countless hours praying— begging God to change him, to heal him, to save him. When his prayers weren’t answered, William believed it was only because he hadn’t tried hard enough.
What followed was the special camp, with its physically painful aversion therapy sessions using the box with the wires. At least tonight William was able to forcibly ignore those memories.
He was nearly twenty when he stopped believing. No event in particular had happened to rob him of his faith. It just left him all at once, like a balloon escaping from a child’s hand. And it had left a great gaping hole in him.
He had worked to replace belief in God with belief in science but had been only partially successful. He graduated from college with honors and a teaching certificate, and he went on to teach biology and chemistry to junior high school kids. He met a woman whose company he genuinely enjoyed, at which point he told himself that his other urges were simple physiological reflexes that could be—well, if not ignored, perhaps retrained. They planned for the future. Children someday, two or three. They married. It was Lisa who urged him to return to school full-time, willing to live for a while off her salary and whatever graduate assistantships he could scrape together.
Oh, God, how he’d tried to make it all work.
But it hadn’t been enough.
Lisa had sensed for a long time that something was wrong. Maybe at first she told herself that William was simply not a very affectionate man, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d caught a few too many of his longing looks—aimed at other men, not her. She’d confronted him. She was a rational type too, so in the end there were few tears. They agreed she deserved something better. William’s guilt ensured she would get the apartment and most of their belongings. William knew he’d hurt her, just as he’d hurt and disappointed his parents. He vowed never to hurt anyone else again. Vowed to himself, because he no longer conceived of a God who heard his promises. He wished that belief would come back—belief in God, belief in love, belief in himself, belief in anything to fill that aching hole in his middle.
As William fell asleep, he thought of Bill and couldn’t help but wonder: had he felt faith in the nonjudgmental love and presence of God as he lay cold and lonely in his cell?
Six
O VER the next several days, William worked, leaving his laptop only occasionally. When his muscles needed to move, he wandered the building. He did not reenter the room where he’d found the box. He ventured to the second and third floors, but only briefly. They were in worse condition than the ground floor—they’d likely been in disuse much longer—and there was little there to interest him. What he saw only disturbed him: Bars. Shackles. Hard, cold surfaces stained rusty brown.
He didn’t read more letters.
The heat returned. He considered getting a window air conditioner. He’d have to go back to Mariposa to buy one, maybe even to Oakhurst if Frank’s Grab’em didn’t stock them. In the meantime he wore the shorts. He felt faintly ridiculous since he hadn’t worn shorts since high school gym class, but there was nobody here to see.
He left the hospital grounds only once, in search of fresh fruit and vegetables. He found the produce stand Colby’s cousins owned. Colby hadn’t lied; the stand had an excellent selection of tasty things. They even sold home-baked pastries. William gave in to temptation and bought a strawberry-rhubarb pie, which turned out to be so delicious he polished the whole thing off in two days.
He didn’t stop at the post office or general store, and he didn’t hear from Colby.
It had been five days since their trip into Mariposa. William had now finished the bulk of his data entry and was puzzling out some of the preliminary statistical analyses. At first look, it appeared as if his data supported his main hypothesis, but he’d need to play around with the
What followed was the special camp, with its physically painful aversion therapy sessions using the box with the wires. At least tonight William was able to forcibly ignore those memories.
He was nearly twenty when he stopped believing. No event in particular had happened to rob him of his faith. It just left him all at once, like a balloon escaping from a child’s hand. And it had left a great gaping hole in him.
He had worked to replace belief in God with belief in science but had been only partially successful. He graduated from college with honors and a teaching certificate, and he went on to teach biology and chemistry to junior high school kids. He met a woman whose company he genuinely enjoyed, at which point he told himself that his other urges were simple physiological reflexes that could be—well, if not ignored, perhaps retrained. They planned for the future. Children someday, two or three. They married. It was Lisa who urged him to return to school full-time, willing to live for a while off her salary and whatever graduate assistantships he could scrape together.
Oh, God, how he’d tried to make it all work.
But it hadn’t been enough.
Lisa had sensed for a long time that something was wrong. Maybe at first she told herself that William was simply not a very affectionate man, but she wasn’t stupid. She’d caught a few too many of his longing looks—aimed at other men, not her. She’d confronted him. She was a rational type too, so in the end there were few tears. They agreed she deserved something better. William’s guilt ensured she would get the apartment and most of their belongings. William knew he’d hurt her, just as he’d hurt and disappointed his parents. He vowed never to hurt anyone else again. Vowed to himself, because he no longer conceived of a God who heard his promises. He wished that belief would come back—belief in God, belief in love, belief in himself, belief in anything to fill that aching hole in his middle.
As William fell asleep, he thought of Bill and couldn’t help but wonder: had he felt faith in the nonjudgmental love and presence of God as he lay cold and lonely in his cell?
Six
O VER the next several days, William worked, leaving his laptop only occasionally. When his muscles needed to move, he wandered the building. He did not reenter the room where he’d found the box. He ventured to the second and third floors, but only briefly. They were in worse condition than the ground floor—they’d likely been in disuse much longer—and there was little there to interest him. What he saw only disturbed him: Bars. Shackles. Hard, cold surfaces stained rusty brown.
He didn’t read more letters.
The heat returned. He considered getting a window air conditioner. He’d have to go back to Mariposa to buy one, maybe even to Oakhurst if Frank’s Grab’em didn’t stock them. In the meantime he wore the shorts. He felt faintly ridiculous since he hadn’t worn shorts since high school gym class, but there was nobody here to see.
He left the hospital grounds only once, in search of fresh fruit and vegetables. He found the produce stand Colby’s cousins owned. Colby hadn’t lied; the stand had an excellent selection of tasty things. They even sold home-baked pastries. William gave in to temptation and bought a strawberry-rhubarb pie, which turned out to be so delicious he polished the whole thing off in two days.
He didn’t stop at the post office or general store, and he didn’t hear from Colby.
It had been five days since their trip into Mariposa. William had now finished the bulk of his data entry and was puzzling out some of the preliminary statistical analyses. At first look, it appeared as if his data supported his main hypothesis, but he’d need to play around with the
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