Uncross My Heart (9 page)

“Thank you for having me,” she said, and I held my breath, wondering if Hightower was tuned in right now gritting his teeth and using my name in vain. “Claridge was merely a placeholder for…fill in the blank with any seminary these days. Most have money issues, and the criteria for entrance and, ultimately, graduation is merely will you pay the tuition?”

“But you did indicate the zealotry had gone too far when a theologian there said God punished—”

“A male professor at Claridge was fired and my inquiry was into the reason for that. I was told that perhaps he was too troubled to lead. In fact, he committed suicide.”

“You have a book coming out.” I wondered if ire had risen in that face framed with the Magdalene hair and the host got the visual message to move on, or if they were truly friends and the host had merely let her off the hook.

“I do. It’s volume one in a three-part series entitled
The Untruths
, and it sheds light on the social and political mores we grew up with and examines them in a more mature light.”

“This one caught my eye. ‘Sexual dysfunction is more prevalent in women. I thought that was called a headache.’” Polite titters of laughter from the host.

“One study states over forty percent of women experience sexual dysfunction as compared to thirty percent of men, and in both sexes it’s a result of age, education, poor physical and mental health. But in women alone it correlates with poor-to-bad sexual experiences.”

“So ‘an untruth’ is that sexual dysfunction is more about a man’s inability to perform and less about a woman’s desire to hang in there for the second act. Speaking of which, it’s time to take a break so our sponsors don’t go limp on us.” She laughed heartily and the radio station went to commercial.

I listened enrapt to the rest of the radio broadcast, grateful religion and Claridge had been a very small part of a much bigger topic and also pleased that Vivienne had steered her host away from the headline she had so callously wrought after our first meeting. I wondered why she’d let me off so easily—she who wrote erroneous headlines and stalked me at the conference with tough questions.

Nonetheless I was grateful. I was feeling so ebullient over the interview and my non-role in it that I phoned her office the moment the show ended and asked Joyce to tell her I thought she did a great job and that I was still looking forward to our debate next Friday. Joyce rattled off directions to their offices, but I requested that our upcoming meeting take place on “neutral ground.” Joyce laughed and agreed to relay the message.

Feeling inexplicably happy, I wanted to share my mood and sought out Dennis, catching up with him on a cross-campus walk.

“So now you’ve decided I’m to prepare you for a debate with her, which is really just a private meeting,” he said.

“Nothing with her ever stays private, so if I’m quoted I want it to be an appropriate quote.”

“You’re not still assigned to her, though. Didn’t Hightower take you off all press matters?” He huffed as we walked, and I chose to believe it was due to his weight and not the topic.

I sighed, somewhat exasperated. “Not before I’d already contacted her and she’d requested these weekly meetings, and I’m not about to tell her I was just a pawn and now never mind.”

He cocked his head and scrunched up his eyebrows, as if trying to figure me out. “What are you really doing?”

“What do you mean? I’m getting ready to protect our seminary.”

He jutted his head forward and I hated his mimed responses.

“Yes or no?” I ordered.

He shifted gears sharply, playing along. “What will you say if she asks you if you believe Christ died on the cross?”

“I would say yes, He did, but many did in those days. It was a common form of capital punishment.”

“Did someone come and roll the stone away from His tomb?”

“Does that matter to your faith? What if the stone had been a moat of crocodiles—does that make a difference? We are not worshipping the plot points.”

“Do you worship Jesus Christ your Lord and Savior as the only begotten son of God, born and not made, true God of true God now and forever?” And now he wasn’t prepping me, he was asking me. A pause thick with meaning filled the air, for in essence that was the key question.

“She won’t ask that.”

Dennis stared deep into my soul with his piercing dark eyes.

“You might answer it for yourself, then…simply to be thoroughly rehearsed.”

* * *

I floated through the following week, jumpy and nervous and completely unable to focus on anything but the upcoming Friday meeting with Vivienne. I chose a rustic lodge midway between my farm and the university. It had a nice set of small meeting rooms overlooking the deck that gave a clear view of the woods, and I picked up the tab personally for the room rate. I don’t know why I felt getting Vivienne out in the woods was paramount to our understanding one another’s views, but I did. I needed time to relax around her, be able to elaborate on my thoughts without looking at my watch or being interrupted by a student.

