Missy didn’t understand. “I said the blessin’ wrong?”
“No . . . no.” He folded his paper towel and put it by his plate. “I don’t believe in prayer.”
Missy looked at Pat then back at Griffin. “You’re offended ’cause I prayed?”
“No.” Griffin pushed his chair back. “I’m offended because I was allowed to waste my time driving two thousand miles to take this position.”
“I think I’m a little confused, Griff.” Pat put his sandwich down. “Can we back up and start at the beginning?”
“Nobody said anything about God during my interview.” Griffin was letting his anger bleed through. “I could have told you I don’t believe in God—I’m an atheist.”
“And?”
“And I don’t want to spend my time at this university being badgered by a bunch of Bible-thumping fanatics.”
“Bible-thumping fanatics?” Pat nodded slowly, unperturbed. “You mean like Missy and me?”
Missy, as if she were watching a slow-motion tennis match, was letting her attention move back and forth while the men talked. When Griffin stopped to consider the significance of Pat’s question, she offered him a disarming smile. “I think you people from California are right.”
Missy’s irrelevant comment failed to register because it collided with Griffin’s staggering realization that he had let the remnants of his hangover trigger an overreaction that could cost him his job.
He looked at Missy, then Pat, then back at Missy. “What was that?”
Pat shook his head and spoke in a soothing tone, “Missy.”
She ignored her husband and leaned forward to prop her arms on the table. She fixed the midnight-blue eyes on her guest; the smile was no longer on display. “I said . . . I think you people from California are right.”
Griffin was half angry, half convinced that he was already out of a job, and completely confused by Missy’s comment. He made the mistake of saying, “Right about what?”
“I think the dolphins are as smart as you.”
Griffin’s mouth fell open.
Pat bowed his head and sighed.
Missy took a bite of her chicken salad sandwich.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Griffin was speechless. He watched Missy chew her food while his memory went back to a beautiful brown-haired girl wearing tiny gold earrings. She was smiling and saying, Missy’s just . . . uh . . . genuine.
Pat touched his napkin to his mouth, shaking his head at his wife.
Missy reached for her tea glass.
Griffin hated to apologize, but he didn’t want to be fired in his first week on the job. The couple’s short track record told him he wasn’t expected to grovel, but the flavor of humble pie was repulsive to him. After fifteen seconds of piercing silence, a single drop of cool sweat was forming in the center of his forehead. What the heck, he thought, I don’t have to mean it.
He held a hand in the oath-taking position and said, “You’re right, of course. Maybe I got a little carried away.”
“Maybe?” Missy set her glass down and reached over to pat him on the arm. “Maybe you’re an impudent imbecile.”
Her words emptied Griffin’s lungs—his mild-mannered boss was married to a one-hundred-pound piranha with dark blue eyes.
He looked at Pat, and Pat testified to the blatantly obvious. “Diplomacy hasn’t always been Missy’s strong suit.”
“Humph,” sniffed Missy. “Diplomacy is—an’ always will be—where the guy with the big stick tells the guy with the little stick how the cow’s gonna eat the cabbage.”
Pat made a surrendering sound and addressed himself to Griffin. “She’s right. And you were wrong.”
Griffin looked first at Pat then at Missy. Patterson had already made it clear he wouldn’t put up with disrespectful conduct in the philosophy department; his wife was apparently unwilling to tolerate it anywhere else.
He weighed the few courses of action open to him and took the one that might save him a walk back to the campus in the sun . . . and salvage his job. “Agreed. So . . . are you going to fire me because I don’t believe in God?”
“Of course not.” Pat sat back in his chair. “You were hired because we thought you were borderline brilliant, not because of your religious beliefs.”
Griffin caught Pat’s use of the past tense. “You thought?”
“People who are genuinely intelligent wait until they’ve been on the job a week or two before verbally attacking their boss and his wife in their own home.”
Missy picked up her tea glass and propped her elbows on the table while she watched the tennis match.
