Exile on Kalamazoo Street (10 page)

“An old sentiment that's always true.”

“As true as true can be,” I said, wondering why I said it, or what that phrase even meant.

A silence settled in between us and I wished I had made a fire because a fire would have offered crackling and popping noises that would have helped punctuate the silence. I was thinking like a writer again, I supposed. Or maybe just someone full of shit. Maybe I was thinking like a writer full of shit.

“That's a fine suit, Reverend.”

“Thank you, Bryce.” He gave it a quick glance and adjusted his tie.

I made a mental note to someday explore why men wear ties. To me a tie was slow strangulation.

“Do you think the suit makes the man,” I said, “or the man makes the suit?”

“The latter, of course.”

“True,” I said. “Hitler wore suits. All the time. Stalin, too. But suits didn't make those guys better men.”

“Certainly not,” he said.

“More tea?” I said pleasantly.

“I'd love some. I do like the honey you put in it, Bryce.”

“One of my former students dropped by recently, Reverend. She likes my honey, too. Very much.”

“I'm not surprised. She must be a smart young woman.”

“Oh, she is,” I said. “I think I must have taught her well. I think I'm still teaching her.”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Marvelous. What do you teach her now?”

“Oh, you know … a little of this, a little of that. I think mostly she's now teaching
me
some things.”

“That's the mark of a good teacher, I suspect,” he said. “That she keeps coming back to see you.”

“She does,” I said, “keep coming.”

He nodded approvingly. I went to the kitchen and refilled his cup and squeezed a generous dollop of honey into it. And I resolved to tone it down a bit. He was probably not as bad a guy as I imagined him to be because of his strident insistence on pushing his faith. He just believed. He'd made up his mind and set his course and felt he was sailing toward his true north. That was something to be admired. Or at least, grudgingly respected.

“Just the right amount of honey,” he said, quickly taking a second sip. And then a third.

“That's what my former student says, Reverend.”

Okay, okay
, I told myself,
enough
with the snarkiness
.
You've had your fun. You amused yourself. You can tell Elsa all about it and have a good laugh. And then hose her down with some more honey. Ha! Ha!

“Bryce,” he said after yet another sip and a pause for effect. “How are you, truly? I have worried about you. I have prayed for you, of course.”

“Kind of you, Reverend. But I suspect I'm fine.”

“But this exile … it can't be your future.”

“I doubt it's my future, Reverend. It's merely my
now
.”

“The
now
has a way of slipping away from us and becoming the future,” he said.

I wondered if he had a job before becoming God's messenger. I felt he might have made a good auto salesman. A reverend, after all, is a born salesman. Likely he went straight from college to whatever school it is that manufactures reverends.

“But Reverend, the
now
is really all we have.”

“And yet we must also plan for the future. Live with an eye toward our futures. Both here, on earth, and beyond.”

“Beyond,” I said, also pausing for effect. “That's an awesome concept … beyond.”

“Do you believe in the hereafter, Bryce?”

“
The
hereafter? That makes it sound like there's just clearly the one, the only hereafter destination. Oz, Valhalla. I can't recall some of the other names for it. Well, heaven, of course. And … paradise. Club Med, though, is probably stretching it.”

“Indeed,” he said quietly. “But do you believe, Bryce.”

I sagged into my chair and sighed. It was perhaps too early in the day to wrestle with immortality. It was certainly too early for strident reverends, but I had let him in and so I deserved what came of it.

“That's a tough one, Reverend. That one requires faith.”

“Faith is the key,” he said, leaning forward and clasping hands on thighs. He looked capable of dropping to his knees to implore me to pray with him.

“Indeed,” I said.

“Tell me about your faith, Bryce.”

“I don't know what to tell you, Reverend.”

“What do you believe?”

I had images of Elsa, naked. And in one of her crotchless body stockings.

“That's a toughie, Reverend. I'm drawing a blank there.”

I thought of how Elsa liked to bend over my bed naked and wiggle her butt.

