by Gary Smalley
“You do eat, don’t you?”
“Yes, of course I eat, but—”
“Then let’s meet for lunch, anywhere in town. You pick the place.”
“I don’t know.” Then she remembered. “I . . . I work tomorrow. During the lunch hour, I mean.”
“Okay . . . then when do you get a break? Sometime in the afternoon? They must give you a break sometime.”
“They do. I think it’s around three o’clock.”
“Well, then, how about coffee? I’ll meet you at the Starbucks around the corner. Three o’clock. We can talk then.” He smiled, then stood up.
“But . . .”
Someone called to him, and he walked away.
29
I don’t know what to do, Charlotte. It just feels so wrong.”
Charlotte had the day off. She’d worked late last night, so she’d slept in. It was almost noon on Friday. She was eating her breakfast, and she’d asked Marilyn to join her for a cup of coffee before Marilyn headed off to her job at Odds-n-Ends. “What feels wrong about it?” she said.
“I’m married,” Marilyn said. “I shouldn’t be going out with another man. I think I’m just not going to show up this afternoon.” She took a sip of coffee; her hand was actually shaking.
“Doesn’t sound like you’re going out with him. Not like that, anyway. Aren’t you just meeting him for coffee?”
Marilyn nodded.
“People do that all the time. With people they’re not married to, I mean. You know, co-workers, neighbors, friends. Isn’t that what you two are? Just friends?” She scooped a piece of fried egg onto her toast.
“I guess. I’m not even sure we’re friends yet. Not really. He’s my dance instructor. We’re just dance partners.” Marilyn went on to explain how Roberto had agreed to be her partner for the class since she was the only one attending without one. And how they had danced together for the last thirty minutes of the class last night. “It was the most fun I’ve had since I don’t know when,” she said.
“See?” Charlotte said. “That’s all you were having . . . good clean fun, right? I mean, he didn’t put any moves on you while you danced, did he?”
“No . . . I don’t think so.” Marilyn thought about the way he’d looked at her while they danced. It was almost mesmerizing, but it didn’t seem lustful or romantic. She would have recognized it if it had been, wouldn’t she?
“You don’t think so?” Charlotte said. “I know you’re kind of out of practice after being married for so long, but I think you’d know it if a guy was coming on to you. Don’t you think?”
“No, you’re right. He wasn’t putting any moves on me. We just danced.”
“So, why’d you hesitate when I asked? Don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty about it. Just trying to be a friend.”
“I’m just confused.” She sat back in her chair. “This whole thing is so new for me. Dancing with someone who’s not my husband. It feels like such a romantic thing, but I know it’s really not. Maybe it’s the atmosphere, the beautiful music, or the fact that we’re holding each other while we’re dancing around the floor. But really, he was a perfect gentleman the whole time.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing then. He just wants to meet for coffee. It’s not like it’s a date.” Charlotte mopped up the last piece of egg with her last piece of toast. Before putting it in her mouth, she said, “If you get there and you feel he’s starting to get the wrong idea, or if what he wants to ask you is the least bit inappropriate, you can just tell him to get lost.”
Marilyn hoped nothing like that happened. There was no way she could finish her dance lessons if it did.
“If you want, I could go with you. You know, it doesn’t have to look like we planned it. I could just show up for coffee there at the same time.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think that’s necessary. I’m a big girl. I should be able to handle this. Besides, it’s probably nothing at all. I’m just making a big deal out of nothing.”
“I think you might be,” Charlotte said. “Meeting a friend who happens to be a man for coffee is kind of in the same range as dancing. It doesn’t mean there’s anything romantic going on. Why don’t you pray about it? Ask God to help you tell if this guy’s starting to hit on you. And if he is, like I said, you stand up and tell him to bug off.”
“You’re right, Charlotte. That’s what I’ll do.” She looked at her watch. “I really need to get going.” She took a last sip of her coffee. “I feel so much better about this now. Thanks for talking with me.”
“That’s what friends are for,” she said, smiling.
Marilyn hurried back to her bedroom and grabbed her purse. She really did feel better about the situation now. She said good-bye to Charlotte and headed out the door. As she made her way down the steps, another troubling thought surfaced. What if someone saw her having coffee with Roberto this afternoon? The Starbucks was in a central spot downtown, right out in the open. What if someone from her old church saw them?
What if Jim did?
Marilyn got in line at Starbucks, five minutes before three. She was relieved; Roberto hadn’t arrived yet. She had a thirty-minute lunch break, and the café was only a five-minute walk from Odds-n-Ends. She left in time to get her cappuccino and find a seat before three. That way she’d make sure she paid for it herself, and that she only had fifteen minutes left to talk before she had to head back.
How much damage could be done in fifteen minutes?
The line moved fairly quickly. She placed her order then walked to the other side of the counter to pick it up. As she stirred in the Splenda packet, she heard the front door open. She glanced up to see Roberto walk through.
His face lit up. “Marilyn, there you are,” he said in that marvelous Latin accent. Marilyn had to remind herself it was a put-on. “So glad you could come.” He got in line. “But I wished you had waited to order. It was going to be my treat.”
