Page 100 of The Black Table
He won’t talk, either. I know that much about Cal. Calling him a man of few words would be a generous overstatement.
“Are you…doing okay?”
That’s the best I can manage. Best I can phrase it in a semi-public place where we could be overheard. I can’t meet his eyes; I can’t look anywhere now, except for the very center of the rose window—the hundreds or thousands of multicolored facets, winking and gleaming as somewhere in the east the sun is rising.
“Fine.” Cal’s tone is even, controlled, and I realize how hollow my own words sound compared to his. He never lies, except by omission. Never is anything but stalwart. He doesn’t seem so plagued with inner turmoil. “You?”
“I don’t know,” I reply at last, genuinely uncertain. I can practically hear Cal swallow. He’s put his hands up on the bench too, stringing the rosary beads through his fingers—even if he’s praying, he’s doing it silently. “The pressure got to me, or not—the pressure, you know how it is after a bout like that. It’s nerves, I guess. Just….adrenaline. Hard to stay focused. You know.”
Cal shakes his head. “Not really.”
Right. Of course he doesn’t know. Cal’s…intent. Dedicated. I’ve known that since the moment I met him, written all over him, the way he walks, talks, holds himself. I never could have been like that—never would have been able to pledge myself to waiting for marriage, for Christ’s sake. The Dell’Acqua curse notwithstanding, I fall hard and fast.
Not Cal. Even when he’s stumbled, he’s never fallen.
And his next words send an arrow straight to my heart.
“Is there anything I can do?”
“No,” I say quickly.Fuck, God, no, Cal.“Don’t…say things like that. You don’t need to do anything. To…change anything.”
He knows what I mean. I know he does.
“I’ll get back on track,” I go on. “I just…” I scratch the back of my head. “Momentary lapse.”
Cal doesn’t move for a moment. Then he nods.
“Okay.” He looks at me, directly, for the first time in minutes. “I know how much this means to you.”
I don’t know whatthishe’s even talking about.
But no matter what…he’s right.
The light from the stained glass window plays across his face, and unable to stare at him any longer, I look up at it too. Beneath the rose window is a tableau of the Last Supper—serene disciples, a table piled high with food, and a shining gold chalice in the middle.
I have to shake my head.
“They don’t even know if it’s a cup,” Callahan says.
“What?” I turn to him, frowning.
He nods just barely at the stained glass.
“The Holy Grail. It’s disputed. Could be any kind of object. Lots of people think it’s the same as the Philosopher’s Stone. Or a place. Garden of Eden, Fountain of Youth, Lost City of Atlantis.”
Oh. I don’t want to talk about this now—logistics, semantics—but this is what Cal does, I’ve noticed.
Changes the subject. Gets down to brass tacks.
Anything but talk about feelings.
“Huh,” I say. “Go figure.”
“Yeah.” Cal’s voice is low. “Do you think…” He pauses. Continues. “Do you think this is all worth it?”
I chew the inside of my cheek. I don’t want to lie to him, but I don’t know if I can tell him the truth. Being one of us knights hasbeen—I hate to overstate it—but basically what brought Cal back to life. It gave him a purpose after losing his parents, the swim team. It gave him, as terrible as it sounds, me—something to live for. If I tell him what I think, what I’vebeen thinking, it could destroy him and—selfishly, I admit—it would destroy me, meaning that everything I’d worked for was just an excuse.
“I think it’s something that needs to be done,” I say. “And if we’re the ones to do it, then we have to do it.”
