Godless (6 page)

It was then that Matthew blushed at the realization that he would need to bring something to the interview that he didn't have: a professional résumé.

He walked to the refrigerator, swapping his beer for a different beverage. He poured a can of caffeine-laden Frappuccino mix over ice and took a sip. Then he positioned himself in front of the computer for what promised to be another late night.

Alex woke
early. Not from the alarm. He hadn't set it. He woke early because his wife's lips were tickling his right earlobe. By the time he realized what was happening the tickling had become nibbling, followed by her soft fingers caressing his bare chest.

“Good morning, Mr. Ware,” she whispered. “Your first appointment has arrived.”

He smiled mischievously.

“Hi, Daddy!”

He frowned, then opened his eyes while turning toward the chirpy voice.

“Good morning, sunshine,” he said to his six-year-old with as much spunk as his groggy wits would allow.

“Do you like it?” Ginger was standing on Daddy's side of the bed, pointing to a bright-yellow barrette. He recognized the hairstyle it secured, two small strands of curl falling gently over each ear beneath the brunette bundle held neatly in the back; a miniature replica of Tamara's favorite hairdo.

“You look just like Mommy!”

His daughter beamed.

Alex slid his hand stealthily toward his wife's leg, which was still hidden beneath her side of the blanket. She giggled before kissing him on the cheek.

“Don't worry, Pastor,” Tamara promised, “I might be able to fit you into my schedule…in a week or two.”

He gave a retaliatory pinch before his wife fled the scene with their daughter in tow.

“See you at breakfast,” she announced on her way out the door.

Alex sat up in the bed and reached reluctantly toward his dozing tablet, the first of nine steps in his weekday routine.

The tablet came to life, revealing the time. Seven in the morning! Why was Ginger dressed and ready a full hour before they needed to leave? Then he remembered: field-trip day. Since Tamara was a designated driver she needed Alex to take the baby with him to the office. Mrs. Mayhew had said she would be delighted to have little Joey around for the day. “He'll be no trouble at all.”

Alex knew Joey would create no trouble. And he might just manage to keep Mrs. Mayhew from
making
trouble. She was, bless her heart, a generous soul. No one else in the church had ever volunteered to spend eight hours per day “doing whatever Pastor needs done.”

If only he had had the foresight to reject the offer. Not just because Mrs. Mayhew lacked any of the skills essential in a competent assistant, but also because she volunteered much more than her time. She volunteered confidential information to anyone who might ask, and to those who didn't.

“We can make the pastor's assistant a volunteer position,” Phil Crawford had said, another brilliant strategy for solving the budget shortfall. “Mrs. Mayhew seems like a highly qualified candidate who would enjoy the opportunity to serve.”

He had been right about one thing. She enjoyed serving. Which is why Mrs. Mayhew had no intention of leaving Alex in the lurch by ever, ever vacating the position. A reality that, for today, would prove helpful. Especially since he needed to get a good part of Sunday's sermon written using a four-hour block of time he had asked Mrs. Mayhew to protect. Tuesday was the one day of the week he had come to relish, because he could focus on the task he had been trained and, he'd once believed, hired to do.

“You've got to be kidding me!” Alex erupted after reviewing the day's agenda.

“What's wrong?” Tamara yelled from the hallway.

“Nothing,” he lied. “Never mind.”

How could Mrs. Mayhew put a counseling session on his schedule in the middle of his sermon prep time?

Then he looked closer. She hadn't. The appointment request had come through the church's “spiritual dialogue” outreach page.

Alex groaned.

The idea had been one of the earliest proposed by the outreach committee, something the members had seen at a nearby church that they considered “cutting-edge” and “outside the box.” Alex had had to admit the concept sounded promising. Offer local residents a confidential session at a time of their choosing. Help them process emotions and sort through confusion triggered by life's inevitable pain. He'd imagined the invite cards and website facilitating on-demand evangelism by letting folks talk to a minister at the precise moment they needed comfort or, as the promotional label suggested,
spiritual guidance
.

Alex tapped the appointment. It included the phrase “Feeling down” in the space provided for specifics. The same as always. People never requested an appointment because they “Want to know more about God” or “Need to repent of sinful patterns.” They just wanted someone to help them feel better. Not
become
better or even
do
better. Just
feel
better.

Alex agreed, in theory, that confession could be good for the soul. But so far it had done nothing but wreak havoc on his schedule. The board had originally approved the strategy because it would “cost the church nothing” while positioning it well in the community. “We'll share the load,” Kenny Morrison had promised on behalf of the elders. Yet Alex had handled thirty-four of the thirty-seven appointments to date. Thirty-five after today's meeting with someone named “I'd like to remain anonymous.”

Mrs. Mayhew lit up like a Christmas tree while straining to extract herself from a chair designed for someone of less generous proportions. “Come to Auntie Dimples!” she sang in little Joey's direction.

“Dimples,” Alex puzzled aloud. “I still can't get over the fact your name is Dimples.”

“A family nickname,” she said proudly.

“To replace what?”

A disapproving scowl. “Your nine o'clock is waiting in your office,” she said. “Just leave this little man with me.”

Alex released Joey into Mrs. Mayhew's outstretched arms.

“Been waiting long?”

“Just arrived.”

The pastor entered his office to find the man standing near a bookshelf, where he appeared to be admiring Alex's small collection of vintage print volumes. The man turned. Then he shuffled his feet as if unsure of protocol.

“Hello,” Alex said, offering his hand. “I'm Pastor Alex.”

After a brief hesitation the man returned the gesture. “Pleased to meet you, sir. I'm…” He thought for a moment. “I'm Frank. You can call me Frank.”

Alex smiled at the suggestion. “Frank” had just moved up on his mental tally of assumed names. “John” remained the top pick among anonymous male counselees. “Bob” fell to third.

