by G. H. Holmes
She hadn’t written over the last few days, so he decided to keep his message short as not to appear eager.
A minute later he clicked “send” and the note left his station and entered cyberworld.
The roses lay on the table, next to the bottle of medical alcohol and the tweezers. They had never turned the light on and were now hardly discernible in the dusky kitchen, where they still sat talking at 8:30 PM.
They’d shared secrets. And now?
“Ralph…” She grabbed his good hand and sought his eyes. “Ralph, thanks for listening.”
“Erh…” He began to make noises like an imbecile.
She let him go. “You take those flowers and give them to Gina.”
“They’re yours.” His right hand smelled of the antiseptic. He wiped it on his overall.
“I don’t have room for them. You give them to Gina.”
In the darkness, she thought she heard him sniffle.
He breathed arduously when he got up. “I better get going.”
He got up and shuffled to the door like an old man.
“My marriage was never better,” Gina wrote shortly before midnight. “You don’t have to worry. Ralph’s so considerate. He’s holding doors open for me, makes compliments, leaves money in drawers for me to find… He’s turning into a regular gentleman.
“He mentioned some of the things you told him. And I shared things you said to me. Was interesting. So, we’re doing great. And if you’re still mad about last Friday… Can’t we simply forget the affair? Forgive and forget? Ralph said he’s ready, even though he’s still struggling with that burst of energy you had when Romy got sick. He doesn’t know what he did wrong. Anyway. I’m ready to forget, and so is he.”
What was she getting at?
Earlier, Romy had indicated that she’d spoken to Ralph. The carpenter was emotionally mixed up and he’d rather talk to her than to Tom—she said. Stark didn’t like it, but felt he was in no position to question her. Anyway. Ralph probably wanted to apologize for his awkward behavior last Friday. Maybe he was infatuated with Romy.
The thought made Tom chuckle.
It was true, wasn’t it? You always want what you don’t have. And if you absolutely can’t have what you want, you want it even more. Hadn’t that been part of the human condition ever since Eden? Forbidden fruit is forever the most enticing. But when you eat it, you find your mouth filled with gravel. Stark frowned.
“We already talked about forgetting,” he wrote.
“Just making sure we both know it,” she replied.
“Okay,” he wrote back. “Let’s cancel last Friday from our collective memory.”
“I’m so glad you say that! Let’s make a new memory,” she wrote. “Do you want to come over next Friday night?”
Stark rolled his eyes. “I think we’ll pass.”
“Ralph says it’s okay.”
No doubt. “But Romy’s still kind of self-conscious about the whole affair. Maybe some other time. Good night.”
“Think about it.”
“Good night now.”
He disconnected from the Internet.
34
Sunday, 17 August 2003, Morning, 32°C
Two fans hummed on either side of the plexiglass pulpit, and the people—more again today—were fanning themselves with programs and notepads when Tom stepped up to take the service. He stood erect as he opened his Bible, wearing a white ring-collar shirt from Dillard’s in Tulsa, tan-checkered golf pants he’d bought in Munich, and Cole Haan moccasins which hid their age well. His nouveau-riche appearance matched perfectly with his 735 BMW. It also fit with today’s message.
But he wasn’t there yet.
“Good morning, everybody,” he said. “Good to see all of you. Why don’t you turn to your neighbor and tell him, ‘My, you’re well-groomed today.’ Then you may sit down.”
He used a variation of this line every Sunday, but the effect was forever the same. People giggled as if they’d heard it for the first time and greeted those next to them, then they sat down.
Tom began. “My message today is entitled ‘Post-propitiative alteration, with special contemplation of the palimpsest metaphor.’
Some groaned; a woman cackled.
“No, don’t worry. The real title is ‘God wants your financial success’ and no less.”
Somebody said, “All right,” and paper rustled.
“Let me tell you,” Tom said, “God is a God of abundance. He’s the God of more than enough. When he gives, he gives good.
“Did you know that man uses only about ten percent of his brain capacity? That’s right; ten percent. Some use considerably less. But using roughly five to ten percent of your brain is plenty for you to get by on.
“And that’s not all.
“Your kidneys are so oversized that you’ll notice complications only when they’re about to conk out. Theoretically, you can give one away and not even notice you’re lacking anything. Now don’t look at me like that. It’s true. We have three doctors in this church; ask any one of them and they’ll confirm what I just said.” Tom pointed at Dr. Leiermann in the second row. “That right, Siggi?”
Siggi nodded in a supremely dignified way.
“Same with your lungs,” Stark said. “We have two, even though one would suffice. We have ten toes, but only two are absolutely essential. Which ones? The big ones. You need those to balance yourself. Without those it’s tough slogging.
“And you have an appendix, a totally useless organ. It exists for the sole reason that incoming surgeons can practice on it.
“You can see, God is a God of abundance, not a God of bare essentials. He doesn’t want you to be poor; there’s no glory in it for him when you’re poor. When Israel left Egypt, they left loaded down with silver and gold, which they received as gifts from the Egyptians; God gave them favor with their former oppressors, can you believe it? They left with a full supply, and God wants the same for you. He wants to meet your needs according to his riches in glory. Second Corinthians eight, nine, says that Jesus became poor so we might be rich. And yes, Paul’s talking about money, in case you’re wondering. So, abundance is God’s will for you.”
