Multum in Parvo
(Much in Little)

The glass was cool under his fingers. He watched the rain fall outside around the edges of his hand. The cold surface and the image of the rain combined, tricking his brain into believing his hand was wet. He pulled it away and rubbed it on the leg of his blue pants. Then he saw the handprint, a faint smudge almost impossible to discern from the white-gray clouds behind it. How many remnants of himself could he leave behind like this before there was nothing left to leave?

* * *

"Andrew?"

The pale nurse in charge of Group looked around, scanning the faces in attendance. She flipped open his file to see if he was scheduled to be elsewhere today; he was not. The files hold a great deal of information about a patient. Andrew's was smaller than most - very little was known about him. His name wasn't Andrew. They didn't know what his name was, and he wouldn't tell them. Shawn, an orderly whom the boy had become attached to, had been rattling off a list of names to him and saw a reaction to "Andrew." And so the name stuck. They guessed that he was probably about thirteen, and he'd been living at the ward for nearly three years. Police had found him living at a subway station - underfed, incoherent, and with two broken ribs. Too ill for adoption or foster care, he had been placed here. After some rest and time on the meds he had become more conscious, but he was labeled schizophrenic, extending his residency there to an undetermined amount of time.

"Where is Andrew?"

* * *

Andrew sat in the hallway, staring at his handprint on the window. He didn't like Group - it was boring - and he had gotten rather adept at sneaking away when they weren't paying attention. Another patient had launched into a hysterical fit earlier in the day, allowing the perfect chance. He had spent most of the time looking out the window. No one ever came down the hall during this time - all the patients were supposed to be in the Main Room.

"Boy!" a voice behind him boomed. Startled, Andrew frantically spun around on his butt, pressing his back to the cold glass. He stared up in fear at a looming form ringed by light. It leaned closer, its features still obscured by the light emanating from it. "Did you do that?" it demanded, pointing to the handprint on the window.

Andrew nodded slowly, his eyes opened wide at the huge imposing figure, ethereal, glowing, and said, softly, "Who are you?"

His question was unanswered. "I know where you're supposeta be, son, and it's not here. Now if you don't scoot back to where you belong, I'm gonna take this mop right over you and you ain't gonna like that none."

Andrew tried to comply but his legs felt numb - just like that, his legs and arms - and he couldn't do anything but stare dumbfounded and unmoving at the silhouette standing before him. He tried to speak but his voice was a whisper. "What's your name?"

Shifting its weight out of the light, the figure became clear and solid; he was a gruff-looking and elderly black man in navy blue work clothes. He stood with one hand on his hip and the other clenching a worn, frayed mop like a weapon. He had a slight gut and a pair of glasses folded in a breast pocket above which was a picture name tag that he pointed to now.

"Can't you read, boy? Marcus. Janitorial staff. Now come on." Andrew was quickly pulled to his feet with a tug on his arm.

The old man didn't hurt Andrew although the thick fingers wrapped firmly around his arm looked as though they could easily snap the bone in half. In a quieter voice the man said, "You know as well as me that you aren't supposeta be out here, and they're gonna get real mad when they find out that instead of bein' where you're supposeta be you been out here makin' handprints on my clean windas." Andrew could only look at him in awe, his eyes so wide they were starting to hurt.

"Quit starin' at me, son. It's weird."

Andrew gulped.

They entered the Main Room, Andrew's escort nearly hitting an orderly with the door. He was a gangly redheaded college kid hired to work there; his ID tag said his name was Shawn. Moving out of the doorway, he smiled down at Andrew; "There you are." He looked at Marcus. "Where'd you find him?"

"Oh, down one of the hallways starin' out the winda." Andrew's arm was freed, and he quickly padded over to Shawn, standing slightly behind him. "You oughta keep a better eye on kids like him. Can't have them wandering all over like that."

Andrew frantically tugged on Shawn's pant leg until he knelt down. He cupped a hand and whispered in Shawn's ear, staring up at Marcus.

The orderly chuckled. "Is that so?" Andrew nodded solemnly.

Shawn stood up. "Well, thanks a lot," he said to Marcus. "We really appreciate it." A gentle hand was placed on Andrew's shoulder as he was directed away. Andrew twisted and craned his neck to look over his shoulder and saw the man glance back at him as he left the room.

* * *

It was sometime later - Andrew could never keep track of days well. It was two days after a Sunday; he knew that for sure. Sunday was the day they were allowed to sleep in, so he marked everything around that. He had been waiting seemingly forever for the chance to get out here. He needed to see Him again.