She noticed that both a young woman in line and one behind the counter instantly looked at Roberto that way. “I’m sorry, Roberto. Go ahead and get yours. I’ll get us a table.”
“Very well. I’ll be there un minuto.”
She picked a table in the corner of the outside section, set behind a half wall, the farthest one from the door. So far, she didn’t recognize a soul. A few moments later, Roberto joined her.
“You look lovely, Marilyn.”
Marilyn instantly felt self-conscious. “This is just something from the back of my closet.”
He looked at her name tag. “Odds-n-Ends is a nice store. I’ve bought gifts there for people several times.”
“It really is. I bought myself a gift there just last week. A beautiful music box. As a matter of fact, that little music box is the reason I’m taking dance lessons.” Marilyn went on to tell him about how she’d met Audrey while playing the music box for Michele at Giovanni’s.
“That’s a wonderful story,” he said. “My thanks to the maker of the music box then.”
Marilyn smiled, took a sip of her cappuccino. Was he flirting with her or just being nice? He was just being nice, of course that was all it was. It was just the way he talked. And the way he looked at people when he talked. “So,” she said. “What’s this thing you want to talk to me about? We better get to it right away. I really only have a few minutes before I have to head back to the store.”
“Oh . . . my loss. But really, this will only take a few minutes. I could have told you last night at the studio. But it seemed so impersonal.”
“So this is something personal?” she asked.
“In a way, but not really. I just didn’t want to say this in front of all the other class members. And I didn’t want to put you on the spot, so to speak. Even now, please know, you don’t have to do what I’m about to ask you. I don’t want you to feel any pressure.”
Whatever could it be? “Please . . . don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Well, I made this decision last ni
ght after we danced. Actually, I started thinking about this after last week’s class. I could tell you were a natural the moment I saw you on the floor. But after last night, my decision was crystal clear.”
“Roberto . . .”
“I’m sorry, I’m still keeping you in suspense, aren’t I? The thing is, there’s a regional dance contest at the end of September in Orlando. It’s a very prestigious event. An opportunity for dance instructors throughout central Florida to put on display how well they’re able to teach their students.”
“I don’t understand. What does that have to do with me?”
“Everything, my dear. The rules state each instructor must select as his partner someone from a beginner’s dance class. They absolutely have to be a novice. This is your first dance class, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Because you’ll have to sign an affidavit stating so. But Marilyn, you’ll be perfect. I usually do this just for the extra publicity it brings to the studio. But my dear, with you on my arm . . . I think we have a chance of actually winning the whole thing!”
30
It was Sunday morning. Jim sat in the church parking lot, trying to work up the courage to get out of the car. He smiled as different members he recognized drove up, parked their cars, nodded then stared at him as they walked by. Probably trying to figure out what he was up to. Trying to put together in their heads which parts of the gossip they’d heard about him and Marilyn were true.
He was a pariah now, inside that building. He was sure of that. A man fallen from grace. If not from God, certainly from men. And in that building, what people thought about you was all you had. Your image, your reputation. He’d spent years crafting it, honing it to a fine edge. Making the right connections with just the right mix of people.
As he thought about it now, it seemed a bit like the pressures of high school, albeit a more sophisticated version. A religious version, where the popular crowd was still popular for some of the same reasons, and people like him had always felt on the outside trying to break in but never quite getting there. He was always on a treadmill, trying to keep the connections and acceptance alive. Knowing that at any moment something could happen—almost anything at all—to sever these fragile ties.
And if that happened, they’d cut you loose and you’d float away untethered like a balloon, as the crowd chatted and pointed at you until you faded from sight.
Jim sat there in his car, knowing that right now was such a moment for him.
If it had not already happened, it certainly would the moment he walked in the door and handed this letter to Mort Stanley. He decided to do it before the service. And he wouldn’t stay for the looks, the stares, the fake smiles. No, he’d be heading back here to his car; the golf clubs were already in his trunk. He’d drive out of the parking lot before the choir had finished singing the second hymn.
The untethered balloon.
He held the letter up by the steering wheel and read it once more. No good reason to do that; he’d written and rewritten it a dozen times up to this point. Still, there was an itch to read it again. Just once more.
Dear Mort (and the rest of the deacon board),
Please accept this letter as my resignation from the deacon board, effective immediately. I won’t be attending the scheduled meeting tomorrow night to discuss the proposal regarding the church leasing my property for its senior center over the next year. I understand my absence, this resignation, and the information I’m about to share will likely result in the church deciding to pass on the deal.
As you all have likely heard, my wife and I aren’t doing well at the moment. To be more precise, we are separated. My efforts to bring about a quick resolve to this crisis have proved ineffective. We are no closer to reconciling our differences than we were the day she walked out two weeks ago. I still don’t know what the main issues are, because she won’t even talk to me.
But of course, these are my problems, not yours. And I no longer wish to be a hindrance to the board and the many important projects and plans you all must make for the church’s future. It has been a distinct honor to serve with you men over the past two years.
