Transition

by Henry Charles Mishkoff

  Actually, I would have loved to have done it myself.

  “But the fact remains,” G.W. continues, “that I already know that you were born Morris Nathaniel Steinberg – in the Bronx, as I recall. Let’s see…” He pulls a scrap of paper from a jacket pocket and reads from it. “That’s right, born in the Bronx. You’re forty-one years old now. You went to high school in Poughkeepsie – your family moved there when you were six. You attended two different colleges for your undergraduate work, and then another two for your master’s degree…”

  “Three,” Nathan corrects. “Your researchers must have missed the summer I attended the University of Colorado. But I’m sure,” he adds, reassuringly, “that they’ll find it, given enough time.”

  “…and you received a doctorate in psychology from the University of Chicago. You had a practice in New York for almost five years – fancy Park Avenue address, you must’ve been making out like a bandit. And then you moved to LA, where, from what I can make out, you were sort of a ‘headshrinker to the stars,’ or something like that. You did that for, let’s see, about four years, and then there was some kind of sexual misconduct charge… Actually there were two of them, I guess. And one of them seems to have involved a minor. I’m sorry, I can’t even read my own chicken-scratches. But the charges were dropped, or you beat ‘em, or something – I won’t know the full story on that until I get the final report…

  “But anyway, about three years ago, you closed up your office and you went to India for four months. And when you came back you were a full-fledged swami, or whatever you call yourself, and you started using your middle name – actually, you had always used your middle name, but I guess you lost your last name in India, because there’s no record of you having used it since you’ve been back.” G.W. looks up from his notes. “How’m I doing?” he asks, cheerfully.

  “I know all these things already,” Nathan points out. “There’s no need for you to tell me. I have an excellent memory.”

  “Ah, but the point is, does everybody else know these things? Does Sunshine know about them? Especially the child molestation bit? And what would she think of you if she did know? Kinda casts you in a whole new light, don’t you think?”

  “Of course she knows.” Nathan looks vaguely amused. “Everybody knows. At least, anyone who cares to know is welcome to know. I have no secrets. I would have told you any of these things, had you but asked me. And I’d be pleased to provide any information that you don’t already possess, although I can’t imagine why you’d be interested in the story of my life. Especially its recent years, which have been quite unremarkable.”

  “Unremarkable?” G.W. is skeptical. “Oh, I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Nathan. It says here that you’ve got hundreds of followers all over the world who think you’re a living incarnation of God. Is that true, by the way?”

  “Is it true that people think that I’m an incarnation of God?”

  “Don’t be a smartass. Is it true that you are an incarnation of God?”

  “Is that a serious question?” Nathan parries. “Would you believe me if I said yes?”

  “Shit, no. I just want to find out if you’re as crazy as people think you are. Did you know that people in Sturdivant call you and your group The Crazies?”

  “So I’ve heard. People will think what they will.”

  “So? Are you God?”

  “That depends on what you mean by God. We filter language through the webs of our own individual experiences, and it’s often difficult for one person to ascertain the exact meaning of another. The answer I give may not be the answer you hear.”

  “Bullshit. It’s an easy question. Are you God? Yes or no. Tell me the truth.”

  “Truth is not as absolute as you seem to believe,” Nathan counters. “What’s true for you may not be true for me. But…” – he holds up his hand as G.W. starts to object again – “… but, to give you the answer that you are seeking, I have, in fact, never claimed to be an incarnation of God.”

  “But your followers believe that you are, don’t they? The ones who live with you do – I guess I should say the ones who used to live with you, until your house burned down.”

  “People believe what they believe. I do nothing to encourage such beliefs.”

  “Or discourage them.”

  “Or discourage them,” Nathan agrees pleasantly.

  Leaning against the back of the stool, G.W. looks over to the bar and holds up his glass as a signal for Manolo to pour him another drink. He glances over his shoulder; Corinne and Roger sit with their backs to him, staring at a movie on the video screen that sits in the far corner of the cabin. Must be a DVD, G.W. thinks, absently; I think we’re far enough out so that we wouldn’t be getting any TV reception. He glances out the small oval windows that line the far wall, but from his angle he sees nothing but blue sky.

