The Leftovers. Tom Perrotta

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СКАЧАТЬ know what you’re thinking, and I don’t blame you. I’m just telling you what happened. I’m not saying I fixed her or cured her, or anything like that. To this day, she’s still sad. Because there’s not some finite amount of pain inside us. Our bodies and minds just keep manufacturing more of it. I’m just saying that I took the pain that was inside of her at that moment and made it my own. And it didn’t hurt me at all.”

      A change seemed to come over Mr. Gilchrest. He stood up straighter and placed his hand over his heart.

      “That was the day I learned who I am,” he declared. “I’m a sponge for pain. I just soak it up and it makes me stronger.”

      The smile that spread across his face was so joyful and self-assured he seemed almost like a different person.

      “I don’t care if you believe me. All I ask is that you give me a chance. I know you’re all hurting. You wouldn’t be here on a Saturday afternoon if you weren’t. I want you to let me hug you and take away your pain.” He turned to Reverend Kaminsky. “You first.”

      The minister was clearly reluctant, but he was the host and couldn’t see any polite way out. He rose from his chair and approached Mr. Gilchrest, casting a skeptical sidelong glance at the audience on the way, letting them know he was just being a good sport.

      “Tell me,” Mr. Gilchrest said. “Is there a special someone you’ve been missing? A person whose absence seems especially troubling to you? Anyone at all. Doesn’t have to be a close friend or member of your family.”

      Reverend Kaminsky seemed surprised by the question. After a brief hesitation he said, “Eva Washington. She was a classmate of mine in divinity school. I didn’t know her that well, but …”

      “Eva Washington.” Mr. Gilchrest stepped forward, the sleeves of his suit jacket creeping toward his elbows as he spread his arms. “You miss Eva.”

      At first it seemed like an unremarkable social hug, the kind people exchange all the time. But then, with startling abruptness, Reverend Kaminsky’s knees buckled and Mr. Gilchrest grunted, almost as if he’d been punched in the gut. His face tightened into a grimace, then relaxed.

      “Wow,” he said. “That was a lot.”

      The two men held each other for a long time. When they separated, the Reverend was sobbing, one hand clamped over his mouth. Mr. Gilchrest turned to the audience.

      “Single file,” he said. “I have time for everybody.”

      Nothing happened for a moment or two. But then a heavyset woman in the third row stood up and made her way to the front. Before long, all but a few members of the audience had left their seats. “No pressure,” Mr. Gilchrest assured the holdouts. “I’m here when you’re ready.”

      Tom and Hubbs were near the end of the line, so they were familiar with the process by the time their turns arrived. Hubbs went first. He told Mr. Gilchrest about Chip Gleason, and Mr. Gilchrest repeated Chip’s name before pulling Hubbs against his chest in a strong, almost paternal embrace.

      “It’s okay,” Mr. Gilchrest told him. “I’m right here.”

      Several seconds passed before Hubbs let out a yelp and Mr. Gilchrest staggered backward, his eyes widening with alarm. Tom thought they were about to crash onto the floor like wrestlers, but somehow they managed to remain upright, performing a precarious dance until they regained their balance. Mr. Gilchrest laughed and said, “Easy, partner,” patting Hubbs gently on the back before letting him go. Hubbs looked wobbly and dazed as he returned to his seat.

      Mr. Gilchrest smiled as Tom stepped forward. Up close his eyes seemed brighter than Tom had expected, as if he were glowing from within.

      “What’s your name?” he asked.

      “Tom Garvey.”

      “Who’s your special someone, Tom?”

      “Jon Verbecki. This kid I used to know.”

      “Jon Verbecki. You miss Jon.”

      Mr. Gilchrest opened his arms. Tom stepped forward, into his strong embrace. Mr. Gilchrest’s torso felt broad and sturdy, but also soft, unexpectedly yielding. Tom felt something loosen inside of him.

      “Give it here,” Mr. Gilchrest whispered in his ear. “It doesn’t hurt me.”

      Later, in the car, neither Tom nor Hubbs had much to say about what they’d felt in the church basement. They both seemed to understand that describing it was beyond their powers, the gratitude that spreads through your body when a burden gets lifted, and the sense of homecoming that follows, when you suddenly remember what it feels like to be yourself.

      SHORTLY AFTER midterms, Tom received a flurry of increasingly agitated voice, text, and e-mail messages from his parents, imploring him to contact them immediately. From what he could gather, the university had sent them some sort of formal warning that he was in danger of failing all his classes.

      He didn’t respond for a few days, hoping the delay would give them time to cool off, but their attempts to reach him only grew more frantic and aggressive. Finally, unnerved by their threats to alert the campus police, cancel his credit card, and cut off his cell phone service, he gave in and called them back.

      “What the hell’s going on up there?” his father demanded.

      “We’re worried about you,” his mother cut in, speaking on a separate handset. “Your English teacher hasn’t seen you in weeks. And you didn’t even take your Poli Sci exam, the one you said you got a B on.”

      Tom winced. It was embarrassing to be caught in a lie, especially one so big and stupid. Unfortunately, all he could think to do was lie again.

      “That was my bad. I overslept. I was too embarrassed to tell you.”

      “That’s not gonna cut it,” his father said. “You know how much it costs for one semester of college?”

      Tom was surprised by the question, and a bit relieved. His parents had money. It was a lot easier to apologize for wasting some of it than to explain what he’d been doing for the past two months.

      “I know it’s expensive, Dad. I really don’t take it for granted.”

      “That’s not the issue,” his mother said. “We’re happy to pay for your college. But something’s wrong with you. I can hear it in your voice. We should never have let you go back there.”

      “I’m fine,” Tom insisted. “It’s just that the frat stuff’s been taking up way more of my time than I thought it would. Hell Week’s the end of this month, and then everything’ll get back to normal. If I work hard, I’m pretty sure I can pass all my classes.”

      He heard an odd silence at the other end of the connection, as if each of his parents was waiting for the other one to speak.

      “Honey,” his mother said softly. “It’s too late for that.”

      AT THE frat house that night, Tom told Hubbs that he was withdrawing from school. His parents were coming on Saturday to take him home. They had his whole life figured out—a full-time job at his father’s warehouse, and two sessions a week with a therapist СКАЧАТЬ