discouragingly similar, Lanky nodded his head vigorously and started mumbling, “There! See. That’s what I mean!” It was a little like being in some bizarre revivalist church. Evans ignored these statements, trying to engage the other members of the group in some sort of give-and-take conversation.
Peter the Fireman, however, took notice. He abruptly turned to Lanky and asked him directly, “Big Guy, what’s wrong?”
Lanky’s voice quavered, as he spoke: “Don’t you see, Peter? The signs are everywhere! Unrest, hatred, war, killing …” He abruptly turned to Evans and asked, “Isn’t there some story in the paper about famine, as well?”
Mister Evil hesitated, and Newsman gleefully said, “Sudanese Struggle with Crop Failure. Drought and Starvation Cause Refugee Crisis. The
New York Times
.”
“Hundreds dead?” Lanky asked.
“Yes. In all likelihood,” Mister Evans replied. “Perhaps even more.”
Lanky nodded vigorously, his head bobbing up and down. “I’ve seen the pictures before. Little babies with their bellies swollen and spindly little legs and eyes sunken back all hollow and hopeless. And disease, that’s always with us, right alongside famine. Don’t even need to read Revelations all that carefully to recognize what’s happening. All the signs.” He leaned back abruptly in his steel folding chair, took a single long glance outside the barred window that opened on the hospital grounds, as if assessing the final light of the day, and said, “There is no doubt that Satan’s presence is here. Close by. Look at all that is happening in the world. Bad news everywhere you look. Who else could be responsible?”
With that, he folded his arms in front of him. He was suddenly breathing hard, and small droplets of sweat had formed on his forehead, as if each thought that reverberated within him took a great effort to control. The rest of the dozen members of the group were fixed in their chairs, no one moving, their eyes locked on the tall man, as he struggled with the fears that buffeted around within him.
Mister Evil noticed this, and abruptly steered the topic away from Lanky’sobsession. “Let’s turn to the sports section,” he said. The cheeriness in his voice was transparent, almost insulting.
But Peter the Fireman persisted. “No,” he spoke with an edge of anger in his words. “No. I don’t want to talk about baseball or basketball or the local high school teams. I think we ought to talk about the world around us. And I think Lanky’s truly onto something. All there is outside these doors is awful. Hatred and murder and killing. Where does it come from? Who’s doing it? Who’s good anymore? Maybe it isn’t because Satan is here, like Lanky believes. Maybe it’s because we’ve all turned for the worse, and he doesn’t even need to be here, because we’re doing all his work for him.”
Mr. Evans stared hard at Peter the Fireman. His gaze had narrowed. “I think you have an interesting opinion,” he said slowly, measuring his words in an understated cold fashion, “but you exaggerate things. Regardless, I don’t think it has much to do with the purposes of this group. We’re here to explore ways to rejoin society. Not reasons to hide from it, even if things out in the world aren’t quite the way we might like them to be. Nor do I think it serves a purpose when we indulge our delusions, or lend any credence to them.” These last words were directed both at Peter and Lanky equally.
Peter the Fireman’s face was set. He started to speak, then stopped.
But into that sudden void, Lanky stepped. His voice was quivering, on the verge of tears. “If we are to blame for all that is happening, then there’s no hope for any of us. None.”
This was said with such unbridled despair that several of the other people in the session, who had been quiet until then, immediately muffled cries. One old man started to tear up, and a woman wearing a pink ruffled housecoat,
Peter the Fireman, however, took notice. He abruptly turned to Lanky and asked him directly, “Big Guy, what’s wrong?”
Lanky’s voice quavered, as he spoke: “Don’t you see, Peter? The signs are everywhere! Unrest, hatred, war, killing …” He abruptly turned to Evans and asked, “Isn’t there some story in the paper about famine, as well?”
Mister Evil hesitated, and Newsman gleefully said, “Sudanese Struggle with Crop Failure. Drought and Starvation Cause Refugee Crisis. The
New York Times
.”
“Hundreds dead?” Lanky asked.
“Yes. In all likelihood,” Mister Evans replied. “Perhaps even more.”
Lanky nodded vigorously, his head bobbing up and down. “I’ve seen the pictures before. Little babies with their bellies swollen and spindly little legs and eyes sunken back all hollow and hopeless. And disease, that’s always with us, right alongside famine. Don’t even need to read Revelations all that carefully to recognize what’s happening. All the signs.” He leaned back abruptly in his steel folding chair, took a single long glance outside the barred window that opened on the hospital grounds, as if assessing the final light of the day, and said, “There is no doubt that Satan’s presence is here. Close by. Look at all that is happening in the world. Bad news everywhere you look. Who else could be responsible?”
With that, he folded his arms in front of him. He was suddenly breathing hard, and small droplets of sweat had formed on his forehead, as if each thought that reverberated within him took a great effort to control. The rest of the dozen members of the group were fixed in their chairs, no one moving, their eyes locked on the tall man, as he struggled with the fears that buffeted around within him.
Mister Evil noticed this, and abruptly steered the topic away from Lanky’sobsession. “Let’s turn to the sports section,” he said. The cheeriness in his voice was transparent, almost insulting.
But Peter the Fireman persisted. “No,” he spoke with an edge of anger in his words. “No. I don’t want to talk about baseball or basketball or the local high school teams. I think we ought to talk about the world around us. And I think Lanky’s truly onto something. All there is outside these doors is awful. Hatred and murder and killing. Where does it come from? Who’s doing it? Who’s good anymore? Maybe it isn’t because Satan is here, like Lanky believes. Maybe it’s because we’ve all turned for the worse, and he doesn’t even need to be here, because we’re doing all his work for him.”
Mr. Evans stared hard at Peter the Fireman. His gaze had narrowed. “I think you have an interesting opinion,” he said slowly, measuring his words in an understated cold fashion, “but you exaggerate things. Regardless, I don’t think it has much to do with the purposes of this group. We’re here to explore ways to rejoin society. Not reasons to hide from it, even if things out in the world aren’t quite the way we might like them to be. Nor do I think it serves a purpose when we indulge our delusions, or lend any credence to them.” These last words were directed both at Peter and Lanky equally.
Peter the Fireman’s face was set. He started to speak, then stopped.
But into that sudden void, Lanky stepped. His voice was quivering, on the verge of tears. “If we are to blame for all that is happening, then there’s no hope for any of us. None.”
This was said with such unbridled despair that several of the other people in the session, who had been quiet until then, immediately muffled cries. One old man started to tear up, and a woman wearing a pink ruffled housecoat,
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