opened his mouth, he
couldn't quite get past a strangled protestation.  In
response, Natalie leaned on his shoulder and said softly,
"Just get him out of here.  Go watch the game or
something, okay?"
        He'd been in enough battles over the centuries to
recognize a rout when he saw one.  Hoping to salvage
some of his dignity, he glanced at Schanke, who'd given
up on the wheel assembly.  His partner rose to his feet
with a shrug.  "We <have> pretty much finished," he said,
in a lie so bold-faced that it shocked Nick.  "I think we
deserve a couple of cold ones and some game time."
        "At <Nick's> place," pressed Myra.  She crossed
the floor to her husband, then grabbed his arm and started
propelling him toward the door.  "I packed a cooler for
you with some sandwiches, chips and beer--it's on the
kitchen table.  If it's okay with you, Nick?"
        Shaking his head, he looked at Natalie.  "Yeah.  I .
. . guess so."
        "Is she great or what?" asked Schanke, slipping his
arm around his wife's waist and giving her a kiss on the
cheek.  "Thinks of everything."
        "Just you remember to take the cooler with you,"
warned Myra, as they disappeared into the kitchen.  "I
don't want all that work to go to waste--"
        Nick took a last look around the garage as Natalie
grabbed his arm and started to drag him from the room.
All that work--
        "I <can> do this," he protested to her, quietly.
"But the instructions were in Japanese . . . and
backwards."
        "So you said."
        He stopped in the kitchen doorway and pulled her
back inside the garage, his hands on her elbows, holding
her in place.  "You're getting a real kick out of this, aren't
you?"
        Natalie looked away, started to say something, then
looked back at him, her smile crooked.  "Yeah, I am.  It's
nice to know there's <something> you can't do."
        "Putting together a bicycle has never been a
survival skill."
        "It is when you have an eight-year-old daughter."
        "I don't <have> an eight-year-old daughter."
        "You may.  Someday."
        There was something unspoken there, a
remembrance of her promise to find him a way back to
mortality, to a real life.  After an awkward pause, Natalie
looked away.
        But he still felt the need to defend himself.  "I put
together a motorcycle."  Nick glanced back at the garage
interior and cleared his throat.  "It's only a bicycle--"
        "You want to make up for it?  Eat one of Myra's
sandwiches."
        He winced, still staring at the various misshapen
metal bicycle bits.  "A <whole> sandwich?"
        "A couple of bites.  All right--one bite.  You've had
a rough evening."  Reaching past him, Natalie shut off the
garage light, then dragged him through the kitchen.  "Just
get going, so Myra and I can finish this before Jenny
comes home," she said, heading for the front door.
        "If you need any help--"
        "We'll call," said Natalie, adding, "Promise!" when
he fixed her with a suspicious gaze.
        Myra was waiting at the front door.  She took his
hand and leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek.
"Thanks for dropping by, Nick.  Sorry to ruin your
evening."
        "I'm just sorry I couldn't have been of more help."
        "You kept Don from driving me nuts for a hour--
that was worth a fortune."  Smiling, she released his hand.
        Nick matched her smile, his more sheepish, then
raised an eyebrow at Natalie.  "Drop by when you finish,"
he told her.  "I want to hear all the gory details."
        "You <would>."  She punched him in the
shoulder.  "Don't expect me for a while, it's going to take
Myra and I some time to undo all the damage you guys
did."
        He froze, then half-turned back to them.  "If
anything's broken--"
        "Go!" prompted Myra, with a laugh, pushing him
away.
        The door closed behind him.  Still feeling slightly
guilty and more than a little foolish, Nick walked to the
Caddy.  Schanke had ensconced himself in the passenger
seat and was already working on one of the sandwiches
from the cooler.
        Sliding into the seat beside his partner, Nick
plucked the sandwich from Schanke's hand and placed it
back into the open cooler, saying, "Crumbs."
