Exile on Kalamazoo Street (3 page)

I opened the side door, and the reverend's hand shot out so quickly I couldn't be sure he hadn't stood there with it out before I arrived. Though merely Presbyterian, he was strident enough, I expected, to be a Mormon or Scientologist, should he ever decide to truly go off the deep end.

“Rev. Mortensen,” I said in a friendly tone, to set up the lie, “an unexpected pleasure.”

“Mr. Carter,” he said with a lovely smile and a honeyed voice. He thrust his hand closer and I accepted it without hope I could avoid it. The grip was firm, but pleasant, warm, lingering. He likely moved a lot of goods with that practiced handshake. Salesman of the month. Salesman of the year.

Salesman for eternity.

“What can I do for you, Reverend?”

“Not a thing for
me
, Mr. Carter. Thanks for asking. But I felt I should come by and look in on
you
.”

His smile was beginning to seem permanent and etched into his granite cheeks. I was tempted to cuss or act irrationally, or even belch or fart—or both—just to see if that Mt. Rushmore smile could be altered.

“Really?” I said. “Why is that … Reverend?”

“Because you can't come to me, it appears.”

“I see,” I said, wishing I didn't. “I guess the Lord really does move in mysterious ways.”

“Your sister, Ms. Caldwell, advised me of your situation, Mr. Carter.”

I nodded. “That was mighty generous of her. I must remember to thank her.”

Amazingly, his sweet smile widened. I didn't think it possible.

“Oh yes, she is just the most generous woman. A treasure.”

“Don't I just know it,” I said, vaguely wishing it would start snowing, flakes becoming thick dandruff on his impressive blue suit. But I couldn't be angry at Janis, my younger and only sister, a dutiful mother, freshly divorced, who believed unflinchingly in the magic the church might wield on wounded people as surely as I doubted it. Janis was an onward marching Christian soldier. But she just wanted the best for me.

“May I come in, Mr. Carter?”

I could think of several pithy replies, none of them useable, given the circumstances.

“Of course, Reverend. I'd be delighted. Watch the steps up to the landing. They sometimes show no mercy.”

In the kitchen, I hung his coat on a rack by the refrigerator and offered to make tea. I was highly motivated to take the time to make tea, a finite ritual that might shorten the actual visit and sales pitch.

“What a lovely cat,” he called from the living room.

“He's a dandy, Reverend,” I called back. “Do you like cats?”

“We have several critters at home, Mr. Carter.”

“Excellent. And call me Bryce.” I resisted the urge to ask his first name.

“Very well … Bryce. And the cat, Bryce?”

“I believe he'll let you call him ‘Black Kitty.' ”

“That's his name?”

“He seems to prefer it, Reverend.”

I brought the tea and sat in my usual chair opposite the sofa. Black Kitty sat under the coffee table, looking up through the glass at the reverend.

“Honey really sells tea,” he said after a sip.

“I've come to rely on it, Reverend.”

I looked across at the man in that gorgeous blue suit and sky-blue tie and shirt whiter than snow and felt decidedly underdressed in jeans and a Chicago Bears t-shirt. Black Kitty swished his bushy tail and appeared to be gauging the reverend. The reverend scanned the room between sips of tea and I waited patiently because the mark certainly can't hurry the con.

“A nice fireplace,” he finally said, “and a recent fire, I see.”

“Yes. Do you have a fireplace at home, Reverend?”

“We do. My wife and I enjoy a good fire and hot cider.”

“There you go,” I said. “Hard to beat, a fire and cider.”

“Indeed.”

I could tell his sales approach depended on establishing his presence. I waited for the first pitch to see if it was a fastball or a curve. Turns out the good reverend liked them mostly right down the middle of the plate.

“Janis tells me you have exiled yourself here all winter, Bryce.”

“Janis is very … informative.”

“She's just trying to help,” he said. “Naturally she's concerned.”

“As apparently are you, Reverend. Enough to actually come looking for me.”

“Well, that's part of my job, Bryce.”

“Tracking down people who barely attend your church?”

“I prefer to call it helping anyone who might need it, Bryce.”

