BEFORE TIM AND KIRSTEN could return to England, the Episcopal Synod of Bishops convened to look into the matter of his possible heresies. The jerk-off-I should say, I suppose, conservative; that is the more polite term-bishops who stood as his accusers proved themselves idiots in terms of their ability to mount a successful attack on him. Tim emerged from the Synod officially vindicated. It made the newspapers and magazines, of course. Never at any time had this subject worried him. Anyhow, due to Jeff's suicide, Tim had plenty of public sympathy. He had always had that, but now, because of the tragedy in his personal life, he had it even more.
Somewhere Plato says that if you are going to shoot at a king you must be sure you kill him. The conservative bishops, in failing to destroy Tim, left him as a result even stronger than ever, which is the way with defeat; we say about such a turn of events that it has backfired. Tim knew now that no one within the Episcopal Church of the United States of America could bring him down. If he were to be destroyed, he would have to do it himself.
As for myself, in regard to my own life, I owned the house that Jeff and I had been buying. Jeff had made out a will, due to his father's insistence. I did not acquire much, but I acquired what there was. Since I had supported Jeff and myself, no financial problems confronted me. I continued to work at the law office and candle shop. For a time I believed that, with Jeff dead, I would gradually lose touch with Tim and Kirsten. That did not turn out to be the case. Tim seemed to find in me someone he could talk to. After all, I was one of the few people who knew the story about his relationship with his general secretary and business agent. And, of course, I had brought him and Kirsten together.
Beyond that, Tim did not jettison people who had become his friends. I amounted to much more than that anyhow; a great deal of love existed between the two of us, and out of that had come an understanding. We were, literally, good friends, in a sort of traditional way. The Bishop of California who held so many radical views and advanced such wild theories was, in his immediate life, an old-fashioned human being, in the best sense of the term. If you were his friend, he became loyal to you and stayed loyal to you, as I informed Ms. Marion years later, long after Kirsten and Tim were, like my husband, dead. It is a forgotten matter about Bishop Archer, that he loved his friends and stuck with them, even if he had nothing to gain in the sense that they had, or did not have, some power to advance his career, to enhance his station or advantage him in the practical world. All I amounted to in that world was a young woman working as a clerical secretary in a law office, and not an important law office. Tim had nothing to gain strategically by maintaining our relationship, but he maintained it up until his death.
Kirsten, during this period following Jeff's death, showed progressive symptoms of a deteriorating physical condition which, finally, the doctors diagnosed correctly as peritonitis, from which you can die. The bishop paid all her medical expenses, which came to a staggering sum; for ten days she languished in the intensive care unit of one of the best hospitals in San Francisco, complaining bitterly that no one visited her or gave a good goddamn. Tim, who flew all around the United States lecturing, saw her as often as he could, but it was not nearly often enough to suit her. I came over to the city to see her as frequently as possible. With me, as with Tim, it was (in her opinion) far too inadequate a response to her illness. Most of the time I spent with her amounted to a one-way diatribe in which she complained about him and about all else in life. She had aged.
It strikes me as semi-meaningless to say, "You are only as old as you feel" because, in point of fact, age and illness are going to win out, and this stupid statement only resonates with people in good health who have not undergone the sort of traumas that Kirsten Lundborg had. Her son Bill had disclosed an infinite capacity to be crazy and for this Kirsten felt responsible; she knew, too, that a major factor in Jeff's suicide had been her relationship with his father. That made her bitterly severe toward me, as if guilt-her guilt-goaded her into chronically abusing me, the chief victim of Jeff's death.
We really did not have much of a friendship left, she and I. Nevertheless, I visited her in the hospital, and I always dressed up so that I looked great, and I always brought her something she could not eat, if it was food, or could not wear or use.
"They won't let me smoke," she said to me one time, by way of a greeting.
"Of course not," I said. "You'll set your bed on fire again. Like you did that time." She had almost suffocated herself, a few weeks before going into the hospital. Kirsten said, "Get me some yarn."
"'Yam,'" I said.
"I'm going to knit a sweater. For the bishop." Her tone withered the word; Kirsten managed to convey through words a kind of antagonism one rarely encountered. "The bishop," she said, "needs a sweater."
