“But now you’ve changed your opinion of me?” the other man asked in a mild tone.
“Tommy, I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate—am grateful to you for getting Garth away from that clinic when you did. If you hadn’t done what you did, Garth could have lost his mind, and maybe his life. But now I have to ask you a question.”
“Please do,” Tommy Carling said in the same mild tone.
“Anyone can see that you’re helping all sorts of people, doing all sorts of good works …”
“But?”
“Is what you’re up to here good for Garth? Once, that would have been the first question you asked yourself.”
Carling looked vaguely surprised. “Good for Garth? This is what he wants and desperately needs, Mongo. You don’t seem to be able to understand—or accept—that. He’s a man who feels the suffering of others to the very core of his soul. You know that he cries when he sees someone—man, woman or child—hungry, cold, or in pain? To help other people is not only a spiritual need for Garth; it is, without exaggeration, a physical one.”
“Tommy, my brother’s an escaped mental patient, with his thinking seriously out of joint. I know this is selfish, and not at all in the spirit of the way things are done around here, but I have to think of my brother’s welfare first. It occurs to me that all the business I see around here just feeds into his fantasies.”
“Fantasies, Mongo?” the male nurse said, raising his eyebrows slightly. “Just what fantasies of Garth’s are you referring to? Siegmund Loge, the Triage Parabola, and the Valhalla Project? Or maybe you mean his fantasy that he killed Orville Madison—and tried to kill somebody named Veil Kendry—because of the hurt inflicted on you?”
I quickly looked away, angry for having trapped myself. “Maybe ‘fantasies’ was a poor choice of words. What you’re doing is feeding into his problem—which is a badly distorted self-image and perception of reality. He belongs back in a mental hospital, not walking the streets playing Mother Theresa.”
Tommy Carling slowly shook his head, then absently brushed his ponytail back over his shoulder. “You’re a hard man, Mongo. I honestly believe there’s no sense of wonder—of awe or mystery—in you. I think I feel sorry for you.”
“Thanks, Tommy. Believe me, I can use all the sympathy I can get. I’d like you to feel a little pity for my brother.”
“Garth doesn’t need my pity; he’s the man who’s given me a renewed sense of wonder, awe, and mystery.”
“Garth is very seriously mentally disturbed.”
Again, Carling shook his head. “You truly believe that, Mongo? Still?”
“Still? Not so long ago you would never have questioned it. You didn’t help Garth escape from the clinic because you thought he was well; you took him out because you couldn’t bear to see a sick man made even sicker at the hands of a fool.” I paused, swallowed, put my own hands on the desk. “I guess what I’m doing is asking for your support in trying to convince Garth that he should go back to the D.I.A. clinic. He’ll be all right there now.”
“Garth doesn’t belong in a mental hospital, Mongo,” Carling said evenly. “Nor does Marl—not any longer, thanks to Garth. Garth is carrying out God’s design for him.”
“What does that mean, Tommy?” I asked, feeling my stomach muscles tighten.
Tommy Carling’s easy, loud laugh startled me. “You’ve really been having a problem getting around to asking me what’s really on your mind, haven’t you? Well, the answer is yes, I do believe Garth is the Son of God, the Messiah. I believe just as Marl believes—and yes, I know about the conversation you had with Marl. If my thinking—knowing—that Garth is God’s son, His personal messenger and our Savior, makes me crazy in your eyes, then so be it. I’m filled with more joy than you can possibly imagine, and what you think just doesn’t matter to me.”
“Tommy, your brains have run out your ears.”
Carling merely smiled. “You hear something which disturbs you, and the only way you can react is with an insult. As I said, I feel sorry for you. I don’t mean any offense, Mongo, but I can’t help but wonder now if that scar on your forehead wasn’t put there when it was for a reason.”
“That’s cute, Tommy; it’s a new twist, and I love it. When did this great revelation about Garth come to you?”