“Preach it!” a man said.
“I will.” Tom flashed a white hanky and wiped his brow.
“But understand, God’s not going to drop money on you like pie from the sky. He gave you gifts, abilities, and God will supply if you use those. He equipped you in a unique way, and made a market for your equipment, and you need to cater to that market. So, I’m not preaching some kind of Shangri La where fried pigeons are headed for your oral cavity by default. I’m not preaching laziness.
“You got to understand that the gifts he gave you are his primary way of supply. Develop them; work them—you still need to work. True satisfaction is not found on a couch in front of a TV watching scantily-clad women seduce cussing meatballs, but in work! Bread tastes sweet, water becomes sweet when it’s earned, not when it’s simply a handout.
“Sure, Elijah did nothing and God fed him by the brook; yes, he sent ravens with meat in their beak every day. But that was during a crisis; Elijah had no place to go—and let me tell you, you wouldn’t want Elijah’s meat anyway. What do you think those birds brought him? Morsels from the royal table?
“Hardly.
“Better think before you ask God for a similar supply. I for one prefer my own wife’s cooking over raven-meat any day. They probably brought him locusts, which he dipped in wild honey to hide the taste. Yikes.”
Then Stark returned to the New Testament and explained that Jesus wasn’t poor, that the wise men from the East brought valuable gifts and that their gold financed the Holy Family’s flight to Egypt, and that later Mary and Martha and other rich women served him with their wealth.
“The Lord even had a treasurer,” he said, “Judas, who stole what was given. Now think. You can’t steal if there’s only a little bit of money in the sack, because the decrease of funds wo
uld get noticed. Only if there’s an abundant supply will he get away with his embezzlement.”
Then Tom became practical. “Do you want a full supply too?” He lifted his hand.
“Sure.” People waved at him.
“I’ll tell you how to get there. You can start the journey right this morning; it’s easy.
“Let me start with Solomon,” he said. “He was the richest man of his time. But what else was Solomon famous for?”
A brief pause ensued in which only the fans droned.
“Wisdom,” a man shouted.
Tom nodded. “For his wisdom. Know how he got it?”
This time he drew only stares.
“All right, I’ll tell you—“
There was a commotion by the entrance and Ralph and Gina came in and hurried toward the center aisle. The carpenter wore a checkered shirt and blue jeans, his wife was in her Sunday best.
Tom continued when they were seated. “I’ll tell you how to receive your abundant supply.” Then he shared how young Solomon had found himself totally unprepared for the top job in his kingdom. “He was maybe twenty—but had brothers who could have been his fathers.”
That drew snickers.
“What’s funny? Anyway. He had an acute awareness of his shortcomings. So far, he’d only chased girls and the newest hot rods, and now he was king. Solomon was so desperate for divine help that he did what people of faith have done throughout the ages. He got God’s attention by giving an offering.” Tom dabbed at his forehead. “You heard right. He gave a king-sized offering to draw God’s attention. Go read it in First Kings three.
“That night the Lord appeared to him and asked him what he could give Solomon in return, and because Solomon said ‘wisdom’ and not ‘the heads of mine enemies’ or ‘riches’ or ‘wealth,’ God gave him those on top of wisdom. Plus a thousand women. Men, think of it! A thousand wives…!” He looked at the audience with eyes comically wide.
After a moment’s hesitation people groaned, some booed, then all calls dissolved in laughter.
“…but I don’t know that they were a blessing.” Tom cast his eyes down. He went on about the relationship between wisdom and wealth and how one act of giving made Solomon into a historic figure, and worked his way back into the gospels. “Now, we’ve seen that Jesus warns of making mammon a god and that Paul even says covetousness is idolatry.
“Now. How do I know I’m not in idolatry with money? Anybody know? Huh?” When no answer came, he said, “Very simple. God expects you to give your tithes—ten percent of your income—to your local church as an act of your faith. Your tithes prove that you see him not just as your Savior but as your Supplier also.
“Now let me say this.
“If you don’t give your tithes, you by definition believe that those ten percent of your money are more powerful than God; otherwise you’d give them. You know you’re in disobedience if you don’t give, and disobedience is an expression of unbelief, and thus you’re in idolatry if you don’t give tithes.”
The room had fallen silent.
“Follow me?”
About 53 percent of regular attendants were tithers—a good rate, really—but that didn’t mean he could withhold the truth from those who didn’t. His job was to proclaim the truth, not to mollycoddle.
“Let me say it this way: if you give your tithes that proves that money is not a idol in your life. You can lay back and enjoy a good conscience. And God’s blessing.”
Then he thought of something.
“Now, you understand, I’m not speaking to new believers here. As a matter of fact, I don’t want your money if you’re brand new to the faith. Please don’t take offense. I’m not interested in your money; I’m interested in your heart, in making you a disciple of the Lord. I’m only speaking to those who have already made up their mind to follow Jesus unconditionally and in all things—including their finances.
