Ties That Bind (21 page)

I
felt silly pulling on pantyhose while perched on a toilet in the bathroom stall, but changing at the hospital would save me time. When I was dressed, I looked myself over in the mirror. The little black dress with the deep V-neckline and figure-forgiving ruching clung to my curves, and I wondered if I wasn't a little overdressed. After all, I was meeting Paul at the Rooster Tail Tavern, not the Oak Room at the Plaza.

I turned to see how the dress looked from the back, trying to decide if the heels were a mistake. The extra three inches made my legs look slimmer, and even with them on I'd still be shorter than Paul, but still … Maybe I should run home and change into something a little less … everything. I grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser, blotted my lipstick, and practically ran out the door, heels echoing on the ceramic tile, almost running into Michael Barzini and his respiratory therapy cart.

“Whoa!” he yelled, holding up his hands as if to ward off a blow. And then, lowering his arms, he looked me up and down. He said it again, “Whoa!” but in a completely different tone and with a totally different meaning.

“Margot! You're completely hot! Look at you. You've got a shape! Who knew?”

I blushed, partly from embarrassment, partly from pleasure, and partly from irritation that Michael had not noticed I had a shape before now. But Michael is a nice guy, and married to a nice woman, so I ventured to ask, “Do I look all right? It isn't too much?”

“Where are you going? On a date?”

I bit my lower lip and gave a quick nod. “First date. Out to the Rooster Tail to listen to some jazz. Really, you don't think I'm overdressed?”

Michael shook his head. “Naw. You look great. A man likes it when a woman goes to the trouble to dress up for a date, especially a first date. Gives him confidence. Just one thing …” He reached out and yanked a tag off the sleeve of my dress.

I blushed even more deeply. How could I have forgotten to take off the price tag?

I groaned. “Maybe this is a bad idea.”

“It'll be fine,” Michael assured me. “You look great, better than great. You look beautiful.”

“You really think so?”

He nodded. “Any guy who didn't would have to be blind in both eyes.” He started pushing his cart down the hall, turning to call over his shoulder, “Good thing I'm an old married man or I'd give your new boyfriend a run for his money.”

 

By the time I walked from my car across the snow-covered parking lot and into the lobby, I decided that, slim legs or no, the heels had been a mistake. My feet were freezing, and melting snow was squishing around in the toe of my shoe.

I hung my coat on the rack and gave my name to the hostess. She glanced down at a list. “Oh, yes. Here you are. Right this way,” she said.

In the mid to late 1800s, the Rooster Tail was a place where people traveling by coach would stop for a fresh horse, or a meal, or the night. It's charming, the kind of spot city people picture when they want to get away for a romantic weekend in Connecticut. The dining room serves good, classic New England fare. The Pub Room, serving drinks and bar snacks, is small and dark and cozy. The low ceiling is striped by hand-hewn beams. There is a long mahogany bar on the back wall, a big river rock fireplace on the center of the opposite wall, and a small platform for the band to the left of that. I glanced around the room, but didn't spot anyone I knew. Apparently, I was Paul's only guest. That made me smile.

There was a fire roaring in the fireplace and votive candles glowing on all the tables. The band was playing “Misty.” They sounded great, but as the hostess led me into the room, Paul, who had his eyes closed as he played the solo, opened them. His expression was the same one Michael Barzini wore when he saw me come out of the bathroom. His shoulders jerked and his saxophone gave off an uncharacteristic squeak. The drummer shot him a look, but Paul didn't seem to notice or care. The hostess walked me to an empty table near the fireplace. Paul's eyes smiled and followed me as he continued to play, the notes falling sweet and slow from the bell of his sax like honey dripping from the comb.

My feet were so cold I couldn't feel my toes, but the shoes, I decided, had not been a mistake.

 

When the set was finished, Paul put his saxophone on the stand and walked over to my table. He smiled, bent down, took my hand. I thought he was going to kiss me on the cheek, but instead he squeezed my hand before letting go and waving to a passing waitress.

“That was great,” I said.

His eyes twinkled. “All except that part where I dinged the note on the solo. Kinda threw me when you came in.”

“Sorry.”

