by Ian Wallace
I shook my head, biting my lip.
He leaned toward me, persuading: When I was Burk, you were my goddess. When I was Dio, you were my intimate friend in my desperate need. Two nights ago, when I was Rourke, you were my lover again. Now we are one man and one mind using the power of subpersonal Kali for good purposes which we formulate. We want you here with us, Lilith—if you can come to terms with our psychic complexity and our protean body-manipulation....
I felt the warm endorsement of Esther: I value you, Lilith, and he values both of us; and even though I am young again, I am much too old in experience to be jealous of those whom I love and trust. We are a triad and a tetrad, sister; can’t we hold it this way?
The unanswerable objection formulated itself. I confronted him: Burk-Rourke, Dio, each of you hear me individually now. You want me, and I want you. But when you say you need me—do you really need me?
There was mental silence. I demanded: Face it down. Do you?
Esther was sober, bat a charming half-smile came onto the Rourke-face.
My broad grin broke through, the humor was evident to all of us: I loved them, but I didn’t really need them either. I spoke aloud with decision: “I continue to insist that I had and will have free will in nineteen fifty-two—or as much free will as any human any time, which is a great deal more than lower animals have. And I think I was a damned good psychologist then, with more and better years of it ahead. And I also think I ought to look me up a nice Jewish boy—”
All images misted over, and I bit my lip hard to control sobbing....
My next external awareness was Burk Halloran standing behind me, his hand on my shoulder, telling me tenderly, ‘I will squire you now back to nineteen fifty-two.”
In front of me, only Dio sat with Esther. But they were gazing at me, and their faces were wondrously loving.
33.
At Fishermen’s Cove in 1952—on the dock, watching dark water, and later in a small room which was not the penthouse room—Burk Halloran and I, rich with all our memories of fifty-four years, but he completely Burk divorced for that while from Dio and Kali, attained soul-meaningful realization of what had been promised in a peony garden.
Toward dawn, he reminded me: You and I separately have to go on. What do you need from me?
I told him.
He put into me all his memories of all the Burk-and Rourke-and Esther-encounters and conversations and dreams from 1948 onward.
Toward the end of it, which was here and now, I drifted into sleep. When I awoke, he was gone.
I returned to New York and went back to work, shorn of my telepathy, avoiding the police and the pother about lost Inspector Horse, eschewing liaisons, cultivating friendships. Three years later, I met and married a nice Jewish boy— you, Ben. And we’ve gone on pretty well from there, haven’t we, Ben?
Only, Rabbi—pray for our kids. Pray for all kids.
EPILOG
Ben Glazer here again. It is 1994. All of you know about the existing world organization and international tension; and perhaps you will be aware of some related things. Rabbi Glazer has been immersed in psychotheology, and lamentably out of touch with ebbings and flowings in the sensory world.
I have never failed to pray for all kids.
Quite apart from the marvels in the Lilith-experience, one could do worse than ponder its meanings. There is, of course, one severe problem-meaning having to do with the reality of choice-and-decision in any present time when a future time already exists. So what do you think has motivated my self-immersion in psychotheology, other than Satan and this?
I have concluded that we must hew to a pair of observations in her memoir. One: Why don’t we simply assume that we have dedsion-and-choice in our lives, and develop our time-metaphysics from that? Two: What if in fact God has... infused souls into his (predestined) robots in order to view how each soul responds to the surprises of its destiny, not realizing that it is destiny?” These two suggestions are mutually coherent, and neither conflicts with my conviction that God is creative and sympathetic and in-the-end good.
Lilith died in 1975; what then became of her mindsoul? She wasn’t ready for eternal rest; and I refuse to believe that more of her than her delicious memory and abiding influence is inhabiting my mind. Even Moses Maimonides admitted the possibility of resurrection; but Lilith would have wanted it to be corporeal, this time around at least. And she had served her wonderful wife-time with me during twenty years, and it was a fine love that we had between us, and I hope eventually to dwell in love with her again.
May I speculate irresponsibly, feeling that I know what she would have wanted? Well: I think that Lilith would have wanted to rejoin the RP Fleet and swing creatively into its duties and delights. And I think that Dio/Rourke and Esther would want this. And I dare think that God would see mostly good in it.
They might even eventually find a place for me? I’m a fair psychotheologian but a lousy harpist
B.G.