He still wasn't sure why he had been chosen to meet Him. Especially here of all places. But there must be a good reason - this sort of thing doesn't just happen. He must be special; there must be something important for him to know. It had been a while since the first meeting. He hadn't been able to get out; they had been keeping an eye on him. He could only hope he hadn't missed his chance.

He fidgeted and looked around and stared out the window. It was bright and blue out today - it made his eyes sore. He placed his hand up against the glass to cover the glaring sun. It made a nice shadowy area on his face, but he continued squinting.

Then he remembered something. He climbed slowly to his feet, delicately peeling his hand from the glass. He looked at the glass carefully. Leaning against the window, he looked closer and frowned.

It had happened. There was nothing there. No marks on the glass. He was all used up.

He took a few steps back, unsure of what to do. He considered waiting for Him, but realized there wasn't time. Something had to be done now. Where could he find the rest of himself? He felt like he had come to this place missing something, and now he realized why. But where had the rest gone?

The subway! He had spent so much time there; parts of him must have stayed behind. All he had to do was go back and find it and he would be okay again.

Shuffling quickly to the end of the hall, he pushed open the door he often saw Important People walking through. He was greeted by lots of stairs going up and down. He figured down would be best - the subway had been down. He started slowly - one foot on the step and then the other. He'd have to hurry. He got to one landing and turned to face another flight. As he reached his leg out to take the first step down, his socked foot slipped out from under him, and he started to slide down on his back. A yell burst from him when the back of his head whacked hard on the top stair.

He was confused by the slide, trying to pull himself up, scrabbling at the railing. Suddenly he was falling forward, tumbling faster down the stairs. He would scream every time something hurt, which at first was often. But he soon stopped feeling anything specific - it was all a blur. After endless falling, he finally stopped when he hit a landing wall squarely and slid to the floor.

He tried to sit up but couldn't lift his head. He tried to move a leg and pain brought solid colors in front of his eyes, sickly reds and brownish purples. When the colors went away, his vision was blurred, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw Him standing there, looking down at him.

It's true, I was right. I'm all used up and now it's time for me to go, and He's come to take me.

Andrew sighed and closed his eyes, and all the pain stopped.

* * *

The service was small and sad. Marcus counted six people there, including the minister and a guy in charge of the mechanism that lowers the casket. And even he wasn't paying attention; he just leaned against a big maple tree and smoked the whole time. Not that "the whole time" was all that long. Maybe fifteen minutes, more likely less - and that was with the soft-spoken minister trying to stretch it out.

Afterwards as he was walking through the cemetery to his car, the red haired orderly came up to Marcus. "It was really nice of you to come, Marcus," he said.

Truthfully, he wasn't sure why he was there. He hadn't been to a funeral since his wife died in '87. He didn't really know Andrew. As a rule he didn't get involved with the patients. Perhaps it was because he'd found the boy that day. He must have just missed the child - he was noticing with some annoyance new handprints on the window when he heard the racket. He jogged into the stairwell and peered down, seeing a small figure tumble down the concrete steps. He raced as fast as his old body could carry him down the stairs, but it didn't really matter. Three floors down, Andrew had finally stopped, his body crumpled on a landing. His eyes were open, but he didn't really seem awake. His neck was twisted at a weird angle, as were his legs. A white slice of bone stuck through the skin of one arm, and a large gash on the child's forehead dripped blood into his left eye. For a moment, all Marcus could do was stand there and stare numbly; the only thought in his head being that the boy had a remarkable ability to sneak away. Andrew seemed to let a sigh escape from his broken body, and his eyes closed.

"You meant a lot to him," the young man said, interrupting his thoughts.

Marcus stared at him, and realized he didn't remember the kid's name. Steve, maybe. "Excuse me?"

Shawn looked a little surprised. "You didn't know?" he asked. Marcus shook his head. "Well, I guess you could say that he thought of you as a god," Shawn said. "Literally."

"I don't get you."

"Well," Shawn paused, thinking. "As near as I can tell from what he described to me, that time you found him in the hallway, you probably seemed very big and scary to him. So he thought you were some huge powerful force - he told me you were actually God. Guess he must have had some experience with a church before that would give him ideas like that…"

"So what you're telling me is that little boy thought I was God Himself?"

"Essentially, yes."

Marcus looked skeptical. "That don't make sense."

"Well, he was a very sick child."

"Yeah, guess he was."

Both men turned at the sound of grinding metal and movement, squinting in the sun and watched the man who was too bored to listen to the service lower Andrew's casket into the ground.