“Don't be,” he said. “I'm not. It was nice of you to come all this way.”

“I can't believe this is the first time you've played with this group.”

“We've had a few rehearsals in the last couple of weeks but, yeah, I thought we did all right, considering. Of course, it's not like playing with the guys back in Chicago. We knew each other so well we could practically finish each other's sentences. And we'd been together so long we hardly had to rehearse. At least, that's what we told ourselves.” He laughed.

The waitress arrived with a bowl of nuts, another glass of chardonnay for me, and a beer for Paul. He took a drink.

“I bet you miss your old friends,” I said.

He nodded, his face serious again. “I do,” he said. “But New Bern is growing on me. I like my new friends too.” He smiled and popped a few peanuts in his mouth.

 

Over the last weeks, while working together on lessons and activities for the youth group, and at odd moments when we weren't busy herding the kids, I'd learned a good bit about Paul's history and shared a good bit of mine with him. But I was eager to know more, so I asked him about growing up in Chicago, how he'd met his friends, and why they'd decided to start a band—“To impress girls, of course!” Between sips of beer and spurts of laughter, he told me the story, but I really didn't hear him.

That is, I heard him, heard the sound of his voice, a deep and resonant hum, baritone, like notes from his sax, but I didn't really follow what he was saying. I was too focused on his eyes, the way they crinkled at the corners when he laughed, the way they seemed to laugh on their own without making a sound, his hair, how thick it was with just a little curl to it and how that one piece kept falling into his eyes, the way he pushed it back using his ring finger, only that one finger every time. I wanted to memorize him, every gesture and glance, pressing them into my mind like leaf rubbings in a scrapbook, souvenirs of a day so perfect and fine that you want a keepsake to remind you of it, in case it turns out to have been too perfect too last.

He talked for a long time, but I didn't mind. He could have talked all night, as far as I was concerned. Finally, he rolled his eyes and said, “What a bunch of dopes, right? My dad grounded me for two weeks, but he never ratted out my friends, never called their folks. He didn't have to. The guys showed up the next day with a mops, paint, and brushes. They had the whole living room repainted before Mom got back from Aunt Amy's. She never knew what happened.

“But what about you?” he asked. “What was it like growing up in Buffalo?”

“Cold.”

He laughed. “I'll bet. But, seriously, did you and Mari ever get into …”

The drummer, the one who'd given him the nasty look, walked by our table and jerked his head toward the platform.

“Sorry,” Paul said. “I didn't realize I'd been talking so long. I've got to get back to work. After the next set you can tell me the rest of your life story, okay?”

“Okay.”

I smiled as he walked to the platform and picked up his sax, playing a quick scale to warm up. The keyboard player sat down and leaned toward the microphone, thanking everybody for sticking around, and said they were going to start off with “I Got It Bad (And That Ain't Good).”

Paul adjusted his neck strap and wet his lips. As the leader counted off, Paul's eyes darted to the back of the room and his face lit up. He grinned, winked, and started to play. I turned around to see who he'd been looking at.

Philippa spotted me, waved, and walked toward the table. Forcing a smile, I waved back and scooted my chair to the left, making room for her.

 

Not wanting to make my disappointment obvious, I stayed through most of the next set. But I felt silly sitting there, listening to the music, chatting with Philippa between songs, knowing that I had totally misread Paul's signals. He considered me a friend, one of many in his life. Unlike other men who had used the “let's be friends” line as an excuse to get out of our relationship and then never speak to me again, I felt Paul really wanted to cultivate a friendship with me. He wasn't the sort to play games with someone else's feelings.

But I couldn't be Paul's friend. I just couldn't. The feelings I had for him already surpassed the platonic, and as time went on, I knew those feelings would grow even stronger. I couldn't afford that kind of distraction right now. I'd have to go around being pathetic and getting my heart broken another day—heaven knows I always seem to find opportunities to do just that—but not now. Olivia is what matters now. I shouldn't have allowed myself to be distracted from that, not even for an evening. It's not worth it.