I’d been nervously anticipating it all week and didn’t really know why mere conjecture about how it might go turned my stomach upside down.

Just before I left campus Friday afternoon, Dennis strolled up to watch me pack the backseat of my Mustang with books and, of course, Ketch.

“Hope she’s not allergic to dogs.” His parental tone stopped my sudden arm movements and froze me midair.

“Didn’t think of that, did we, Ketch? Well, if she is, we’ll hand her a tissue.”

“Why didn’t you just reserve a room on campus?”

“Because ‘reserved’ here means one knock before dragging the folding chairs past you.”

“So you want total privacy.”

“Yes. Why are you grilling me? What are you asking?”

“I’m asking if your interest in Vivienne Wilde is…personal.” His distrust of my motives was surfacing again. “But of course if it were personal you wouldn’t tell me, so I guess I’m merely saying, drive safely and don’t let her corner you up.”

I ignored him, too happy about life in general to dignify his remark. Ketch and I backed out of the parking lot and took off down the highway.

“Ketch, don’t touch her, okay? Stick close to me. If she’s allergic, I don’t want to read about it.”

* * *

Vivienne stepped out of a white BMW wearing a burnt orange silk shirt adorned with Egyptian symbols that pointed toward her open front, a pair of toffee-colored silk slacks, and sandals revealing pale painted toenails. We smiled and shook hands, and I took two steps back to look at her.

“You’re brighter than the sun god Ra.”

“Sorry to confuse you, but they were all out of the silk shirts with the thorns.” Her cute smirk caused me to grin despite myself.

“I have a room reserved for us.”

“Been a while since I’ve heard that.” Her tone was unmistakably sexual, and I looked at the pine trees to avoid any reaction that would encourage her and moved briskly in the direction of the doorway marked Serenade. Ketch fell in beside her as if they were old friends.

What a deserter,
I thought, glancing at him as he let his nose lightly touch her hand and she stroked his head.

“Pear-fct. First-class accommodation,” she remarked, ranking my thoughtfulness. And once up the wooden steps and inside, she twirled like a model taking in the room and said, “I love it” as she pointed toward the small stone fireplace. I couldn’t imagine why this woman made me smile but she did, and Ketch seemed to like her as well, so maybe we would find our common ecclesiastical ground and move on to friendship.

The wait staff had placed the fruit and cheese and drinks just where I’d requested them, giving it, admittedly, a more social than business atmosphere. I fixed a plate for us and set it down on a small coffee table between two overstuffed leather chairs that faced the porch rail visible through the plate glass. “So, shall we relax and stare at God’s scenery before deciding if He exists?” I needled her.

“God exists.” She fell into the chair and sipped her iced tea and nibbled her cheese and fruit. “But She has many forms.”

I ate, refusing to be drawn in to her gender-blender, perhaps heightened by my having shown her the female Christ. I felt awkward and rusty at conversation and she didn’t seem much better, like athletes unable to find our game or get into a rhythm.

“So what can I say that will get you to acknowledge that religious views beyond your own are acceptable training for students who prefer them?”

“Nothing. I don’t believe in perpetuating ignorance in a scholarly setting.”

I let time lapse, avoiding the trap of answering unasked questions.

She arose and moved behind me, finding an opener and taking down glasses from the shelf, and a sensation like fingers lightly sliding over my shoulders and down my arms overtook me. I quivered as if I’d actually been touched.

“I listened to your radio broadcast. Your book sounds interesting. And I appreciated your not taking Claridge to task again when you had the opportunity.”

“There’s no new twist to the story, it’s old news.” She shrugged, not letting me believe for a minute that she’d protected me or the seminary or would cease her attacks if something attackworthy surfaced.

“Do you have family?” I changed the subject to something friendlier.

“A brother and sister. My parents are both dead. They were wide-eyed liberals, with just a dash of conservatism that would pop up annoyingly when my sister and I brought dates home.”

