History of Wolves(37)

I found out later that Lily had left town in May to testify at Mr. Grierson’s trial. She’d gone to Minneapolis, where there was a federal court, but when she got on the stand, when the prosecuting attorney prompted her to tell the story about Gone Lake, Lily finally confessed she didn’t know Mr. Grierson very well at all. She confessed she’d never spoken to him alone, except for once, when he’d given her extra time on an exam because of her dyslexia. According to court documents, the attorney pressed her on this. “Didn’t he take you out on the lake?” the attorney asked. “Didn’t you say that in your original statement?” He was flustered, no doubt, and had little patience for a victim who was going to take it all back at the last moment. He tried to convince her that she was afraid, that she was lying now, on the stand. He asked the judge, “Why would she say what she did if it wasn’t true?”

Lily didn’t answer that. It was a rhetorical question for the judge to consider, not her.

Here’s the statement Mr. Grierson made in his plea bargain: “I have done many, many things. Let me start again. I can’t face my own thoughts. They are not thoughts I want to face, and it’s just a relief—how do I put it? It’s just a relief to have what I’ve feared the most said out loud. I’m ashamed, no argument. But I’m relieved, okay? I didn’t touch that girl, but I thought about it, I thought about it, I thought about it, I thought about it. I thought out worse things than she said.”


In the morning when I woke up, Paul was gone. The door to the bathroom was shut tight. I slunk out of the slip and into my jeans and shirt, opened the bathroom door. Saw through the tile-and-mirror corridor to where Leo sat in a cushioned chair in the other room.

“Good morning,” he said, glancing up from a book.

“What are you reading?” I asked. To stall, to give me a chance to look around. I saw Patra’s open suitcase on the closer of the two beds. The white strap of a bra draped out, along with the mauve sleeve of a sweater.

“Science and Health.”

“Is that for your research?”

“No. Well, yes, in a way.” As he spoke, I moved deeper into the room. I thought Patra and Paul might be huddled over a puzzle in the corner. They were not. Leo watched me eyeing the beds, eyeing the door, eyeing the suitcase. “Linda,” he said, “do you believe in God?”

I looked back at him.

“Just a question. Did you think at all about what we discussed yesterday? I’m especially curious about that. What is it you believe—that is, assume—to be true about your existence? That’s the question to start with, of course. What are your premises of self?”

“I don’t know.”

“You do.”

I crossed my arms.

“You do. That’s the definition of an assumption. For instance,” he coaxed, “are you an animal or a human?” His legs were crossed, and he was jiggling one foot. He was wearing his black slippers, I saw, so he was the kind of man who packed slippers for a night in a hotel. He was a man who couldn’t be without slippers, which made me sad and maybe a little repulsed by him. “Or do you take for granted that you have a body? What age do you think that body is?”

One slipper dangled. “Fifteen.”

The slipper fell to the ground and he scooped it back on with a snout-like toe. “So then you assume your life began fifteen years ago and that it will end at some unknown point?”

“I guess.”

“You assume that is a biological fact?”

I nodded, then shook my head—unsure what he was getting at.

“Now ask yourself, how do these assumptions about yourself change if you take as your premise that there is a God?” His slippered foot stopped jiggling.

He’d gotten back around to where he started and could afford to linger. “A thought experiment. Okay? It’s just logic,” he murmured. “If God exists, then what kind of God makes the most sense? Either God is all good, or he is not God. Either God is all-powerful, or he is not God. So logically, if God exists at all, then by definition He must be all good and He must be all-powerful. Right? That makes sense, doesn’t it? That makes the most sense.”

It did for an instant. A gap slowly opened between his slipper and his heel.

He pressed on. “And if we’re saying that God exists—if, that is, God is by definition God—then there would be no place in the universe for evil, for sickness, for sadness, for death. There is only one premise that even makes God possible. So we’ve reasoned our way to the only possible answer. If, in the thought experiment God exists, then how would that premise change what you assume about yourself?”

“Where’s Patra and Paul?”

“They’re fine. What’s the most reasonable answer to the question, Linda?”

“Where are they?”

“We’ll meet them at the harbor at ten. Let’s get back to the question—”

“Did something”—I took a step forward—”did something happen?”

“Lin-da.” He parted the syllables very slightly, as with a comb. He pushed up his glasses with a touch of testiness. “Maybe we’ll have to talk more about this another time? That’s fine. Maybe we should start thinking about getting ready to go?” When I didn’t move, he went on. “Patra tells me you’re very mature, Linda, a good listener.”