One of his graduate students. An angry little beignet with startling brown eyes.
Rebecca’s eyes, he thought, then immediately pushed the thought away as if it were tainted by something toxic.
He needed another drink. “I guess it is pretty funny. Because if it weren’t for our new hero, Eve never would’ve exercised the free will God granted her. And without free will, there’s no real purpose to life.”
Murmurs all around. None of them friendly.
“Without free will, we just follow rules. And what fun is that? No adventure, no quests, no glory, no passion, no redemption. All those things that make us human.” He paused. “Fortunately, somebody recognized that God’s Paradise was a flawed creation, and that Man was living under a kind of blissful tyranny. So he decided to do something about it.” Batty let his gaze sweep across the room. “And that, my friends, is the very definition of heroism.”
“Oh, really?” The beignet was on her feet now, a fierce little thing filled with the indignation of a True Believer. “And what did this so-called hero give us? The Holocaust? Disease? Gang violence?”
Batty shrugged. “Why stop there? What about poverty? Starving children? Endless war? The oil spill? Katrina?”
That last one, Batty knew, was a trigger point. Hurricane Katrina was Louisiana’s sorest of sore spots, had caused more pain and devastation than anyone here could remember, and the wounds were still festering, all these years later.
“Some might argue that the havoc Katrina brought us had more to do with God’s abandonment of Man than Man’s abandonment of Eden, and it doesn’t really negate my point. None of those things do.” He looked at the rest of the class. “Not everything in the Bible is black and white, ladies and gentlemen, which is why we’ve spent the last several centuries arguing about it. And I think John Milton himself understood this. He was a pious Puritan, but that didn’t keep him from authoring an epic about an anguished rebel rising up against an all-powerful tyrant. There’s no doubt his work was born out of a reaction to his times and his strong endorsement of regicide, but it makes you wonder if he knew something the rest of us don’t.” Batty paused. “Maybe he knew a true hero when he saw one.”
And that was when the dam broke.
Something nasty stirred in the air and several of the students joined the True Believer, shooting to their feet in protest, while others headed straight for the doors. Some began shouting at Batty, calling him a fool and a charlatan and a few choice names that would have made their grandmothers blush.
This wasn’t the first time he’d pissed them off, but it was the strongest reaction he’d ever managed to get from them. They were obviously fed up with his apparent lack of respect for their faith-an accusation he’d take issue with-and he didn’t suppose the distinct smell of Tullamore Dew oozing from his pores helped matters much.
He was about to tell them that he was simply trying to stimulate their stagnating intellects; that they should sit back down and think for once in their short, useless lives, when a familiar voice called out to him-
“Professor LaLaurie. May I see you in my office, please?”
And standing in the doorway, a scowl on her face, was the associate dean of Trinity Baptist College, one Edith Rose Stillwater, widow of the late Reverend Arthur Stillwater, Batty’s best friend and mentor.
Batty turned, gave her a tight smile and tried not to stagger.
This was not going to be pleasant.
Poor Milton must be turning in his grave,” Edith said.
She sat behind the big oak desk she had inherited from her husband a little over a year ago, looking as if she had just bitten into a peach and discovered it was rancid.
Batty sank into a chair across from her. “Milton was a free thinker, Edith. He would have agreed with every word I said today. Arthur would have, too.”
“Oh, please. Arthur was a good Christian who believed in the word of God. Not the nonsense you were spewing.”
“He also had a world-class intellect. One he liked to use. Not everything he believed in was limited to the constipated mutterings of the gospel according to John Smyth.”
Edith stared at him. “Are you purposely trying to get yourself fired?”
Batty had spent so much time in self-destruct mode lately, he wasn’t sure he knew the answer to that. But he didn’t let it hold him back. “The only thing I do with any real sense of purpose these days is seek out liquid sustenance.”
“That’s fairly obvious. You smell like a distillery.”
Batty shrugged. “What can I say? Aftershave just doesn’t have the same kick.”
Edith sighed in exasperation. It was obvious she’d had more than enough of him and Batty couldn’t really blame her. Insolence and sarcasm were his first line of defense these days and he doled them out with the abandonment of a street-corner lunatic.
“For God’s sake, Sebastian. Why do you insist on being so contrary? Arthur loved you like a brother but I sometimes have to wonder why.”
“Not enough to fire me, apparently.”
“Believe me, I only hired you here out of loyalty to him. And call me a fool, but I still hold hope that time in a nurturing environment like this might help turn you around. Unfortunately, you seem to have gotten worse.”
“It’s the world that’s gotten worse, Edith. I’m just an observer.”
“An observer with one of the finest minds I’ve ever encountered-and I hate to see you waste it. I don’t know a practicing scholar in this country who has more insight into the history of religion and religious doctrine than you do.”
The point was arguable, but Batty certainly knew a lot more than he probably should. Too much knowledge-and the curiosity that goes along with it-can sometimes get you in trouble.
He’d learned that the hard way.
So had Rebecca.
“But your mind can only take you so far,” Edith continued, “and while there’s room for a certain amount of cynicism when it comes to matters of faith, you don’t always have to be so infuriatingly obnoxious about it.”
Batty shrugged again. “The kids love me. Didn’t you see the way they were cheering me-”
“Enough.”
Batty closed his mouth. Sour Edith had been abruptly replaced by Stern Edith, and he knew better than to wander down that alley.
“As much as I hate to do this,” she said, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to make this your last warning.”
“Didn’t you say that three or four warnings ago?”
“I’m deadly serious, Sebastian. Look at you, you can barely sit up straight. Are those bruises on your face?”
Batty said nothing. He vaguely remembered getting into a brawl last night. Or was that the night before? Fighting and fornicating were not exactly admirable pursuits in his line of work, but he’d done his share of both lately.
He caught Edith staring at the scars on his wrists. She shifted uncomfortably and averted her gaze. “I’ve been extremely patient with you, but that ends now. And if Arthur were here instead of me, he’d do exactly the same thing. So, please, for the sake of us all, sober up, get some help, and put your faith in God.”
That last bit flipped a switch inside Batty’s head. He thought of the night Rebecca died and no longer felt like being insolent or sarcastic or, as Edith had so delicately put it, infuriatingly obnoxious. He just stared at her, incredulous. “You want me to put my faith in God?”
“It was good enough for Arthur. It should be good enough for you.”
Batty felt fury rising inside him, but he tamped it down and leaned toward her. “Do you ever smell them, Edith?”
She looked confused. “I beg your pardon?”
“Rebecca did. And so do I sometimes. That was both our blessing and our curse.”
“What on earth are you talking about? What does Rebecca have to do with this?”
“Look around you, Edith. They’re among us. They look just like you and me, but that smell, it radiates off their bodies like pig shit on a farmer’s shoes.”