“Now that I think back, I think I was beginning to realize it back at the clinic, even before I took Garth out,” he replied, totally oblivious to—or choosing to ignore—my heartily felt sarcasm. “I began to realize it when I saw the incredible impact Garth had on sick people. Now … I’m just grateful that God chose me as His tool to save His son from destruction.”
“Marl Braxton didn’t plant this notion in your head?”
“No. I believe you were the only person Marl broached that subject to—and only because you’re Garth’s brother. I was the one who went to him with … my conviction. That was when he told me about his. We had quite a laugh over it.”
“I’ll bet you did. Tommy, you don’t really believe that Garth made a blind man see again, do you?”
“Absolutely,” Carling said without hesitation. “There’s no question that it happened. In fact, you had witnesses—including a New York City policeman, and a photographer. And there have been other miracles. The transformation of Marl Braxton is one—perhaps that was Garth’s first miracle. Considering who—what—Garth is, it really isn’t surprising that he should be able to perform miracles, is it?”
“Tommy, are you people running around advertising that Garth is the Messiah?”
“No. Even if we wanted to do that, Garth wouldn’t permit it.”
“Because he doesn’t believe it himself.”
“What Garth says and does is proof of who he is. Many people have already come to realize the truth, and their numbers will grow. Do you totally discount the possibility of miracles, Mongo?”
“In the sense that you mean the word, yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I had to take science courses, beginning in grade school.”
“What about the existence of God?”
“I don’t know what you mean by ‘God.’ If you mean a kindly old fellow who periodically sends one of his offspring to earth to do magic tricks, the answer is no. The notion of divine intervention is a very old superstition, as old as our species. In its various manifestations down through the ages, the business of looking for, and finding, messiahs has caused us a lot of grief.”
“That doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen.”
“It’s silly on the face of it.”
“How do you explain Garth’s impact on people?”
“How do you explain the impact Jim Jones or Adolf Hitler had on people?”
“Are you comparing your brother to mass murderers?”
“I’m saying that I have no way to explain why all of us occasionally think and behave in an irrational manner. I can’t explain why people believe the things they do, or why they react to certain people the way they do. If somebody like you, who’s intelligent and well educated, begins touting miracles and messiahs, what can we expect of people who aren’t as intelligent and well educated?”
“But you don’t understand,” Tommy Carling said softly. “Garth really is the Messiah. When that sinks into your head, you’ll feel the same joy and sense of wonder the rest of us feel. And your life will be changed forever.”
“If this Harry August tells you he was totally blind and Garth made him see again, he’s bullshitting all of you. You tell him I said that when you see him.”
There was a soft knock on the door. Carling rose from behind the desk, walked across the office, and opened it. In the doorway stood the nun and the scar-faced man with the long, greasy black hair and dark glasses.
“Excuse me,” the woman said, curtsying slightly in my direction. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything important. Harry and I just wanted to meet Garth’s famous brother.”
Carling opened the door wider, stepped
aside, then turned to me. “Mongo,” he said evenly, “perhaps you’d like to deliver your message to Harry in person.”
15.
I put Sister Kate in her late thirties or early forties. The hair that peeked from beneath the tight white band securing her black cowl was red. She had a sculpted face, with bright green eyes, high cheekbones, and a full mouth which was now set in a pleasant, expectant smile. She wore no makeup. Aside from her nun’s cowl, the rest of her clothing was strictly secular; the green jacket over a Mets sweat shirt, jeans, and sneakers. She was a handsome woman, with an unmistakable, no-nonsense air of authority: I certainly wouldn’t want to skim money from any outfit whose books she was auditing, and the fact that all the money and goods that were swirling around Garth at the moment were being properly accounted for made me feel slightly better.
