Silhouette by Dave Swavely Page A

manipulation!”
    â€œListen, you little bitch,” the old man is shouting now, “I’d control things more if I could, and if I knew it was best for the people of this city … and I’d manipulate your punk ass right out of it!”
    At this point Paul stepped in, calmed down his father, and concluded the press conference in a softer and gentler way; and, along with D, had conducted all of them ever since. I remembered hearing that afterward, Saul was regretful about this ugly scene, which was broadcast all over the world, of course. I also realized that it was probably a key event (or setback) in his wife’s efforts to reform his speech patterns, and I wondered if she had chastened him for his comments about control as well. But since Mrs. Rabin had died seven years ago, I could see how he might now have reverted to the control problem, even though he continued to honor her memory in the language department.
    Not wanting to risk any more exposure on the Web, I took off the glasses. I was locked in a living hell without a key, but at least things were becoming more clear in my mind. I used to view Saul Rabin’s last press conference as impressive evidence of his chutzpah, that he was not willing to back down to special-interest groups pushing their agendas. But now I was starting to see it as oppressive, rather than impressive.
    I heard movement from the stairs, and a guilty feeling shot through me. I sat up straight and wiped the sweat on my face with my sleeve, looking over just in time to see Lynn appear from the stairs. She looked briefly at me, went across the kitchen to get her Black Death book, and walked back to the stairs. As she started up them, she said, “I love you,” without looking at me, then disappeared.
    I shook my head, thinking that loving her was a lot easier than understanding her.
    I forced myself to my feet, still groggy, thankful that some of my anger had been swallowed by the sleep, or maybe released by the dreams. I traversed the kitchen and climbed the stairs. Lynn was in our room, on the bed, reading the book with her knees drawn up in front of her. I assumed the same position next to her, reading along with her for a little while, hoping to find comfort in the book myself.
    She was at a part where the author was describing flagellism, a religious practice that arose during the plague. It was an attempt on the part of some fanatics to appease the wrath of God and end the suffering by inflicting pain upon themselves. They thought this self-abuse could somehow atone for the sins that had caused the pestilence. The author quoted from a fourteenth-century eyewitness named Jean Froissart.
    The penitents went about, coming first out of Germany. They were men who did public penance and scourged themselves with whips of hard knotted leather with little iron spikes. Some made themselves bleed very badly between the shoulder blades and some foolish women had cloths ready to catch the blood and smear it on their eyes, saying it was miraculous blood. While they were doing penance, they sang very mournful songs about nativity and the passion of Our Lord. The object of this penance was to put a stop to the mortality, for in that time … at least a third of all the people in the world died …
    I continued reading for a while, but didn’t find that it made me feel any better. The poor wretches who went through the plague had it bad, for sure—but at least none of them had murdered their own daughter and friend. And it was beginning to bother me more and more that the subject of this cruel deity seemed to be popping up at every turn during my ordeal … I had enough to worry about with the enemies I could see. On the other hand, the book’s references to death and atonement did lead me to some ideas about my situation that were strangely cathartic. Paul was right, of course, that acting on my own, I could never take out the old man without