He leaned back against the sofa, his hands still clasped in his lap. He sighed, but it was not a loud sigh and did not seem terribly impatient or reproachful. Perhaps somewhat impatient. Slightly impatient.

“Do you believe in heaven, Bryce?”

“You're not first going to ask if I believe in God?”

“Would you be more comfortable if I did?”

“Not really. Both are toughies, Reverend. Both are minefields.”

“Minefields?” He looked annoyed but managed to suppress it quickly enough.

“Sure,” I said. “No matter where you step, you risk it all blowing up in your face.”

He tapped his finger on a knee for a few seconds and squinted at me … a little bit like that hard-ass squint Clint Eastwood gave the bad guys in spaghetti westerns. Just before he shot them.

“Maybe life has a minefield aspect,” he said, the tone of his voice not conceding my point. “Sometimes. I can see that. I can sort of concede that. But faith in something greater than life here. It transforms life here into something wonderful.”

Yes, I could see the good reverend selling cars.

“Indeed,” I said.

* * *

There were fleeting signs of the spring to come, but spring was still lurking behind a distant corner and dragging its feet. There was no more snow falling and none predicted, and only scraps of snow still lingered in places where shade kept the remnants alive. My yard had snowy patches under the bare trees, but the dormant brown-green grass dominated and squirrels dashed busily from tree to tree, leaving tracks only in the white patches.

The winds arrived from wherever winds live and prosper, and they lingered for several days, vacuuming the landscape and sucking plastic bags from open dumpsters and pummeling them against trees and into branches to twist grotesquely. Black Kitty's ears would perk up as bursts and shears of wind would rattle up and down the chimney.

At night it was still cold, but not arctic anymore, and on some days the sun would peek out from behind billowing clouds that somehow did not produce thunderstorms, though those storms were coming. The sun would disappear again, but during the days of false spring the sun beamed without radiating much heat as it tried to marshal strength for days coming.

There was a day when the sun wanted to reassert itself, batting clouds aside and peeking out here and there. Then, abruptly, wet snowflakes floated down—not many and for only a few minutes. They melted right away and then the sun had better luck as the clouds thinned into puffs of white-gray smoke.

* * *

I was napping on the sofa with Joyce's
Dubliners
open on my chest and Black Kitty draped across my legs. Several times I woke up, groggy, as wind rattled the roof or tumbled down the chimney, and then slid back into sleep. I dreamed about why
Dubliners
is so good and readable and
Ulysses
is genius but unreadable—to me, anyway. I woke up again to a pounding sound. Black Kitty jumped to the floor and ran into the kitchen. The pounding continued and finally I understood it was someone pounding on the front door. I peeked out and saw a former colleague from the college—Paul Herringer, a decent poet and decent friend in those days—as he gazed down the street. I didn't think he saw me, and I considered just retreating back to the living room and waiting for him to give up and leave, but he knocked again, just as insistently, and so I pulled the curtain aside and smiled as genuinely as I could.

“The side door, Paul,” I said, motioning in that direction with my hand. “Go to the side door.”

He smiled and nodded enthusiastically, and by the time I opened the side door he was there, still smiling. He offered a hand and we shook. His grip was firm and I adjusted mine to be firmer. He had grown a beard since I'd last seen him, and it had come out mostly white. Perhaps he'd intended it as a counter-balance to his receding hairline, a function it fulfilled nicely, if my first impression was correct.

“You look well, Bryce,” he said. “It's been a while.”

“It has, it has,” I said, nodding and then glancing down my faded Levi's at my white-socked feet, unsure of the right answer.

“Your hair has really grown,” he said.

“Has it?” I said absently.

“Quite a bit. Are you auditioning for a rock band?”

“No, no. Nothing so exotic. Just a new look.”

We stared uneasily at each other a moment.

“Well, come on in,” I said. “Watch the steps up to the landing.”

In the kitchen he offered a hand a second time, more awkward than the first.

“I'm going to make tea, Paul. How does that sound?”

