Chapter 98: The Biggest Happiness

Friday, March 18, 1983

While Jas was using the bathroom, I pondered the thoughts I’d had last night.

First off... do we only get to do things once? Angie and I were counterexamples, after all. Or ... maybe not. I’d really only done this life once, and that mattered. If, somehow, I wound up with a third life (something that would likely worry me a great deal, because of the risk of finding out I was in a long-form ‘Groundhog Day’), it would be different again, simply because I couldn’t possibly do everything the same. Little things here and there would change, and what might the outcome be?

Meanwhile, everything in the next year would, in essence, be as new to me as it was to Jas or Paige or anyone else (even Angie, for the most part). Yes, I’d been to Northwestern in the summer of 1983. My bet was that, aside from a few random echoes here and there, the summer would be unrecognizable for me. I hadn’t had a sister, or a girlfriend, or a long-time female Debate partner, or ... any of that. I’d had Gene, who (much as I liked the guy) wasn’t as significant as any of those people, then or now.

And ... suppose there was yet another go-round. If I had 1980 (this 1980) again, what could I possibly do about Candice? To do nothing would be impossible. I couldn’t just take her to the guest room knowing what I knew. The park would be a step too far. And, yet, I knew that without getting close to Candice, I might be allowing her to die. I could try to intervene, but Candice would’ve sworn up, down, and sideways that things were just fine.

All of that assumed that things were even the same. What if hypothetical-third-life Candice was perfectly fine? What if bad things had never happened to her? Intervening might be an enormous mistake.

Ugh. No, thank you! Twice was wonderful. More would probably be a bridge much too far.

Anyway, it all made the point that I really only did things once, too. Jas and I were no different that way. We knew many things, but what we did was new.

And then, there was ‘Good artists borrow, great artists steal.’ How literal that could be for Angie and me. Picasso, and the others who’d made the same point, hadn’t envisioned a way to steal someone’s art so thoroughly that they wouldn’t even know they’d created it. We could steal things that no one had even thought of, and be amazing artists! No one but the two of us would ever know what we’d done and, in my case, I could even hide it from Angie.

The cost might well be our souls, though. We (or I) would know what we’d done, and that all the praise and reward we received were rightfully someone else’s. Perhaps many people could live with that, but I didn’t think we could, not and change into something else, something lesser.

We could borrow, even steal, but only if it didn’t deprive the creator, even if the creator didn’t know they’d been deprived. That had to be the line.

We were again out by nine. We delayed breakfast until Corsicana, just because. That turned out to be a good idea, as the diner we stopped at was really pretty good. From there, it was just a few hours of driving down to Huntsville and Sam Houston State.

That tour was our least serious of the bunch. We’d never go here. I had nothing against it, but we needed a lot in favor of a school, and none of us had any reasons to list for going here.

Angie took a bunch of pictures with a disposable camera to print and give to Janet. We were all pretty sure she’d appreciate the gesture.

We got into Houston just before rush hour and I dropped everyone off at their homes, parting with hugs and kisses. We’d be together tomorrow, after all. We’d even be in the same car — we couldn’t get six people into Dad’s car. I’d probably be driving, since I was fairly certain that Dad didn’t want to drive Angie’s car, and Angie would rather I drove, too.

Mom and Dad met us with hugs and asked after the trip. We talked in detail about it over dinner.

“So,” Dad said, as we were finishing up, “is that all of the college visits?”

I shook my head. “We’ll probably go back to at least one or two before we commit, and then there’s anything we’d want to see out of state. We’ll be at Northwestern for much of the summer, too, so that’s one big long visit.”

“That’s good. I’m glad you’re being so thoughtful about this. I knew you would be, but ... still ... it’s good. I spent a lot of time deciding on Michigan.”

“What made the difference?” I said.

“They had the best International Studies department in the area, especially for a state school. Illinois would’ve been less expensive, so maybe I should have done that, but ... Michigan really was better.”

He glanced at Mom when he said that, and I was pretty sure he was thinking that, if he’d gone to Illinois, he might never have met her. The lesson, lost the first time, had been found this time. I thought it would bring him a sort of peace that he’d never had the first time.

Angie made the point directly. “Well, I for one am glad that you didn’t pick Illinois, because it’s all worked out to make us a family, and I can’t imagine a better one.”

That got everyone sniffling a bit, and brought the discussion of colleges mostly to a stop.

It might, or might not, have also been a well-chosen political move. After dinner, Dad said, “Could we ... um ... talk a bit, Angie?” It was uncharacteristically hesitant for him, and that meant there could only be one subject.

Angie, to her credit, just nodded and smiled. “Love to,” she said.

I excused myself and headed to my room. I’d half-expected to be stopped but, really, this should be them and Angie. Everyone knew that I knew, and everyone knew I’d hear about whatever they discussed, but this was very much her personal life.

Mom poked her head in the door just a minute later. “I know you’re worried, honey. It’ll be fine.”

I looked up. “I’m not worried, Mom.”

“No?”

I shook my head. “I know both of you very well. If you could find your way to accepting things, Dad will. Not because you pushed anything, but just because he’d realize you were right. That’s if it ever came down to that.”

She chuckled. “Angie is more worried.”

“It’s the same as before. She’s worried because she doesn’t want to disappoint either of you.”

“She’ll never disappoint us. Well, like we said, that once, but even then...”

“Even then,” I nodded. “Still, she never wanted to disappoint you. That only happened because she believed — wrongly — that Max could turn into someone you’d approve of.”

“That would’ve taken a miracle!” Mom said, chuckling. “I should go. Thanks, honey.”

“You’re welcome, Mom. Always.”

She left, and I busied myself with a bit of programming. Whatever else I did with my life, having my programming skills relatively sharp would likely be useful for quite a while to come.

Perhaps fifteen minutes later Angie looked in, shot me a thumbs-up, then headed to her room. I wondered why she didn’t come in, but then guessed the answer.

Five minutes later, Dad confirmed my guess, coming in and closing the door.

“Hi, Son,” he said, sitting on my bed, looking at me. He sounded just a bit tired — but, then, it was late for him, especially on a Friday.

“Hi, Dad,” I said.

He chuckled softly. “That was a conversation I never thought I would have. I mean, first ... well, I’ve only had a daughter for less than three years, and then ... you know.”

“I know,” I said, nodding.

“Much of me still thinks it’s ... wrong. I may always think that. I don’t know. Your mother...” he said, then stopped and shook his head. “No ... you’re an adult for most purposes, and this is that sort of conversation ... Helen told me what you’d said about the Bible, and that she’d done as you suggested, and found that those passages are much more questionable than I’d thought. I mean, I never thought it would be ... spelled out ... but you could read many things into those passages.”

“It’s not about questioning the Bible so much as just following Luther’s injunction to read it,” I said. “Scholars like Doctor Ott spend far more time understanding it than I ever will.”

“And, as he himself said in that school board meeting, it’s not a matter for us. It’s a matter for God. I can be concerned, and ... I am, though less than I thought I might be ... but I can hardly speak for God.”

“I only go so far on that, of course. There are things I believe are wrong, period. Oh, I can create hypotheticals as well as anyone, but ... murder, for instance. Rape. I can’t just say ‘That’s for God to judge.’ For me, the difference is at least partly whether I can point to someone who’s being wronged. I can’t find anyone who’s wronged if two people love each other, regardless of who they are.”