The Thanatos Syndrome

where tenderness always leads?”
    â€œNo, where?” I ask, watching the stranger with curiosity.
    â€œTo the gas chamber.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œTenderness is the first disguise of the murderer.”
    â€œRight.”
    The stranger has sprung up through the opening with no assistance, even though he’s carrying a plastic pail of water in one hand and an A&P shopping bag in the other. Evidently he’s used to doing this.
    â€œWell—” I say, stepping down. We needn’t shake hands.
    â€œHere’s the final word,” says the priest, taking hold of my arm.
    â€œGood,” I say.
    Now we three are standing facing in the same direction, the stranger evidently waiting for me to leave, not even having room to set down pail and shopping bag.
    â€œIf you are a lover of Mankind in the abstract like Walt Whitman, who wished the best for Mankind, you will probably do no harm and might even write good poetry and give pleasure, right?
    â€œRight.”
    â€œIf you are a theorist of Mankind like Rousseau or Skinner, who believes he understands man’s brain and in the solitariness of his study or laboratory writes books on the subject, you are also probably harmless and might even contribute to human knowledge, right?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œBut if you put the two together, a lover of Mankind and a theorist of Mankind, what you’ve got now is Robespierre or Stalin or Hitler and the Terror, and millions dead for the good of Mankind. Right?”
    â€œRight,” I say indifferently.
    Now the stranger places the pail in a corner and lines up items from the bag on the table next to the azimuth: two bars of soap, a pack of small Hefty bags, a double roll of Charmin toilet paper, three large boxes of Sunkist raisins, half a dozen cans of food, including, I notice, Vienna sausage and Bartlett pears.
    The priest introduces me. “Dr. Thomas More, this is Milton Guidry, my indispensable friend and assistant. He keeps me in business, brings me the essentials, removes wastes, serves Mass. Unlike me, he is able to live a normal life down there in the world. He used to run the hospice almost single-handedly, plus milk the cows. He still milks the cows. Now he works as a janitor at the A&P. Between his small salary there and my small salary from the forestry service and selling the milk, we make out very well, don’t we, Milton?”
    The newcomer nods cheerfully and stands almost at attention, as if waiting for an order. Milton Guidry is a very thin but wiry man of an uncertain age. He could be a young-looking middle-aged man or a gray-haired young man. His face is unlined. His neat flat-top crewcut, squared at the temples, frames his octagonal rimless glasses, which flash in the sun. The bare spot at the top of his head could be the result of a beginning of balding or a too-close haircut. He wears a striped, long-sleeved shirt and a bow tie—he could have bought both at the A&P—neatly pressed jeans, and pull-on canvas shoes. He is of a type once found in many rectories who are pleased to hang around and help the priest. In another time, I suppose, he would be called a sacristan. He listens intently while the priest gives him instructions. It does not seem to strike him as in the least unusual that Father Smith is perched atop a hundred-foot tower in the middle of nowhere and giving him complicated instructions about getting cruets, hosts, and wine. This, Milton’s attentive attitude seems to say, is what Father does.
    â€œDo you say Mass here?” I ask the priest. We stand at close quarters, our eyes squinted against the sun now blazing in the west.
    â€œOh yes. Every morning at six. And Milton has not been late yet, have you, Milton?”
    Milton nods seriously, hands at his sides. “It is easy,” Milton explains to me, “because I have an alarm clock and I live in the shed below.” He points to the floor. “I set the alarm for five-thirty.”
    â€œI see.”
    â€œI used to set my alarm for five-forty-five, but I felt rushed. I like to give myself time.”
    â€œI see.” I really have to get out of here.
    â€œMilton has to work mornings next week,” says the priest, eyeing me. “Would you like to assist?”
    â€œNo thanks.”
    The priest seems not to mind. In the best of humors now, he holds the trapdoor open for me and again sends his love to Ellen and the