Chapter Text
Something like soft light, something like shadows:
This silence, this
pause before the machines
begin again
— Tim Seibles
A little after the usual lunchtime rush at the subway entrance on Park Place and Broadway, a man accepts a pamphlet from Credence and does not immediately hurry off. He’s well-dressed, older but not yet old, tall but not taller than Credence. A banker perhaps, judging by the tailoring of his suit. The man reads aloud from the pamphlet, “The New Salem Philanthropic Society,” and peers at Credence with dark eyes.
“Yes, sir,” answers Credence.
“And when do you meet?” asks the man.
Credence bites his lip. He stares down at the stack of pamphlet in his own hands, the neat lettering toward the bottom: SUN 5PM–7PM, TUE 2PM–4PM, WED 6PM–8PM. He says anyway, “Sunday evenings, from five until seven; and Tuesdays, in the afternoon —“
“This wind is very unpleasant,” announces the man. “Come along, have a cup of coffee with me and tell me about this society. I am afraid I sometimes work on Sundays, though it is the Sabbath; but do your best, young man, and shepherd me back into the flock.”
“Oh,” says Credence, faltering, “it is not that kind of — I mean, we are not an evangelical —“
“So much the better!” declares the man, doing some shepherding of his own. Credence finds himself swept down the street, around the corner, and seated at a table in a restaurant before he has caught his breath.
“Sir,” protests Credence.
“Two coffees,” the man tells their waiter, “and the roast beef on rye — ah,” turning to Credence, “—Have you another preference? Their roast beef is really quite good. No? — then, yes, roast beef, two, and bring the mustard, thank you.”
Credence risks a glance around. It is a quietly elegant place, all darkwood chairs and white linen tablecloths and gleamingly polished water glasses — a far finer place than anywhere Credence has been. He is suddenly and hotly aware of the patched elbows on his suit, the frayed hems riding up his ankles.
“Sir,” Credence tries again, “I really mustn’t — I cannot accept —”
Your kindness, Credence should say: I cannot accept your kindness, but thank you all the same — except this does not feel like kindness. Credence knows how to say “thank you” to businessmen who brush past him in the evenings, and to housewives who slam the door shut in his face, and to the policemen who blow their whistles and warn him off street corners — but, somehow, to this man and his terrible, overwhelming affability, Credence cannot make himself grateful.
How can it be a kindness? thinks Credence. Isn’t it an abduction?
The man peers at him again with those dark eyes. The expression in them is surprisingly mild. When it becomes apparent that Credence will not continue, the man says, “You are, of course, not obligated to eat anything — but allow me to make the offer, since I am imposing on your time.”
Credence does not know how to answer that: how to refuse without offending, nor how to accept without burdening. While he struggles, their coffees arrive. The man reaches across the table, glances up at Credence, “A little sugar? A dash of milk? A little more? Splendid,” and stirs with the sort of practiced elegance that barely clinks the spoon, before pushing the coffee across the table to Credence. Then he takes his own and drinks it, black.
A silence settles. The man looks at the pamphlet he had taken from Credence. Credence, when he works up the courage, steals looks at the man. Eventually, the man asks, “Do you believe in witches? That they —” he taps the pamphlet, “—live among us?”
Yes, Mary Lou’s son should say, unequivocal. Credence is not equal yet to such faith. He worries at the ragged edge of his thumbnail and says, “I believe there is wickedness in the world, and — we cannot always know its form.”
“And magic?” asks the man, keen. “Have you seen magic before?”
Credence’s ears burn. Miserably, he wishes for the fire-forged iron of his mother’s faith, or even the placid certainty of Chastity’s — but he, making a lie of his name, can only offer, “No, sir, I — I have not.”
“Well,” says the man, with a remarkable lack of disappointment. He folds the pamphlet in half and slips it into his coat pocket, then looks around curiously. “I wonder where our sandwiches are?”
The dismissal is clear. Credence collects his pamphlet stack and stands up. “Then … if I have satisfied your questions …”
“Are you in a hurry?” asks the man. “Have you eaten already?”
“No,” admits Credence. “But I do not want to trouble — “
“Not at all,” says the man. When Credence does not sit down, the man says, “But stay for lunch, allow me to ask a few more questions. I am curious about the, ah, the theological difference between magic and miracle?” His forehead wrinkles into a peculiar expression. His brows, dark and thick, slant downwards, and makes him look more quizzical than displeased. “As a particular example, let us consider the transfiguration of — what was it? Bread?”
“Bread?” Credence sits back down. His faith is as that of a worm, not equal to Chastity’s, nor even Modesty’s, and his tendency to sin is of perpetual concern for his mother; but Credence knows his Scripture. Credence has never suffered from a lack of understanding. Suddenly, he finds himself sure-footed again. “Do you mean … of Jesus? On the mountain?”