Her animosity centered on the fact that Tim had proved able to handle his affairs quite well in her absence; at the moment, he was all the way up in Canada somewhere, delivering a speech. It had been Kirsten's contention for some time that Tim could not survive a week without her. Her confinement in the hospital had proven her wrong.
"Why don't Mexicans want their children to marry blacks?" Kirsten said.
"Because their kids would be too lazy to steal," I said. "When does a black man become a nigger?"
"When he leaves the room." I seated myself in a plastic chair facing her bed. "What's the safest time to drive your car?" I said.
Kirsten gave me a hostile glance.
"You'll be out of here soon," I said, to help her cheer up.
"I'll never be out of here. The bishop is probably-never mind. Grabbing ass in Montreal. Or wherever he is. You know, he had me in bed the second time we met. And the first time was at a restaurant in Berkeley."
"I was there."
"So he couldn't do it the first time. If he could have, he would have. Doesn't that surprise you about a bishop? There are a few things I could tell you ... but I won't." She ceased speaking, then, and glowered.
"Good," I said.
"Good what? That I'm not going to tell you?"
"If you start telling me," I said, "I will get up and leave. My therapist told me to set clear limits with you."
"Oh, that's right; you're another of them. Who's in therapy.
You and my son. You two ought to get together. You could make clay snakes in occupational therapy."
"I am leaving," I said; I stood up.
"Oh Christ," Kirsten said irritably. "Sit down."
I said, "What became of the Swedish mongoloid cretin who escaped from the asylum in Stockholm?"
"I don't know."
"They found him teaching school in Norway." Laughing, Kirsten said, "Go fuck yourself."
"I don't have to. I'm doing fine."
"Probably so." She nodded. "I wish I was back in London.
You've never been to London."
"There wasn't enough money," I said. "In the Bishop's Discretionary Fund. For Jeff and me."
"Oh, that's right; I used it all up."
"Most of it."
Kirsten said, "I got to go nowhere. While Tim hung around those old faggot translators. Did he tell you that Jesus is a fake? Amazing. Here we find out two thousand years later that somebody else entirely made up all those Logia and all those
'I am' statements. I never saw Tim so downcast; he just sat and stared at the floor, in our flat, day after day."
To that I said nothing.
"Do you think it matters?" Kirsten said. "That Jesus was a fake?"
"Not to me it doesn't," I said.
"They haven't really published the important part. About the mushroom. They're keeping that secret for as long as they can. However-"What mushroom?"
"The anokhi. "
I said, incredulous, "The anokhi is a mushroom?"
"It's a mushroom. It was a mushroom back then. They grew it in caves, the Zadokites."
"Jesus Christ," I said.
"They made mushroom bread out of it. They made a broth from it and drank the broth; ate the bread, drank the broth. That's where the two species of the Host come from, the body and the blood. Apparently the anokhi mushroom was toxic but the Zadokites found a way to detoxify it, at least somewhat, enough so it didn't kill them. It made them hallucinate."
I started laughing. "Then they were a-"
"Yes, they turned on." Kirsten, too, now laughed, in spite of herself. "And Tim has to get up every Sunday at Grace and give Communion knowing that, knowing they were simply getting off on a psychedelic trip, like the kids in the Haight-Ashbury. I thought it was going to kill him when he found out."
"So then Jesus was in effect a dope dealer," I said.
She nodded. "The Twelve, the disciples, were-this is the theory-smuggling the anokhi into Jerusalem and they got caught. This just confirms what John Allegro figured out ... if you happened to see his book. He's one of the greatest scholars vis-a-vis Near Eastern languages ... he was the official translator of the Qumran scrolls."
"I didn't see his book," I said, "but I know who he is. Jeff used to talk about him."
"Allegro figured out that the early Christians were a secret mushroom cult; he deduced it from internal evidence in the New Testament. And he found a fresco or wall-painting ... anyhow, a picture of early Christians with a huge amania muscaria mushroom-"
"Amanita muscaria," I corrected. "It's the red one. They are terribly toxic. So the early Christians found a way to detoxify it, then."
"That's Allegro's contention. And they saw cartoons." She began to giggle.
"Is there actually an anokhi mushroom?" I said. I knew something about mushrooms; before I married Jeff, I had gone with an amateur mycologist.
"Well, there probably was, but nobody today knows what it would be. So far, in the Zadokite Documents, there's no description. No way to tell which one it was or if it still exists."
