The Speed of Dark

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

On Sundays, the public transportation does not run on the usual workday schedule, even though Sunday is a holy day for only a minority of people. If I do not drive to church, then I get there either very early or a little late. It is rude to be late, and being rude to God is ruder than other kinds of rude.

It is very quiet when I arrive. The church I go to has a very early service, with no music, and a 10:30 service, with music. I like to come early and sit in the dim quiet, watching the light move through the colored glass of the windows. Now once more I sit in the dim quiet of the church and think about Don and Marjory.

I am not supposed to think about Don and Marjory but about God. Fix your mind on God, said a priest who used to be here, and you will not go far wrong. It is hard to fix your mind on God when the image in my mind is that of the open end of the barrel of Don’s gun. Round and dark like a black hole. I could feel the attraction of it, the pull as if the hole, the opening, had mass that wanted to pull me into itself, into permanent blackness. Death. Nothingness.

I do not know what comes after death. Scripture tells me one thing here and another there. Some people emphasize that all the virtuous will be saved and go to heaven, and others say that you have to be Elect. I do not imagine it is anything we can describe. When I try to think of it, up to now, it always looks like a pattern of light, intricate and beautiful, like the pictures astronomers take or create from space-telescope images, each color for a different wavelength.

But now, in the aftermath of Don’s attack, I see dark, faster than light, racing out of the barrel of the gun to draw me into it, beyond the speed of light, forever.

Yet I am here, in this seat, in this church, still alive. Light pours in through the old stained-glass window over the altar, rich glowing color that stains the altar linens, the wood itself, the carpet. This early, the light reaches farther into the church than during the service, angling to the left because of the season.

I take a breath, smelling candle wax and the faintest hint of smoke from the early service, the smell of books — our church still uses paper prayer books and hymnals — and the cleaning compounds used on wood and fabric and floor.

I am alive. I am in the light. The darkness was not, this time, faster than the light. But I feel unsettled, as if it were chasing me, coming nearer and nearer behind me, where I can’t see.

I am sitting at the back of the church, but behind me is an open space, more unknown. Usually it does not bother me, but today I wish there were a wall there.

I try to focus on the light, on the slow movement of the colored bars down and across as the sun rises higher. In an hour, the light moves a distance that anyone could see, but it is not the light moving: it is the planet moving. I forget that and use the common phrasing just like everyone else and get that shock of joy each time I remember, again, that the earth does move.

We are always spinning into the light and out of it again. It is our speed, not the light’s speed or the dark’s speed, that makes our days and nights. Was it my speed, and not Don’s speed, that brought us into the dark space where he wanted to hurt me? Was it my speed that saved me?

I try again to concentrate on God, and the light recedes enough to pick out the brass cross on its wooden stand. The glint of yellow metal against the purple shadows behind it is so striking that my breath catches for a moment.

In this place, light is always faster than dark; the speed of dark does not matter.

“Here you are, Lou!”

The voice startles me. I flinch but manage not to say anything, and even smile at the gray-haired woman holding out a service leaflet. Usually I am more aware of the time passing, people arriving, so that I am not surprised. She is smiling.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says.

“It’s all right,” I say. “I was just thinking.”

She nods and goes back to greet other arrivals without saying anything more. She has a name tag on, Cynthia Kressman. I see her every third week handing out service leaflets, and on other Sundays she usually sits across the center aisle and four rows ahead of me.

I am alert now and notice people coming in. The old man with two canes, who totters down the aisle to the very front. He used to come with his wife, but she died four years ago. The three old women who always come in together except when one is sick and sit in the third row on the left. One and two and three, four and two and one and one, people trickle in. I see the organist’s head lift over the top of the organ console and drop back down. Then a soft “mmph” and the music begins.

My mother said it was wrong to go to church just for the music. That is not the only reason I go to church. I go to church to learn how to be a better person. But the music is one reason I go to this church. Today it is Bach again — our organist likes Bach — and my mind effortlessly picks up the many strands of the pattern and follows them as she plays them.

Hearing music like this, all around in real life, is different from hearing a recording. It makes me more aware of the space I am in; I can hear the sound bouncing off the walls, forming harmonies unique to this place. I have heard Bach in other churches, and somehow it always makes harmonies, not disharmonies. This is a great mystery.

