The dictates of The Game appeased, he let his mind sink back into its
depression.
"I don't think it will happen, though. Your mother has put her
trust in our approach. I doubt she would change her mind."
He stirred himself.
"In the face of all the progress that we've made?"
"Yes, we've made. I'm glad you said it. That's evidence
enough. All I've heard since you first came is 'I' and 'They'—Julian versus The
World. You've been treating us like opponents. But I believe that may be changing. I
believe you've come to realize that people here are on your side, not only willing but
capable of helping you."
"All that, from a slip of the tongue? Amazing."
"I'm wrong, then? You would rather leave?"
"I didn't say that. I admit I need a little break from hearth and
home—I'll be here at two—but allow me some integrity. I have to play this game
out on my own."
Game! Sister Zoe knew that this game business was precisely the
problem. He insisted on perceiving things in terms of competition. She wanted to take
Julian by the shoulders and shake him—then hug him, for he needed that more. He
looked smaller, somehow, slouching in the corner of her couch. He was not very big—no
more than 5 feet 6, slight of build.
Seeing him so closely, however, the nun could well imagine how, in
ancient times, albinos (and suchlike) were revered. Often looked upon as holy men,
oracles, or seers, they were worshipfully pampered in the courts of emperors and kings.
She had a sudden urge to touch him—of which she felt immediately ashamed, for it
seemed to spring from some remote and dusky superstition.
Then all that seemed quite silly. His injured hand was resting near.
Surely there was nothing that prevented her from examining it, casually. Yet as she
reached, he flinched, as though he sensed the root of her intention. He was glaring at
her, or rather, his coal-black lenses were. How their blind expressionlessness framed such
vivid import she had no idea, but she felt distinctly indicted by their stare.
"Is it painful? Our nurse said that the cut was fairly deep."
He expelled a hollow laugh.
"I'll live."
"Had you intended otherwise?… Julian?"
"'All that dies is our reflection'; isn't that a quote from
something?"
"I don't know. Will you tell me what it means?"
"You're the immortality buff. How would you explain it?"
"I would say it meant our shell is all that dies—the ego we
have mistaken for our essence."
"And I suppose this 'essence,' once its envelope drops dead, wings
its way to Heaven or goes plummeting to Hell."
"Those are not the terms that I would use."
"They're the terms that getup represents."
"This 'getup,' as you call it, represents a lot of things, of
which the Bible and its teachings are important parts. But not everyone of Faith accepts
the Gospel as the literal Word of God. Many Catholics, no less devout, appreciate the Word
as metaphor. Therein lies its greatest beauty, and its everlasting relevance, since each
of us must answer for him or herself the questions of existence. So when you speak of
Heaven and Hell, I have to look within, knowing that the meanings at which I arrive may
differ from those embraced by former times and cultures, or even by my peers. Faith is not
a static institution, Julian. It has to breathe. And breathing, it is subject to the rule
by which all life proves it 'is'—the rule of change."
"I think you're an odd duck, Ms. Zoe."
"That may be true. So, give me your interpretation."
"All right. When a man puts his fist through a mirror, he cuts his
hand."
She had to laugh. His matter-of-factness undercut her sermon. There
was, however, no denying the gravity of his conduct. He had attacked himself. A
mock suicide, to be sure, but a definite warning that Julian's thoughts were once more
self-destructive.
"My tribulations must be particularly comical today. You're the
second person I've had laughing."
"I really shouldn't be. It is rather serious, you know."
"Merely a superficial wound. 'Maimed' was for effect."
"It was to the act itself I was referring."
"Ah well, look at it this way: during a fleeting twinge of
inner-loathing, mistaking a facsimile, the patient hauled off and slugged himself,
whereupon the illusion shattered, leaving the original unscathed—relatively—to
ponder fate's ironic sense of humor. Like it?"
"No. You're avoiding the…"
"How about: his life in a shambles at his feet—actually at my
waist, since the glass fell into the sink—he realized that Man was far less fragile
than his image?"
"I wish you would use that mind of yours for something more
productive than repartee."
"Oh? I thought that second one was pretty close to your ego vs.
essence theory—the I of my I survives."
"The difference is one of conviction. You don't believe the things
you say."
"Now she shows her colors! Faith makes truth. The moon is
made of cheese."
"You leap before you look, Julian. If you're truly interested in
understanding, don't criticize so perfunctorily. Of course believing a thing does not make
it true, just as disbelieving a truth does not make it false. The point is, you have an
exaggerated skepticism, and that won't lead any closer to the truth than would credulity.
Of what are you afraid?"
"'Of what'; don't you ever end in prepositions? Of losing, Ms.
Zoe, my life, for instance. Like everybody else, I'm afraid of dying."
"Then why are you pursuing death so hotly?"
Snatching his jacket, he jumped to his feet and stomped across the
room, then turned to face her.
"You call that therapy!?"
As he exited, slamming the door behind him.