I said, "Maybe it did more than cause hallucinations."
"Like what?"
A nurse came over to me, at that point. "You'll have to leave, now."
"Okay." I rose, gathered up my coat and purse.
Kirsten said, "Bend over." She waved me toward her; in a whisper directly into my ear she said, "Orgies."
After kissing her good-bye, I left the hospital.
When I arrived back in Berkeley and had made my way by bus to the little old farmhouse that Jeff and I had been living in, I saw, as I walked up the path, a young man crouched over in the corner of the porch; I halted warily, wondering who he was.
Pudgy, with light-colored hair, he bent stroking my cat Magnificat, who had curled up happily against the front door of the house. I watched for a time, thinking: Is this a salesman or something? The young man wore trousers too large for him, and a brightly colored shirt. On his face, as he petted Magnificat, was the most gentle expression I had ever seen on a human face; this kid, who obviously had never encountered my cat before, radiated a kind of fondness, a kind of palpable love, that in fact was something new to me. Some of the very early statues of the god Apollo reveal that sweet smile. Totally absorbed in petting Magnificat, the kid remained oblivious to me, to my nearby presence; I watched, fascinated, because for one thing Magnificat was a rough-and-tumble old tomcat who normally did not allow strangers to get near him.
All at once the kid glanced up. He smiled shyly and rose awkwardly to his feet. "Hi."
"Hi." I walked toward him, carefully, very slowly.
"I found this cat." The kid blinked, still smiling; he had guileless blue eyes, absent of any cunning. "It's my cat," I said.
"What's her name?"
"It's a tomcat," I said, "and he's named Magnificat."
"He's very beautiful," the kid said.
"Who are you?" I said.
"I'm Kirsten's son. I'm Bill."
That explained the blue eyes and the blond hair. "I'm Angel Archer," I said.
"I know. We've met. But it was-" He hesitated. "I'm not sure how long ago. They gave me electroshock ... my memory isn't very good."
"Yes," I said. "I guess we did meet. I just came from the hospital visiting your mom."
"Can I use your bathroom?"
"Sure," I said. I got my keys from my purse and unlocked the front door. "Excuse the mess. I work; I'm not home enough to keep it neat. The bathroom is off the kitchen, in the back. Just keep on going."
Bill Lundborg did not close the bathroom door behind him; I could hear him urinating loudly. I filled the tea kettle and put it on the burner. Strange, I thought. This is the son she derides. As she derides us all.
Reappearing, Bill Lundborg stood self-consciously, smiling at me anxiously, quite obviously ill at ease. He had not flushed the toilet. I thought, then, very suddenly: He has just come out of the hospital, the mental hospital; I can tell.
"Would you like coffee?" I said.
"Sure."
Magnificat entered the kitchen.
"How old is she?" Bill asked.
"I have no idea how old he is. I rescued him from a dog. After he had grown, I mean, not as a kitten. He probably lived somewhere in the neighborhood."
"How is Kirsten?"
"Doing really well," I said. I pointed to a chair. "Sit down."
"Thanks." He seated himself; placing his arms on the kitchen table, he interlocked his fingers. His skin was so pale. Kept indoors, I thought. Caged up. "I like your cat."
"You can feed him," I said; I opened the refrigerator and got out the can of cat food.
As Bill fed Magnificat, I watched the two of them. The care he took in spooning out the food ... systematically, his attention deeply fixed, as if it were very important, what he had become involved in; he kept his gaze intent on Magnificat, and as he scrutinized the old cat he smiled again, that smile that so touched me, so made me start.
Batter me, oh God, I thought, remembering for some strange reason. Batter and kill me; they have injured this sweet kind baby until there is almost nothing left. Burned his circuits out as a pretense of healing him. The fucking sadists, I thought, in their sterile coats. What do they know about the human heart? I felt like crying.
And he will be back in, I thought, as Kirsten says. In and out of the hospital the rest of his life. The fucking sons of bitches.
Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, you As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee, and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurpt town, to'another due,
Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely' I love you, and would be loved faine,
But am betroth 'd unto your enemie:
Divorce mee, untie, or breake that knot againe,
Take awe to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish mee.
My favorite poem of John Donne's; it came up into me, into my mind, as I watched Bill Lundborg feed my worn old cat.