The music stops. I can hear a soft murmur behind me as the choir and clergy line up. I pick up the hymnal and find the number for the processional hymn. The organ starts again, playing the melody once, and then behind me the loud voices ring out. Someone is a little flat and slides up to each pitch a moment behind the others. It is easy to pick out who it is, but it would be rude to say anything about it. I bow my head as the crucifer leads the procession, and then the choir comes past me. They walk by, in their dark-red robes with the white cottas over them, the women first and then the men, and I hear each individual voice. I read the words and sing as best I can. I like it best when the last two men come by; they both have very deep voices, and the sound they make trembles in my chest.

After the hymn, there is a prayer, which we all say together. I know the words by heart. I have known the words by heart since I was a boy. Another reason besides the music that I go to this church is the predictable order of service. I can say the familiar words without stumbling over them. I can be ready to sit or stand or kneel, speak or sing or listen, and do not feel clumsy and slow. When I visit other churches I am more worried about whether I am doing the right thing at the right time than about God. Here the routines make it easier to listen to what God wants me to do.

Today, Cynthia Kressman is one of the readers. She reads the Old Testament lesson. I read along in the service leaflet. It is hard to understand everything just listening or just reading; both together work better. At home I read the lessons ahead of time, from the calendar the church hands out every year. That also helps me know what is coming. I enjoy it when we read the Psalm responsively; it makes a pattern like a conversation.

When I look past the lessons and the Psalm to the Gospel reading, it is not what I expect. Instead of a reading from Matthew, it is a reading from John. I read intently as the priest reads aloud. It is the story of the man lying by the pool of Siloam, who wanted healing but had no one to lower him into the pool. Jesus asked him if he really wanted to be healed.

It always seemed a silly question to me. Why would the man be by the healing pool if he did not want to be healed? Why would he complain about not having someone to lower him into the water if he did not want to be healed?

God does not ask silly questions. It must not be a silly question, but if it is not silly, what does it mean? It would be silly if I said it or if a doctor said it when I went to get medicine for an illness, but what does it mean here?

Our priest begins the sermon. I am still trying to puzzle out how a seemingly silly question could be meaningful when his voice echoes my thought.

“Why does Jesus ask the man if he wants to be healed? Isn’t that kind of silly? He’s lying there waiting for his chance at healing… Surely he wants to be healed.”

Exactly, I think.

“If God isn’t playing games with us, being silly, what then does this question mean, Do you want to be healed? Look at where we find this man: by the pool known for its healing powers, where ‘an angel comes and stirs the water at intervals…’ and the sick have to get into the water while it’s seething. Where, in other words, the sick are patient patients, waiting for the cure to appear. They know — they’ve been told — that the way to be cured is to get in the water while it seethes. They aren’t looking for anything else… They are in that place, at that time, looking for not just healing, but healing by that particular method.

“In today’s world, we might say they are like the person who believes that one particular doctor — one world-famous specialist — can cure him of his cancer. He goes to the hospital where that doctor is, he wants to see that doctor and no one else, because he is sure that only that method will restore him to health.

“So the paralyzed man focuses on the healing pool, sure that the help he needs is someone to carry him into the water at the right time.

“Jesus’s question, then, challenges him to consider whether he wants to be well or he wants that particular experience, of being in the pool. If he can be healed without it, will he accept that healing?

“Some preachers have discussed this story as an example of self-inflicted paralysis, hysterical paralysis — if the man wants to stay paralyzed, he will. It’s about mental illness, not physical illness. But I think the question Jesus asks has to do with a cognitive problem, not an emotional problem. Can the man see outside the box? Can he accept healing that is not what he’s used to? That will go beyond fixing his legs and back and start working on him from the inside out, from the spirit to the mind to the body?”

I wonder what the man would say if he were not paralyzed but autistic. Would he even go to the pool for healing? Cameron would. I close my eyes and see Cameron lowering himself into bubbling water, in a shimmer of light. Then he disappears. Linda insists we do not need healing, that there is nothing wrong with us the way we are, just something wrong with others for not accepting us. I can imagine Linda pushing her way through the crowd, headed away from the pool.