Though … as many times as I've had my heart broken, I've never felt anything close to what I feel when I'm with Paul. Other men I've known made me feel anxious and uncertain, stirred, but in the way that a thrown stone stirs up muddy water, making everything cloudy, unclear, and unsettled. I don't feel like that when I'm with Paul. When he speaks to me, he's completely present and so am I. His eyes never dart around the room, looking for someone more interesting. When I'm with him, whatever I've been worrying about melts into the background and becomes less pressing, as if I know everything will come out all right in the end. Paul makes me feel peaceful, happy, and significant. These are feelings I could get used to very easily, feelings that I will not be willing to share with the larger audience of Paul's other friends, however much I might like them, feelings that will not be satisfied by friendship alone.

Unless I put a stop to this right now.

When the keyboard player announced that they were going to finish up the set with “My Funny Valentine” and then come back after a short break, I grabbed my purse and started to get to my feet. Philippa took hold of my sleeve.

“Where are you going?”

“I've got to run. Early day tomorrow. Tell Paul I said good-bye and thanks for inviting me.”

“But he'll be so disappointed. Can't you stay just a little while longer?”

I stood up. “Can't.”

Paul saw me rise and frowned, but he was playing and couldn't stop or say anything. I smiled and gave a quick wave.

“But you'll see him tomorrow, right?” Philippa asked.

Youth group. I'd almost forgotten. With all my heart, I wished I could quit. This would be so much easier if I just never had to see Paul again, but unless he decided to leave town, there was no real chance of that happening. Besides, I'd made a commitment to Philippa and the kids. And if I suddenly quit, Paul would probably figure out why. I didn't want him to feel sorry for me or to endure any awkward conversations.

“Yes. Of course. I'll see him tomorrow.”

“P
aul,” I said, resting my forehead in my hand as I talked, “for the tenth time, I don't think you said anything wrong. She just had to be at work early the next day.”

“But I told her I'd talk to her after the set. She didn't say anything about having to leave early.”

I sighed. Paul is my friend. So is Margot. But I'm their pastor first and friend second. I wish I'd remembered that before I allowed myself to get into the middle of this.

“I just don't understand what happened,” Paul said. “She seemed really interested, you know? I mean, she drove all that way and wore that amazing dress. She looked beautiful. Did you see her?”

“I did.” Margot is always pretty, but she truly had looked beautiful that night, elegant, sophisticated, and yes, even a little sexy. “That's why I don't think you should be worried. She went to a lot of trouble to look good for you, so obviously, she's interested.”

“Then why was she so distant at youth group on Friday?”

“Paul, she's got so much on her mind right now. Her court date is coming up. You, of all people, should know what that's like. She's probably feeling overwhelmed. Too, I still think she's a little gun-shy. I'm certain she has feelings for you, but maybe she's worried about things moving too fast.”

“Or maybe, once she actually spent some time with me, she decided she didn't like me after all.”

I held the phone in one hand and used the other to go through my e-mail, deleting the unimportant ones. “I think you just need to be patient. And quit thinking about it so much.”

“I can't help it. Can't you talk to her for me?”

“No, Paul. I can't. I'm your minister, not your matchmaker.”

The intercom rang. It was Sherry, telling me Reverend Tucker was on the line.

“Paul, I've got to run. Look, just keep doing what you're doing. Keep it light, keep it friendly. Be persistent, but don't push too hard. She'll come around in time.”

“Yeah. Maybe you're right,” he said, but he didn't sound convinced. We said our good-byes and I pressed the blinking light to pick up the second line.

 

“Is this a convenient time?” Reverend Tucker asked. “Sherry said you were on another call. I can call back later if that would be better for you.”

I wedged the telephone between my shoulder and ear so I could use my hands to log out of the computer. During my weekly phone appointments with Bob Tucker, I prefer there be no distractions.

“No, this is fine. I've asked Sherry not to disturb me unless it's urgent. So, before we start in on my list of woes, how are you? How is the book coming along?”

“Bah. I'm no writer. The
book,
” Bob said with a facetious emphasis, “is really just a study guide on the book of Acts. Ted Carney made it sound like a bigger project because he likes the idea of having a preacher who is published, also because he thought it'd make my sabbatical a little more palatable to the congregation. He doesn't want them to think I'm just sitting around doing nothing. But the word ‘sabbatical,' you know, is a derivation of ‘Sabbath.' It implies a period of complete rest. When the church hired me, my contract called for a three-month sabbatical every seven years.”