“Ah, is that what I mean?”
“When He shown with divine radiance,” clarifies Credence. “Or — are you thinking of transubstantiation? But… ” Credence frowns. “We are not papists, sir.”
“Of course,” agrees the man, something of good humor lurking around the corners of his mouth. “Nor evangelical. I know.”
The waiter comes around with their sandwiches then. He sets a jar of mustard in the middle of the table and departs with their empty coffee cups. Credence looks at the food in front of him and then at the man.
“I suppose it is a little late at this point,” says the man, catching Credence’s eye, “but — hello. My name is Percival Graves.”
“I’m — Credence. Credence Barebone.”
Mr. Graves looks astonished for moment, and then as if he has just heard a very good joke. “How positively morbid,” he murmurs, “Graves and Barebone. Isn’t that something?” He smiles, almost too good-natured a smile for so well-dressed a man. He says, “I’m very pleased to meet you, Credence.”
“Y-yes,” stammers Credence, “and you, Mr. Graves.”
He next runs into Percival Graves on a blustery day when it looks like rain. The sky is a sheet of iron overhead, foreboding. Credence hauls his posters and pail of glue-wash down the side-street, where the entrance to smaller shops, those that cannot afford a street-facing front, are tucked away. Ma had said these places would be Sympathetic To Our Cause. Credence dutifully puts up the posters. He hopes it does not rain.
Credence is finishing up his sixth poster, and thinking that he might count this particular side-street as complete, when Mr. Graves comes around the corner of an alley. He has a pigeon clutched in his hands, held away from his body.
Credence stares.
Mr. Graves looks as well put together as when Credence had last seen him — hair neatly smoothed back, the collar of his coat cleanly creased — except for the pigeon in his hands, cooing gutturally. He casts a distracted glance at Credence, and then hurries past to the mouth of the side-street. Credence sees when he steps into the wind, the sudden snap of his overcoat, his scarf tugging to the side. Mr. Graves lowers his hands slightly and then heaves them up, thrusting the bird into the air. With flutter of feathers, and then wings beating so heavily Credence can hear it down the street, the bird flies off.
Mr. Graves stares after it. He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his hands. Then he turns on his heels and comes back down the street.
“Hello, Credence,” he says, perfectly even.
“Mr. Graves,” answers Credence, wondering where the conversation can possibly go after that bizarre demonstration. Credence has heard that men who dress as Mr. Graves does, after they visit Certain Establishments, sometimes engage in recreational pigeon-catching; but Credence thought such sport more popular among his own age set; and besides, Mr. Graves looks sober.
But Mr. Graves is forthright. “What did you see, just now?” he asks.
Credence looks at Mr. Graves’ hands, and then at the mouth of the side-street, and then up at the gray sky. “You had a pigeon, sir,” he says finally. “It flew off.”
“Excellent, excellent,” says Mr. Graves, in pleased tones, as if he were an eye doctor and Credence had managed to read the small letters at the very bottom. He puts his handkerchief away and looks Credence over appraisingly. His gaze sharpens on the posters, the glue-wash still in Credence’s hands. “Hard at work again,” he says.
Credence looks at the posters too: the stylized flames, the clenched fist. He wonders if Mr. Graves will ask him again, more questions about Ma’s — about Credence’s — about their cause. The conversation last time had been strange. Mr. Graves did not seem curious in the manner of a Seeker of Truth, devout and fervent the way the regular members of Ma’s prayer meetings were; his curiosity was mild, detached, anthropological. Yet he listened with an attention that, more focused on Credence’s words than Credence himself, gave little pressure, and his questions, though they demonstrated a shocking lack of Scripture literacy, were interested. Talking to him was easy, and the ease of it was pleasant.
Now, Mr. Graves says, “Will you give me the rest of the posters?”
Credence snaps his eyes back to Mr. Graves — catches the glimpse of a frown, as if something disagreed with his digestion; and then, Mr. Graves’ expression smooths over, mild and pleasant in the manner of a man asking for a small, passing favor.
“These posters?” asks Credence, certain he had misunderstood.
“Yes,” agrees Mr. Graves. He brightens — a discreet thing, entirely in his eyes and the tilt of his eyebrows. “Let me help you spread the word. I’ll take them back to my office — better yet,” he rocks back on his heels, slipping his hands into his pockets, shoulders opening in an expansive gesture, “—I’ll put them up around the office. My staff could do with some reminders of — ah, vigilance.”
