by Cindy Maddox
He gave a weak smile. “Thanks. I missed being here.”
Carl looked back down and began picking at a loose thread in the side seam of his khakis. Uh-oh, Jeff thought. What have I done now? Carl was a strong leader—one of Jeff’s favorites, if he was being honest—and was widely respected in the congregation. He heard things that Jeff wouldn’t hear, and he reported them—not with that destructive “people are saying” gossip thing some people do, but in a helpful way so that Jeff could fix problems before they grew. Carl undoubtedly kept the less helpful criticism to himself.
Usually Carl was pretty direct. If he was this uncomfortable saying what was on his mind, it must be bad news. Was it last week’s sermon? He’d been so careful about being non-partisan; could somebody really be upset about his call to feed the hungry? That’s a pretty biblical concept, after all, and if anybody was going to give him a hard time about that, well then, he might as well…
“The cancer’s back.”
The words were so startling, Jeff couldn’t do anything but echo what he heard. “The cancer’s…back?”
Carl nodded. “I had it about ten years ago, long before you came. The doctors told me it might come back, and they were right.”
Jeff leaned back in his chair, feeling stunned. “When—” he cleared his throat. “When did you find out?”
“Friday. I needed a few days to adjust to the news before telling you. But you’ll need to find somebody else to lead the budget process this year.”
“Of course,” Jeff said. “You don’t need to worry about church responsibilities. You focus on your treatment and save your energy for beating this thing.”
Carl’s gaze returned to his lap before he responded. “The doctor wants me to do chemo again—a pretty heavy dose to get aggressive with it. But…” His voice trailed off.
“But?” Jeff said. “What is it, Carl?”
Carl finally looked up, and there were tears in his eyes. “I’m not going to do it, Pastor. I’m done.”
“Are you sure? I mean, you’re only—what? Seventy-five? Seventy-six?” Surely there were options. Surely Carl had more time. “Carl, don’t rush into this decision. You could still have some good years left.”
“No, I couldn’t,” Carl insisted. “They wouldn’t be good. I’ve been down this road before. The doctors told me years ago that if it came back, I wouldn’t beat it. If I said yes to their plan now, I’d go through months of being sick from the chemo, only to gain a few more months of being sick with the cancer.”
“There’s no hope of remission? Or more good quality time?”
“There’s a twenty-percent chance. I’m not going through hell for twenty percent. Last time was different. Last time my Joy was by my side. She got me through it. She gave me a reason to get through it. But since she died, I’ve got no reason.”
“No reason to live, you mean?” Jeff asked gently.
“No reason to suffer,” Carl corrected.
Jeff took a deep breath. “I understand,” he said, trying to smile. “What do you need from me?”
Carl looked him hard in the eye. “I need your blessing. I need to know you don’t think poorly of me for my choice.”
Jeff swallowed hard against the knot in his throat. To think that this man, so many years his senior, needed his blessing to die, touched him more than he could say. “Carl, you are one of the finest men I know. I could never think less of you for choosing not to suffer needlessly.”
Carl gave one affirmative nod, his chin set. “Thank you, Pastor. That’s all I needed to hear.”
When Carl left his office, Jeff slumped back in his chair. Not Carl, he thought. Please not Carl. Not now. Carl was more than just a strong leader. Carl had been the chair of the pastoral search committee that had brought him to the church. More importantly, Carl had had Jeff’s back since the day he came—probably before, given the power plays that often occur between pastoral leaders. With Carl gone, he would feel less stable. He would feel… What Jeff felt was a knot in the pit of his stomach. Losing Carl would make him feel vulnerable. And Jeff didn’t like feeling vulnerable.
Twenty minutes passed, and Jeff finally gave up on his sermon. It was not going to get written today. His heart wasn’t in it. He closed the laptop screen with a little too much force and packed up to leave. He needed to get out of his office, out of this building.