* * *

Marcus was greeted at the door by Thumper, a basset hound that Marcus sometimes thought was as old as himself. He leaned down and scratched the dog between the ears. The dog's tail thumped on the rug - hence the name. His wife had thought of that.

Marcus went about his evening rituals. He ate a simple dinner at the small table in the kitchen. Thumper sat underneath the table, keeping an eye out for any bits of fallen food. Afterwards he fed the dog some nicer stuff from a can, washed his dish and glass, washed the now-empty dog dish and filled it again with dry dog food. He went to his room and changed from his work clothes into a white t-shirt and tan corduroy overalls with patches on the knees. He got a beer from the rather empty refrigerator (he mostly ate microwave dinners and canned goods), sat in his big battered recliner and clicked on the television.

He watched the news in a haze through half-opened eyes. Same old sort of thing - robbery, crime, school levees failing, conflict in the government. The weather girl said it was going to rain tomorrow. A commercial came on and he quickly hit the channel button. He hated commercials.

After a few clicks he came across one of the Christian programming channels. On the screen, a seemingly ancient minister stood on stage preaching in a loud, dramatic voice. All around him, choruses of "Amen" echoed from the choir and the congregation to every statement he made. Marcus was quite familiar with this man. Nathaniel Dobson, a rather famous televangelist.

He had seen Dobson many times when he was a young man. His mother had been very religious, and very ill. Dobson claimed to be a healer. Marcus had often stood in the line leading up to the man himself, his frail mother hanging on to his arm, muttering prayers under her breath. Her grip would tighten as they moved up in the line, closer and closer to the so-called healer. Around him, people would yell out praises, waving their arms or falling to the floor.

Finally they would be the front of the line, the man himself standing mere inches away, all sweaty in his coal colored suit. He would gaze at the stooped figure of Marcus' mother, his face a mask of exaggerated compassion.

"My Sister," he would croon, placing a hand on her bony shoulder, "I sense that you are very sick."

To Marcus and anyone else, it was quite obvious that she was sick. She had become a shell of a woman, her body bent and full of sharp angles, her once brown skin now ashy. But she remained amazed. Her eyes would grow wide behind her oversized glasses resting on her thin nose. "Yes," she would whisper, in awe of the man's power.

He would lean down to look her in the face. "Now, Sister, I need to know: Do you believe in the power of Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?"

"Yes!" she would whisper again, this time with conviction.

"And do you believe that He can heal you with His Divine Love and free you of the disease that plagues your body?"

"Yes!" she would repeat, her eyes lighting up.

"Then let the power of Jesus Christ heal you, My Holy Child!" He would push his palm to her forehead and she would swoon and start to collapse. Marcus would scoop her up and carry her somewhere to rest.

Afterwards she would always claim to be healed, that she felt completely well again. But usually about a week or so later she would start complaining about her pains once more. Marcus thought this was a sure sign of a sham, but his mother said she simply needed to go and be healed again.

"The man is a miracle worker," she would always say. And they would always go back. He must have seen the man over fifty times in the five or so years his mother had been truly sick before she died.

In the eyes of thousands like his mother, he was a miracle worker and a tool of God. To Marcus, he was a fraud and a blasphemer and a liar and countless other things. After his mother died, Marcus essentially abandoned the faith, only going in a church again to be married.

And he was still at it. Marcus watched as the weasel of a clergyman met the line of those so desperate for help, supposedly healing them with a mere touch of his hand. So many people being mislead. What a horrible wretch of a man.

Marcus' eyelids began to droop and his posture slackened in his armchair. His last thought as he drifted to sleep was that a man such as this didn't even deserve to exist.

* * *

Marcus woke at six. Showered, groomed his beard, put on his work clothes. He put on a Sinatra record and prepared his breakfast. He ate his usual toaster waffles topped with syrup and the kind of butter that comes in a little tub. Marcus turned off the record and filled the dog's water dish. With that, he patted the dog goodbye and left for work.

He stepped outside into wet, thick air. Although very early in the day, it was already humid. He gazed up at the sky full of gray clouds bloated with potential rain. Already a couple drops began to splash onto his car. He frowned slightly and left for work.

He arrived at work nearly half an hour later - ten minutes more than it usually took, having fought through the traffic of people who didn't know how to drive in the rain. He was already in a bad mood now - he usually ended up feeling grumpy when it rained.