He had a decent fastball, but I decided to swing for a triple.

“How do you feel about that, Reverend? My exile, that is.”

He sat his cup on a coaster on the coffee table and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“I've come by to ask
you
that very question, Bryce.”

“I guess I'm certainly the guy to ask,” I said. “But what does Janis tell you about it, Reverend?”

“Janis is very thoughtful.” He nodded gravely. “She was concerned for you, of course.”

“Of course.” I decided to make him work for it.

“Is there anything
I
can do, my son?” he said.

There it was—“my son.” From a man who looked to be a good five years younger than me, although admittedly in a damn fine suit. Maybe that awesome suit evened out the age thing.

“What did you have in mind, Reverend? I'm pretty well provisioned. I've got cable, a phone, a laptop computer, television. And Black Kitty.”

At the sound of his name Black Kitty jumped into my lap.

“A dutiful friend, your Black Kitty,” he said. “But often we need more. Often we need the friendship of the Lord, the wisdom and benevolence of the Lord.”

“Sounds good, to be sure,” I said, nodding vigorously. “I'm all about having friends. Wisdom and benevolence are handy, too.”

He leaned back into the sofa, his hands clasped in his lap. I was really hoping he wasn't about to pray for me, though I didn't actually think it would hurt.

“The Lord is our greatest friend,” he said solemnly.

“He sure sounds like it,” I said, trying hard not to sound snarky.

The reverend looked determined, and that solid gold smile had evaporated.

“Janis told me you had a problem with drinking, Bryce.”

I nodded, more to acknowledge the statement than to convey any notion of agreement or guilt. “Well, Reverend, you know what Keith Richards said, when asked if he had a drug problem? He said he didn't have a drug problem; he had a police problem.”

“Keith Richards?” The reverend blinked rapidly several times.

“The Rolling Stones,” I said. “He plays guitar in the Rolling Stones. You know, a famous stoner, so to speak.”

“Yes, yes, the Rolling Stones,” he said. “Now I know what you mean. Did you have a police problem, Bryce?”

“Thank goodness no, I don't. Pure luck, though, Reverend. Pure luck driving home many times under the influence, I'm afraid.”

“Well, it's fortunate you avoided the legal dilemma in all this, Bryce.”

“I do feel fortunate on that, Reverend. Truly blessed.”

He nodded, flashed some of that golden smile for a moment. He had marvelous, gleaming teeth. Perhaps Janis' ex was even his dentist. No doubt the good reverend always remembered to floss.

“Do you believe in God, Bryce?”

There it was: his fastball, his best pitch, his favorite pitch.

“Well, Reverend, that's certainly the eternal question.” But I knew that wouldn't throw him off the scent.

“Do you believe, my son?”

After a pause that began to get uncomfortable I said, “How old are you, Reverend?”

The look on his face suggested he wasn't used to such questions and he hesitated.

“I'm forty-four, Bryce.”

“I'll be fifty-one this summer, Reverend.”

His eyebrows arched slightly. “You look younger.”

“I think it's the hair,” I said. “Does it remind you of Jesus?”

“No, you don't remind me of Jesus, Bryce.”

That one was a hard fastball for a strike. It hit the catcher's mitt with a loud pop.

“I didn't mean to actually suggest it, Reverend. But my point is that I'm actually older than you, and so the use of ‘son,' or ‘my son,' seems … out of place.”

“An expression, Bryce. I certainly did not mean to offend.”

“No offense taken, Reverend. Truly.”

“I'm glad,” he said, pressing his hands together in his lap. “So, tell me, what do you believe in, Bryce?”

So he had the ability to adjust the pitch. Good for him. Maybe he had a good curveball, too.

“That's a tough one, Reverend. I guess I do believe in something bigger than me, greater than me, and all that. A controlling force, for lack of a better way to express it.”

“Good, excellent,” he said eagerly. “This is a good and promising beginning.”

“But what that bigger thing is, Reverend, I just don't know. Something pulls the strings, I suppose. Fate, maybe.”

“Certainly fate is in the equation,” he said.

