Parable of the Talents - Octavia E Butler Page 0,161

it you’re quoting from?” And then, “May I see it? I’ve never heard of it.” And, “Is this Buddhist? No, I see that it isn’t. I very nearly became a Buddhist when I was younger.” She’s 37. “Very simple little verses. Very direct. But some of them are lovely.”

“I want to be understood,” I said. “I want to make it easy for people to understand. It doesn’t always work, but I was serious about the effort.”

Irma was all I could have hoped for. “You wrote these? You? Really? Then tell me please, on page 47…”

They’re quiet, childless, middle-aged people who choose to live in a modest, middle-class neighborhood even though they could afford their own walled enclave. They’re interested in the world around them and worried about the direction the country has taken. I could see their wealth in the beautiful, expensive little things they’ve scattered around their home—antique silver and crystal, old leather-bound paper books, paintings, and, for a touch of the modern, a cover-the-earth phone net system that includes, according to Len, the latest in Virtual rooms. They can have all the sights and other sensations of visiting anyplace on earth or any programmed-in imaginary place, all without leaving home. And yet they were interested in talking to us.

We had to be careful, though. The Elfords may be bored and hungry for both novelty and purpose, but they’re not fools. I had to be more open with them than I have been with people like Isis. I told them much of my own story, and I told them what I’m trying to do. They thought I was brave, naive, ridiculous, and…interesting. Out of pity and curiosity they let us sleep in the comfortable little guest house at the back of their property.

The next day, when we had painted the fence, they found more small jobs for us to do, and now and then, they talked to us. And they let us talk to them. They never lost interest.

“What will you ask them to do?” Len said to me that night as we settled in again in the guest house. “You have them, you know, even if they don’t realize it yet.”

I nodded. “They’re hungry for something to do,” I said, “starved for some kind of real purpose. I think they’ll have some suggestions themselves. They’ll feel better if they make the first suggestions. They’ll feel in control. Later, I want them to take Allie in. This guest house would be perfect for her and Justin. When they see what she can do with a few sticks of wood and simple tools, they’ll be glad to have her. And I think I’ll introduce Allie to Isis. I have the feeling they’ll hit it off.”

“The Elfords have all but seduced themselves for you,” Len said.

I nodded. “Think about all the other people we’ve met who’ve given us nothing but trouble. I’m glad to meet eager, enthusiastic people now and then.”

And of course, I’ve found my brother again. I find that I’ve not wanted to talk about that.

Marc has been preaching at one of the big Portland shelters, helping out with shelter maintenance, and attending a Christian American seminary. He wants to be an ordained minister. He was not happy to see me. I kept showing up to hear him and leaving notes that I wanted a meeting. It took him two weeks to give in.

“I suppose if I moved to Michigan, you’d turn up there,” he said by way of greeting.

We were meeting in his apartment building—which was more like a big dormitory. Because he wasn’t permitted to have guests in his apartment, we met in the large dining room just off the lobby. It was a clean, dim, plain room crowded with mismatched wooden tables and chairs and nothing else. Its walls were a dim gray-green and the floor was gray tile worn through to the wood in spots. We were alone there, drinking what I was told would be hot cinnamon-apple tea. When I bought a cup from the machine, I found that it tasted like tepid, slightly sweet water. The lights in the room were few, weak, and far apart, and the place worked hard at being as dreary and cheerless as could be managed.

“Service to God is what’s important,” my brother said, and I realized that I had been looking around and making my unspoken criticism obvious.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “If you want to be here, then you should be here. I wish, though… I wish