        "I've got a napkin," mumbled Schanke, around a
mouthful of white bread and ham.  He crumbled the
napkin into a ball, tossed it into the cooler, then settled
back in the seat.  "Geez, <you're> in a mood."
        He turned the key in the ignition and looked over
his shoulder, checking the empty street for traffic.
"Schanke, we were totally defeated by a girl's bicycle.
Doesn't that bother you at all?"
        "<Defeated>?"  Schanke made a noise.
        At first, Nick wasn't certain whether he'd gotten a
piece of ham caught in his throat and was too busy driving
too check.  But after a second, he realized Schanke was
laughing.  "What's the joke?"
        "The joke," said Schanke, between wheezing, "is
part of the reason you're still single.  Remind me to give
you some of the ground rules, before you get hitched."
        "Like?"
        "Like the 'honey do's'."
        Nick stared at the road ahead, completely
bewildered and half-tempted to turn the car around and
drop Schanke and the damned ham sandwiches off on the
man's front porch.
        "You know . . . or maybe you don't.  It's one of the
things they live for--wives, that is."  Sighing, Schanke
leaned against the car door, head resting on his hand.
"Every time you put your feet up and turn on the game,
they hear you popping the tab off the beer even if they're
at the other end of the house.  And all of a sudden there's
a half dozen things that have to be taken care of right then
and there.  'Honey,'" he mimicked, "'can you do this?
Honey, can you do that?'"  Shaking his head, he smiled.
"Takes some guys a couple years to figure out the
answer."
        After a moment's pause, Nick pressed, "Which
<is>?"
        "You become hopeless when it comes to doing
<anything>."  Schanke's eyes narrowed.  "Now this is a
trade secret, okay, so don't go spreading it around.  And
I'm not saying you can't screw in the occasional light bulb
or unplug a drain or something.  But you gotta draw the
line somewhere.  I use the two tool rule, myself.  If it takes
more than two tools, I'm outta there."
        They'd reached the loft.  Nick clicked the garage
door opener.  "You're telling me that you <wanted> to get
kicked out?"
        "In time for the second period.  But I'll settle for
third."  He frowned, then glanced back at the cooler.
"Never guessed Myra would call you in as backup."
        Nick froze in place, letting the car roll into the
garage.  "You were driving her crazy," he managed, in his
own defense.
        "That's the goal--get 'em so nuts they throw you
out."
        The garage door was closing behind them.  Nick
hit the remote for the interior light so he wouldn't have to
guide Schanke through the darkness.  When Schanke
headed for the door to the stairwell, he put two fingers in
his mouth and whistled, then pointed toward the cooler in
the back seat.
        "I'm the guest," protested Schanke.
        "It's <your> cooler."
        Making a face, Schanke opened the rear door of
the Caddy and hefted the cooler with a groan.  Nick only
grinned, but held the door open for him as they headed up
the back stairs to the loft.  "So, why'd Myra call Natalie?"
        "She'd called you in--big mistake--so I guess she
figured she needed more pull on her side if she was gonna
kick us out."  Schanke glanced back at him, over his
shoulder as they went up the stairs.  "She's good--Natalie
is.  Sounds like she's had practice."
        "And you could've put that bicycle together by
yourself?"
        Schanke leaned the cooler against the wall as Nick
unlocked the door.  "Sure.  It <was> only a bicycle.  I
figured you were playing along.  Right?"
        "Oh . . . yeah.  Right."  Nick held the door for
Schanke, then headed for the remote.  He flicked the
switch and the wide-screen television came to life, the
announcer stating that the third period was about to begin.
        "What was the score at the end of the first?" asked
Schanke, from the kitchen.
        "Don't know.  Myra called me after the hat trick--
they were still clearing the ice when I headed to your
place."
        "A hat trick?  Oh, man!" whined Schanke.  He
looked up hopefully, a beer tucked under his arm and a
sandwich in either hand.  "Us or them?"
