INTIMATIONS

Shivering, Catherine turned up the collar of her jacket against the cool air of the early September morning. Dangling one leg against the massive branch she was sitting on, she wondered fleetingly what had possessed her to climb up this tree at such an ungodly hour. The sky was only now starting to color with the first faint streaks of dawn, and she began to wish she'd found another way of dealing with her anger at Tom Gunther than by running off to the park.

She'd been upset and furious and hurt, running and stumbling blindly along the paths; and then suddenly there had been this beautiful tree right in front of her. She'd stopped and braced her hands against its trunk, bending her head back to look up to its majestic crown. The foliage had been only a pattern of shadows against a barely brighter sky, but the sensation of the coarse bark beneath her palms had had a calming effect on her deeply disturbed emotions.

She should have said no when Tom had called, telling her he would come over. She'd been feeling pensive and a little depressed all day, and she really should have known better than to allow him into her bed when she was not in the mood for company at all. Shaking her head, she remembered the way Tom had practically told her to marry him. "It's the best you can do, Cathy," he'd said when she had dared to voice her doubt, "if you want to get out of that hopeless situation you're in."

Once again, Catherine cursed herself for having confided to him that she was feeling unhappy with her job in her father's law firm. How could she have been such a fool to believe that Tom of all people would understand? Sure enough, he'd done what he always did: he'd tried to take advantage and use her weak moment for his own purposes.

Catherine hugged her arms more tightly around her body. How could she have been so blind not to see it had never been the person she was inside who mattered to Tom. To him it was important whose daughter she was, how much money she possessed, and that she had a pretty face that could be shown around. The realization had hit her the moment she'd stared into his sarcastic smile after she'd just told him, "I don't want to lead an empty life in other people's shadows. I want to make a difference."

"Don't be childish," he'd said. "Those are the dreams of a teenager. As my wife you don't have to work, you know." He'd gone on talking after that, but she hadn't listened anymore. He hadn't heard a word. He'd simply asked her to step from her father's shadow into his own.

The sad thing was, Catherine mused, that Tom obviously thought he loved her. It didn't even occur to him that there might be something more to love. That, in fact, love was something else entirely.

Heaving a sigh, she felt relieved she hadn't told him that, too. She could just imagine what kind of answer she would have received.

A soft breeze stirred the leaves around her, and she felt reminded of other moments like this, moments of utter peace, moments in her childhood when she had climbed trees to escape from emotional pain. It had all begun with her mother's death. Could anybody imagine the loneliness of a child who had just lost her mother?

Catherine caught herself wiping her eyes with the back of one hand. And just when she thought that this was certainly not a good moment to indulge in self-pity, she saw a slight movement below her. Someone stood there -- just outside the opening of a large drainage pipe. A tall shadow. A man? Were her eyes playing tricks on her? How could he possibly have gotten there without her noticing? Or had he been there all the time, only becoming visible now that the first light of day settled over the park?

Catherine had to remind herself to breathe. She knew she mustn't make the slightest movement, because being discovered alone in Central Park could prove disastrous, especially for a woman. She could only hope that he didn't already know she was there and that maybe he was just waiting for her to climb down. So she made up her mind that she would simply wait for the first passersby while she kept her attention riveted to the dark, hooded figure who stood there, motionless -- so still that she began to doubt she'd seen him move at all. She strained her eyes to make out more than his silhouette, but he was too far away.

Suddenly he threw back his head, and although she could not see his face, there was something in his gesture that spoke to some deep part of her -- of yearning, of hope, and of a deep vulnerability. Gradually her fear was replaced by a strange wistfulness, and she felt a pang of regret when he turned away and was swallowed by the dark opening in the concrete wall.

Slowly, cautiously, Catherine climbed down the tree, and when her feet touched the ground she felt tempted -- just for a moment -- to go after him, to see where he had vanished.

"Have you gone mad, Chandler?" she mumbled to herself, shaking her head in disbelief. In spite of herself she had to smile, and her gait was light and full of energy when she finally turned and headed for home.

*

The memory of the sounds and smells of early morning was still playing around Vincent's senses as he made his way back down into his world through dimly lit corridors and gloomy passageways. He would have loved to have waited for the colors to awaken, but it had been too early for that. The retreating night had only presented him with various shades of gray. He could have remained out there just a little longer and embraced the dawn just a little more closely, but he knew, because he had learned the hard way, that this was something he must not do. Not because the approaching morning increased the danger of being seen, at least not in the first place, but because of what he might see -- and what might be impossible to forget, once he had to return to his own world of darkness: the glory of the sunrise, the beauty of a newborn day.

Those were for people to whom morning meant a beginning. To him, though, morning was an ending. It ended the only freedom he knew; the freedom of roaming the world above during the hours of darkness -- the only time he could breathe the crisp, clear air outside the tunnels and caverns below the city streets that were his home. He knew he should be grateful for having a home at all and, of course, he was, but today there was something in him which rebelled against having to return, something that loathed being subjected to the closely-knit community he was part of. Right now he would have rather fled down to a secluded part of the tunnel system just to be alone. Going Above always tugged at his emotions, leaving him with a feeling of incompleteness and indistinct longing, but this morning the pull of his heart had been particularly poignant. It was as if something had called out to him, a promise of things he'd been yearning for ever since he could remember, of things that had always been beyond his reach. Vincent stopped and leaned against the cold, hard wall of the corridor. Why should he long for things he did not know? Why should he want to be more to anybody than he already was? The people whom he lived with cared about and respected him. Father loved him, he knew that, even though his love could be a little oppressive at times. So, why should that not be enough? Expelling an impatient sigh, Vincent squeezed his eyes shut as he answered that question to himself. Because he could not stop dreaming. He knew he should, since dreams could only bring him pain. Dreams were not for someone such as he, and yet dreams were all he had.

Slowly, he brought up his hands, studying their furred backs and oddly shaped nails. He knew that he could rely on these hands; not only to help him save and protect those whom he cared about, but also to remind him of what he was. These hands would not let him forget. The thought filled him with grim satisfaction as he straightened and pushed away from the wall. Turning his back on a world that would soon be bathed in sunlight and beauty, he locked away that special part of his soul that refused to let go of dreams.

MIRACLES