The drive from the parsonage to home was five-hundred yards. It was silly to drive to church when he lived so close, but his most recent predecessor had done it. Jeff wanted people to feel free to drop by if they wanted to talk so he had continued the tradition. Besides, if Jeff’s car wasn’t in the church parking lot, people assumed he wasn’t there. Of course, this also meant that if he left his car in the garage and walked to church, there would be fewer interruptions.
In the garage, as he got out of the car, the door into the house swung open, and Stephen’s head appeared in the gap. “You can’t come in here!” Stephen announced breathlessly.
“Stephen, please. I’m tired. I’ve had a horrible day. And I just want to—”
“You just want to put your feet up and relax. I know. But you’ll have to relax on the deck.”
“Why can’t I come into my own house? Whatever you’re doing, honestly, I don’t care. I just want to get a drink and—”
“I know,” Stephen said. “I will bring you a drink. Just go sit on the deck and I’ll be right there with a glass of wine.”
“Have you seen the all-church email today?” He heard the tension in his own voice.
“Good point,” Stephen acknowledged. “I’ll be right there with a glass of scotch. Now go! Sit! Relax!”
Jeff gave a strained smile in return. “You really are cute when you’re bossy. Fine, I’ll go. Sit. Relax. Happy now?”
Stephen grinned. “Not yet, but I will be!” And with that, he was gone.
Jeff shook his head as he turned and ambled out to the deck. He had no idea what Stephen was up to, but he had learned not to fight it. Loving a drama guy meant lots of surprises, most of them good.
True to his word, Stephen returned within minutes, handed him a glass, and bowed. “A fine glass of scotch for you, sir.”
Jeff frowned. “Since when do we have fine scotch?”
“Oh, we don’t. This is the same swill we’ve had for months. But it is a fine glass, don’t you agree?”
“Finest lead crystal that Target sells,” he replied, then patted the chair next to him. “Sit with me a while?”
“And deny the introvert his quiet time before dinner? Not on your life. I like you much better after you’ve been alone. Besides, I’m needed inside.” After a quick peck on Jeff’s forehead, he was gone again.
Stephen was right. Jeff was much easier to live with when he got the downtime he needed. So he tried to relax, to decompress from his stressful day. But his thoughts were swirling. The damn email battle. Carl’s horrible news. And then there was the self-recrimination to contend with.
Carl had come to him in pain, and what had been Jeff’s immediate reaction? To focus on himself. He didn’t even recognize Carl’s pain for what it was at first, too busy assuming that he himself was the topic of conversation. Even after he heard the news, his thoughts were all about his own feelings, not his parishioner’s. How self-centered could he be? And had he done an adequate job of hiding the fact that he had made someone else’s cancer about himself?
How do other pastors do this job? It wasn’t the first time he’d had the thought. They make it look so easy, even effortless. His father, for example, was the hardest working man Jeff ever met. Sixty hours a week was standard for him, even with a family, and he never seemed to run dry. He was always the consummate pastor, the perfectionist in the pulpit, the tireless visionary. The great Reverend Cooper. As opposed to the lesser Reverend Cooper, as Jeff thought of himself. It was just one of the rea
sons he went by Pastor Jeff instead of Reverend Cooper.
But the last time Jeff had visited his parents, he thought his dad was finally showing the strain. His father had been a minister for forty-five years, so it was understandable. Jeff had only been doing it for seven, and he wasn’t sure he’d make ten.
His thoughts continued down this avenue for a while, and he didn’t realize he had drifted off until he awoke to a gentle touch on his arm. “Come, for all things are now ready,” Stephen said gently.
Jeff smiled at Stephen’s use of the phrase from the communion liturgy. “Are you offering me the bread of life?”
“I didn’t have time to make bread,” Stephen said over his shoulder. “Instead I present to you—” he opened the door with a flourish. “An inclusive potluck!”