  Sunshine is nowhere in sight. Well, good, G.W. thinks, maybe Jill’s talked her into catching a little shut-eye. They sure could use it, both of them. Poor kids. What an ordeal.

  “Well, let’s get down to it,” G.W. says, after he’s downed half of his new drink in one satisfying gulp. “I know it’s not gonna make a rat’s ass worth of difference, but I’m dying of curiosity just the same. So suppose you explain to me why you don’t think that criminals should go to jail.”

  “You’re misrepresenting my feelings,” Nathan says easily, as if it doesn’t really matter to him one way or the other. “What society does with people who break its laws is no concern of mine whatsoever. If people who break laws are sent to jail, fine. If not, that’s okay too. I have no opinion on the subject.”

  “Then why won’t you cooperate with the police? They just want to find out who burned down your house so he can get what’s coming to him.” That’s not exactly true, G.W. thinks. The police don’t seem to be any more interested in making an arrest than Nathan is. “But they tell me that you won’t cooperate. They say that you even refused to give a deposition before you left. And they also tell me that your followers, spineless sheep that they are, also refuse to cooperate – because you refuse to, I presume. And don’t give me that horseshit about them doing whatever they want to do, because we both know that they do whatever it is that they think you want them to do, am I right?”

  “If you say so.”

  “I know so. So, explain to me why this scumbag Billy, or whatever his name is, shouldn’t be behind bars where he belongs. He burned down your house. He almost killed my daughter – although in fairness to the son of a bitch, from what Jill tells me, he didn’t even know she was in the house at the time. But he sure as hell did his best to kill you and the rest of your Crazies, Nathan. Jill tells me he had you tied up on the front porch when he torched the house. Sure sounds like attempted murder to me. Seems to me that you’re lucky to be alive, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I might say that,” Nathan responds. “If I believed that there was such a thing as luck.”

  “You mean that you…” G.W. stops and waves a hand in front of his face, erasing an imaginary slate. “No, no, no,” he says, “I’m not going to let you drag me off into some cosmic rabbit-hole again. Just answer me. Tell me why you don’t think that Billy deserves… no, I better not say ‘deserves,’ you’ll tell me that nobody really deserves anything. Let me see… Okay, let’s keep it simple. Tell me why you refuse to help the police find out who burned down your house.”

  “I do not believe,” Nathan responds, “that any useful purpose is served by depriving people of their freedom. If the police want to lock someone up, that’s fine, but they will have to do it without my help. I will not be a party to it.”

  “Well, that’s very noble, I suppose, in a sick kind of way.” Having realized that Nathan simply can not – or, perhaps, will not – be offended, G.W. has decided to allow himself the pleasure of being ruder than he might otherwise have been. “But let’s stop spouting generalities. Let’s talk about the bastard who almost killed my daughter. Jill see
ms to think that he also raped Sunshine a few weeks ago. So I think it’s safe to say that he’ll probably rape somebody else someday. Or maybe he’ll burn down somebody else’s house, now that he’s discovered how much fun it can be.” G.W. leans forward, his forearms resting on the table. “And if you don’t do something to stop him now, and he does it again, then as far as I’m concerned, you’re at least partly responsible for what he does.”

  “I accept responsibility for no other person. If I don’t even claim responsibility for the actions of those you call my followers, why would I feel any responsibility for the actions of those who consider themselves to be my enemies?”

  “But what about justice, Nathan? Doesn’t that concept mean anything to you?” G.W. shakes his head and stares at his drink. “I think that that’s what bugs me most about this whole mess. The son of a bitch who did it isn’t going to get what’s coming to him. He’s not going to be brought to justice. It’s just not fair. And it grinds on me, Nathan. I don’t mind telling you that it really chaps my butt. I believe that people who do good things should be rewarded and people who do bad things should be punished, just like it says in the Bible. And the thought of that criminal walking around scot-free, just like you and me…” He stops, and shakes his head again.”

