The Lucky Ones(44)

“I know so,” Dr. Capello said. “That’s what happened to me. I came here, stood on the deck, looked at the ocean, looked at a big family with kids playing in the water and I knew that’s what I wanted. And then I went out and got it. You’ll get it, too, if you stay long enough. The water will tell you what to do.” He pulled his khaki trousers up and waded into the water up to his ankles. “Heaven,” he said with a happy sigh.

Allison followed him into the ocean, wincing at the sudden shock of cold water on her feet.

“I didn’t think you believed in heaven,” she said. “Deacon said you’re a humanist.”

“Junior’s been gossiping, huh? Not surprised. That boy’s a blabbermouth—God love him, someone has to,” he said.

“We were talking about Rachel,” she said. “And why she’s the reason Roland’s at the monastery.”

Dr. Capello winced. “Sore subject.”

“Sorry, forget I brought it up,” she said.

“No, no, no.” He waved his hand again. “Better to talk about it. I love my son. I want him to be happy. I simply would prefer he didn’t devote his life to an institution that I consider to be an enemy of human progress out of some misguided guilt for a long-ago tragedy.”

Allison’s eyes widened. “Enemy of human progress? Those are some strong words.”

“Too strong, I know,” he said with a sigh. “But I’m a scientist. We can’t count on the pie-in-the-sky man to fix our problems. Mankind causes its own problems. It’s up to mankind to solve them.”

“Maybe it helps Roland feel more at peace about Rachel.”

“He’s not going to bring her back into the world by taking himself out of it.”

“He says he needs God,” she told him.

“What he needs is a damn girlfriend,” Dr. Capello said.

“Be nice,” she said, chiding him as though she was the parent now and he the child. “You have to admit there’s good reason for believing in God and heaven and hell, even if they aren’t strictly real.”

“Give me one good reason to believe in heaven or hell, I dare you.”

“Evil?” she said. “Surely Hitler deserves to burn in hell, right? Rapists? Child abusers? Nobody wants them to get off scot-free.”

“Spoken like a poet,” he said. “Not a scientist. There is no such thing as evil.”

Allison boggled at him.

“You’re kidding, right?” she asked.

“There are evil acts, yes. I grant you that. Murder. Rape. Child abuse. Absolutely those are evil acts if by evil we mean ‘harmful to the human race.’ But they aren’t caused by a red man with a pitchfork sitting on our shoulder. Take Oliver, for instance. He harmed animals, harmed children, lied about it without compunction or remorse. All the hallmarks of classic psychopathy. Was he evil? No, ma’am. He was sick. That’s all.”

“Is that what causes people to be psychopaths?” she asked. “Brain tumors?”

“Sometimes a tumor in the frontal lobe can profoundly affect the personality. Or lead poisoning in my grandparents’ case. Most people who fit the criteria for psychopathy are simply born with it. They have atrophy in key areas of the brain—the limbic region, the hippocampus, et cetera. In layman’s terms, they are born with broken brains. That’s the worst hand any child can be dealt.”

“So not actually evil, then?”

“Not evil. Sick. He was sick, and I tried to cure him. Didn’t work but give it a couple decades and we’ll have it all figured out.”

“A cure for evil?”

“A cure for evil is possible,” he said, nodding. “Mark my words.”

“I’ll mark them,” she said. “And if you love me, you’ll live long enough to tell me ‘I told you so.’”

“I’ll do my best, doll. Count on it.”

He took her arm in his and they strolled side by side into deeper waters. The ocean was cool enough to make her wince but not cold enough to send her running.

Dr. Capello looked happy, contented, but there were moments, little ones, when she saw the fear hiding behind his mask. Once, he stopped, simply stopped, and let the water swirl around his feet while he stared and stared and stared out into the water. Side by side they watched the waves roll in and break, roll out and break again. His shoulders sagged.

“Is it hard?” Allison asked. “Dying?”

“It is,” he said, nodding. “I wish I could say otherwise. But you’ve never heard of a happy person committing suicide, have you? I love my life. I love my children. I love my house. I love this ocean. I love every grain of sand under my feet. What’s that old poem? Only a happy heart can break?”

“Almost,” Allison said, and then recited the poem to him from memory.

“It will not hurt me when I am old,

A running tide where moonlight burned

Will not sting me like silver snakes;

The years will make me sad and cold,

It is the happy heart that breaks.”

When she finished, Dr. Capello applauded. She gave him a little curtsy.

“Sara Teasdale,” she said.

“The world needs people who can recite poetry from memory. My mother could, too. Kubla Khan was her favorite to recite. She loved those lines—‘Where Alph, the sacred river, ran / Through caverns measureless to man...’”