I do not think I need to be healed, not of autism. Other people want me to be healed, not me myself. I wonder if the man had a family, a family tired of carrying him around on his litter. I wonder if he had parents who said, “The least you could do is try to be healed,” or a wife who said, “Go on, try it; it can’t hurt,” or children teased by other children because their father couldn’t work. I wonder if some of the people who came did not come because they wanted to be healed, themselves, but because other people wanted them to do it, to be less of a burden.

Since my parents died, I am not anyone’s burden. Mr. Crenshaw thinks I am a burden to the company, but I do not believe this is true. I am not lying beside a pool begging people to carry me into it. I am trying to keep them from throwing me into it. I do not believe it is a healing pool anyway.

“… so the question for us today is, Do we want the power of the Holy Spirit in our own lives, or are we just pretending?” The priest has said a lot I have not heard. This I hear, and I shiver.

“Are we sitting here beside the pool, waiting for an angel to come trouble the water, waiting patiently but passively, while beside us the living God stands ready to give us life everlasting, abundant life, if only we will open our hands and hearts and take that gift?

“I believe many of us are. I believe all of us are like that at one time or another, but right now, still, many of us sit and wait and lament that there is no one to lower us into the water when the angel comes.” He pauses and looks around the church; I see people flinch and others relax when his gaze touches them. “Look around you, every day, in every place, into the eyes of everyone you meet. Important as this church may be in your life, God should be greater — and He is everywhere, every-when, in everyone and everything. Ask yourself, ‘Do I want to be healed?’ and — if you can’t answer yes — start asking why not. For I am sure that He stands beside each of you, asking that question in the depths of your soul, ready to heal you of all things as soon as you are ready to be healed.”

I stare at him and almost forget to stand up and say the words of the Nicene Creed, which is what comes next.

I believe in God the Father, maker of heaven and earth and of all things seen and unseen. I believe God is important and does not make mistakes. My mother used to joke about God making mistakes, but I do not think if He is God He makes mistakes. So it is not a silly question.

Do I want to be healed? And of what?

The only self I know is this self, the person I am now, the autistic bioinformatics specialist fencer lover of Marjory.

And I believe in his only begotten son, Jesus Christ, who actually in the flesh asked that question of the man by the pool. The man who perhaps — the story does not say — had gone there because people were tired of him being sick and disabled, who perhaps had been content to lie down all day, but he got in the way.

What would Jesus have done if the man had said, “No, I don’t want to be healed; I am quite content as I am”? If he had said, “There is nothing wrong with me, but my relatives and neighbors insisted I come”?

I say the words automatically, smoothly, while my mind wrestles with the reading, the sermon, the words. I remember another student, back in my hometown, who found out I went to church and asked, “Do you really believe that stuff or is it just a habit?”

If it is just habit, like going to the healing pool when you are sick, does that mean there is no belief? If the man had told Jesus that he didn’t really want to be healed, but his relatives insisted, Jesus might still think the man needed to be able to get up and walk.

Maybe God thinks I would be better if I weren’t autistic. Maybe God wants me to take the treatment.

I am cold suddenly. Here I have felt accepted — accepted by God, accepted by the priest and the people, or most of them. God does not spurn the blind, the deaf, the paralyzed, the crazy. That is what I have been taught and what I believe. What if I was wrong? What if God wants me to be something other than I am?

I sit through the rest of the service. I do not go up for Communion. One of the ushers asks if I am all right, and I nod. He looks worried but lets me alone. After the recessional, I wait where I am until the others have left, and then I go out the door. The priest is still standing there, chatting with one of the ushers. He smiles at me.

“Hello, Lou. How are you?” He gives my hand one firm, quick shake, because he knows that I do not like long handshakes.

“I do not know if I want to be healed,” I say.

His face contracts into a worried look. “Lou, I wasn’t talking about you — about people like you. I’m sorry if you think that — I was talking about spiritual healing. You know we accept you as you are—”

“You do,” I say, “but God?”

“God loves you as you are and as you will become,” the priest says. “I’m sorry if something I said hurt you—”

“I am not hurt,” I say. “I just do not know—”

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.

“Not now,” I say. I do not know what I think yet, so I will not ask until I am sure.

“You did not come up for Communion,” he says. I am surprised; I did not expect him to notice. “Please, Lou — don’t let anything I said get between you and God.”