The feelings Harry August stirred in me weren’t quite so benign or reassuring. As far as I was concerned, despite his misshapen face, he had “phony” written all over him. His greasy hair and generally unkempt appearance made him an eyesore in a place where the watchword seemed to be cleanliness; obviously, he wasn’t taking advantage of the shower facilities at the rear of the building. He was unshaven and looked thoroughly grubby. His facial features were twisted horribly out of shape by scar tissue which ringed both his eyes and radiated up over his forehead, down over his cheekbones. One milky brown eye was permanently tugged half shut by the scar tissue. I stared back into the one fully open eye of the “blind man” responsible for getting my brother on the front page of The National Eye.
“Pleased to meet you, Dr. Frederickson,” the nun said in a low, pleasing voice. “I’m Sister Kate, and this is Harry August.”
“You could have met me a lot sooner, Sister,” I replied coldly, “if somebody in this organization had extended me the courtesy of picking up a telephone and calling me to let me know where my brother was.”
Sister Kate looked inquiringly at Tommy Carling, then back to me. “Then I must apologize for all of us, Dr. Frederickson,” she said in the same mild, disarming tone. “Not all of us were aware that you didn’t know; I guess we all just assumed that Garth had been in touch with you.”
“You assumed wrong.”
The nun’s silence and slightly downcast eyes comprised a most eloquent response; other people shouldn’t be blamed for failing to do something that should have been my brother’s responsibility. She had a point.
“There’s something you wanted to say to me, Frederickson?” Harry August asked, peering at me with his one good eye.
“I have nothing to say to you, Mr. August,” I replied sharply. I was feeling colder, angrier, increasingly helpless and frustrated. “I came here for one simple reason—to see my brother. I believe I’ve outstayed my welcome, and I’d appreciate it if one of you good people would tell Garth that I was here. Now you’ll have to excuse me.”
“Garth is here, Mongo.” My brother’s head and broad shoulders suddenly appeared in the doorway, framed by the nun and Harry August. Sister Kate and August moved aside at the sound of my brother’s voice, and I could see that Marl Braxton was standing next to Garth. Behind them, crowded in a semicircle, were a number of tough-looking young men, all dressed in green jackets. “Welcome.”
“Hello, Garth.”
“You look well, Mongo,” Garth said evenly as he and Marl Braxton entered the office. The stony-faced young men remained outside—as if standing silent vigil. From Garth’s tone and manner, one would have thought that no more than a day or so had passed since we’d last spoken. He didn’t seem at all surprised to see me; indeed, his expression seemed oddly blank to me.
“Hi, Mongo,” Braxton said to me, his tone curiously flat.
“Hello, Marl,” I said curtly, then turned my attention back to my brother. “Garth, I’d like to talk to you alone.”
“Why alone, Mongo? All of us here are like a family.”
“Not my family.” I paused, watched as Marl Braxton leaned close to Garth and whispered something in his ear. Garth shook his head, smiled thinly, and made a deprecating gesture with his hands. I continued tightly, “Have you got something to say, Marl?”
Now Braxton shifted his gaze to me. “I’ve told Garth that I believe you may have been marked by God as a warning, Mongo,” he said evenly, the expression on his face curiously bland. “I mean no offense.”
“Marked?”
Slowly, Marl Braxton lifted his hand and pointed his index finger at my forehead. “That scar may have been put there by God as a warning to Garth’s followers to be wary of anything you do or say. I’ve told Garth that I’m not sure it’s a good idea for him to be alone with you.”
I glared back into Marl Braxton’s impassive face for a few moments, then bit off what I wanted to say as I reminded myself that Braxton was a certified madman. “Do you honestly believe I would do anything to hurt my brother, Marl?”
“You have been marked.”
“Garth, do you believe that?”
“No,” my brother replied matter-of-factly. “Garth doesn’t believe you’d ever try to hurt him, and Garth doesn’t believe you’ve been marked by God. There is no God.”
“Everyone around here seems to disagree with you. They not only believe in God, they believe you’re His son.”
“What difference does it make what my friends believe, Mongo? Actions are what are important, and all of us here work toward a common goal.”