And I laugh at God, I thought; I make no sense out of what Tim teaches and believes, and the torment he feels over these various issues. I am fooling myself; in my own labored way, I do understand. Look at him serve that ignorant cat. He-this child-would have been a veterinarian, if they hadn't maimed him, shredded up his mind. What had Kirsten told me? He is afraid to drive; he stops taking out the garbage; he will not bathe and then he cries. I cry, too, I thought, and sometimes I let the trash pile up, and one time I nearly got sideswiped on Hoffman and had to pull over. Lock me up, I thought; lock up us all. This, then, is Kirsten's affliction, having this boy for her son?
Bill said, "Is there anything else I can feed her? She's still hungry."
"Anything you see in the fridge," I said. "Would you like something to eat?"
"No thanks." Again he stroked the awful old cat-a cat who never gave the time of day to any person. He has made this animal tame, I thought, as he himself is: tame.
"Did you come here on the bus?" I said.
"Yes." He nodded. "I had to surrender my driver's license. I used to drive, but-" He became silent.
"I take the bus," I said.
"I had a real great car," Bill said "A '56 Chevy. A stick shift with an eight, the big eight they made; it was only the second year Chevrolet made an eight; the first year was '55."
"Those are very valuable cars," I said.
"Yes; Chevrolet had changed to that new body-style. After the old higher, shorter body- style they used so long. The difference between a '55 and a '56 Chevy is in the front grille; if the grille includes the turn-signal lights, you can tell it's a
"Where are you living?" I said. "In the City?"
"I'm not living anywhere. I got out of Napa last week. They let me out because Kirsten is sick. I hitched down here. A man gave me a ride in his Stingray." He smiled. "You have to take those 'Vettes out on the freeway every week or they build up carbon deposits in the mill.
He was blowing carbon out the whole way. What I don't like about a 'Vette is the fiberglass body; you can't really repair it." He added, "But they certainly are good-looking. His was white. I forget the year, although he told me. We got it up to a hundred, but the cops pace you a lot when you're in a 'Vette, hoping you'll exceed the limit. We had a Highway Patrol after us part of the way but he had to turn his siren on and take off; an emergency of some kind, somewhere. We flipped him off as he went by. He was real disgusted but he couldn't cite us; he was in too much of a hurry."
I asked him, then, as tactfully as I could, why he had come to see me.
"I wanted to ask you something," Bill said. "I met your husband one time. You weren't home; you were working or something. He was here alone. Was his name Jeff?"
"Yes," I said.
"What I wanted to know is-" Bill hesitated. "Could you tell me why he killed himself?"
"There are a lot of factors involved in something like that."
I seated myself at the kitchen table, facing him. "I know he was in love with my mother."
"Oh," I said. "You do know that."
"Yes, Kirsten told me. Was that the main reason?"
"Perhaps," I said.
"What were the other reasons?"
I was silent.
"Would you tell me one thing," Bill said, "one particular thing? Was he mentally disturbed?"
"He had been in therapy. But not intensive therapy."
"I've been thinking about it," Bill said. "He was mad at his father because of Kirsten. A lot of it had to do with that. See, when you're in the hospital-a mental hospital-you know a lot of people who've tried suicide. Their wrists are all sawed on. That's always the way you can tell. The best way, when you do that, is up the arm in the direction the veins run." He showed me his bare arm, pointing. "The mistake most people make is cutting at right angles to the vein, down at the wrist. We had this one guy, he laid open his arm for like about seven inches and-" He paused, calculating. "Maybe as much as a quarter inch wide. But they still were able to sew it up. He had been in for months. He said one time in group therapy that all he wanted to be was a pair of eyes bugging out from the wall, so he could see everyone but no one could see him. Just an observer, not a part of what was going on, ever. Just watching and listening. He would have to be a pair of ears, too, to do that."
For the life of me I could think of nothing to say.
"Paranoids have a fear of being looked at," Bill said. "So invisibility would be important to them. There was this one lady, she couldn't eat in front of anyone. She always took her tray off to her room. I guess she thought eating was dirty." He smiled. I managed to smile back.
How strange this is, I thought. An eerie conversation, as if it is not actually taking place.
