The Space between Atoms 16

 “Wednesday was Episcopalian.  Not Catholic, not Protestant.  Not really a chaplain, some say.  He was rumored to’ve faked his own ordination.  In any case, he tried to take over runnin’ the place.  He had this thing called a D.Min.  Sounds like ‘demon’ to me.”

“I know what that is,” Terah interrupted.  “It’s kind of a sham degree offered by seminaries so ministers can call themselves ‘Rev. Dr.’  It’s a ‘doctorate’ without having to do the level of work required for a Ph. D. or even a Th. D.  The people that study for them generally don’t have the intellectual ability to be called ‘doctor’ any other way.”

Mich looked thoughtful in the light of the fire.  Terah had no idea what time it was.  Without work, time was arbitrary.

“That makes sense,” Mich mused.  “From what I’ve read he didn’t act like a professor.”

“You don’t need to cut them any slack on my account.  Most of them of privileged, arrogant bastards.  But please, go on with your story.”

“Well, the point is Wednesday wasn’t what a chaplain should be.  The director at the time, Sal Edwards, was acceptin’ improper donations.  He kept ‘em well concealed—Sal hand-picked his administration.  Even picked Wednesday.  Used to know each other when they had some connection at the same seminary in the Midwest.  If this was a novel they’d say the trope was hackneyed.  Problem is, it’s all too real.  It does happen, and it was happenin’ here.  They were all corrupt.

“Wednesday, though, was cruel.  Wanted to be on the top—Sal’s job—but since he couldn’t, he took it out on everyone.  Patients especially.  It’s said he had a Latin saying on the wall, somethin’ about killing them all and lettin’ God sort ‘em out.”

"Caedite eos. Novit enim Dominus qui sunt eius,” Terah put in.  “Kill them all, God knows his own.  That was from Arnaud Amalric during the Albigensian Crusade in the twelfth century.  Amalric was a papal legate, trying to justify the violence the church was doing.”

“Wednesday lived by that.  Not all of the inmates were that bad.  Some were like in The Cuckoo’s Nest, almost normal, but unable to function comfortably in society.  When they reported Wednesday to the administration, well, Sal was his buddy.  If word got out, Sal’d cover by sayin’ whaddaya expect from the insane?  Wednesday got to run the place to a certain degree.  All he had to do was say it was a spiritual matter.  That gave him authority.

“He’d learn the fears of inmates and use them against them to get what he wanted.  One guy was terrified of snakes, a Vietnam vet.  Wednesday locked him in a room full of garter snakes.  Dint matter what kind of snakes—this inmate would freak.”

“What did Wednesday want from him?”

“This guy was an expert cabinet maker.  Wednesday wanted a custom-made prayer desk.  The inmate said woodworkin’ reminded him of what happened to his wife.  She was apparently bit by a rattlesnake.  Anyway, Wednesday wanted that prayer desk and kept lockin’ the poor guy in the room, screamin’ and cryin’ til he did what Wednesday wanted.

“When he was workin’ in the shop, he laid down on a table saw and turned it on.  Even Edwards wanted to know how that’d happened.  Wednesday said the inmate asked permission to make a special executive desk for Edwards.  Said he kept beggin’ to be allowed to use the shop.  Flipped the switch before the orderly knew what was happenin’.”

An eerie silence filled the boiler room.  “There’s a room called ‘the snake room’ upstairs.”

“That sounds unbelievable.”

“It’s not the only account about Wednesday.  When the state shut the place down, the records were shredded.  Another of the high-functionin’ inmates who sometimes worked in the office hid some of ‘em.  I found ‘em.”

“You ought to write a book about it.”

“I ain’t much of a writer.  Besides, I don’t mind livin’ here.  Bit brutal in the winter, but nobody tells me what to do.  Don’t have to demean myself for nobody.  My house, my rules.”

“But the story should be told.”

“Why don’t you write it then?  You’re the professor.”

“I’m not exactly in a position to advertise my whereabouts.”

“You are on the run, then.”

“Let’s just say it’s complicated.”

“You didn’t leave a trail did ya?  If the police show up I’m throwin’ ya out.”

Terah realized his error too late.  Mich was expert in evading questions.  He didn’t reveal anything.  He was obviously smart.  Terah could tell he also had a background that kept him from trying to enter normal life.  He couldn’t leave Mich unanswered.

“Okay, so I may be a person of interest by now.”

“Person of interest?”

“Life is complicated, Mich.  I spent years as a professor trying to get noticed and raised no interest.  Wrote provocative books and articles that only disappeared.  Then somebody you know dies and then you find yourself a person of interest.  I had nothing to do with it, though.  You have to trust me, Mich.”

“I just met you.”

“I’m no Wednesday.”

“Monday’s just as bad.  Maybe worse.”

“You don’t want to be bored with my story.”

“What’s your real name, Cal?”

“To show you that I trust you, Mich, I’ll tell you.  I haven’t used it for months.  Terah.  Terah Economy.”

“You’re makin’ it up.”

“No.  God’s truth.  If you had a computer you’d find me on the internet.  Rate My Professor, mostly.  My books are still on Amazon.”

“What kinda name is ‘Economy’?”

“Originally Greek, ‘Economos’ or something like that.  Probably Americanized at Ellis Island.  My father was a first generation American.  Laborer.  No connections.  He didn’t want to send me to college, so I borrowed myself into debt to do it.  I took to it.  My professors encouraged me on until, before I knew it I had a Ph. D. in religious studies.  Had no idea the other economy’d tank on me.  But that’s enough about me.”

“So who died?”

“My girl friend.  We lived together in central Jersey.  I found her dead and panicked.”

“Maybe we are livin’ in a hackneyed novel,” Mich mused.

Terah knew he couldn’t pry into this mysterious boy’s life just yet.  He was, however, curious about the tales from the asylum.  The boiler room was spooky with shadows bouncing off the furnaces and walls, thrown out by the modest fire.  The place was weirdly quiet, like three a.m.

“So when did this Wednesday die?” he asked.

Mich’s eyes were wide.  “Why don’t you ask him?  He’s standin’ right behind you.”