A widower now—his wife had died five years ago—with one grown son, he was a formidable candidate.  The born-again line of moral righteousness and family values he spouted guaranteed him a built-in core constituency.  But he needed a broader base if he was aiming for national office, and he was steadily building that with his speech-making and his strong-featured good looks.  Especially his speech-making.  Crenshaw was a mesmerizing orator, whether from prepared text or off the cuff.  In unguarded moments even Dan had found himself nodding in agreement with much of his rhetoric.

But when he listened carefully, Dan tapped into an undercurrent that told him this was a man who had quickly become extremely powerful in his own little world and had grown used to having things his own way, a man of monstrous self-esteem who knew—knew—he had the answers, who believed there could be only one way of doing things—the Arthur Crenshaw way.

But Father Daniel Fitzpatrick was here tonight to let him know that there were a few folks around who didn’t think Senator Crenshaw had all the answers, and that he was downright wrong when it came to the Domicile Plan.

Here he comes, Dan thought as the glass door was held open for Crenshaw by a broad-shouldered Hispanic with dark glasses and “security” written all over him.

A cheer went up from the onlookers as the senator stepped outside.  Lots of normally liberal Manhattanites seemed enthralled with the man.  Dan put it down to his physical resemblance to Bill Clinton, but knew it went deeper than that.  The man was magnetic.

And as the cheer rose, so did the chanting from Dan’s homeless.  Good for you, Harry, he thought.

Crenshaw walked the gauntlet, shaking hands and smiling that smile.  When he came within half a dozen feet, Dan held up his placard and thrust it toward the senator to make sure he didn’t miss it.  The dark-skinned security man moved to push Dan back but Crenshaw stopped him.  He stared at the message, then looked Dan in the eye.

“Is that directed at me?”

Dan was momentarily taken aback by the man’s directness.  He’d expected to be ignored.  But he met the senator’s steely blue gaze with his own.

“Yes, senator.  And at your out-of-sight-out-of-mind Domicile Plan.  You can’t lock the homeless up in camps and think that will solve the problem.”

“I resent that,” Crenshaw said, his eyes flashing, his voice soft but forceful.

The crowd around the entrance had stopped cheering; they were listening instead.  Only the chanting of the homeless from behind the barricades disturbed the sudden silence.

Dan was not prepared for this.  His mouth went dry; his voice was hoarse when he replied.  “And I think the homeless will resent being carted off to camps in the middle of nowhere.”

“What’s you’re connection with the homeless, father?”

“I run a kitchen for them downtown.”

Crenshaw nodded.  “That’s very admirable.  My hat’s off to you.  But how many of their lives have you changed?”

“I don’t under—”

“How many have you gotten off the street and into some sort of self-supporting activity?”

Dan had a feeling he was being maneuvered into a corner, but he had to answer—and truthfully.

“I couldn’t say.  We barely have enough money to keep them fed.”

“Exactly!  They need funds and there aren’t enough funds to go around.  That’s why we have to centralize our efforts to help them.”  He gestured to the crowd.  “Look around you, father.  See these people?  They support the Domicile Plan.  They’re all willing to put their money where their mouths are, because they’re going to pay for the Plan with their tax dollars.  But they want to see those dollars well spent.  Soup kitchens only perpetuate the problem—like giving a transfusion to a bleeding patient without sewing up the wound.”

God, he’s good, Dan thought.  And he means every word.  He truly wants to help.  That’s what makes him so convincing.  But he’s still wrong!

“I couldn’t agree more,” Dan said, “but concentration camps aren’t a moral alternative.”

Senator Crenshaw’s eyes flashed with sudden anger.

“You’re handy with the loaded terms, aren’t you, father.  And I’m sure you have a real talent for dishing out the soup on the breadline at your kitchen, but have you ever actually gone into a factory and worked to earn a single dime to pay for their shelter?  Or your own, for that matter?  Have you ever labored to grow a single grain of wheat or a single kernel of rice to feed them?  Or yourself?  Have you ever woven or cut or sewn a single stitch for their clothing?  Or for your own?  If you want to be a man of God, then limit your concerns to Godly things; but if you want to be a man of the people, then get out and sweat with them, Father.  Until you do, you’re nothing but a middleman, trafficking in their troubles.  A hand-wringing monger of misery, hoisting yourself up on their crosses to allow yourself to be better seen from afar.  Which is fine, if that’s the way you want to spend your life.  This is still a free country.  But don’t block the way of those who really want to help.”

Dan was stunned by the tirade.  Before he could frame a reply, Crenshaw turned away and stepped into his waiting limo.  His security man closed the door, glanced at Dan with a smirk on his dark face, then slipped around to the other side.

Someone patted him gently on the shoulder.  Dan looked around and saw an elderly stranger standing next to him.

“Don’t take it too hard, Father.  We all know you mean well.  But you just ain’t getting it done.”

Still mute, Dan turned back to the street and watched Senator Crenshaw’s limo pull away.  On the surface he knew he appeared unscathed, but he was bleeding inside.  Hemorrhaging.  Crenshaw’s words had cut deep, right to the heart of his deepest doubts.  And the elderly stranger had twisted the knife.

Knowing I was not fit for the company of other men, I turned from my southward course and searched the wilderness for a place to spend the rest of my allotted days alone.

I wandered the deserted hills, searching for a sign.  Finally, as I climbed a steep incline, I looked up and beheld a bellied cliff with an overhanging ledge.  The letter tav leaped into my mind.  Tav...the letter to which the Kabbalah grants a numerical value of 400...highest of all the letters.

This was the sign I had sought.  This is where I would stay: the lowest huddling in the shadow of the highest.

--from the Glass scroll

Rockefeller Museum translation

THREE

Emilio Sanchez regarded his employer with awe as the limo whisked them uptown.

If only I could use words like that, he thought.  I would not have to be a guard dog.  I could be anything...even a Senador.

But Emilio had come to terms long ago with who he was...and what he was.  He was a guard dog.  He would always be a guard dog.  And with those facts in mind, he had become the best damn guard dog in the world.

“You sliced up that padre like a master chef, Senador.  One would almost think your words were planned.”

“In a sense, Emilio, they were.  I spotted the priest and his group on the way in but I didn’t know what they were up to.”

“And you asked me to find out.”

“Right.  And when you told me they were homeless types, I spent the time before my speech preparing a few remarks in case they cornered me on the way out.”

Imagine...to be able to come up with word-razors while listening and responding to tabletalk.

“But they didn’t corner you,” Emilio said.

“No matter.  I liked what I came up with.  Too good to waste.  So I let the priest have it.”

“With both barrels.”

The Senador smiled and nudged Emilio with an elbow.  “You of all people should understand that.”