“Well,” says Credence, dubiously. It will save him an afternoon’s work, but that kind of motivation is wicked and Credence must guard against the temptation. But to deny someone seeking the Word of Truth — that is even more wicked. “If you’d like, sir.”
“Splendid,” says Mr. Graves, taking the posters from Credence. He looks down the street and then up at the sky, and he asks, “Have you had lunch yet?”
Credence stays silent, heavy with the sense of reliving an argument already lost.
Mr. Graves casts him a sideways glance — somehow understanding, almost sympathetic, as if he knows how overwhelming he can be and is sorry for it. But he says, “Come along,” and heads down the street — and Credence follows.
There is a line for the cashier at Horn & Hardart, where they go to lunch. Credence is surprised to hear that Mr. Graves has never been to an automat before; doubly so, when Credence learns that Mr. Graves works in the Woolsworth Building. Quick lunches at H&H seem to be a favorite among working men of all professions.
As they wait in line, a man comes up behind them and stands waiting as well. His gaze flows over Credence, lingers on Mr. Graves a moment, flickers away, and then comes back in an almost comical double-take. He says, taking half a step forward, “Oh, hello! I say, that’s an awfully well-cut coat.”
Mr. Graves turns his head. He looks at Credence first, and then at the man behind Credence. “Thank you,” he says, polite and blank.
“What a happy coincidence, to meet you here. I have been meaning to ask you for the name of your tailor for weeks now! Oh — pardon, we work in the same building. I see you around sometimes, don’t I?”
Credence wonders idly if this is how men of a certain class introduce themselves to each other, by exchanging tailor names instead of name cards. But that cannot be correct, because now Mr. Graves’ whole demeanor changes. His gaze sharpens. He smiles, affable in a terrible way. He says, “Do you? I wonder where?”
“Well, I work on twenty-seventh. Copywriting. How about you?”
“Law,” says Mr. Graves, strangely keen. “Not quite as high up as you. It must have been the lobby, then? What a memory you have for faces — it’s always such a crowd in there!”
“Oh, well,” says the man, rather bewildered now, “no — I don’t suppose the lobby, exactly — but around the entrance —” continuing more certainly, now, with a memory in mind, “oh — yes, I remember, you came out through a side door — actually, do you know, I don’t think I’ve ever used that exit before …”
The keenness deflates. Mr. Graves does not seem overly surprised by this information. He does not recommend that exit; the door handles are not well cleaned. He asks after the copywriting business, in rather tepid tones. He does not give the man the name of his tailor.
When they arrive at the front of the line, Mr. Graves says goodbye to the man, and then takes Credence up to the cashier.
“Oh, no, no,” says Mr. Graves when Credence makes a motion to dig out the money in his pocket. Credence does not have very much, but he can manage lunch at least. But Mr. Graves says, pulling out his own wallet, “You will please allow me. Think of it as payment for the posters.”
So Credence is neatly overruled. Mr. Graves squints at his wallet and manages to rifle out a dollar. The squinting continues when the cashier gives them nickels in exchange. They go further into the dining area. Credence, in gnawing shame, wonders at Mr. Graves’ expression — if perhaps Mr. Graves is not as well-off as he looks, if he can ill-afford the expense of a dollar for lunch — but when Credence dares another look at Mr. Graves, it is not rue characterizing his dubious expression. It’s perplexity.
Perhaps the other way around, realizes Credence. Has Mr. Graves never handled change before?
“Well,” says Mr. Graves eventually. He takes Credence’s hand and dumps the coin collection into Credence’s palm. “Coffee for me, please — and whatever you’re having.”
“Yes, sir,” says Credence.
Mr. Graves picks his way through the tiny, round-topped tables in the dining area and eventually finds a spare seat. Credence heads for the food dispensers. A nickel in the slot to open the glass door, behind which sits a sandwich or fish cake or pastry, any variety of things. He suffers a moment of conflicted agony over what to get — he does not know Mr. Graves’ preferences, and it would not do to indulge too heavily in his own. He settles for plain standard lunch fare: salad, sandwich, coffee, pie.
Mr. Graves does not say anything about the food, either way. He eats — not enthusiastically, but efficiently enough and not too particular about the taste. Over salad, he casts a considering eye over Credence — not unkindly, but not softly either. Credence suspects that Mr. Graves, for all his fine manners and fine clothes, is not a soft man.
“What do you read, Credence?” he asks, without the obvious air of a man making conversation. “Besides the Bible.”
“The hymnal,” answers Credence. He thinks. There is not much else. “Sermons.”
“The classics, I suppose,” says Mr. Graves. “Davenport? Edwards? Thus it is that natural men are held in the hand of God, over the pit of hell; they have deserved the fiery pit, and are already sentenced to it; and God is dreadfully provoked.”