“And how long have you been at the church?”

“Thirty-two years in New Bern. But, all told, I've been in ministry for forty-four years.”

“And in that time, how many sabbaticals have you taken?” I smiled to myself, anticipating the answer.

“This is the first.”

I laughed. “Well, you were due. Honestly, there are days when I feel ready for one myself. How did you manage it for so many years? And all on your own?”

“I had a heart attack.” He said this in such a casual tone that I had to laugh. Bob joined in with that big throaty laugh that has so endeared him to the congregation.

“But, seriously,” he continued, “New Bern has been a wonderful place to serve. I'm going out of my mind up here. Too much scenery. And too many doctors, all lecturing me about diet and exercise. What I wouldn't give for an order of short ribs from the Grill on the Green right now.” He sighed wistfully. “But let's get back to you. I looked at your sermon ….”

I could hear the sounds of papers shuffling as Bob flipped through the pages. He is one of the kindest people I know, but I felt tense, waiting for his verdict. I picked up a pencil and started drawing a series of intersecting squares on a pad of paper, then added lines that turned them into cubes. I always doodle when I'm nervous.

“It's good,” he said in a voice that wasn't entirely convincing. “You have a clear and logical mind, and a gift for finding the practical in the spiritual. But … you've got it all written out word for word. Don't you think you'd be better off using an outline?”

Bob Tucker was not the first person to mention this. My seminary professors suggested the same thing.

“I'm afraid I might leave something out if I use an outline. When I read the whole text, I can be sure I'm getting in every point I wanted to make.”

“But if you're so tied to delivering your text exactly as written, might you be limiting God to
your
script?”

I saw his point, but the idea of speaking from an outline was a little scary. What if I looked down at the bullet points and drew a blank? What if I couldn't remember how they tied together or what I'd been thinking when I'd written them?

“It seems to me,” Bob said, “that a written text has become a kind of security blanket for you. And I get that. It's hard not to feel exposed when you're standing at the front of the church with two hundred pairs of eyes on you. I'm convinced that pulpits were invented not to give preachers a place to put their sermon notes, but to give them something to hide behind.

“But did you ever consider that maybe you
should
feel exposed when you're preaching? That's when you need to be at your most honest and vulnerable, exposed in all your weakness, because that's the only way you'll be forced to rely on God's strength. See what I mean? Also, I think you're making this harder than it needs to be. It's important to be prepared, but I think you need to give up the reins and let God steer the wagon.”

While Bob was talking, I wrote
Let Go
in big block letters and underlined it three times. Easy to write—hard to do.

“I preached that exact sermon about two weeks ago,” I said. “Maybe I need to go back and read it again.”

“Well, that's one of those lessons we all have to learn and relearn. Next time I need a review, you give me a nudge. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He paused for a moment, and then cleared his throat. “Philippa, there is something else I wanted to speak to you about. I hope you won't think I'm stepping into your personal business, but I'd be remiss as a colleague, and a friend, if I pretended not to have noticed ….”

I held my breath, waiting for him to speak, and my hand moved to my stomach, covering the swelling of flesh beneath my black blouse. It was still so small, how could anyone know? Especially Bob Tucker? He was in a whole different state. Had someone from the church noticed my baby bulge and called him?

Maybe I should tell him. I'd planned to, but not for a couple of weeks. Maybe I should just beat him to the punch and get it over with.

“Bob, I think I know what—”

“No. Hear me out. And know that I understand exactly what you're up against.”

He did?

“I was a preacher's kid too, you know. I see a lot of your dad in you, which is good. But … some of what I see doesn't seem natural to you, especially when it comes to your sermons. A number of the phrases, even the illustrations, seem more like something your dad would say than something you would say. I'm not saying that you're borrowing from his material but, subconsciously, you might be trying to emulate his style. Sometimes it's almost as if you're speaking in his voice.”

The spirals I was making snaked from one corner of the paper to the other like tiny tornados, curling into smaller and tighter coils as I drew, pressing down so hard that my pencil lead snapped off.

