A man and a woman kneel beside their bed. He wears a tired pair of geometrically printed pajamas, and she wears a white kimono with gray at the edge of the sleeves. Their heads are bowed, their hands folded. She speaks for both of them, in a low, unassuming voice.
Dad has always called himself an agnostic, saying he does not know whether there’s a God, and cannot know, but that if there is a God, then that God is most likely an all-knowing, understanding God who will understand why Dad might not believe in Him. That Dad’s older child has attempted to cover his bases in the same manner is disappointing to Dad. Because Dad seems to think, or did once think, that the larger the number of believers in the family, the greater the chance that the entire family would be saved. Or if “saved” is too strong a word, the greater the chance that the entire family would be entitled to whatever Treats are in store when this candy store is closed for business—eternal life being the ultimate, of course, and forgiveness being nothing to sneeze at either. Dad has also hoped that one believer, one very strong believer—Mom—will produce enough salvational energy to carry him to Heaven on her coattails if necessary, so he won’t miss anything.
But for now, these philosophical questions must be put aside. For now, Mom must speak for both of them, because over the past two weeks Dad has gradually stopped speaking. He sits with us at mealtimes, still getting up to pace, he watches the painting show with a slight smile on his face, and it’s hard to know whether he thinks the show is pleasant or whether he is sneering at the whole endeavor of painting. He might say a few words—“yes,” “no,” “it’s on the nightstand”—but he no longer initiates communication, and he shares nearly nothing about his inner state. He seems to have put himself away, placed himself in another room for safety, while the him we see walks among us, acting convincing enough to distract us from the body in the closet.
Mom stops murmuring and shifts her position, and it looks like she’s going to get up. But instead she positions herself behind Dad’s shoulder and wraps her arms around him from the back. She clasps her hands around Dad’s hands like a parent helping a child to hold a pencil. She murmurs again with her cheek pressed to the cloth on Dad’s back. Either she’s showing him how to pray, or she’s doing Dad’s praying for him, transmitting from another station, faking God into thinking that the prayers are coming from him.