Slowly, I swept my gaze around the office—meeting the gazes of Sister Kate, Harry August, Tommy Carling, Marl Braxton, and the silent guardians outside the doorway. “I’ve got a flash for all of you,” I said tightly. “Marked or not, I’m still Garth’s brother; he’s my flesh and blood.”
“He belongs to all of us now,” Tommy Carling said evenly. “He belongs to the world.”
“Well, I want your Messiah all to myself for a few minutes. After I’ve talked to him alone, I don’t give a damn what all of you do. But if everybody but Garth isn’t out of this room in twenty seconds, and that door isn’t closed behind you, I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. The Messiah’s earth brother is going to walk out of here and do something really crazy just so he can get some newspaper space and a few minutes on the evening news. I’ll see if I can make a big enough fool out of myself, so that maybe people will begin to see what fools all of you are; I’m not sure Garth’s People are ready for the kind of publicity I plan to get you. I’m not sure yet just what stunt I’ll pull, but I’m already giving it some serious thought.”
Only Garth, who was smiling benignly, seemed unperturbed by my patently ridiculous threat to try to embarrass a group of volunteers whose only crime was trying to feed, clothe, and otherwise care for the countless numbers of the homeless, helpless, and hopeless who lived on New York City’s streets. Harry August took a step backward, as if I had physically struck him; Marl Braxton’s dark eyes clouded, and I could see the muscles in his neck and jaw begin to move: Sister Kate and Tommy Carling exchanged a quick glance.
“Garth?” Tommy Carling said. “Is it all right with you? Do you mind talking to your brother alone?”
“Of course not,” Garth replied, and shrugged. “Why should Garth mind?”
It seemed an eminently sane response. Now Sister Kate took charge, ushering August, Braxton, and Carling out the door before leaving herself and quietly shutting the door behind her. I was left alone with the strange stranger who was my brother, who simply stood in the center of the room, his heavily muscled arms crossed over his chest, smiling at me. His wheat-colored hair had grown very long, and almost reached his shoulders; his brown eyes seemed full of strange lights, and the expression on his face was inscrutable.
“I almost didn’t recognize you without your earphones,” I said.
I’d hoped for at least a chuckle; instead, I got a serious reply.
“Garth doesn’t listen to the music when he’s on the streets. It isn’t needed out there. Garth goes out to hear and be heard. The people living on t
he sidewalks are the music.”
“What does Garth hear, and what is it that he wants to be heard?”
“We talk of need, loneliness, and pain. Then Garth tries to bring them back here so that we can do something about those things.”
“You’re doing good work, brother.”
“Yes; Garth knows that. As you see, Garth has a lot of help.”
“How did all those volunteers out there find out about you?”
“Garth doesn’t know. They just come in off the street and ask if they can help.”
“How come I didn’t hear about you?”
“Garth doesn’t know.”
“Garth …” I took a couple of steps forward, then stopped. I wanted to hug my brother, tell him that I loved him and was proud of him; and tell him just to stop being crazy. But my heart wasn’t in it. There was a wall between us that I couldn’t find a way to cross over. Besides, Garth no longer seemed all that crazy to me. Carling now sounded crazier than my brother. Everyone in the world, I thought, should be as crazy as this big, gentle man who, with no thought whatsoever of earthly or heavenly gain, simply walked the streets to gather in the mentally and physically crippled. Garth no longer seemed crazy, only … different. Perhaps unalterably changed. He was now a stranger I would probably never get to know, because I would never be able to hear the music he heard, the way he heard it. Which was probably the reason neither the NYPD nor I had heard anything about him until he had turned up on the front page of The National Eye. “Why didn’t you call me?”
Garth frowned. “Have you been ill?”
My brother now existed, almost literally, in another world. And there were more of “them” than there were of “us.” The Lessons of Siegmund Loge.
“No, I haven’t been ill. Did it ever occur to you that I might have been worried about you?”
The Cold Smell of Sacred Stone Page 21