Dance, The (The Restoration Series Book #1): A Novel (16 page)

 30 

I
t was Sunday morning. Jim sat in the church parking lot, trying to work up the courage to get out of the car. He smiled as different members he recognized drove up, parked their cars, nodded then stared at him as they walked by. Probably trying to figure out what he was up to. Trying to put together in their heads which parts of the gossip they’d heard about him and Marilyn were true.

He was a pariah now, inside that building. He was sure of that. A man fallen from grace. If not from God, certainly from men. And in that building, what people thought about you was all you had. Your image, your reputation. He’d spent years crafting it, honing it to a fine edge. Making the right connections with just the right mix of people.

As he thought about it now, it seemed a bit like the pressures of high school, albeit a more sophisticated version. A religious version, where the popular crowd was still popular for some of the same reasons, and people like him had always felt on the outside trying to break in but never quite getting there. He was always on a treadmill, trying to keep the connections and
acceptance alive. Knowing that at any moment something could happen—almost anything at all—to sever these fragile ties.

And if that happened, they’d cut you loose and you’d float away untethered like a balloon, as the crowd chatted and pointed at you until you faded from sight.

Jim sat there in his car, knowing that right now was such a moment for him.

If it had not already happened, it certainly would the moment he walked in the door and handed this letter to Mort Stanley. He decided to do it before the service. And he wouldn’t stay for the looks, the stares, the fake smiles. No, he’d be heading back here to his car; the golf clubs were already in his trunk. He’d drive out of the parking lot before the choir had finished singing the second hymn.

The untethered balloon.

He held the letter up by the steering wheel and read it once more. No good reason to do that; he’d written and rewritten it a dozen times up to this point. Still, there was an itch to read it again. Just once more.

Dear Mort (and the rest of the deacon board),

Please accept this letter as my resignation from the deacon board, effective immediately. I won’t be attending the scheduled meeting tomorrow night to discuss the proposal regarding the church leasing my property for its senior center over the next year. I understand my absence, this resignation, and the information I’m about to share will likely result in the church deciding to pass on the deal.

As you all have likely heard, my wife and I aren’t doing well at the moment. To be more precise, we are separated. My efforts to bring about a quick resolve to this crisis have
proved ineffective. We are no closer to reconciling our differences than we were the day she walked out two weeks ago. I still don’t know what the main issues are, because she won’t even talk to me.

But of course, these are my problems, not yours. And I no longer wish to be a hindrance to the board and the many important projects and plans you all must make for the church’s future. It has been a distinct honor to serve with you men over the past two years.

Sincerely,
James Anderson (Jim)

He reread the last line, the part about it having been “a distinct honor” to serve on the board these past two years.

Had it been? Really?

On one level it had. He loved the feeling of being nominated by members of the church to serve in that honored role, and remembered the joy he’d felt the day he’d been voted in. He even loved the boring meetings, discussing the big issues, being a part of such an elite guild.

But the paper he held in his hand would end all that. And he knew—because he’d seen it happen to others over the years—one never rises once fallen from grace. Not in this church. Not with their standards and, yes, with their noses—as his daughter Michele used to say—raised so high in the air.

He got out of the car, trying not to think of how this decision would affect his personal finances. Three other board members had leased properties with his company, as well as two other prominent businessmen in the church. Fortunately and for now, their allegiance would hold by the lease contracts
they had signed. So there wouldn’t be any immediate drop in revenue. But would these men renew their leases again when the time came? Would Jim ever see a single new customer come from the members of this church?

He walked across the parking lot to the sidewalk. Would anyone in the church even reach out to him on any level after this?

A few might make perfunctory phone calls, those who still had a modicum of Christian charity alive in their hearts. But for most, he would simply cease to exist. He was the pariah now. The untethered balloon.

He opened the glass door, heard the organ begin to play. The door closed behind him. Three church members he knew—and a few weeks ago would have thought of as friends—stood by the entrance to the sanctuary. They looked his way just a moment. One said something to the others, and they quickly hurried inside.

As he reached the sanctuary door, he recognized the song the organ was playing: “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” He stepped inside, scanning the crowd for Mort Stanley as the choir began to sing:

Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love;

the fellowship of kindred minds is like to that above.

 31 

J
im pulled into his driveway, waited for the garage door to rise. Playing golf had always been good medicine for him, but especially today. His drives had actually gone several yards farther than his average. Probably had something to do with the short bursts of anger he released every time he whacked the ball. Different faces of people at church would come to mind, the ones he knew didn’t like him or the ones he was certain were talking about him behind his back.

Why did people think that was okay? Especially church people? The garage door clicked into place, and he pulled the car inside. They did it all the time, at least at his church. He supposed he’d engaged in it himself from time to time, or at least sat there nodding dumbly while others did. Of course, it never bothered him so much before. He’d never been on the receiving end. At least not that he could tell.

He turned the car off and got out, stood there waiting for the garage door to close again. It certainly bothered Marilyn—the gossip, that is. And it really had bothered Michele. That was the reason she’d given for leaving the church altogether once she left for college. She had come back one holiday in that first year
with a teaching outline from a new church she’d been attending near the school. She said members of this church had to make a commitment to resolve their conflicts by following something she called “Peacemaking Principles.” Then she plopped the outline down, right there on the dinner table, insisting he and Marilyn hear her out.