“Then I'm on the right track, Reverend.”

He picked absently at the knot of his gorgeous blue tie for a few seconds.

“Would you consider attending church some time, Bryce?”

“Yours, Reverend? Or just any church?”

“Well, mine, of course. That's not a knock on other churches, mind you.”

“Of course not,” I said. “And why would you recruit for other churches? I do understand. But my exile makes any church a bit problematic. Are there any online churches, Reverend?”

He actually appeared unprepared for that and bought himself time by finishing his tea.

“So, when does ‘exile' end, Bryce?”

“I get asked that a lot.”

“Do you have an answer?”

“I don't know, Reverend.” I made sure I smiled and bared some teeth.

He cocked his head to a side, as though unsure what he had heard.

“You don't know when you can step out of your house again? When you can rejoin the larger world, so to speak?”

“I'm sorry, Reverend. No, I don't know the answer to that yet.”

“Really, Bryce?”

“Really, Reverend.”

His face looked like I imagined it would if he had a son or daughter who has just presented him with a vexing math problem he thought he had the answer to.

“Do you have children, Reverend?”

“A son and daughter.”

“Are they good at math?”

“Math?”

“Just curious,” I said. “Never mind. You were asking me something. Sorry for the distraction. What did you want to know, Reverend?”

He picked at the tie's knot again. I guessed it was his stress tic. I wondered for a moment what mine was. I couldn't think of anything. It used to be drinking. Now … perhaps now it was barely suppressed snarkiness.

“Well, Bryce, I was asking you about rejoining the world. When do you think you might do that?”

“Clearly a great question,” I said. “Obviously that's important. Any advice on that?”

He cocked his head to a side again and touched the knot of his tie.

“Well, Bryce, you can't stay inside forever. Can you?”

“Financially, I can certainly stay a good while.”

“Good finances are important, to be sure,” he said. “I understand you made some money from your books.”

“Janis really has been informative, I see.”

“She's your sister,” he said. “She cares.”

“I'll be sure to thank her. Have you read my books, Reverend?”

He cleared his throat nervously.

“I can't say I've had the pleasure yet.”

Given the amount of sex and dissipation and profanity in my books, I didn't guess they would offer him much pleasure.

“I can send a copy of one home with you, Reverend.”

“That's thoughtful of you, Bryce. Very considerate.”

“No problem. I get a discount on copies. One of the benefits of being a writer. That, and exile.”

”Is that what you want … exile?”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Not forever, anyway. I admit I miss being outside. I'd maybe like to go fishing again, although it wouldn't be all that important to catch anything. It's pretty pleasant, sitting on a lake in a boat. Or sitting on a bank by a river. But for now, exile serves its purpose.”

“What purpose?”

“I don't drink, Reverend.”

“Do you think you would if you left the house?”

“I hope not. Certainly it's an experiment to make sooner or later.”

“When, Bryce?”

I shrugged. “When later becomes soon, and soon becomes now, I suppose.”

He sighed. “Until then, Bryce, God waits for you at my church.”

“
Your
church?”

“
His
church,” he said.

“Reverend, if there's a God or a Buddha or a Cosmic Emperor, he or she—or it—hears me here in my house. Otherwise, that wouldn't be much of a god.”

He had an expression I could not quite decipher—something stuck between amusement and curiosity and even a dash of confusion.

“Can I get you more tea, Reverend?”

He blinked and seemed to come back from wherever his mind had gone momentarily. To a higher plane, no doubt. The highest plane.

“Thanks, but no, Bryce. It was very good tea, though.”

“It's the honey, Reverend, I always say.”

He nodded gravely and then I showed him out the side door. From the window in the front door, I watched him walk to his car and stop next to it for a long moment, looking back at my house. I instinctively backed away from the window, fearful that somehow he could look past the door and into my soul. I knew I had been a bit churlish with him—what a word,
churlish
. It seemed to sound like what it described. I resolved to dial down my snarkiness whenever I could. I knew that he was just doing his job, as I was doing my new job of being a lost lamb. Snarkiness and churlishness were part of the territory.