“Why — yes,” says Credence, in some surprise. “Do you know that one, sir? It’s Ma’s favorite.”
“I thought it might be,” says Mr. Graves, dryly.
The quizzing continues. Mr. Graves is very good at asking questions. Had his manners been less easy, they might have descended into an interrogation; as it is, they manage a conversation. Credence has a little Shakespeare, from school; his mother rather likes Bradstreet and Wigglesworth, but looks unfavorably upon the modern poets; he is not familiar with the other sort of classics, Homer or Aeschylus or Virgil; no, he does not read novels, for they corrupt the soul and divert one’s thoughts from God.
“Your mother says,” concludes Mr. Graves.
“She has said.”
“Do you agree with everything your mother says?”
It is a simple enough question. And yet every answer is wrong.
But Mr. Graves waits for Credence’s, patient. Credence looks at him in the gray light of the afternoon. It has started to rain outside. They are at Horn&Hardart on Eighth Avenue, familiar to Credence and unfamiliar to Mr. Graves, where nevertheless, they came to have lunch — and Credence thinks again: not a soft man, but not unkind. He braves the question.
“I trust Ma to guard against temptation. I trust her strength because — I am not as strong.”
“Not as obstinate, perhaps.” Mr. Graves makes a neat cut in his pie with a fork. “But there is no moral failure in simply being open to persuasion.” Then, smiling in that unexpectedly good-natured way of his, “Is there?”
Credence stares down at his hands, curls his fingers inwards. What a dangerous thing a smile can be, he thinks. “W-well. I suppose — sometimes it seems … Ma does not like the Mathers. She disagrees with the father’s treatise that spectral evidence should not be permissible in court.” Credence does not know how to say something so unfilial as, I think she is wrong. “But it is on purpose that our current courts do not allow — oh, I’m sorry, are you familiar with —?”
“The admittance of dreams and visions as witness testimony,” says Mr. Graves, surprising Credence again. “Cases of Conscience Concerning Evil, yes? I am familiar with it.”
Credence stares. He has never met anyone familiar with — “Oh,” he remembers. “You are a lawyer, Mr. Graves.”
“Ah,” says Mr. Graves delicately.
“Yes, that one,” says Credence. “As he says: If the devil can lead the accused astray, then why not the witness? How can we trust the testimony to be a true vision?”
“I never thought I would argue for the other side,” murmurs Mr. Graves. He leans an elbow on the table, shockingly casual, rests his chin in his palm, looks at Credence with bright, laughing eyes. “That seems rather an issue of who may be considered expert, then. The opinions of some people, by virtue of their education or experience, may be admitted as evidence — then why not by virtue of, ah, virtue?”
“But,” Credence frowns, feeling as if he were groping his way in the dark, toward something inexpressible, “but if virtue is a product of faith — it cannot be judged in courts of man. It is not possible to establish such an expert.”
Mr. Graves is in agreement. “And then,” he adds, “there is the tricky business of timing when it comes to visions, for they may not yet have come to pass. I saw a trial once with an oracle as witness, and of course, how can you judge a man for future crimes? But — ah,” he says, seeing Credence’s wide-eyed startlement, “—that was in another country.”
The reply rises up Credence’s throat, a temptation. He ducks his head, resists; thinks again, peeks up at Mr. Graves. Shyly, Credence dares, “And besides, the wench is dead.”
As Credence had wished, the laughter in Mr. Graves’ eyes brims over, spills out, a warm generous sound. Credence’s heart trembles: it is too much, to look as well as to hear. He looks down at his hands again, clenches them, steadies himself.
Mr. Graves recovers. “So you have read Marlowe,” he surmises, “or is it Eliot?” And then, something warm curled in his voice, “And you do not always listen to your mother.”
That is not anything to be proud of. Credence, listening with all his heart, thinks Mr. Graves is proud, anyway.
Mr. Graves insists Credence keep the change from lunch, though it comes to almost a half-dollar. Buy a book, he instructs. “I recommend Gentlemen Prefer Blondes – though, of course that is not true,” he says, rather ruthlessly. As Credence’s ears turn red, he relents: “Try Bunyan. Pilgrim’s Progress.”
“But, sir,” protests Credence.
Mr. Graves holds the door open for Credence. It has stopped raining. “Mr. Barebone,” he says, following Credence outside, “you will not have me jingle back to work.”
The thought has some appeal: a temptation again. Credence breathes in the fresh smell of just after-rain. Spring is on the air. “Pilgrim’s Progress,” he repeats.
“From This World,” adds Mr. Graves, leading Credence down the street, “to That Which Is to Come.”