Jeff stared at their kitchen table, literally covered with dishes of food, then listened for the sounds of a crowd in the other room. “Please tell me you didn’t invite people over for a potluck dinner tonight.”
“No, of course not! It’s an inclusive dinner,” Stephen repeated. Jeff stared, still not understanding. “It is inclusive of all your favorite comfort foods,” Stephen explained. “See? Meatloaf. But tonight it’s called—” He moved his hand like he was envisioning the name on a marquee. “The Meatloaf of Mercy!”
Jeff stifled a grin. “The Meatloaf of Mercy,” he repeated.
“That’s right. And here are your favorite scalloped potatoes.”
“And they’re called—?”
“Pentecostal Potatoes. They’re so good they’ll have you speaking in tongues. And here’s your mom’s recipe for frozen fruit salad. Only now it’s called God’s Frozen Chosen Fruit Salad.”
“I believe God’s Frozen Chosen are the Presbyterians, not the Congregationalists,” Jeff corrected dryly.
Stephen nudged him in the ribs. “Hush. You’re messing up my presentation.”
“Oh, my apologies. Please continue. I can’t wait to hear what you’re calling the cheese tray.”
Stephen waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that’s just Jesus Cheeses.”
It was too much. Jeff started laughing, then pulled Stephen into his arms. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
Stephen smiled broadly, then began to sing in his sweet tenor voice. “Somewhere in your youth—”
“Don’t,” Jeff warned with a smile.
“Or childhood,” he continued.
Jeff put a finger to Stephen’s lips, knowing it wouldn’t work.
“You must have done…” Stephen paused, looking at him expectantly.
Jeff finally gave in. “Something good.”
Their last note was in perfect harmony. As always.
7.
Mish was glad for a quiet morning. All this following the love business had made her behind on her chores. Another person had texted her—Emma—thanking her for the chat and offer of help. She knew she hadn’t met the girl, but no need to tell her that. Better just to help where she could, which in this case apparently meant helping the girl pick out new shoes. She also met with the insurance man and learned that insurance at her age cost more than her life was worth. So she must’ve been wrong about that part of the “follow the love” project. Ah, well, it did inspire me to have some extra cash on hand. Just in case. She’d gotten her banking done and was now trying to catch up on her housework. Even without Floyd to nag her, she still liked keeping a neat house. Liked it more, actually, now that she wasn’t being graded.
“That’s one of the few things that improved with your age,” she said to the plaid chair as she walked by. “Your bad eyesight made my housekeeping much easier.”
She walked into the entryway and dropped her box next to the fountain. She loved the fountain and never got tired of decorating it for the seasons. She had picked it out herself. It started at the top with water coming from a fish’s mouth, then the water bounced to two more levels below that. It was her one splurge in the house she secretly called Floyd’s Folly. When he had insisted on building this house, she thought he was crazy. What did they need with three big bedrooms and two and a half baths? Not to mention the formal living room they never sat in, the billiards room she used only for extra closet space, and the fancy appliances she didn’t need. What in the world did she need with a trash compactor? It did turn out to be a great place to store the potato chips, but beyond that, it was useless. But there was no sense in trying to change Floyd’s mind once it was made up. He had wanted to show all the professional upstarts in the valley that an old farmer could make good, even without an education.
It wasn’t a fancy house—not by the new standards in the valley. People built all those—oh, what did Opal call them? McMansions, that was it. Their house was no McMansion. It was just a big ranch with pillars on the porch, but it sat on a hill above the pasture they still owned. Mish would’ve been happy staying in the farmhouse they’d raised their son in, but Floyd had insisted on the bigger house. So Mish had insisted on the fountain. She’d always loved the sound of running water, like the creek behind her house growing up. Besides, she’d heard that nice houses often have a water feature.
