"Is this something else you feel responsible for?"
"I've been told that I am," I said. "But I'm not."
"It's good that you realize that."
I said, "If somebody thinks Tim Archer came back to him, that somebody goes into the hospital."
"And gets Thorazine," Barefoot said.
"It's Haldol now," I said. "A refinement. The new anti-psychotic drugs are more precise."
Barefoot said, "One of the early church fathers believed in the Resurrection 'because it was impossible.' Not 'despite the fact that it was impossible' but 'because it was impossible.' Tertullian, I think it was. Tim talked to me about it one time."
"But how smart is that?" I said.
"Not very smart. I don't think Tertullian meant it to be."
"I can't see anybody going through life that way," I said. "To me that epitomizes this whole stupid business: believing something because it's impossible. What I see is people becoming mad and then dying; first the madness, then the death."
"So you see death for Bill," Barefoot said.
"No," I said, "because I am going to be waiting for him when he gets out of the hospital. Instead of death, he is going to get me. How does that strike you?"
"As much better than death," Barefoot said.
"Then you approve of me," I said. "Unlike Bill's doctor, who thinks I helped put him in the hospital."
"Are you living with anyone right now?"
"As a matter of fact, I'm living alone," I said.
Barefoot said, "I'd like to see Bill move in with you when he gets out of the hospital. I don't think he has ever lived with a woman except with his mother, with Kirsten."
"I'd have to think a long time about that," I said.
"Why?"
"Because that's how I do things like that."
"I don't mean for his sake."
"What?" I said, taken by surprise.
"For your sake. That way, you would find out if it really is Tim. Your question would be answered."
I said, "I have no question; I know."
"Take Bill in; let him live with you. Take care of him. And maybe you'll find you're taking care of Tim, in a certain real sense. Which—I think—you always did or anyhow wanted to do. Or if you didn't, should have done. He is very helpless."
"Bill? Tim?"
"The man in the hospital. Who you care about. Your last tie to other people."
"I have friends. I have my little brother. I have the people at the store ... and my customers."
"And you have me," Barefoot said.
After a pause, I said, "You, too; yes." I nodded.
"Suppose I said I think it may be Tim. Actually Tim come back."
"Well, then," I said, "I'd stop coming to your seminars."
He eyed me intently.
"I mean it," I said.
"You are not readily pushed around," Barefoot said.
"Not really," I said. "I've made certain serious mistakes; I stood there doing nothing when Kirsten and Tim told me that Jeff had returned—I did nothing and as a result they are now dead. I wouldn't make that mistake again."
"You genuinely foresee death for Bill, then."
"Yes," I said.
"Take him in," Barefoot said, "and I tell you what; I'll give you the Kimio Eto record we're listening to." He smiled. "'Kibo No Hikari,' this song is called. The Light of Hope.' I think it's appropriate."
"Did Tertullian actually say he believed in the Resurrection because it is impossible?" I said. "Then this stuff started a long time ago. It didn't begin with Kirsten and Tim."
Barefoot said, "You're going to have to stop coming to my seminars."
"You do think it's Tim?"
"Yes. Because Bill talks in languages he doesn't know. In the Italian of Dante, for instance. And in Latin and—"
"Xenoglossy," I said. The sign, I thought, of the presence of the Holy Spirit, as Tim pointed out that day we met at the Bad Luck Restaurant. The very thing Tim doubted existed any more; he doubted that it had ever existed, probably. According to what he, anyhow, could discern; to the best of his ability. And now we have it in Bill Lundborg claiming to be Tim.
"I'll take Bill in," Barefoot said. "He can live with me here on the houseboat."
"No," I said. "Not if you believe that stuff. I'll bring him to my house in Berkeley, rather than that." And then it came to me that I had been maneuvered and I gazed at Edgar Barefoot; he smiled and I thought: Just the way Tim could do it—control people. In a sense, Bishop Tim Archer is more alive in you than he is in Bill.
"Good," Barefoot said. He extended his hand. "Let's shake on it, to close the deal."
"Do I get the Kimio Eto record?" I asked.
"After I've taped it."
"But I do get the record itself."
"Yes," Barefoot said, still holding onto my hand. His grip was vigorous; that, too, reminded me of Tim. So maybe we do have Tim with us, I thought. One way or another. It depends on how you define "Tim Archer": the ability to quote in Latin and Greek and Medieval Italian, or the ability to save human lives. Either way, Tim seems to be still here. Or here again.
"I'll keep coming to your seminars," I said.
"Not for my sake."
"No; for my own."
Barefoot said, "Someday perhaps you'll come for the sandwich. But I doubt that. I think you will always need the pretext of words."
Do not be that pessimistic, I said to myself; I might surprise you.
We listened to the end of the koto record. The last song on the second side is called "Haru No Sugata," which means, "The Mood of Early Spring." We listened to that last and then Edgar Barefoot returned the record to its cover and handed it to me.
"Thank you," I said.
I finished my coffee and then left. The weather struck me as good. I felt a lot better. And I could probably get almost thirty dollars for the record. I had not seen a copy in years; it has long been out of print.
You must keep these things in mind when you operate a record store. And acquiring it that day amounted to a sort of prize: for doing what I intended to do anyhow. I had outsmarted Edgar Barefoot and I felt happy. Tim would have enjoyed it. Were he alive.
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