“It won’t,” I say. “It is just — I need to think.” I turn away and he lets me go. This is another good thing about my church. It is there, but it is not always grabbing. For a while when I was in school I went to a church where everyone wanted to be in everyone’s life all the time. If I had a cold and missed a service, someone would call to find out why. They said they were concerned and caring, but I felt smothered. They said I was cold and needed to develop a fiery spirituality; they did not understand about me, and they would not listen.

I turn back to the priest; his eyebrows go up, but he waits for me to speak.

“I do not know why you talked about that Scripture this week,” I say. “It is not on the schedule.”

“Ah,” he says. His face relaxes. “Did you know that the Gospel of John is not ever on the schedule? It’s like a kind of secret weapon we priests can pull out when we think a congregation needs it.”

I had noticed that, but I had never asked why.

“I chose that Scripture for this particular day because — Lou, how involved are you in parish business?”

When someone starts an answer and then turns it into something else it is hard to understand, but I try. “I go to church,” I say. “Almost every Sunday—”

“Do you have other friends in the congregation?” he asks. “I mean, people you spend time with outside of church and maybe talk with about how the church is getting along?”

“No,” I say. Ever since that one church, I have not wanted to get too close to the people in church.

“Well, then, you may not be aware that there’s been a lot of argument about some things. We’ve had a lot of new people join — most of them have come from another church where there was a big fight, and they left.”

“A fight in church?” I can feel my stomach tighten; it would be very wrong to fight in church.

“These people were angry and upset when they came,” the priest says. “I knew it would take time for them to settle down and heal from that injury. I gave them time. But they are still angry and still arguing — with the people at their old church, and here they’ve started arguments with people who have always gotten along.” He is looking at me over the top of his glasses. Most people have surgery when their eyes start to go bad, but he wears old-fashioned glasses.

I puzzle through what he has said. “So… you talked about wanting to be healed because they are still angry?”

“Yes. They needed the challenge, I thought. I want them to realize that sticking in the same rut, having the same old arguments, staying angry with the people they left behind, is not the way to let God work in their lives for healing.” He shakes his head, looks down for a moment and then back at me. “Lou, you look a little upset still. Are you sure that you can’t tell me what it is?”

I do not want to talk to him about the treatment right now, but it is worse not to tell the truth here in church than anywhere else.

“Yes,” I say. “You said God loved us, accepted us, as we are. But then you said people should change, should accept healing. Only, if we are accepted as we are, then maybe that is what we should be. And if we should change, then it would be wrong to be accepted as we are.”

He nods. I do not know if that means he agrees that I said it correctly or that we should change. “I truly did not aim that arrow at you, Lou, and I’m sorry it hit you. I always thought of you as someone who had adapted very well — who was content within the limits God had put on his life.”

“I don’t think it was God,” I say. “My parents said it was an accident, that some people are just born that way. But if it was God, it would be wrong to change, wouldn’t it?”

He looks surprised.

“But everyone has always wanted me to change as much as I could, be as normal as I could, and if that is a correct demand, then they cannot believe that the limits — the autism — come from God. That is what I cannot figure out. I need to know which it is.”

“Hmmm…” He rocks back and forth, heel to toe, looking past me for a long moment. “I never thought of it that way, Lou. Indeed, if people think of disabilities as literally God-given, then waiting by the pool is the only reasonable response. You don’t throw away something God gives you. But actually — I agree with you. I can’t really see God wanting people born with disabilities.”

“So I should want to be cured of it, even if there is no cure?”

“I think what we are supposed to want is what God wants, and the tricky thing is that much of the time we don’t know what that is,” he says.

“You know,” I say.

“I know part of it. God wants us to be honest, kind, helpful to one another. But whether God wants us to pursue every hint of a cure of conditions we have or acquire… I don’t know that. Only if it doesn’t interfere with who we are as God’s children, I suppose. And some things are beyond human power to cure, so we must do the best we can to cope with them. Good heavens, Lou, you come up with difficult ideas!” He is smiling at me, and it looks like a real smile, eyes and mouth and whole face. “You’d have made a very interesting seminary student.”

“I could not go to seminary,” I say. “I could not ever learn the languages.”