"Jeff was real hostile," Bill said. "Toward his father and toward Kirsten both, and maybe toward you, but I don't think as much; toward you, I mean. We talked about you that day I came over. I forget when that was. I had a two-day pass. I hitched down then, too. It's not that hard to hitch. A truck picked me up, even though it had a NO RIDERS sign posted. It was carrying some kind of chemicals, but not the toxic kind. If they're carrying flammable material or toxic material they know not to give you a ride, because if there is an accident and you're killed or poisoned then sometimes it voids their insurance."
Again I could think of nothing to say; I nodded.
"The law," Bill said, "in case of an accident where a hitchhiker is injured or killed, is that it's presumed he rode at his own risk. He took the chance. So because of that when you hitch if something happens you can't sue. That's California law. I don't know how it is in other states."
"Yes," I said. "Jeff felt a lot of anger toward Tim."
"Do you feel animosity toward my mother?"
After a pause, after I had thought it over, I said, "Yes. I really do."
"Why? It wasn't her fault. Any time a person kills himself, he has to take full responsibility. We learned that. You learn a lot in the hospital. You know a whole bunch of things that people on the outside never find out. It's a crash course in reality, which is the ultimate-" He gestured. "Paradox. Because the people there are there because, presumably, they don't face reality, and then they wind up in the hospital, the mental hospital, a state hospital like Napa, and have to face a whole lot more reality all of a sudden than other people ever have to do. And they face it very well. I've seen things I have been very proud of, patients helping other patients. One time this lady-she was like about in her fifties-said to me, 'Can I confide in you?' She swore me to secrecy. I promised not to say anything. She said, 'I'm going to kill myself tonight.' She told me how she was going to do it. This was not a locked ward. She had her car parked out in the lot and she had an ignition key they didn't know she had; they-the staff-thought they had all her keys but she kept this one back. So I thought it over, about what I should do. Should I tell Dr. Gutman? He was in charge of the ward. What I did was, I sneaked outside onto the lot-I knew which car was hers-and I removed the coil wire that runs-well, you wouldn't know. It runs between the coil and the distributor. There's no way you can start an engine with that wire missing. It's easy to do. When you park your car in a really rough neighborhood and you're afraid someone will steal it, you can pull out that wire; it comes out real easy. She cranked it until the battery ran down and then she came back in. She was furious but later on she thanked me." He pondered and then said, half to himself, "She was going to ram an ongoing car on the Bay Bridge. So I saved him, too; the other car. It might have been like a station wagon full of kids."
"My God," I said faintly.
"It was a decision I had to make in a hurry." Bill said. "Once I knew she had that key, I had to do something. It was a big Merc. Silver-colored. Almost new. She had a lot of money. In a situation like that if you don't act, it's the same as helping them."
I said, "It might have been better to tell the doctor."
"No." He shook his head. "Then she would have-well, it's hard to explain. She knew that I did it to save her life, not to get her in trouble. If I had told the staff-especially if I had told Dr. Gutman-she would have interpreted that as me just trying to get her kept there another couple of months. But this way they never knew, so they didn't hold her any longer than they originally intended to. When I got out-she got out before I did-one time she came by my apartment ... I gave her my address; anyhow, she came by-she was driving that same Merc; I recognized it when she pulled up-and she wanted to know how I was getting along."
"How were you getting along?" I said.
"Not good at all. I didn't have money to pay my rent; they were going to evict me. She had a whole lot of money; her husband was rich. They owned a bunch of apartment buildings up and down California, as far down as San Diego. She went back to her car and came back and handed me a roll of what I thought were nickels. You know; a roll of coins. After she left, I opened the roll at one end and they were gold coins. She told me later she kept a lot of her money in the form of gold. It was from some British colony. She told me when I sold them to a coin dealer to specify that they were 'B.U.' That stands for 'bright uncirculated.' It's a dealers' term. A bright uncirculated coin is worth more than whatever the opposite would be. I got about twelve dollars a coin, when I sold them. I kept one, but I lost it. I got something like six hundred dollars for the roll, with that one coin missing." Turning, he scrutinized the stove. "Your water's boiling."
I poured the water into the Silex coffee pot.
"Unboiled coffee," Bill said, "filtered coffee, is a lot better for you than the percolated kind, where it shoots back up to the top and starts all over again."
"That's true," I said.
Bill said, "I've been thinking a lot about your husband's death. He seemed like a really nice person. Sometimes that's a problem."