        "Them."
        "Ouch!"  Schanke pressed one of the sandwiches
into Nick's hands as he passed, heading for the couch.  He
flopped down and placed his beer on the table.  "Well,
we'll know in a minute.  I don't have money riding on this
one--Myra'd kill me, this close to payday.  You?"
        "No."  Wincing at the sight of the beer sitting on
his coasterless coffee table and the bread crumbs scattered
across his living room, Nick shook his head.  He picked up
a few napkins that Myra had put in the cooler, then he
threw one at Schanke as he moved to a chair and sat
down.
        "Hat trick, huh?"  Sighing, Schanke popped back
the metal tab on the can of beer and raised it to Nick in a
mock salute.  "Well, it's only a game, after all.  Next time."
        "Next time," he echoed.  He stared down at the
sandwich in his hand and took a small bite.  It was like
chewing sawdust.  After a moment, he raised the napkin to
his lips and spit out the bread and meat in disgust . . . and
despair.
        Natalie's comment echoed in his mind--Someday.
Someday he might have an eight-year-old-daughter for
whom he'd have to build a bicycle.  Or a wife to drive nuts
by pretending not to do household chores.
        He found himself watching Schanke consume his
sandwich and beer with more than a little jealousy.  The
man had no idea how good he had it.
        The commercial had something to do with life
insurance.  Schanke looked over at him, then gestured
toward the sandwich.  "Great, huh?  Nobody makes a ham
sandwich like Myra.  Yeah, I know, ham and bread, right?
But she knows how to cut it just thin enough, right amount
of mustard and mayo."  Nodding, he took another bite of
his sandwich.  "Nobody," he mumbled, mouth full of
food.
        That, and the way Schanke glanced over his
shoulder at the cooler in the kitchen,  made Nick
reconsider.  Maybe Schanke <did> know how lucky he
was.  Happiness seemed a one-in-a-million shot in the
mortal world, but Schanke had found some measure of it,
with his job and family.  And if his luck continued, he'd
never know what it was like to be exiled from the sunlight,
from family, from happiness.
        The third period was announced, but Nick stared
blankly at the screen.  No matter what Natalie said,
'someday' wasn't an option.  Mortality was a dream, an
impossibility, a miracle.  And in this modern world of
science, miracles didn't happen.
        "What?" he asked, sitting upright, suddenly
realizing that Schanke had shouted something.
        "Can--you--believe--it?" repeated Schanke,
pronouncing each word carefully, as he pointed toward the
screen.  "Not one hat trick, two.  <Two>!"  His beer
spilled as he leaned forward, amazed, but he didn't seem to
notice.  "We pulled off a hat trick in the second period.
They're only ahead by a goal."
        Nick watched the replay in equal amazement, the
three goals shot by the same player from the first period
matched by the three goals shot by a player from the
opposing team during the second period.
        It was unprecedented.
        It was astounding.
        It was a--
        "Miracle," murmured Schanke, his beer forgotten,
the sandwich abandoned on the table.  He peeled his gaze
from the screen for a minute, a stupid grin pasted across
his face, as he glanced at Nick.  "Man-oh-man, it's a
miracle!  Remind me, I owe Nat--her timing was perfect.  I
would've <killed> myself if I'd missed this third period."
        Nick wasn't listening.  Like Schanke said, it was
just a game.  He'd seen enough versions of enough games
over the centuries to become bored with most of them, but
not all. There was always a chance that something,
anything, might happen.  And that's why he continued to
watch, long after the rule-makers had passed into memory.
There was always something new to try, some new goal to
shoot for.  Because miracles did, occasionally, happen.
        Even in the modern world.
        "Can you believe this?" repeated Schanke, eyes
wide.
        "I can," said Nick, so softly that he knew Schanke
couldn't hear him.  "I do."
        Then he took another bite of the ham sandwich.
 
***
 
The end