“That’s what’s so wrong about your church, Dad. Can’t you see? Look at all these Scriptures about gossip and slander. Do you see what this says?”

Jim looked down at the page. He was just humoring her, of course, knowing if he put up a fuss this thing would go on until his roast beef and scalloped potatoes had grown cold. She pointed out one verse after the other, in both the Old Testament and New, stating plainly how much God hated gossip and slander. How it was in the same list of serious sins as sexual immorality and stealing. And she read other Scriptures about how it destroyed relationships.

Jim already knew gossip and slander weren’t good things. He didn’t need his daughter ruining a good dinner by highlighting such a depressing topic. And he certainly couldn’t see how it was as serious a thing as immorality or stealing.

Standing there in the garage now, he began to think there was something to what Michele had been trying to say. After putting his clubs and shoes away, he walked through the garage past the laundry room, when he heard loud music coming from the stairway leading to Doug’s apartment. He headed up the stairs and banged on Doug’s door. The music stopped.

“Hey, Dad, you’re back. How was golf?”

“Pretty good,” Jim said. “How was church?”

“What?”

“You said you were going with Jason’s family this morning.”

“I did. I’ve been home for over an hour.”

Jim didn’t like Doug’s hesitation. Should he press harder? He wasn’t in the mood to catch Doug in a lie and didn’t have the energy to deal with all the tension. “Listen, I’m heading over to the house to take a shower and get cleaned up. Then I’m calling for a pizza.”

“From Gabbie’s?”

“Sure, we can get it from there. I’m guessing you want some.”

“I’m starving.”

“Pepperoni, as usual?”

Doug nodded. “But they’ll do half, so make the other half Italian sausage or whatever you like.”

“I will. Why don’t you head over in about forty-five minutes. Should be here by then.”

“Great. See you then.”

Jim stayed a little longer in the shower than usual, allowing the hot water to pour down his neck and back. It seemed to soothe the savage beast inside. He realized that one of the faces that had not come to mind as he whacked those golf balls was Marilyn’s. He was still angry with her for leaving him like this. None of these troubles at church would have ever started if she’d stayed home. Why did she have to do something this drastic to get his attention? Why hadn’t she given him some kind of warning signal that she had reached the danger zone?

As he dried off, he thought about something Audrey Windsor had said when they first chatted last week in the parking lot.
My guess is . . . she’s been trying to talk to you about how unhappy she’s been for a long time, but you haven’t been listening.
And then something else:
Has she ever talked to you about attending
a marriage retreat with her, maybe suggested some marriage books the two of you should read together?

Marilyn hadn’t done anything like that. She’d just walked out. She’d written a note and walked out. A picture of the note came to mind. Something she’d said. He walked over to his dresser, pulled the note out from the top drawer.
You probably have no idea how many times in recent months I’ve tried to talk to you about how unhappy I am, how unhappy I’ve been. It goes right over your head. I’ve dropped hint after hint, clue after clue. None of it gets past that hard shell of yours.

Had she really tried that hard? How was it possible? How could he have missed every signal? Nobody is that dull, he thought. He set his towel on the bed and started getting dressed, put on some shorts and a pullover shirt. It was still relatively warm out. He thought it would be nice to eat the pizza outside on the veranda. And it would be nice to get some time with Doug. Of course, Doug probably had plans for the rest of the evening. If not, maybe they could watch a DVD together, maybe a decent action film. Doug always knew a good one to pick out.

He went into his side of the closet to get a pair of deck shoes to wear. After setting them on the floor, he reached over to turn on the lamp beside the bed. It had clouded over that afternoon. As he pulled back from clicking on the lamp, his elbow caught the edge of his golf magazine and knocked it to the floor.

That’s when he saw them.

It was a freeze-frame moment, as if some invisible hand held his head in place. Two books. Beneath them, a magazine. A wrinkled yellow Post-it note sticking out the top. They’d been there on his nightstand so long, they’d become part of the furniture.

But he saw them now. And he remembered.

He reached over and picked them up, looked at the covers, read
the titles . . . as if for the first time. They were marriage books, both of them. Ones Marilyn had read months ago. Well, the first one. The second one possibly last year. And he remembered her asking him to read them. She said they were wonderful. Something else about how they’d really helped her understand some things about their relationship. She had given them to him, and he’d put them on his nightstand, without any intention of reading them.

He opened the cover of the first one, looked at the table of contents. There were checkmarks beside four different chapters. A flash of a conversation with Marilyn, after the book had sat by the bed for several weeks, untouched. “I know you’re busy, Jim. And you hate to read books. Well, books like
that
. I checked off a few chapters that I thought might help. The book’s written by a man, and he really seems to understand how men think. Do you think you could at least read those? It’s less than forty pages.”

Jim had assured her he would, just to get her to stop asking.

He picked up the magazine. It was a woman’s magazine, for goodness sake. How did she expect him to read that? He opened it to the marked page. Saw a smiling couple holding hands, walking on the beach. The article was called “7 Ways to Put the Fire Back into an Aging Romance.”

He closed the magazine, set it back on top of the books, and clicked off the lamp. Then he lay back on the bed and sighed. She had been trying to get his attention. For a good long while. As he lay there, other memories started coming to the surface. Snippets of conversations over the last year or so. Marilyn gently asking, sometimes almost pleading with him, about one thing or another. Each one, some aspect of their relationship.

Moments he’d completely missed.

Hint after hint. Clue after clue.