"Evil exists so that good may flourish."
"Yes."
"You face it in three ways." He waits. A prompt.
"You can fight it, you can tolerate it, you can emulate it," I recite.
"Those who tolerate it …"
"…do so primarily out of fear."
"Those who fight it …"
"…pay the highest price."
"Those who emulate it…"
I am silent. I do not have this answer. His expression never changes, pleasant, patient, but a drop of uncertainty dribbles down my spine. I search my brain; I know he will wait forever. Ah! "…must be prepared to face the consequences."
"Good. Very good."
He nods slightly toward his empty cup. I retrieve it, prepare the brew at the sideboard, and return it to the place beside him.
"This creature, this person who punished you for so many years."
"Von Claven. Maestro Vincent Von Claven."
"He has been dead …"
"About –" I counted. "About seven years."
"Yet he preys still on your soul."
"On my mind. Yes. On my psyche."
A smile. Rare. My frame relaxes.
"Your mind I'm not concerned about. Your soul is in distress."
I consider that. "Not very. Not that much. Some, I suppose. But not…" I try again. "Not really at all until he showed up in my kitchen. Now, yes, his presence is … distressing. He's dead, after all. I should be over it. I thought I was."
"You're not."
I breathe. "No."
He drinks, sets down his cup, gestures. "It's time for you to see Mother."
"Yes, sir."
"Eminently polite," I hear the other say as I leave.
"Always."
I move a long way through nothing. Mother stands, as ever, amidst a sea of color in all directions. Flowers. Vegetation. Plant life. Endless.
Vincent waits before her. Looking confused. I fight to not be happy.
"My child." She sweeps her fingers through my hair, down the back of my head.
"Mother."
"Evil exists …"
"… so that good may flourish."
"One can only face it in three ways."
"What are you two talking about?"
I do not flinch at the voice, but part of me wants to . Most of me does not. Some of me. I adjust my shoulders.
"You can fight it," I deliver, "you can tolerate it, you can emulate it. Those who tolerate it do so primarily out of fear. Those who fight it pay the highest price. Those who emulate it must be prepared to face the consequences."
"What is this, some kind of recital? What am I doing here?"
"What were you doing in my kitchen?" I show my face to him. "You scared my wife half to death."
"I came for my apology."
I blink, but this man, I know, is not patient. "I owe you no apology."
"Thanks to you, I spent the last forty years of my life in prison!"
Mother remains silent.
"No. I did nothing. I told no one. It was discovered. If you hadn't … If you hadn't, there would have been nothing to discover. But I told no one. Ever. I owe you no apology."
That look. I fight to not cringe at that look. I win. It is not easy.
"He emulated," Mother said. "He must be prepared to face the consequences."
I shake my head."He's dead. Seven years. He's safe from consequences."
A smile. Less rare. Still, I warm in it.
"There. Not here. Here, his soul must be disintegrated."
"What in the world are you talking about? Just what do you think you can do to me? I have rights. Listen, I was the best thing that ever happened to him. I gave him his career. Without me, he'd have nothing, be nothing. He owes me."
I cannot make my voice big. "Still, I do not wish him harm."
"Of course not, my child." Mother lays her hand on my cheek. Nirvana. "He will come to no harm. He will be planted." She takes in the wafting fields with a single broad motion. "He will grow. He will be harvested. He will be recycled. He will intermingle and separate, disperse and combine. He will … dissipate."
"You can't do that to me!"
A violent move, a blue glow, a single seed in Mother's hand. "You see? He is unharmed. It is time to go see Father."
"Yes, ma'am."
I turn and step inside. He puts down his cup.
"Your wife is well."
"Yes."
"You still plan to remove yourself on her death?"
"I won't live without her."
A twitching around his lips. Not a full smile. But comfortable. "She has many years ahead of her."
"Yes, sir."
"Always eminently polite," says the other.
"Yes."
I lift my head. I am in my kitchen. My wife sets plates on the table. "Careful, it's hot."
"We have many years ahead of us."
"Good to know." She sits. "By the way, strangest thing; I found chard growing in my flowerbed. Don't know how it got there. It's kind of bitter, isn't it?"
I smile. "We'll learn to like it."
© 2009