  “Your faith is touching,” Nathan says, and G.W. suspects that he’s being gently mocked. “And in the long run, you’re right, we all reap exactly what we sow. But the rewards and punishments, as you call them, may be distributed over many lifetimes, perhaps hundreds of them. Only in books and movies do people inevitably get their just deserts. In real life, some good people suffer. And some bad people triumph. If the person who burned down my ashram is never punished, there is no divine sense of justice that will be outraged. Life will go on, as before.”

  “But why shouldn’t he be locked up?” In spite of his best efforts, G.W. realizes that he’s getting upset. “Why shouldn’t he have to take responsibility for his own actions? He breaks the law, he should be punished. Hell, I think the asshole should be drawn and quartered, myself. But I’d settle for seeing him sent up the river for about thirty years.”

  “But what good would it do to punish him?” Nathan asks. “The ashram would not rise from the ashes. Sunshine cannot be unraped.”

  “What good would it do?” G.W. is incredulous. “Well, for one thing, it would discourage other people from doing what he did. They oughta hang his ass from the highest tree in Connecticut. You can bet that anyone else would think twice about following in his footsteps. That’s what good it would do.”

  Nathan shakes his head. “No, no, you misunderstand. What good would it do him to punish him?”

  “What good would it do who?” G.W. is puzzled. Arguing with Nathan is a lot like walking through a pasture filled with cowshit, he realizes. If you watch your step, it takes you forever to get anywhere. But if you don’t, you put your foot down right in the middle of something that smells real bad.

  “To him,” Nathan clarifies. “To the person who burnt down the ashram. What good would it do to him to lock him up?”

  “What good would it do the fucking criminal to lock him up?” G.W.’s voice rises as he becomes more exasperated. “What good would it do to an arsonist and rapist to lock him up? Why the hell should I give a flying fuck about what good it does him? Are you loony?”

  “Perhaps.” Nathan smiles. “Perhaps my ideas are loony, as you say, from your perspective. But I have complete compassion for all sentient beings, regardless of who they are or what they do. After all, they each have the spark of the godhead within them. Each one is equally worthy of my love. The fact that some may have committed acts of which others disapprove is of no consequence. My only interest is in their spiritual advancement.”

  G.W.’s jaw drops. “Holy shit,” he says. And then again: “Holy shit. You are crazy. You’re more than crazy. You’re dangerous.”

  “Dangerous?” Nathan seems genuinely puzzled. “In what way? I hardly think I pose a threat to anyone.”

  “I think you’re dangerous to everyone around you,” G.W. counters. “You almost got thirteen people killed last night. Fourteen, counting you – not that I give a shit about your life, you understand. And you’ve messed with Sunshine’s head so bad that she doesn’t know which way is up anymore. Coming to SMU and training under Coach Danziger could change her whole life. And she’d go, if you’d tell her to. But you won’t, because you want her to keep worshiping you. You don’t want her to learn that the sun doesn’t rise and set on Morris Nathaniel Steinberg. You can talk all this spiritual crap till you’re blue in the face, but you’re still just a fucking child molesting pervert as far as I’m concerned.”

  G.W. pauses just long enough to polish off his drink with two quick gulps. “Hell,” he continues, “you’re not worried about Sunshine’s spiritual advancement, you’re probably just after her body. What am I saying?” he catches himself. “Shit, you’ve probably had her already, am I right?”

  G.W. has leaned back in his chair to finish his drink, and Nathan now leans forward, his arms resting on the table, in an imitation of the pose that G.W. has just abandoned. “Are you certain,” Nathan asks, a sparkle in his eye, “that you’re not projecting your own sexual fantasies? Perhaps it is you who wishes to enjoy Sunshine’s body, yes?”

  “Well, shit,” G.W. blusters, as he rises angrily from his stool. “There’s no sense in talking to you. You just twist everything that anybody says until it doesn’t make a damn bit of sense anymore.” And he whirls and storms out of the lounge, clomping noisily up the steps that lead to his office.