Sincerely,
James Anderson (Jim)
He reread the last line, the part about it having been “a distinct honor” to serve on the board these past two years.
Had it been? Really?
On one level it had. He loved the feeling of being nominated by members of the church to serve in that honored role, and remembered the joy he’d felt the day he’d been voted in. He even loved the boring meetings, discussing the big issues, being a part of such an elite guild.
But the paper he held in his hand would end all that. And he knew—because he’d seen it happen to others over the years—one never rises once fallen from grace. Not in this church. Not with their standards and, yes, with their noses—as his daughter Michele used to say—raised so high in the air.
He got out of the car, trying not to think of how this decision would affect his personal finances. Three other board members had leased properties with his company, as well as two other prominent businessmen in the church. Fortunately and for now, their allegiance would hold by the lease contracts they had signed. So there wouldn’t be any immediate drop in revenue. But would these men renew their leases again when the time came? Would Jim ever see a single new customer come from the members of this church?
He walked across the parking lot to the sidewalk. Would anyone in the church even reach out to him on any level after this?
A few might make perfunctory phone calls, those who still had a modicum of Christian charity alive in their hearts. But for most, he would simply cease to exist. He was the pariah now. The untethered balloon.
He opened the glass door, heard the organ begin to play. The door closed behind him. Three church members he knew—and a few weeks ago would have thought of as friends—stood by the entrance to the sanctuary. They looked his way just a moment. One said something to the others, and they quickly hurried inside.
As he reached the sanctuary door, he recognized the song the organ was playing: “Blest Be the Tie That Binds.” He stepped inside, scanning the crowd for Mort Stanley as the choir began to sing:
Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love;
the fellowship of kindred minds is like to that above.
31
Jim pulled into his driveway, waited for the garage door to rise. Playing golf had always been good medicine for him, but especially today. His drives had actually gone several yards farther than his average. Probably had something to do with the short bursts of anger he released every time he whacked the ball. Different faces of people at church would come to mind, the ones he knew didn’t like him or the ones he was certain were talking about him behind his back.
Why did people think that was okay? Especially church people? The garage door clicked into place, and he pulled the car inside. They did it all the time, at least at his church. He supposed he’d engaged in it himself from time to time, or at least sat there nodding dumbly while others did. Of course, it never bothered him so much before. He’d never been on the receiving end. At least not that he could tell.
He turned the car off and got out, stood there waiting for the garage door to close again. It certainly bothered Marilyn—the gossip, that is. And it really had bothered Michele. That was the reason she’d given for leaving the church altogether once she left for college. She had come back one holiday in that first year with a teaching outline from a new church she’d been attending near the school. She said members of this church had to make a commitment to resolve their conflicts by following something she called “Peacemaking Principles.” Then she plopped the outline down, right there on the dinner table, insisting he and Marilyn hear her out.
“That’s what’s so wrong about your church, Dad. Can’t you see? Look at all these Scriptures about gossip and slander. Do you see what this says?”
Jim looked down at the
page. He was just humoring her, of course, knowing if he put up a fuss this thing would go on until his roast beef and scalloped potatoes had grown cold. She pointed out one verse after the other, in both the Old Testament and New, stating plainly how much God hated gossip and slander. How it was in the same list of serious sins as sexual immorality and stealing. And she read other Scriptures about how it destroyed relationships.
Jim already knew gossip and slander weren’t good things. He didn’t need his daughter ruining a good dinner by highlighting such a depressing topic. And he certainly couldn’t see how it was as serious a thing as immorality or stealing.
Standing there in the garage now, he began to think there was something to what Michele had been trying to say. After putting his clubs and shoes away, he walked through the garage past the laundry room, when he heard loud music coming from the stairway leading to Doug’s apartment. He headed up the stairs and banged on Doug’s door. The music stopped.
“Hey, Dad, you’re back. How was golf?”
“Pretty good,” Jim said. “How was church?”
“What?”
“You said you were going with Jason’s family this morning.”
“I did. I’ve been home for over an hour.”
Jim didn’t like Doug’s hesitation. Should he press harder? He wasn’t in the mood to catch Doug in a lie and didn’t have the energy to deal with all the tension. “Listen, I’m heading over to the house to take a shower and get cleaned up. Then I’m calling for a pizza.”
“From Gabbie’s?”
“Sure, we can get it from there. I’m guessing you want some.”
“I’m starving.”
“Pepperoni, as usual?”
Doug nodded. “But they’ll do half, so make the other half Italian sausage or whatever you like.”
“I will. Why don’t you head over in about forty-five minutes. Should be here by then.”
“Great. See you then.”
Jim stayed a little longer in the shower than usual, allowing the hot water to pour down his neck and back. It seemed to soothe the savage beast inside. He realized that one of the faces that had not come to mind as he whacked those golf balls was Marilyn’s. He was still angry with her for leaving him like this. None of these troubles at church would have ever started if she’d stayed home. Why did she have to do something this drastic to get his attention? Why hadn’t she given him some kind of warning signal that she had reached the danger zone?