"Tommy, my brother's an escaped mental patient, with his thinking seriously out of joint. I know this is selfish, and not at all in the spirit of the way things are done around here, but I have to think of my brother's welfare first. It occurs to me that all the business I see around here just feeds into his fantasies."
"Fantasies, Mongo?" the male nurse said, raising his eyebrows slightly. "Just what fantasies of Garth's are you referring to? Siegmund Loge, the Triage Parabola, and the Valhalla Project? Or maybe you mean his fantasy that he killed Orville Madison-and tried to kill somebody named Veil Kendry-because of the hurt inflicted on you?"
I quickly looked away, angry for having trapped myself. "Maybe 'fantasies' was a poor choice of words. What you're doing is feeding into his problem-which is a badly distorted self-image and perception of reality. He belongs back in a mental hospital, not walking the streets playing Mother Theresa."
Tommy Carling slowly shook his head, then absently brushed his ponytail back over his shoulder. "You're a hard man, Mongo. I honestly believe there's no sense of wonder-of awe or mystery-in you. I think I feel sorry for you."
"Thanks, Tommy. Believe me, I can use all the sympathy I can get. I'd like you to feel a little pity for my brother."
"Garth doesn't need my pity; he's the man who's given me a renewed sense of wonder, awe, and mystery."
"Garth is very seriously mentally disturbed."
Again, Carling shook his head. "You truly believe that, Mongo? Still?"
"Still? Not so long ago you would never have questioned it. You didn't help Garth escape from the clinic because you thought he was well; you took him out because you couldn't bear to see a sick man made even sicker at the hands of a fool." I paused, swallowed, put my own hands on the desk. "I guess what I'm doing is asking for your support in trying to convince Garth that he should go back to the D.I.A. clinic. He'll be all right there now."
"Garth doesn't belong in a mental hospital, Mongo," Carling said evenly. "Nor does Marl-not any longer, thanks to Garth. Garth is carrying out God's design for him."
"What does that mean, Tommy?" I asked, feeling my stomach muscles tighten.
Tommy Carling's easy, loud laugh startled me. "You've really been having a problem getting around to asking me what's really on your mind, haven't you? Well, the answer is yes, I do believe Garth is the Son of God, the Messiah. I believe just as Marl believes-and yes, I know about the conversation you had with Marl. If my thinking-knowing-that Garth is God's son, His personal messenger and our Savior, makes me crazy in your eyes, then so be it. I'm filled with more joy than you can possibly imagine, and what you think just doesn't matter to me."
"Tommy, your brains have run out your ears."
Carling merely smiled. "You hear something which disturbs you, and the only way you can react is with an insult. As I said, I feel sorry for you. I don't mean any offense, Mongo, but I can't help but wonder now if that scar on your forehead wasn't put there when it was for a reason."
"That's cute, Tommy; it's a new twist, and I love it. When did this great revelation about Garth come to you?"
"Now that I think back, I think I was beginning to realize it back at the clinic, even before I took Garth out," he replied, totally oblivious to-or choosing to ignore-my heartily felt sarcasm. "I began to realize it when I saw the incredible impact Garth had on sick people. Now … I'm just grateful that God chose me as His tool to save His son from destruction."
"Marl Braxton didn't plant this notion in your head?"
"No. I believe you were the only person Marl broached that subject to-and only because you're Garth's brother. I was the one who went to him with. . my conviction. That was when he told me about his. We had quite a laugh over it."
"I'll bet you did. Tommy, you don't really believe that Garth made a blind man see again, do you?"
"Absolutely," Carling said without hesitation. "There's no question that it happened. In fact, you had witnesses-including a New York City policeman, and a photographer. And there have been other miracles. The transformation of Marl Braxton is one-perhaps that was Garth's first miracle. Considering who-what-Garth is, it really isn't surprising that he should be able to perform miracles, is it?"
"Tommy, are you people running around advertising that Garth is the Messiah?"
"No. Even if we wanted to do that, Garth wouldn't permit it."
"Because he doesn't believe it himself."
"What Garth says and does is proof of who he is. Many people have already come to realize the truth, and their numbers will grow. Do you totally discount the possibility of miracles, Mongo?"
"In the sense that you mean the word, yes."
"Why?"
"Because I had to take science courses, beginning in grade school."
"What about the existence of God?"
"I don't know what you mean by 'God.' If you mean a kindly old fellow who periodically sends one of his offspring to earth to do magic tricks, the answer is no. The notion of divine intervention is a very old superstition, as old as our species. In its various manifestations down through the ages, the business of looking for, and finding, messiahs has caused us a lot of grief."
"That doesn't mean it couldn't happen."
"It's silly on the face of it."
"How do you explain Garth's impact on people?"
"How do you explain the impact Jim Jones or Adolf Hitler had on people?"
"Are you comparing your brother to mass murderers?"
"I'm saying that I have no way to explain why all of us occasionally think and behave in an irrational manner. I can't explain why people believe the things they do, or why they react to certain people the way they do. If somebody like you, who's intelligent and well educated, begins touting miracles and messiahs, what can we expect of people who aren't as intelligent and well educated?"
"But you don't understand," Tommy Carling said softly. "Garth really is the Messiah. When that sinks into your head, you'll feel the same joy and sense of wonder the rest of us feel. And your life will be changed forever."
"If this Harry August tells you he was totally blind and Garth made him see again, he's bullshitting all of you. You tell him I said that when you see him."
There was a soft knock on the door. Carling rose from behind the desk, walked across the office, and opened it. In the doorway stood the nun and the scar-faced man with the long, greasy black hair and dark glasses.
"Excuse me," the woman said, curtsying slightly in my direction. "I hope we're not interrupting anything important. Harry and I just wanted to meet Garth's famous brother."
Carling opened the door wider, stepped aside, then turned to me. "Mongo," he said evenly, "perhaps you'd like to deliver your message to Harry in person."
15
I put Sister Kate in her late thirties or early forties. The hair that peeked from beneath the tight white band securing her black cowl was red. She had a sculpted face, with bright green eyes, high cheekbones, and a full mouth which was now set in a pleasant, expectant smile. She wore no makeup. Aside from her nun's cowl, the rest of her clothing was strictly secular; the green jacket over a Mets sweat shirt, jeans, and sneakers. She was a handsome woman, with an unmistakable, no-nonsense air of authority: I certainly wouldn't want to skim money from any outfit whose books she was auditing, and the fact that all the money and goods that were swirling around Garth at the moment were being properly accounted for made me feel slightly better.