  But even as he stomps up the stairs, G.W. can’t help but recognize that his indignant exit would have been much more effective if his face hadn’t suddenly turned a hot, bright shade of crimson.

  Book 5

  Struggle

  Transition

  Book 5: Struggle

  Part 1:

  The Incident

  5.1.1: Aqevina

  She’s wheeling her bike up the path that leads to the house when she sees them. They’re sprawled out on the front steps, talking animatedly among themselves. They haven’t spotted her yet.

  Jillian frowns. Who are they? How did they get in here? And what do they want?

  And more to the point: How did they get past the guard at the gate? He’s under strict orders not to admit strangers. But at least they don’t appear to be reporters – the jumble of bicycles leaning against the porch suggests that, whoever they are, they’re probably athletes.

  And then it all makes sense because one of the interlopers, sitting with her back to Jillian as she approaches, is dressed all in white and sports an unruly mop of flaming red hair. And after all, Jillian remembers, I did tell the guard that it was okay to let Sunshine through the gate and onto the grounds. Not that I really expected her to show up, but I did invite her, and it would be rude to have her come all the way out here only to be turned away by the guard. So the guard let Sunshine pass, and Sunshine didn’t come alone, and the guard must have decided that if Sunshine was okay, then her friends must also be okay too.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have told Sunshine where I was staying, Jillian thinks, as she wheels her bicycle toward the house. I should have learned by now that when I invite Sunshine, she invites other people. But what could I do? I felt bad enough about not asking her to stay here with us. God knows, there’s enough room for half the U.S. Olympic Team in this place. But I was afraid that if I invited her, she’d invite Nathan. Or her parents. Or both. And how could I train with all of those idiots hanging around? That would have defeated the whole purpose of staying out here.

  And mother would have had a fit.

  Now, as she draws near, one of the strangers waves and calls out to her – Jill! How the hell are you? – and although the face doesn’t quite look familiar, maybe he’s not a stranger after all, because the voice sure sounds like it belongs to Jason Stackhouse.

  Jillian squints. “You’ve cut your hai
r,” she announces, still not quite close enough to talk at a conversational volume. “Oh my God, you’ve grown a mustache. No wonder I didn’t recognize you!”

  Jason grins as he trots over to greet her. “It’s so good to see you!” he enthuses, wrapping her in a ferocious hug and kissing her on the cheek. Putting his arm around her waist, he walks her the rest of the way back to the house. “Nobody figured you had a chance of making it here after the way you tore up your knee. Me, I figured you were too mean to let something as trivial as some torn cartilage slow you down.”

  Sunshine rushes over and claims the next hug, just a quick one, before she apparently remembers that it’s something that she’s not supposed to do. She backs off a step, but she’s still smiling. And she doesn’t seem to be able to stop talking, something about how wonderful the Olympic Village is, and how she’s met so many wonderful people, and how she’s having such a wonderful time, and how it’s all so… so…

  “Wonderful?” Jillian prompts. I’ve never seen Sunshine so happy, she thinks. It’s like she’s an entirely different person. I think I even heard her laughing as I walked up.

  “That’s it!” Sunshine says, not seeming to realize that she’s being teased. “Wonderful! It is wonderful! That’s the only word to describe it.”

  The remaining trio of strangers has wandered up behind Sunshine. One of them has to nudge her three or four times before she gets the hint. “Oh, Jill, I’m so sorry,” Sunshine says. “I already feel like I’ve known them forever, I forgot that you’ve never met them.” She’s momentarily distressed, and Jillian’s about to tell her that it’s okay – but then Sunshine’s smiling again, and she’s ready to start the introductions. “This is Marta…” she says, but then she stops and frowns…

  “Konuszenka,” Marta says. She smiles warmly as she extends her hand for Jillian to shake. Lean but well-muscled, Marta stands a good head taller than Jillian; she carries herself with a quiet confidence that reminds Jillian of many of the athletes she met in the Olympic Village four years ago. “I am pleez to meet you,” Marta says, stiffly, obviously reciting a memorized phrase.