A Jest of God

God’s mercy on reluctant jesters. God’s grace on fools. God’s pity on God

I always thought you got along so well here. Taught well, fitted in with the other staff very harmoniously, and as for myself, we’ve never had the slightest disagreement, you and I. That’s so, isn’t it? You must admit that it is. I always thought you were perfectly satisfied with the way our school is run. I could be quite mistaken, of course, but I always thought so. I trust you don’t mind my asking, but naturally this is a matter of some considerable interest to me.”
He doesn’t want my answer. He wants me to say “Of course I have always been as happy as a veritable meadow-lark in this eminently well-run establishment, Willard, and I can assure you my leaving has nothing whatsoever to do with you, who have been in every conceivable way the best of principals – it is only that my old mother wishes to see her dear little grandchildren, so I am taking off, albeit with the greatest and bitterest of regrets.”
What am I to say, though? Sometimes I was happy here, and sometimes not, and often I was afraid of him, and still am, although I see now this was as unnecessary as my mother’s fear of fate. What good would it do to say that? I couldn’t explain, nor he accept.
“I’ve just lived here long enough, that’s all. It’s got nothing to do with the school.”
And this, like everything else, is both true and false.
*

achel, you’re talking so peculiarly. Doctor Raven has been my doctor for goodness knows how long. If he doesn’t know what’s what, dear, who does, may I ask?”
“I don’t know. I’ve no idea. God, for all I know.”
Is it some partial triumph, that I can bring myself finally to say this, or is it only the last defeat?
“God?”