I kneel beside him among the capsized toys and phone books.
He’s pointing to my day planner. It’s turned to yesterday’s page. Not until I leaf forward do I understand.
Today and tomorrow have been torn out.
I’m frozen. It bubbles up in me like tar, what this means.
“What was on those pages?” Simon asks.
Everything. A cross-section of our lives. Fall term starts next week, so I had written down my teaching schedule. All our plans with Simon were there, too.
I murmur what Simon has already figured out. “He’s still looking for us.”
My brother begins to dial a number on his mobile phone. “I’m going to reserve a room at the Casa for you and Peter.”
The Casa. Our Vatican hotel. Very private; very anonymous. It solidifies what this all means. Peter and I aren’t safe anymore in our own home.
Even as Simon talks to the receptionist, a sharp knock comes at the door. Peter instantly comes running out of the bathroom in terror. With him pressed against the backs of my legs, I step forward and turn the knob.
It’s a gendarme. The same one from last night.
“Officer,” I say eagerly, “you caught someone?”
“Unfortunately, no, Father. I just need to take a few more notes.”
I invite him inside, but he chooses to stand on the threshold, stooping to inspect the doorjamb.
Peter tugs at me, not wanting the policeman to be here. Maybe not wanting to be here himself.
The cop glances up. “Father, your nun told me the door was locked when the man entered.”
“That’s right. When I leave the apartment, I always lock it.”
“Even last night?”
“I double-checked it before I left for Castel Gandolfo.”
He stares at the doorjamb. One of his fingers runs up and down the wood. He tests the knob. It takes me a second to understand. There’s no damage to the door or frame.
“I’m going to need to take some photos,” he says. “I’ll call you later to discuss some things.”
* * *
PETER REFUSES TO STAY at the apartment while the policeman is there, so we pass an hour outdoors before our meeting with Uncle Lucio. Keeping to the well-guarded trails, we visit the fountains in the pope’s gardens, which Simon and I know by unofficial names from our childhood. Fountain of the dead frog. Fountain of the unexplained eel. Fountain of the night Caterina Fiori drank too much and danced. Eventually we find ourselves at the little playground beside the Vatican tennis court, where Peter asks his uncle to stand behind the swing and push him higher and higher. From the arc of his flight, he cries out, “Simon! Do you know why the leaves change color? It’s chlorophyll!”
His hobbyhorse of late.
Simon is staring elsewhere, into the distance. When he becomes aware of his silence, he says, “Why don’t all trees change color?”
He was never a strong student, but after four years of college, and four years of seminary, and three more years of Academy, he has become an advertisement for our Church’s constitutional obsession with schooling. John Paul holds a doctorate in theology and a doctorate in philosophy. We encourage Peter to learn anything and everything.
“Because,” Peter shouts, “the chlorophyll just stays in their leaves!”
Simon and I trade a glance, deciding this sounds right. “Do you know,” Simon says, “what I’ve been reading about?”