"Why?" I said.
"Much mental illness stems from people repressing their hostility and trying to be nice, too nice. The hostility can't be repressed forever. Everybody has it; it has to come out."
"Jeff was very calm," I said. "It was hard to get him to fight. Marital quarrels; I was usually the one who got mad."
"Kirsten says he had been dropping acid."
"I don't think that's true," I said. "That he dropped acid."
"A lot of people who get messed up get messed up from drugs. You see a lot of them in the hospital. They don't always stay that way, contrary to what you hear. Most of it is due to malnutrition; people on drugs forget to eat and, when they do eat, they eat junk food. The muscles. Everyone who does drugs gets the munchies, unless, of course, they're taking amphetamines, in which case they don't eat at all. Much of what looks like toxic brain psychosis in speed freaks is in fact a deficiency in their galvanic electrolytes. Which are easily replaced."
"What sort of work do you do?" I said. He seemed less ill at ease, now. More confident in what he was saying. "I'm a painter," Bill said.
"What artist is your work-"
"Car painting." He smiled gently. "Spray painting. At Leo Shine's. In San Mateo. 'I'll spray your car any color you want it for forty-nine-fifty and give you a written six-month guarantee."' He laughed and I laughed, too; I had seen Leo Shine's commercials on TV.
"I loved my husband very much," I said.
"Was he going to be a minister?"
"No. I don't know what he was going to be."
"Maybe he wasn't going to be anything. I'm taking a course in computer programming. Right now I'm studying algorithms. An algorithm is nothing but a recipe, like when you bake a cake. It is a sequence of incremental steps sometimes utilizing built-in repeats; certain steps have to be reiterated.
One primary aspect of an algorithm is that it be meaningful; it's very easy to unintentionally ask a computer a question it can't answer, not because it's dumb but because the question really has no answer."
"I see," I said.
"Would you consider this a meaningful question," Bill said.
"Give me the highest number short of two."
"Yes," I said. "That's meaningful."
"It's not." He shook his head. "There is no such number."
"I know the number," I said. "It's one-point-nine-plus-" I broke off.
"You would have to carry the sequence of digits into infinity. The question is not intelligible. So the algorithm is faulty. You're asking the computer to do something that can't be done. Unless your algorithm is intelligible, the computer can't respond, but it will attempt to respond, by and large."
"Garbage in," I said, "garbage out."
"Right." He nodded.
"I'm going to ask you a question," I said. "In return. I'm going to give you a proverb, a common proverb. If you are not familiar with the proverb-"
"How much time will I have?"
"This isn't timed. Just tell me what the proverb means. 'A new broom sweeps clean.' What does that mean?"
After a pause, Bill said, "It means that old brooms wear out and you have to throw them away."
I said, " 'The burnt child is afraid of fire.' "
Again he was silent a moment, his forehead wrinkling.
"Children easily get hurt, especially around a stove. Like this stove here." He indicated my kitchen stove.
"'It never rains but it pours.'" But I could tell already. Bill Lundborg had a thinking impairment; he could not explain the proverb: instead he repeated it back in concrete terms, the terms in which it itself had been phrased.
"Sometimes," he said haltingly, "there's a lot of rain. Especially when you don't expect it."
"'Vanity, thy name is woman.'"
"Women are vain. That's not a proverb. It's a quotation from something."
"You're right," I said. "You did fine." But in truth, in very truth, as Tim would say, as Jesus used to say, or the Zadokites said, this person was totally schizophrenic, according to the Benjamin Proverb Test. I felt a vague, haunting ache, realizing this, seeing him sit there so young and physically healthy, and so unable to desymbolize, to think abstractly. He had the classic schizophrenic cognitive impairment; his ratiocination was limited to the concrete.
You can forget about being a computer programmer, I said to myself. You will be spray- painting low-rider cars until the Eschatological judge arrives, and frees us, one and all, from our cares. Frees you and frees me; frees everyone. And then your damaged mind will, presumably, be healed. Cast into a passing pig, to be run over the edge of a cliff, to doom. Where it belongs.
"Excuse me," I said. I walked from the kitchen, through the house, to the farthest point from Bill Lundborg possible, leaned against the wall with my face pressed into my arm. I could feel my tears against my skin-warm tears-but I made no sound.