“Good, good,” he said, clearly nervous. “I'd love some.”

He went into the living room as I boiled water. I was grateful for the task and a few minutes to ready myself psychologically for company.

“You have a cat,” he called out.

“Yes,” I called back, annoyed at having to raise my voice.

“What's its name, Bryce?”

“He answers to Black Kitty.”

“Not a very ambitious name for a writer, Bryce.”

“Who said I was a writer?” I said as I poured honey into our tea mugs. There was no reply. I had already heard my first name invoked too many times.

I handed him his mug and sat in a chair opposite the sofa. Black Kitty sat on the sofa with Paul, but at some distance to indicate cautious hospitality. Cat etiquette. As we sipped tea, Black Kitty abruptly jumped off the sofa and onto the back of my chair. He curled up behind my head to peek out over my shoulder at Paul.

“It's loyal to you,” Paul said.

“I feed him.”

“The same thing, Bryce,” Paul said.

“Something like that.”

Paul was older than me, in his late fifties—fifty-eight, if I recalled correctly. It made me think suddenly of a birthday coming in June. I would be fifty-one. I had not thought about age much in exile.

“How's your tea, Paul?”

“The honey always makes the difference.” He held his mug up in salute. It made me think of people in bars raising beer mugs or shot glasses.

“Honey's my new religion, Paul.”

“Really?” He cocked his head to the side as though actually assessing this proclamation.

“No. I'm just saying that to make conversation.”

We studied each other a moment and sipped tea.

“How's life at the college?” I said.

“Good, good,” he said, nodding his head. “Folks ask about you from time to time.”

“Some probably do,” I said. “Some probably don't.”

“Kathryn Miller asks about you, Bryce.”

“How
is
Kathryn Miller these days?”

“She's the department chair now, Bryce. Since January.”

“How nice for her ambitions,” I said. “Has she got the rest of you wearing uniforms yet?”

He nodded and smiled knowingly. “No, no. Well, not yet, anyway.”

“Plenty of time for it,” I said. “See if she'll go for the beret and turtleneck sweater look, Paul. I think a beret might suit you.”

He wrinkled his nose and sipped tea.

“She's not so bad,” he said. “And she did ask about you.”

“Tell her I'm alive. And kicking. Don't I look it?”

“I can see that,” he said. “You look … younger.”

“Maybe it's the hair.” I shrugged my shoulders.

“And you look … healthier, too,” he said. “Have you lost weight?”

“Nearly ten pounds.”

He nodded approvingly and raised his mug again.

“Must be your diet, Bryce.”

“And I don't drink.”

“Ah,” he said, arching his eyebrows. “How's that going?”

“There's no booze in the house.”

“I was just asking,” he said, staring into his teacup.

“That's okay, Paul. How are
you
doing?”

“No real complaints.” He raised his mug in salute again.

“How's Sheila?”

“Good, good.” He nodded and chewed his lip. “We went through a bad spell there for a bit.” He looked off at the wall. “But I think we reeled the thing back in.”

“Good,” I said, raising my mug. “Here's to fishing.”

“Fishing?” He looked confused.

“You said you reeled it back in. Marriage can be like fishing. You need to use the right bait.”

He smiled, nodded. “That's the writer in you, Bryce.”

I smirked. “There's that accusation again.”

“Are you back at it … writing?”

“No, I'm not. Not in a long time.”

“How long?” he said.

“Several years.”

“But you did fine when you were, Bryce.”

“That last one went nowhere.”

He forced a smile. “I thought it was fine.”

My turn to force a smile. “It was a stinker, Paul.”

“That's harsh,” he said. “Do you really think so?”

“Yeah, I do. But thanks for trying to make me feel good.”

He rubbed a finger absently across his chin.

“Bryce … nothing's ever as good as they claim, or as bad as they charge us with.”

I chuckled and sipped tea and thought about it a moment. It was a nice line. If I were writing, I'd like that line. Maybe I'd steal that line. I leaned my head into Black Kitty and he rubbed his face against my cheek.