Invisible man

            I stood just inside the room, watching them as I slipped off my jacket, seeing them grouped around a small table upon which there rested a pitcher of water, a glass and a couple of smoking ash trays. One half of the room was dark and only one light burned, directly above the table. They regarded me silently, Brother Jack with a smile that went no deeper than his lips, his head cocked to one side, studying me with his penetrating eyes; the others blank-faced, looking out of eyes that were meant to reveal nothing and to stir profound uncertainty. The smoke rose in spirals from their cigarettes as they sat perfectly contained, waiting. So you came, after all, I thought, going over and dropping into one of the chairs. I rested my arm on the table, noticing its coolness.

            "Well, how did it go?" Brother Jack said, extending his clasped hands across the table and looking at me with his head to one side.

            "You saw the crowd," I said. "We finally got them out."

            "No, we did not see the crowd. How was it?"

            "They were moved," I said, "a great number of them. But beyond that I don't know. They were with us, but how far I don't know . . ." And for a moment I could hear my own voice in the quiet of the high-ceilinged hall.

            "Sooo! Is that all the great tactician has to tell us?" Brother Tobitt said. "In what direction were they moved?"

            I looked at him, aware of the numbness of my emotions; they had flowed in one channel too long and too deeply.

            "That's for the committee to decide. They were aroused, that was all we could do. We tried again and again to reach the committee for guidance but we couldn't."

            "So?"

            "So we went ahead on my personal responsibility."

            Brother Jack's eyes narrowed. "What was that?" he said. "Your what?"

            "My personal responsibility," I said.

            "His personal responsibility," Brother Jack said. "Did you hear that, Brothers? Did I hear him correctly. Where did you get it, Brother?" he said. "This is astounding, where did you get it?"

            "From your ma --" I started and caught myself in time. "From the committee," I said.

            There was a pause. I looked at him, his face reddening, as I tried to get my bearings. A nerve trembled in the center of my stomach.

            "Everyone came out," I said, trying to fill it in. "We saw the opportunity and the community agreed with us. It's too bad you missed it . . ."

            "You see, he's sorry we missed it," Brother Jack said. He held up his hand. I could see the deeply etched lines in his palm. "The great tactician of personal responsibility regrets our absence . . ."

            Doesn't he see how I feel, I thought, can't he see why I did it? What's he trying to do? Tobitt's a fool, but why is he taking it up?

            "You could have taken the next step," I said, forcing the words. "We went as far as we could . . ."

            "On your personal re-spon-si-bility," Brother Jack said, bowing his head in time with the words.

            I looked at him steadily now. "I was told to win back our following, so I tried. The only way I knew how. What's your criticism? What's wrong?"

            "So now," he said, rubbing his eye with a delicate circular movement of his fist, "the great tactician asks what's wrong. Is it possible that something could be wrong? Do you hear him, Brothers?"

            There was a cough. Someone poured a glass of water and I could hear it fill up very fast, then the rapid rill-like trickle of the final drops dripping from the pitcher-lip into the glass. I looked at him, my mind trying to bring things into focus.

            "You mean he admits the possibility of being incorrect?" Tobitt said.

            "Sheer modesty, Brother. The sheerest modesty. We have here an extraordinary tactician, a Napoleon of strategy and personal responsibility. 'Strike while the iron is hot' is his motto. 'Seize the instance by its throat,' 'Shoot at the whites of their eyes,' 'Give 'em the ax, the ax, the ax,' and so forth."

            I stood up. "I don't know what this is all about, Brother. What are you trying to say?"

            "Now there is a good question, Brothers. Sit down, please, it's hot. He wants to know what we're trying to say. We have here not only an extraordinary tactician, but one who has an appreciation for subtleties of expression."

            "Yes, and for sarcasm, when it's good," I said.

            "And for discipline? Sit down, please, it's hot . . ."

            "And for discipline. And for orders and consultation when it's possible to have them," I said.

            Brother Jack grinned. "Sit down, sit down -- And for patience?"

            "When I'm not sleepy and exhausted," I said, "and not overheated as I am just now."

            "You'll learn," he said. "You'll learn and you'll surrender yourself to it even under such conditions. Especially under such conditions; that's its value. That makes it patience."

            "Yes, I guess I'm learning now," I said. "Right now."

            "Brother," he said drily, "you have no idea how much you're learning -- Please sit down."