“I’m not so sure,” he says. “I’ll be thinking more about what you said, Lou. If you ever want to talk…”

It is a signal that he does not want to talk more now. I do not know why normal people cannot just say, “I do not want to talk more now,” and go. I say, “Good-bye,” quickly and turn away. I know some of the signals, but I wish they were more reasonable.

The after-church bus is late, so I have not missed it. I stand on the corner waiting, thinking about the sermon. Few people ride the bus on Sunday, so I find a seat by myself, and look out at the trees, all bronze and coppery in the autumn light. When I was little, the trees still turned red and gold, but those trees all died from the heat, and now the trees that turn color at all are duller.

At the apartment, I start reading. I would like to finish Cego and Clinton by the morning. I am sure that they will summon me to talk about the treatment and make a decision. I am not ready to make a decision.

“Pete, ” the voice said. Aldrin didn’t recognize it.“This is John Slazik.” Aldrin’s mind froze; his heart stumbled and then raced. Gen. John L. Slazik, USAF, Ret. Currently CEO of the company.

Aldrin gulped, then steadied his voice. “Yes, Mr. Slazik.” A second later, he thought maybe he should have said, “Yes, General,” but it was too late. He didn’t know, anyway, if retired generals used their rank in civilian settings.

“Listen, I’m just wondering what you can tell me about this little project of Gene Crenshaw’s.” Slazik’s voice was deep, warm, smooth as good brandy, and about as potent.

Aldrin could feel the fire creeping along his veins. “Yes, sir.” He tried to organize his thoughts. He had not expected a call from the CEO himself. He rattled off an explanation that included the research, the autistic unit, the need to cut costs, his concern that Crenshaw’s plan would have negative consequences for the company as well as the autistic employees.

“I see,” Slazik said. Aldrin held his breath. “You know, Pete,” Slazik said, in the same relaxed drawl, “I’m a little concerned that you didn’t come to me in the first place. Granted, I’m new around here, but I really like to know what’s going on before the hot potato hits me in the face.”

“Sorry, sir,” Aldrin said. “I didn’t know. I was trying to work within the chain of command—”

“Um.” A long and obvious indrawn breath. “Well, now, I see your point, but the thing is, there’s a time — rare, but it exists — when you’ve tried going up and got stymied and you need to know how to hop a link. And this was one of the times it sure would’ve been helpful — to me.”

“Sorry, sir,” Aldrin said again. His heart was pounding.

“Well, I think we caught it in time,” Slazik said. “So far it’s not out in the media, at least. I was pleased to hear that you had a concern for your people, as well as the company. I hope you realize, Pete, that I would not condone any illegal or unethical actions taken toward our employees or any research subjects. I am more than a little surprised and disappointed that one of my subordinates tried to screw around that way.” For the length of that last sentence the drawl hardened into something more like saw-edged steel; Aldrin shivered involuntarily.

Then the drawl returned. “But that’s not your problem. Pete, we’ve got a situation with those people of yours. They’ve been promised a treatment and threatened with loss of their jobs, and you’re going to have to straighten that out. Legal is going to send someone to explain the situation, but I want you to prepare them.”

“What — what is the situation now, sir?” Aldrin asked.

“Obviously their jobs are safe, if they want to keep them,” Slazik said. “We don’t coerce volunteers; this isn’t the military, and I understand that even if… someone doesn’t. They have rights. They don’t have to agree to the treatment. On the other hand, if they want to volunteer, that’s fine; they’ve already been through the preliminary tests. Full pay, no loss of seniority — it’s a special case.”

Aldrin wanted to ask what would happen to Crenshaw and himself, but he was afraid that asking would make whatever it was worse.

“I’m going to be calling Mr. Crenshaw in for an interview,” Slazik said. “Don’t talk about this, except to reassure your people that they’re not in jeopardy. Can I trust you for that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No gossiping with Shirley in Accounting or Bart in Human Resources or any of your other contacts?”

Aldrin felt faint. How much did Slazik know? “No, sir, I won’t talk to anyone.”

“Crenshaw may call you — he should be fairly steamed with you — but don’t worry about it.”

“No, sir.”

“I’ll have to meet you personally, Pete, when this settles down a bit.”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you can learn to work a little better with the system, your dedication to both company goals and personnel — and your awareness of the public-relations aspects of such things — could be a real asset to us.” Slazik hung up before Aldrin could say anything. Aldrin took a long breath — it felt like the first in a long time — and sat staring at the clock until he realized the numbers on it were still changing.