“Your father is a good man and you can learn a lot from him, but you don't have to be him. You are in this church at this moment not because of who your dad is but because of who you are. God has called
you,
not your imitation of Philip Clarkson. Do you understand?”

I think Bob knew he'd hit a sore spot with me, but I don't know if he realized just how sore. Part of the reason I resisted the ministry for so long was because I thought people would measure me by my father's yardstick. Sometimes they did. But I've been using the same yardstick, and every time I do, I find myself coming up short.

I coughed, unable to speak for a moment. There was a knock on the door. Sherry peeked her head inside.

“Excuse me for a moment, Bob.”

I lowered the telephone and covered the mouthpiece with my hand. “What's up, Sherry?”

“Sorry to disturb you,” she said in an apologetic stage whisper, “but Sylvia Smitherton called from the hospital. An ambulance brought Waldo in.” She shook her head. “It doesn't sound good.”

 

The gray-haired Smitherton girls, along with their spouses, children, grandchildren, and even one infant-in-arms, a great-grandchild, were gathered around Waldo's bedside when I arrived.

The tableau was almost identical to the one I had seen last time Waldo was admitted to the hospital, just a few weeks previously, with murmurs and whispered prayers and muffled sobs as Waldo's three older daughters wept into their handkerchiefs. But when I saw that Sylvia, the most stoic of the sisters, was also red-eyed and sniffling, I knew that this time it was different. Waldo truly was dying.

Sylvia walked toward me and clasped my hand in hers. “Thank you for coming,” she said, blinking back tears. “He's been in and out of consciousness, but I think it would be a comfort if you prayed with him.” She choked out the words and pressed her clenched fist against her lips, fighting to keep her emotions in check.

“Forgive me,” she said, regaining her composure. “We talked about this moment so many times, Dad and I. I really thought I was prepared. I didn't know it would be so hard.”

Sylvia pulled a chair up to Waldo's bedside, then turned to her husband.

“George, could you ask everyone to go down to the waiting room for a little while? It's too crowded. Let's have just the four of us for now,” she said, glancing toward her sisters, “while Reverend Clarkson is praying with Dad.”

George herded the mass of relatives out the door and down the hall, patting Sylvia on the arm as he left. I sat down. The noise, or rather the lack of it, seemed to stir Waldo to consciousness. He opened his eyes and blinked. His lips were still, but his eyes smiled when he turned toward me. He reached his hand upward, clutching the oxygen mask with feeble fingers.

Sylvia, who was standing on the opposite side of the bed with her sisters crowded behind, leaned down. “What is it, Dad? Do you want me to take the mask off?”

Waldo nodded, but very slowly, his movements as measured and laborious as an ancient and wrinkled sea turtle moving deliberately away from the shore to the beckoning surf, inching forward, drawn irresistibly to that hidden world and the quicksilver freedom that lay beneath the waves.

Sylvia removed the mask and was rewarded with a grateful smile. He lifted his hand again, resting it on hers. “Good girl.”

“Dad, Reverend Clarkson is here. You asked me to call her.”

“I know.” Still smiling, he turned toward me. “How are you, Reverend?”

“I'm fine, Waldo.”

“Good,” he murmured. “Good. You know, Waldo is a good name. My father was named Waldo and his father before that. If it's a boy, think about naming it Waldo. It's a good name.” Waldo closed his eyes.

I was speechless. I didn't know what to say or do, but Sylvia seemed unperturbed by her father's remarks. She lifted her head to look at me across the white expanse of the sheet. “Pain medication,” she mouthed. “He's been hallucinating.”

Waldo opened his eyes again and turned toward me, as if he'd just remembered something. “Reverend?” he rasped.

“Yes, Waldo?”

“You still got that file? For my eulogy?”

“I do, Waldo. It's in my office.”

“That's good,” he said. “Give me a good send-off. I know you will. And help my girls when I'm gone. They can be sad if they want, but not for too long.” He twisted his head toward Sylvia as he said this last. Sylvia nodded dutifully and her sisters with her.

Satisfied, he turned to me again. “I'm not afraid to go, you know. But, if you wouldn't mind, could you stay for a while, Reverend? Pray me out?”

“I will, Waldo. I'm right here.”