“Anyway.”
Tom continued with his message for another fifteen minutes, during most of which Gina simply adored him. But Stark also noticed that Ralph’s eyes seemed glazed and the expression on his face was even blander than usual. And suddenly, just for a moment, he knew that the carpenter was a millionaire.
Eight days later
35
Monday, 25 August 2003, Afternoon, 29°C
“Tom?”
The voice on the phone was Ralph’s. He sounded harried even through the clamor of his car.
“Hi there, Mr. Delors…” Stark swung his feet off the table. He’d just hung up on Carlos. If Ralph had already tried to reach him, he hadn’t gotten through.
Good.
This way Old Nails would perceive him as busy. Stark sat in his garden house, glossy with sweat, telephone in hand, and stared through the windowpane the carpenter had fixed.
“I know we didn’t see each other the last few days…”
“That’s not why I was formal. It was meant to be—”
“Yes. Tom, I have a problem.”
Don’t I know it. “Uh-huh?”
“I found a notebook in Gina’s purse.”
Tom leaned forward. “…and?”
“It was a coincidence. Usually I don’t go through her purse. But I had this weird dream, and when I checked I saw this envelope that wasn’t sealed and I opened it and saw it… She was ready to send it.”
“What?”
“The notebook.”
“And to who?”
For a while only wind and static were transmitted. Then Ralph said, “Müller.” His voice was clipped.
Tom groaned. “Don’t tell me…”
“I, uh, thought we were doing good thanks to your advice, but I guess I missed something and she’s still into him; probably my fault. And I don’t know anybody who knows people like you, and she respects you, and so I thought—“
“What’s in the book.”
He cleared his throat. “I put an empty one in the envelope and sealed it. I guess she sent it off—”
“What’s in the book, Ralph?”
The phone crackled loudly. Either the carpenter blew his nose or he sniffled right into the mike.
“Ralph, do you copy?”
“I hear you,” he said and swallowed audibly. “It’s a disgusting, freaking—”
He began to cuss liberally and Tom eased the phone away from his ear.
“—romance. All kinds of romantic hogwash and she wished she had a condom when she saw him last and dreamed of marrying him—’ He seemed to blow his nose again. “—and on and on, thirty-two pages full of crud.”
When nothing more came Tom asked, “You have it?”
“I have it. Read it. Couldn’t trash it. If you want to look at it—”
“Well, don’t ditch it yet.” Tom obviously hadn’t figured her out after all. They had exchanged only three or four mails in the last twelve days with him initiating the contact each time. She’d apologized profusely, citing her many obligations as reasons for slacking off, and then didn’t write back.
Only once was their exchange of any substance, when she asked him to explain what Jesus meant when he said to offer the other cheek.
“It’s an exhortation to deescalate,” he wrote. “Jesus wants us not to demand our rights in every case, but to back down for peace’s sake. Escalation’s a terrible policy; just look at World War One.”
“Do I have to take that scripture literally, at face value?”
“You mean, do you have to get walloped if somebody feels like slapping you around?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t be silly,” he wrote. “Jesus himself didn’t offer the other cheek when he stood before the Sanhedrin in the night of his betrayal and some idiot slapped him. Instead, he said, ‘If I said something bad, tell me; if not, why’d you hit me?’ Something to that extent. Why do you ask?”
“Just being nosy.”
“Can bring it by tonight,” Ralph’s voice said. “I’m on a job near Kassel. I’ll be getting home after dark. I
can see you around eleven, before I go to the house, if that’s not too late.”
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
For a moment Tom heard only the noises of the road.
“I don’t really have anybody to talk to about stuff; so, I really appreciate it, your attention.”
“Never mind, that’s my job.” Tom bit his lip. “But you’re special, Ralph.”
Another second of silence passed.
“Do you have an idea how I can keep her?”
Tom sighed audibly, so his counselee could hear him. “Yeah, there’s a way. It’s difficult and a bit risky, but I know your case better than most and I think it’ll work. It’s bold, and you’ll have to execute my plan in exactly the way I’ll describe it, and if you do, success is guaranteed... virtually.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Ninety-nine percent. It’s a war plan, I call it shock-and-awe. Bush and Rumsfeld didn’t invent it. It’s older than them. I’ll tell you details tonight.”
“Thank you.” The weight was gone. “I, um, I’m really glad I know you, Tom. ‘Preciate how you’re spreading hope.”
The carpenter sounded light and unburdened, filled with a childlike hope. Ralph was a good man at heart.
Then Tom thought of Gina and his stomach began to burn.
At five-o’clock he sat by the kitchen table, his nose in the financial part of Saturday’s FAZ.
Romy put a cup of tea and a piece of cake in front of him.
“Talked to Britta yesterday,” she said.
He looked up. “How’d her situation turn out?”
“She got a job in a sauna.”
“In a what? Is she—!”
“She’s wearing something.”
Tom creased one eyebrow. “All the time?”
“As far as I know.”
“But sees naked people all day.”
Romy opened the dishwasher. “They call it textile-free. Still better than that other offer. Now she doesn’t have to serve anybody personally.”