“I understand they were a pretty disturbed bunch,” Nicholson pressed. “From What Al told me, you all had quite a little lethal bull session late one night—the same night you made that tape, I believe.” He took a drag on his cigarette. “From what I gather, you made some little predictions that disturbed the boys no end. Is that right?”
“I wish I knew why people think it’s so important to be emotional,” Teddy said. “My mother and father don’t think a person’s human unless he thinks a lot of things are very sad or very annoying or very—very unjust, sort of. My father gets very emotional even when he reads the newspaper. He thinks I’m inhuman.”
Nicholson flicked his cigarette ash off to one side. “I take it you have no emotions?” he said.
Teddy reflected before answering. “If I do, I don’t remember when I ever used them,” he said. “I don’t see what they’re good for.”
“You love God, don’t you?” Nicholson asked, with a little excess of quietness. “Isn’t that your forte, so to speak? From what I heard on that tape and from what Al Babcock—”
“Yes, sure, I love Him. But I don’t love Him sentimentally. He never said anybody had to love Him sentimentally,” Teddy said. “If I were God, I certainly wouldn’t want people to love me sentimentally. It’s too unreliable.”
“You love your parents, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do—very much,” Teddy said, “but you want to make me use that word to mean what you want it to mean—I can tell.”
“All right. In what sense do you want to use it?”
Teddy thought it over. “You know what the word ‘affinity’ means?” he asked, turning to Nicholson.
“I have a rough idea,” Nicholson said dryly.
“I have a very strong affinity for them. They’re my parents, I mean, and we’re all part of each other’s harmony and everything,” Teddy said. “I want them to have a nice time while they’re alive, because they like having a nice time . . . But they don’t love me and Booper—that’s my sister—that way. I mean they don’t seem able to love us just the way we are. They don’t seem able to love us unless they can keep changing us a little bit. They love their reasons for loving us almost as much as they love us, and most of the time more. It’s not so good, that way.” He turned toward Nicholson again, sitting slightly forward. “Do you have the time, please?” he asked. “I have a swimming lesson at ten-thirty.”
“You have time,” Nicholson said without first looking at his wrist watch. He pushed back his cuff. “It’s just ten after ten,” he said.
“Thank you,” Teddy said, and sat back. “We can enjoy our conversation for about ten more minutes.” Nicholson let one leg drop over the side of the deck chair, leaned forward, and stepped on his cigarette end. “As I understand it,” he said, sitting back, “you hold pretty firmly to the Vedantic theory of reincarnation.”
“It isn’t a theory, it’s as much a part—”
“All right,” Nicholson said quickly. He smiled, and gently raised the flats of his hands, in a sort of ironic benediction. “We won’t argue that point, for the moment. Let me finish.” He crossed his heavy, outstretched legs again. “From what I gather, you’ve acquired certain information, through meditation, that’s given you some conviction that in your last incarnation you were a holy man in India, but more or less fell from Grace—”
“I wasn’t a holy man,” Teddy said. “I was just a person making very nice spiritual advancement.”
“All right—whatever it was,” Nicholson said. “But the point is you feel that in your last incarnation you more or less fell from Grace before final Illumination. Is that right, or am I—”
“That’s right,” Teddy said. “I met a lady, and I sort of stopped meditating.” He took his arms down from the armrests, and tucked his hands, as if to keep them warm, under his thighs. “I would have had to take another body and come back to earth again anyway—I mean I wasn’t so spiritually advanced that I could have died, if I hadn’t met that lady, and then gone straight to Brahma and never again have to come back to earth. But I wouldn’t have had to get incarnated in an American body if I hadn’t met that lady. I mean it’s very hard to meditate and live a spiritual life in America. People think you’re a freak if you try to. My father thinks I’m a freak, in a way. And my mother—well, she doesn’t think it’s good for me to think about God all the time. She thinks it’s bad for my health.”
Nicholson was looking at him, studying him. “I believe you said on that last tape that you were six when you first had a mystical experience. Is that right?”
“I was six when I saw that everything was God, and my hair stood up, and all that,” Teddy said. “It was on a Sunday, I remember. My sister was only a very tiny child then, and she was drinking her milk, and all of a sudden I saw that she was God and the milk was God. I mean, all she was doing was pouring God into God, if you know what I mean.”
Nicholson didn’t say anything.
“But I could get out of the finite dimensions fairly often wh
en I was four,” Teddy said, as an afterthought. “Not continuously or anything, but fairly often.”
Nicholson nodded. “You did?” he said. “You could?”
“Yes,” Teddy said. “That was on the tape . . . Or maybe it was on the one I made last April. I’m not sure.”
Nicholson took out his cigarettes again, but without taking his eyes off Teddy. “How does one get out of the finite dimensions?” he asked, and gave a short laugh. “I mean, to begin very basically, a block of wood is a block of wood, for example. It has length, width—”
“It hasn’t. That’s where you’re wrong,” Teddy said. “Everybody just thinks things keep stopping off somewhere. They don’t. That’s what I was trying to tell Professor Peet.” He shifted in his seat and took out an eyesore of a handkerchief—a gray, wadded entity—and blew his nose. “The reason things seem to stop off somewhere is because that’s the only way most people know how to look at things,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean they do.” He put away his handkerchief, and looked at Nicholson. “Would you hold up your arm a second, please?” he asked.
“My arm? Why?”
“Just do it. Just do it a second.”