She also thought that nice houses should have a dog. It just completed the picture—the house on the hill, the pasture below, and a dog on the hearth. The idea was definitely growing on her. She wished she knew more about dogs, so she’d know what kind to get. She’d always liked those Lassie dogs, but somehow that didn’t feel right. She wanted a snuggler, maybe a little white dog that nobody would mistake for a working dog.
She gathered up the plastic daisies, sunflowers, and daylilies from around the edges of the fountain and put them in the box at her feet. She was just finishing putting the autumn leaves in their place when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She carried it with her all the time now, just like the teenagers.
I got an appointment in DC for early Monday afternoon. We’d have to leave pretty early in the morning but we’d be back by bedtime. Will that work?
Mish’s heart sank. There and back in one day? That was eleven or twelve hours on the road, and she didn’t think her old body would put up with riding in a car that long. Driving a car, she corrected herself. That was even harder. But how could she tell the girl? She couldn’t let her down, not after they’d come so far. Maybe they could drive up the day before. That could work.
Guess you’ve changed your mind, ok, no worries.
Mish was horrified. Her delay had sent the wrong message. No! she immediately texted back. I was just thinking. She pushed Send and then kept typing. And I’m not very fast on this thing. Can was just talk?
Five seconds later the phone rang.
“Sorry about that. I forget you don’t text all the time like I do.”
“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Mish said quickly. “I was just thinking and forgot how that would feel on your end. The thing is…” Her voice trailed off.
“If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll understand.”
“Have you changed your mind?” Mish asked.
“No.”
“Then I haven’t either,” Mish assured her. “It’s just that—well—I’m old!”
Ann laughed. “And that’s relevant how?”
She let out a sigh, somehow embarrassed to admit her limitations. “I can’t drive twelve hours in one day.”
“Oh.”
Mish waited for more, but nothing else came. She took a deep breath. “So I was thinking—could we maybe drive up on Sunday? Break the trip into two days? I’ll pay for the hotel. Don’t worry about that part. But with my arthritis, I think one day is just too much. Whaddya think?”
“Hmm. Since that’s a Sunday, that could work. I just need to text a friend and see if she’ll cover for me. Hold on.”
“You can do that? Text somebody while you’re using the phone? I know how to use the phone and I know how to use the text mach
ine, but I thought you had to hang up the phone to get to the text machine. How does it know which one you want to do? I guess these smart phones are smarter than me.”
“Okay, that’ll work.”
“What’ll work?”
“Leaving on Sunday. My friend will cover for me.”
“You already texted her? That’s amazing! You’re gonna have to show me these tricks of yours.”
Ann chuckled. “We’ll have plenty of time in the car and the hotel. You’ll be an expert by the time we get back.”
They chatted for a few more minutes about the details. Ann was taking care of everything at the clinic, so Mish didn’t have to worry about that part. “I’ll find us a hotel too,” she said. “But I don’t have a credit card. Can I give you the phone number and you make the reservation? I’ll pay you back, I swear.”
“You will not,” Mish shot back. “I told you on the way home from the clinic that I’d pay for this thing, and I will.”
“But the…the procedure…is really expensive,” Ann argued. “I don’t want you paying for that and the hotel, too. I have a savings account, and I think I can take some without my parents noticing.”
“It’s my fault we need a hotel. Besides, I want to stay someplace decent. I don’t go away that often and when I do, I don’t want to worry about bringing home souvenirs of the bed bug variety. So find me one of them hotels that comes with free breakfast. And make sure there’s a waffle maker. I like me a waffle in the morning.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Ann said. Mish heard the smile in her voice, and it made her heart glad.
After getting Ann’s assurance that she didn’t need to go to AAA and get maps, Mish hung up the phone. She returned her box of flowers to the garage, then plopped down on the sofa. She was trying to figure out how she felt, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. She was a little excited about the trip—going out of town and staying in a hotel was still a bit of a treat, even at her age. But she also was sad. Sad for Ann, that she was in such a difficult spot. Sad that a girl so young had such heavy burdens. Sad about her home life.