"That's nice, Garth," I said quietly, meaning it.
Garth shrugged, smiled thinly. "Garth also cries a lot when he's on the streets. That seems to mean a lot to the people Garth must help. Garth can't help crying, because he has been broken. He really does feel their cold, hunger, and loneliness. It's what. . Garth feels most of the time."
"I know."
"All this pain is in the place where Garth's I used to be."
"I know."
"And so what Garth does now is really very selfish; he's simply trying to ease his own suffering. That suffering doesn't allow him much time to think of anything else. Now can you understand, Mongo?"
"I'm not sure."
"Is Garth wrong to try to stop his own hurt by stopping the hurt of others?"
"No."
"Forgive Garth, Mongo, for the hurt he's caused you, Mom, and Dad. Garth didn't mean to be hurtful. All of the suffering that he sees and feels is much more. . immediate."
Now the tears in my eyes spilled over my lids and rolled down my cheeks. "I don't want you to hurt, Garth. That's why I want you to stop all this, come back to the clinic and let the people there help you to get better."
"Can the people at the clinic make Garth's pain go away, Mongo?"
"I. . don't know. I don't think anybody can promise that."
"Then Garth must continue to do what he can to help himself."
"There are dangerous people around you, Garth. They could bring harm to you, or to others."
"Who?"
"Marl Braxton, for one."
Garth shook his head. 'Marl isn't dangerous any longer. If you knew what he'd been through, if you'd met his maid of constant sorrows, you'd understand why he behaved the way he did in the past. All he needed was for someone to understand, and truly feel, all that he felt."
"Have you met Marl's maid of constant sorrows, Garth?" I asked in what I hoped was a neutral tone of voice.
Garth did not reply, and I pressed.
"Who is she, Garth? What is she?"
"Garth can't tell you," my brother replied simply. "He doesn't have the right."
One last try.
"Garth, you haven't done anything wrong or hurtful. But, in the end, I believe that great harm can come from this thing that's growing up around you. This is definitely a religious movement, whether you want it to be or not, and it's centered on you. Religious movements, whether they're centuries old or only months, always end up at some time or another with blood and destruction as fertilizer as the people in them try to make them grow even more, and faster. People are nailed to crosses, wars are launched in the name of holiness, bodies are broken, women's breasts are cut off and their babies' brains bashed out, kids are pushed down elevator shafts, rattlesnakes end up in dissenters' mailboxes. The souls of whole nations can be swallowed up. The religious impulse is an insane one, Garth, and it's probably at the core of all the rest of humankind's insanities-a lesson driven home to our hearts by Siegmund Loge."
"Garth agrees with everything you say, Mongo. Siegmund Loge taught us both the same lesson."
"Then come home with me, Garth. First, we'll have ourselves a good, stiff drink, and then I'll drive you back up to the clinic."
"Garth isn't a part of any religious movement. He doesn't lead, and he doesn't ask anyone to follow. He wants only to help people who need it."
"The movement exists, Garth. If it ends up smelling of death and mental slavery, I don't want any of that smell rubbing off on you."
Suddenly, Garth's eyes filled with tears. "Have you smelled what's out on the streets, Mongo? That's where the death, destruction, and mental slavery exists, and that's where my battle must be fought."
I sighed heavily, bowed my head. I tried to think of something else to say, but couldn't think of anything. It was time for me to leave. Again, I wanted to hug my brother-but that gesture was still beyond the wall, beyond me. I stepped forward and held out my hand; Garth gripped it.
"Good luck to you, Garth."
"And to you, Mongo. Thank you for all the years. . Thank you for truly being Garth's brother, in spirit as well as in flesh."
"Good-bye, Garth."
"Good-bye, Mongo."
My eyes were still wet when I walked out of the office-into a hall filled with a couple of hundred people, all staring at me. I pushed and shouldered my way toward the main entrance, tensed when I felt somebody's hand grip my shoulder.
"What will you do, Mongo?" Tommy Carling asked in an anxious voice.
"About this? Nothing. I'm gone. Thanks again, Tommy, for what you did for Garth. Good-bye, and good luck to you."
When I emerged on the street, the strange odor I'd noticed inside the bathhouse was gone. And I still didn't know what it had been. I remembered words from Ulysses, something about the "cold smell of sacred stone," and I wondered if what I'd smelled inside had been what Joyce was referring to.
16
It was at the beginning of the second week in December when my parents unexpectedly appeared at the door of the apartment I had once shared with Garth. Their visit surprised me, since we'd already made plans for me to visit them in Nebraska at Christmas; it also embarrassed me, since-although it was only four o'clock in the afternoon-I was half lit. I'd been very much out of sorts for the past two months-drinking too much, not eating right, and generally not taking care of business. I'd been turning down P.I. work, and a book on urban patterns of juvenile crime I'd been planning to finish in my newly acquired spare time still sat on my desk in piles of uncollated sheets, pages of statistics, and notes on half-formed ideas. I found it impossible to concentrate for extended periods of time. I felt defeated, frustrated; I also thought I knew how Dr. Frankenstein must have felt after his creation had gone lumbering out the door to terrorize the villagers. Garth wasn't terrorizing anyone; quite the contrary. Still, I desperately wished I had never brought Der Ring des Nibelungen to the clinic to play for my brother, and couldn't help but wonder how things might have worked out if I hadn't "imprinted" him with the music of Richard Wagner. Whatever might have happened, at least I wouldn't be sitting around feeling guilty and responsible for creating an entirely new personality for Garth.
"You don't look well, Robby," my mother said as she shifted slightly on the living room sofa, where she sat next to my father. I sat across from them in an overstuffed easy chair.
My mother, dressed in her Sunday best for her visit to the big city, still looked the embodiment of what I thought of as country simplicity and virtue. Her white hair had been neatly coiffed, and she looked beautiful to me in her simple print dress. She sat somewhat tensely, with her hands folded in her lap; her blue eyes were fixed on me with a gaze that was both loving and anxious. My father's gaze was a bit more stern; he knew Scotch when he smelled it.
"I'm all right, Mom-just a bit tired. I assume the two of you came to New York to see Garth. Have you been to his place downtown?"
"We've been down there," my father said in a slightly curt tone, "but we didn't see Garth."
"Yeah, well, I guess it's hard to know when he's going to be around. Maybe later the three of us can go-"
"We went to the place where we were told your brother lives and works now," my mother interrupted in a soft but strong voice. She clasped, then unclasped, her hands. "We spoke with a man who looks and sounds like your brother, but it wasn't him. That was definitely not my son."