Futility, futility, all was futility and God’s shattering silence. Seven, that rhythmic digit from Revelation, seven long years since Billy had been in regular communication with heaven: the seraphs’ voices telling him that he and he alone had been elected to bring Jesus back, the white-robed hosts marching through his skull on their way to set Babylon aflame—the whole vast internal spectacle having culminated in 1984 with proof positive that the seraphs and hosts were indeed messages from Billy’s Lord, not fancies from his brain. He’d been taking a shower. Mrs. Foster, normally so cautious and prim, pulled the plastic curtain aside, so nothing more substantial than steam now clothed Billy’s sinful flesh. “He’s got eyes!” she screamed. “Eyes? Who?” “Timothy! Two eyes!” “What do you mean?” “Eyes!” Naked, Billy ran from the bathroom. It was true. Chairs, tables, spoons, the family Bible, his mother’s picture on the mantel, his father’s soapy skin—the sweet blue-eyed boy saw it all.