It wasn't until he'd climbed entirely out of the car that he noticed that it had stopped raining. And it wasn't until he looked down and saw his shadow stretching out before him that he realized that not only had it stopped raining, but the sun was out. He looked up and saw the gray clouds far in the distance, and all that was above him was open blue sky.

"Hey Marcus!" He turned to see Neal, another fellow who worked on the janitorial staff. Marcus nodded to him in response.

"How about this weather, eh?" Neal said. "Crazy, ain't it?"

All Marcus could say was, "It's certainly odd."

* * *

Marcus tapped his foot impatiently as he waited in the cafeteria line to get his morning coffee. He stared blankly at a TV set rigged up in a corner of the room, playing the morning news. Suddenly an image flickered across the screen that caught his focus - a head shot of Nathaniel Dobson. Under his smiling face was the dates 1924-2002. He walked quickly over to the set, reaching to turn up the volume. The brunette newswoman informed him that Dobson had died only the night before, succumbing to a heart attack near the end of his live televangelist show. Many mourned the death of this popular minister, she said.

"That sonbitch musta died just after I nodded off," he thought, still staring at the screen as they moved on to another story already. More to himself than anyone else, he simply repeated, "Certainly odd."

* * *

When he got up to the psych ward, that tall redhead orderly kid greeted him with a cardboard box. He immediately handed it to Marcus.

"Some of Andrew's things," he explained. "You can just get rid of them or do whatever." Marcus nodded and walked away. Looking at the contents of the box, he saw it was mostly clothes. He saw a strange little piece of cloth sticking out under a picture book. He stopped walking and pulled on the cloth. The cloth turned out to be the arm of a stuffed animal that slid out from under the book. He smiled a bit and stared at the animal - an old-fashioned sock monkey. Heck, he'd even had one of those when he was a kid. He wrapped his thick hand around the body of the toy and held it up to his face, looking at it closely.

And then it hit him. A swarm of images flashed in his mind, a torrent of information flooding his senses. A strange noise came from his throat and the box fell to the floor. His hand clenched the soft torso of the monkey and suddenly he knew.

The boy's name had been Trevor Roseberry. He'd always been a bit of an odd child, but his mother found him too much to handle. A divorcee, she was looking for a new husband but thought having a son like Trevor would complicate the process. So she placed him in a sort of halfway house for younger people. But he was unhappy, and wandered off one day. A homeless man named Andrew took the boy under his wing, helping him out however he could, which was always sadly little. Trevor lived at the subway station with Andrew for nearly a year when the police found him and took him away. He had fallen down the stairs attempting to return to Andrew and the subway station.

Marcus' mouth gaped as the overwhelming rush faded away, but the information was all still there. He gripped the sock monkey tighter and lunged for the employee's lounge.

* * *

He couldn't stop it now. A bouquet of a few wild flowers in a cup of water on the windowsill grew and flourished at a rapid pace before his eyes, new buds sprouting, leaves stretching far beyond the rim of the cup. He blinked hard and it stopped, but still was now nearly a small shrub compared to the couple flowers that had been there originally. The pale nurse who ran the Group Therapy came in for a cup of coffee, and he saw how several years from now she would get her doctorate and become the psychiatrist she really wanted to be. He also saw her grief at the age of ten when her cat was run over by the neighbor's son. He closed his eyes for a long moment and then looked at the flowers again. In a matter of seconds, color drained from their petals and leaves turned brown and fluttered to the floor. Behind him he heard the door open.

"Hey Marcus," a voice said. "How's it going?" Marcus turned and saw Shawn losing his virginity to a girl after prom. She eventually broke his heart in college, dumping him for some jerk she had cheated on him with.

Shawn tilted his head slightly. "Are you okay?" he asked. "You look kind of… weird."

Marcus cleared his throat. "Remember what Andrew told you he thought about me?" One hand absently fidgeted with the sock monkey resting on the table.

"Heh, the God thing? Yeah, I remember. Why?"

Marcus propped his elbow on the table, holding his arm up. He clenched his fist tight for a few seconds, and then opened his hand. Resting on his palm was a butterfly. It slowly opened and closed its wings a few times, as if testing them out. It then took flight, fluttering in wavy patterns around the room, over Shawn's shoulder and through the door. Dumbfounded, Shawn walked slowly down the hallway following it. It flitted down the hall in loops, dipping and gliding, a burst of color in the plain pastel space. It reached the window at the end and alighted on the window, wings spread out in perfect symmetry. Shawn watched as marks began to appear on the window, oily smudges clinging to the glass, forming a pattern. A child-sized handprint.

Behind him, Marcus' voice; "This is why."