Read Online The Rising: Antichrist Is Born by Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins - Free Book Online
Authors: Tim Lahaye, Jerry B. Jenkins
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time Exposing Paranormal Charlatans, and refused to look up.’
Marilena was used to being ignored in public settings outside the university. There she was respected by colleagues and students, but it did not escape her that her plain—no, dowdy—appearance seemed to make her invisible elsewhere. She didn’t know and had quit caring what people must have assumed about her. She did not look wealthy. No one could have known that she and her husband, though they lived modestly, were not in debt because they carefully managed their dual incomes.
Once Marilena had studied her fellow riders on the bus home from the university and realized she looked more like a domestic working woman than a professional. Should she change her look? Why? What did she care what people thought? To judge someone on appearances was petty. And she had just done it herself. She believed she knew who the maids and manual laborers were. Just because they did not carry briefcases or book bags like she did, how could she be sure? Nothing else, save what she read as she sat there, gave any clues to her profession.
But at that second Tuesday night meeting, Marilena was strangely warmed by the small talk. No one was personal or probing. They didn’t seem to care any more than she did to ask about family or work or interests. They merely maintained eye contact, smiled, shook hands warmly, and welcomed her back as if they were truly glad to see her again.
Hadn’t that been a part of uneducated society that had repulsed her? Idle chatter. Feigned enthusiasm. Yet these people seemed genuine. And why? Because she needed them to be? Because her marriage had deteriorated, settled into mere intellectual companionship? Or was it possible that one or more of these people could become friends? Might their weekly relationships blossom? The ones who seemed to have been there from the beginning appeared to have bonded. Some greeted each other with actual embraces.
Too much familiarity too soon had long been one of Marilena’s pet peeves. Too much touching, too many personal questions, the overuse of first names. Yet now she found herself envious of these people who, though their only connection was likely this weekly meeting, seemed to consider each other family.
It wasn’t that Marilena didn’t have friends. She did. Not conventionally, not like the ones she read about. There was no one she confided in. But she had colleagues in her department, and because the psychology faculty shared the same building as she and her lit associates, she had come to know many of them on a first-name basis. She and Sorin entertained four to six people at a time in their apartment approximately once a month, always a slightly different mix. Sorin had one or two friends who seemed closer than any she had developed—his vice-chair for one—but as the chair, Sorin had to remain a bit detached too.
Detached. That was a kind way to think of Marilena’s relationship with her colleagues. While they seemed to respect and even admire her, none were close. Some were close with each other, recounting outings, dinners, and concerts together. She had never been invited and, she told herself, didn’t really care to go. It wasn’t true, of course, but the lie was easy to believe because she overwhelmed it with her own private pursuits in the form of books and disks in which she could lose herself for hours every evening.
Early in their marriage, when she considered Sorin more a soul mate than the roommate he had become, she had once broached the subject of her “otherness” as it related to colleagues. “Well,” he had said, puffing one of his many pipes, “you don’t invite them anywhere either. Try it. They might accept. And they would likely reciprocate.”
She never had. But this need for a child—she was finally comfortable admitting to herself that that’s what it was—might be softening her edges to where she also longed for conventional friendships. In fact, she
Marilena was used to being ignored in public settings outside the university. There she was respected by colleagues and students, but it did not escape her that her plain—no, dowdy—appearance seemed to make her invisible elsewhere. She didn’t know and had quit caring what people must have assumed about her. She did not look wealthy. No one could have known that she and her husband, though they lived modestly, were not in debt because they carefully managed their dual incomes.
Once Marilena had studied her fellow riders on the bus home from the university and realized she looked more like a domestic working woman than a professional. Should she change her look? Why? What did she care what people thought? To judge someone on appearances was petty. And she had just done it herself. She believed she knew who the maids and manual laborers were. Just because they did not carry briefcases or book bags like she did, how could she be sure? Nothing else, save what she read as she sat there, gave any clues to her profession.
But at that second Tuesday night meeting, Marilena was strangely warmed by the small talk. No one was personal or probing. They didn’t seem to care any more than she did to ask about family or work or interests. They merely maintained eye contact, smiled, shook hands warmly, and welcomed her back as if they were truly glad to see her again.
Hadn’t that been a part of uneducated society that had repulsed her? Idle chatter. Feigned enthusiasm. Yet these people seemed genuine. And why? Because she needed them to be? Because her marriage had deteriorated, settled into mere intellectual companionship? Or was it possible that one or more of these people could become friends? Might their weekly relationships blossom? The ones who seemed to have been there from the beginning appeared to have bonded. Some greeted each other with actual embraces.
Too much familiarity too soon had long been one of Marilena’s pet peeves. Too much touching, too many personal questions, the overuse of first names. Yet now she found herself envious of these people who, though their only connection was likely this weekly meeting, seemed to consider each other family.
It wasn’t that Marilena didn’t have friends. She did. Not conventionally, not like the ones she read about. There was no one she confided in. But she had colleagues in her department, and because the psychology faculty shared the same building as she and her lit associates, she had come to know many of them on a first-name basis. She and Sorin entertained four to six people at a time in their apartment approximately once a month, always a slightly different mix. Sorin had one or two friends who seemed closer than any she had developed—his vice-chair for one—but as the chair, Sorin had to remain a bit detached too.
Detached. That was a kind way to think of Marilena’s relationship with her colleagues. While they seemed to respect and even admire her, none were close. Some were close with each other, recounting outings, dinners, and concerts together. She had never been invited and, she told herself, didn’t really care to go. It wasn’t true, of course, but the lie was easy to believe because she overwhelmed it with her own private pursuits in the form of books and disks in which she could lose herself for hours every evening.
Early in their marriage, when she considered Sorin more a soul mate than the roommate he had become, she had once broached the subject of her “otherness” as it related to colleagues. “Well,” he had said, puffing one of his many pipes, “you don’t invite them anywhere either. Try it. They might accept. And they would likely reciprocate.”
She never had. But this need for a child—she was finally comfortable admitting to herself that that’s what it was—might be softening her edges to where she also longed for conventional friendships. In fact, she
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