Then he headed over to Section A, before Crenshaw — who must have heard by now — could blow up at him on the phone. He felt fragile, vulnerable. He hoped his team would make the announcement easy.

I have not seen Cameron since he left last week. I do not know when I will see Cameron again. I do not like not having his car to park my car facing into. I do not like not knowing where he is or whether he is all right or not.

The symbols on the screen I watch are shifting in and out of reality, patterns forming and dissolving, and this is not something that had happened before. I turn on my fan. The whirling of the spin spirals, the movements of reflected light, make my eyes hurt. I turn the fan off.

I read another book last night. I wish I had not read it.

What we were taught about ourselves, as autistic children, was only part of what the people who taught us believed to be true. Later I found out some of that, but some I never really wanted to know. I thought it was hard enough coping with the world without knowing everything other people thought was wrong with me. I thought making my outward behavior fit in was enough. That is what I was taught: act normal, and you will be normal enough.

If the chip they will implant in Don’s brain makes him act normal, does does this mean he is normal enough? Is it normal to have a chip in your brain? To have a brain that needs a chip to make it able to govern normal behavior?

If I can seem normal without a chip and Don needs a chip, does that mean I am normal, more normal than he is?

The book said that autistics tend to ruminate excessively on abstract philosophical questions like these, in much the same way that psychotics sometimes do. It referred to older books that speculated that autistic persons had no real sense of personal identity, of self. It said they do have self-definition, but of a limited and rule-dictated sort.

It makes me feel queasy to think about this, and about Don’s custodial rehabilitation, and about what is happening with Cameron.

If my self-definition is limited and rule-dictated, at least it is my self-definition, and not someone else’s. I like peppers on pizza and I do not like anchovies on pizza. If someone changes me, will I still like peppers and not anchovies on pizza? What if the someone who changes me wants me to want anchovies… can they change that?

The book on brain functionality said that expressed preferences were the result of the interaction of innate sensory processing and social conditioning. If the person who wants me to like anchovies has not been successful with social conditioning and has access to my sensory processing, then that person can make me like anchovies.

Will I even remember that I don’t like anchovies — that I didn’t like anchovies?

The Lou who does not like anchovies will be gone, and the new Lou who likes anchovies will exist without a past. But who I am is my past as well as whether I like anchovies now or not.

If my wants are supplied, does it matter what they are? Is there any difference between being a person who likes anchovies and being a person who does not like anchovies? If everyone liked anchovies or everyone didn’t like anchovies, what difference would it make?

To the anchovies a lot. If everyone liked anchovies, more anchovies would die. To the person selling anchovies a lot. If everyone liked anchovies, that person would make more money selling them. But to me, the me I am now or the me I will be later? Would I be healthier or less healthy, kinder or less kind, smarter or less smart, if I liked anchovies? Other people I have seen who eat or do not eat anchovies seem much the same. For many things I think it does not matter what people like: what colors, what flavors, what music.

Asking if I want to be healed is like asking if I want to like anchovies. I cannot imagine what liking anchovies would feel like, what taste they would have in my mouth. People who like anchovies tell me they taste good; people who are normal tell me being normal feels good. They cannot describe the taste or the feeling in a way that makes sense to me.

Do I need to be healed? Who does it hurt if I am not healed? Myself, but only if I feel bad the way I am, and I do not feel bad except when people say that I am not one of them, not normal. Supposedly autistic persons do not care what others think of them, but this is not true. I do care, and it hurts when people do not like me because I am autistic.

Even refugees who flee with nothing but their clothes are not forbidden their memories. Bewildered and frightened as they may be, they have themselves for a comparison. Maybe they can never taste their favorite food again, but they can remember that they liked it. They may not see the land they knew again, but they can remember that they lived there. They can judge if their life is better or worse by comparing it to their memories.

I want to know if Cameron remembers the Cameron he was, if he thinks the country he has come to is better than the country he left behind.

This afternoon we are to meet with the treatment advisers again. I will ask about this.

I look at the clock. It is 10:37:18, and I have accomplished nothing this morning. I do not want to accomplish anything in my project. It is the anchovy seller’s project and not my project.