“So you’re married,” I said, unable to stop myself. She gave me a look that seemed to mock my question. “Sorry. I’ve been recently corrupted by a friend in San Francisco who grilled me like a tuna, and now I’m doing it to you.”

“No.” Her voice contained a lilt that bounced my heart around in my chest like a pinball. She looked right at me with those eyes that could sear holes in steel—an incredibly sensual being, a rare piece of art, an exotic animal whom everyone should have the opportunity to gaze on. I wanted to ask who was fortunate enough to roll over in the morning and be greeted by those luxurious eyes.
I am out of my mind.

Completely out of my mind. Dennis is right to ask what I’m doing.

“What made you decide to be a writer?” I frowned and crossed my legs in an attempt to change my mood and broached the topic that had brought us together in the first place.

“Easier than protest marches and it pays better. Why did you decide to go into the church?” Her eyes raked over me and I was flattered without reason.

My mind traveled back to the day I’d decided to complete my training and go to seminary.
I was alone. Desolate. Guilt-ridden. In
search of something.
I took in air before speaking. “I felt I could give back.”

“For what had been taken away?” Her eyes settled softly on mine and dared me to confess.

I held very still, wondering what she knew and how she knew, and the thought of her knowing made me uncomfortable.

“So why take up your pen against the religious underpinnings of our society or, in your off hours, the sexual readiness of the adult male?”

“I don’t like the world as it is. Haven’t from the time I was a child. My parents warned me against whining about injustice—saying if I didn’t like this world, blow it up and build a new one. I constantly look for a place to plant the fuse.”

As if Ketch found those remarks irresistible, he stood up and in two deft steps climbed into her lap. His 110-pound frame swallowed her. From beneath the fur came a whoosh of air and then a weak giggle.

I snatched him up by the collar and hauled him off her. She staggered to her feet, begging me to spare him, and I stared at the dirt on her slacks and impulsively batted at the not-yet-thoroughly dried flecks of mud from his coat and paws.

“I am so sorry. I have no idea what got into him.”

“I would say the intelligence of my views overpowered him and he was converted on the spot.”

“I’ll pay for your dry-cleaning. He’s never done anything this aggressive.”

“Aggressive is good.” She captured my hand in hers. “Stop, it’s perfectly all right.”

I smiled at the word said so close to my face. “I love the way you say ‘perfect.’” Her expression changed for a telltale moment and her eyes became liquid, forming pools of…perfection.

“Well, thank you. Perhaps I’ll use that word to calm you when we…debate.” We both looked at each other as if meeting for the first time under different circumstances, her expression probing my soul.

I looked away to give myself time to remember that this woman was not trustworthy. She had unfairly used an interview with me, published an article that could have gotten me fired, and to top things off ambushed me at a conference, getting herself here with me today by near blackmail. And yet I felt a physical and emotional connection to her that was inexplicable.
And frankly inexcusable
, I chastised myself.

“Why did you write that article misquoting me?” I nearly whispered.

“You refused to—”

“I refused you nothing,” I said, slightly hurt.

“—admit who you are.”

My face grew hot. “If you want to debate religious tenets, I’m happy to—”

“Do that instead of march against the church and set robes on fire?” she said. “I understand. We lose our lust for battle as the stakes get higher.”

“You seem to value warriors and battles.”

She seemed momentarily contrite, and then she too must have reminded herself why she was here—
To do me in? Get great press?

“Our hour together is up and I know you have many things to do. Thank you for taking the time away from your work.” She patted Ketch, who walked her to the door.

Our hour is up?
Does she think she’s my therapist?

At the last possible moment, she reached into her small, exotic leather bag and handed me a copy of a San Francisco newspaper article.

“For someone who used to feel exactly as I do, you’ve given up the fight.”

I glanced down at the masthead from a right-wing religious periodical published in the Bay area bearing a decades-old date. leFT-Wing radicals March againsT gOd. Under the picture of college students struggling against police in the street was an inset photo of me, tall and leaner, my hair long as I struggled with a police officer who had a tight grip on my arm. Seeing it, I could feel that grip as if he still clutched me. My face flushed but no one was there to see it. Vivienne Wilde had left.