Frank pointed toward the bookshelf. “Have you read these?”

“I have.”

“All of them?” The man looked back to reread titles he had apparently not expected on a minister's shelf. He mentioned three:
The Origin of Species
by Charles Darwin,
Beyond Good and Evil
by Friedrich Nietzsche, and
A Brief History of Time
by Stephen Hawking.

“All early editions,” Alex explained with some satisfaction. “The first was a gift from my grandfather. I found the other two at garage sales.” He moved to stand beside his guest for a closer look. “Believe it or not, most of these were found at garage sales. People have no idea how valuable these will be. Already are.”

“I've collected a few myself,” Frank said while turning toward Alex. “So you keep them as investments?”

“In part.”

“But you've read them?”

“Yes. You sound surprised.”

“Well, I guess I wouldn't have associated these volumes with a man of the cloth.”

Alex chuckled at both the description and the presumption. “Well, that's one I've never been called before. As you can see, I don't wear a dog collar. I'm not a priest, just an ordinary guy like you.”

The comment seemed to unsettle Alex's guest. “But…you
are
a minister?”

“Oh, yes.”

“And our conversation will be strictly confidential?”

“Assuming you're not an ax murderer, whatever you say will remain between the two of us.”

A nervous laugh. “No, no. Nothing like that.”

“Shall we sit?”

It took Alex a few minutes to help his anonymous friend grasp the difference between the Sacrament of Penance and the goals of this appointment. “You can say anything you wish,” he explained, “but I can't offer absolution, nor will I assign any acts of penance.”

Frank appeared to like the notion of an informal chat instead of a structured ritual.

“I will listen and, if you wish, comment. But nothing I say should be perceived as a binding directive or as formal counseling. I'm licensed for neither.”

Alex paused while the clarifications settled. “One more thing,” he added. “I'd like to spend a few minutes at the end of our session asking you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“About your spiritual journey.”

The man thought for a moment. “Fair enough,” he agreed.

Ground rules established, Alex asked what had led Frank to request an appointment.

“This.” The man reached into his back pocket to retrieve a card.

Alex recognized it immediately. Hundreds had been mailed out to Christ Community members with a letter inviting them to use the cards as outreach tools. “Did you find it somewhere? Or did someone give it to you?”

“It was given to me.”

“By a friend?”

“Not exactly,” Frank replied.

“Someone at work?”

“Sort of,” he said. “An older woman. She said I looked like I needed to talk to someone.”

“Well then, I'm listening,” said Alex.

The man appeared uneasy. He returned the minister's smile weakly before shifting his gaze toward the bookshelf.

“I went through a dark spell about a year back,” he finally said. “It was pretty bad.”

“Depression?”

“I guess. And nightmares. I found myself more angry than depressed, if that makes any sense.”

“It does. Anger and sorrow are close relatives.”

“Sure are,” Frank said knowingly.

A brief silence.

“I've been reading this book,” Frank continued as if trying to make small talk. “A Russian author. A famous novelist, actually.”

“Tolstoy?”

“Dostoyevsky.”

Alex smiled at the mention.

“You know of him?”

Alex walked to his bookshelf. “Let me see,” he said while scanning his collection. “Ah, here we go.” He walked back toward Frank and handed him a volume. The cover read
The Brothers Karamazov
. “I got this one at an estate sale. A few bumps and bruises, but overall it's in excellent condition.”

“So you've read it?”

“Twice. It's his greatest work.”

The man appeared puzzled by Alex's affirmation.

“Didn't it make you squirm?”

“Which part?”

Frank thought for a moment. “The part with the kid and the dog, for example.”

Alex reached into his memory, trying to connect the dots, until Frank offered more details.

“A boy accidentally hits his master's favorite dog with a rock—”

“Oh, yes,” Alex interrupted. “And the master sends the hounds after him.”

“That's it.”

“I remember. Yes, that part does make me squirm, almost as much as the part when the soldier shoots the baby in the face.”

Frank winced at the reminder while placing the volume on the coffee table.

“Definitely not a feel-good book,” Alex continued. “But one of the most powerful depictions I've ever read of man's cruelty.”

“Man's? Not God's?”

“Is that what you came to discuss, Frank, the problem of evil?”

The man hesitated. “No. Not really.”

“Then what?” Alex asked.

Frank hesitated. “I'm starting to feel like I did at the start of my dark days.”

“I see.”

“My nightmares are back, for example.”

“What kind of nightmares?” Alex asked.

“I don't remember details. Just the feelings.”

“What kind of feelings, then?”

“Fear. Panic. More anger.”

“Anger at whom?”

“Nobody. Everybody.”

“Yourself?” Alex pressed.

The man offered the hint of a nod.

“What about God?” He perceived a tiny flinch. “Are you mad at God, Frank?”

The guest shifted in his chair without a word.

Alex had seen dozens of anonymous visitors in addition to consoling or counseling members of his flock. He always felt inadequate, as if fumbling for the right thing to say in response to their anxiety. But now, seated across from a man he had only just met and whose story he had barely heard, Alex sensed he knew what his curious visitor needed to hear.

“I had a seminary professor who used to say we can't love people, including ourselves, when we hate the one whose image we bear.”

Their eyes met. Alex gazed deeply until the man looked away.

“I don't hate myself,” Frank snapped. “And I'm not sure I even believe God exists.”

“I know plenty of people who are mad at God for not existing. Or, put another way, for not showing up.”

Another look of surprise, possibly fear, pinched the corners of Frank's eyes.

“Tell me about the dark period,” Alex said. “You said it was a year ago?”

“A bit less.”

“Do you remember what triggered it?”

“Not really,” Frank said.

“Something that happened?”

A slight shrug.