The man would walk with a cane for the rest of his life.
I sat in the wreckage of that fact for days, turning it over, and then I thought about what I was becoming and whether I wanted to keep becoming it. I wasn’t sure, so I got on a plane to a city where no one knew my name and walked into the first church I found because I had run out of other options and the weight needed somewhere to go.
Sister Mary Patrick found me in a pew, sat down beside me without being asked, and simply waited. Eventually, I started talking, and once I started, I didn’t stop for a long time.
I told her more than I have told most people in my life, before or since. She listened to all of it without flinching, which was not the response I had expected from a nun, and when I finished, she was quiet for a moment. That silence shamed me, and I still feel that shame every day.
A woman who had faced her god and her devil, these cosmic forces, didn’t know what to say to me. How horrid must I have been in her opinion?
But that wasn’t it. She abruptly said, “Sounds like you have an opportunity to do some good.”
That may have been the last thing I expected. It didn’t wipe away the stain of the shame I felt in her silence, but it shook me up.
Sister Mary Patrick said that the world I moved in was populated by men considerably worse than me, and that a man with my skills in my position could choose to reduce their harm rather than compound it.
“I’m not sure that’s how it works?—”
She shrugged and said, “God uses the Devil to punish those who deserve it. Perhaps you could be a useful Devil.”
I stared at her for a long moment. She looked back with calm, unimpressed eyes and waited for me to catch up, with the patience of a woman who has waited out considerably more difficult silences than mine.
I never went straight. With her supportive encouragement, I used my position to level certain playing fields and destroy those who are particularly evil in my realm.
I have been imperfect. But with that title as a consideration—Useful Devil—I have given her words more weight in my life than might be prudent. Since then, I have funded her neighborhood programs because it’s a small, concrete thing I can do with money made in an effort to balance the scales.
Now, I must balance one more. “I need someone looked after. A woman. She will relocate to Chicago, and there, I’ll need her to be set up comfortably, kept safe and occupied, and not alone. She doesn’t know anyone there. I would want someone she can trust nearby, someone consistent.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know yet. Until I’ve resolved a situation here. It could be weeks. It could be longer.” It will be longer. I know it in my gut.
Sister Mary Patrick is quiet for a moment. “Is this for her protection, or for yours?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You have always kept people at a distance, Pavel. It’s how you have operated since I met you. You fund programs, so the money helps people without you needing to be present for any of it. You run your organization through intermediaries wherever the option exists. You like keeping the world at a distance.” Her voice is not unkind. It is simply accurate. “Sending someone away can be genuine protection. It can also be an old habit wearing a convincing disguise.”
I look out the window at the gray, dangerous city. “I love her.”
Sister Mary Patrick’s next breath is audible. Not quite a gasp, but near enough.
The words are heavier than I expect them to be, and more certain, like something that has been waiting to be said aloud and is relieved to finally be there. “More than I knew was possible. I want her beside me. I want her there permanently, in every sense of that word.”
“Well, then, clearly, you must send her away.”
If I didn’t know her, I might not have picked up on the sarcasm, as she says this with no shift in tone.
“I love her, and I’m terrified for her. There is a man who has already demonstrated that he knows she matters to me and intends to use it. Keeping her close is what I want. It’s the selfish thing to do. Keeping her safe is what I have to choose instead, because I cannot have both right now.”
There’s a pause on the other end. “Alright. Send her to me. I’ll take good care of her, Pavel. You have my word.”
Something in my chest loosens by a fraction. “Thank you.”
“Call more often. You don’t need a reason.”
“I will.”
“You said that last time as well.” Warmth in it, not reproach. “How are you? Truthfully.”