“Good point.” Griffin passed his napkin across his forehead and glanced at Missy. “Are you going to fire me because I’m an impudent imbecile?”
Pat shook his head. “Nope.”
“So what do we do now?”
“Easy. In whatever order you think appropriate: we finish our lunch and get back to work; you have a serious talk with yourself about decorum; you apologize to me, and . . .” he pointed at Missy, “. . . you beg that lady’s forgiveness for your rude behavior.”
Griffin knew the way to the man’s heart. He turned to Missy and said, “You were dead-on right; I’m an impudent imbecile. Would you forgive me?”
She didn’t smile. “I have . . . an’ I will.”
His brow wrinkled. “Will?”
She put the tea glass down and gave his arm another reassuring pat. “You’re probably pretty smart, Griff, but you’re young an’ foolish. I’d bet my dessert we’re gonna get to catch your act again.”
He let out a long sigh. “Boy, I hope not.”
“Hear, hear,” said Pat.
Griffin looked at his boss and spoke man-to-man. “I apologize.”
“And I accept,” Pat said. “That leaves two sandwiches and your self-reprimand.”
For the next thirty minutes they ate sandwiches and pickled watermelon rind while Missy and Pat filled him in on what to expect from the university and Denton.
When they finished lunch, Griffin helped Pat clear the table. Missy brought out a three-layer chocolate cake, and the three of them ate half of it with their coffee. Missy wrapped half of the remaining half in wax paper and put it aside for Griffin to take when he left.
At one o’clock, Pat stood up.
Griffin followed. He surprised himself by thanking Missy for the most enjoyable meal he could remember, and she invited him to come back on Friday night. She walked them to the car and put a box holding a second chocolate cake in Pat’s hands. “You be careful with that.”
Pat kissed her good-bye and said, “That’s what you said last time.”
He placed the cake gently on the floor behind his seat and straightened in time to greet a pair of men who pulled into the circular drive on their golf cart. Introductions were made all around before Pat and Griffin had to excuse themselves.
The golfers took time out of their crowded schedule to stay and visit with Missy until their tee time called them away.
Back in the car, Griffin said, “You married an exceptional woman.”
“Thanks. I couldn’t agree more.”
“And she cut me down to size without being mean.”
“Ah, yes. Meanness isn’t in her makeup, but intolerance is not something she battles to overcome.”
The men were quiet on the way back to the campus—both content to think their own thoughts. They were on the stairs in Cartwright Hall when Griffin told Pat one of the things he’d been thinking about. “I know this can sound false coming from a guy who is hanging on to his job only by the good graces of his boss, but I enjoyed that meal more than any I’ve had in a long time.”
“Thanks. As a matter of fact, I believe you.”
“Good.” Griffin was interested in whether or not he was going to get seconds on dessert without having to eat his leftovers. “Are you taking that cake to put in the lounge?”
Pat made a snorting sound and said, “Not if I w
ant to sleep at my house tonight. It’s for Bill to take home.”
“That black guy?”
“Yeah. Missy thinks she’s his guardian.”
Missy, thought Griffin; she was the second thing he had on his mind. They were passing the water fountain when he cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something personal?”
Pat stopped. “Is it important?”
Griffin cleared his throat a second time. “Well, not really . . . and it’s none of my business.”
Pat started moving again. “Okay, how about we agree you get to ask one none-of-your-business question each afternoon between one and one thirty.”
“I like that.”
“I like it better.” Pat winked at the new kid and slapped him on the back. “Starting Thursday, I have a class scheduled between twelve thirty and two.”
Griffin had to laugh.
They walked through the empty outer office without slowing. Pat stowed the cake on a shelf and sat down behind his desk. Griffin walked over and propped himself against the windowsill. What he’d seen of Pat’s easygoing nature gave him the courage to work up to his question. “When we drove out of your driveway, those two guys were still there.”
He paused, and Pat prompted him, “And?”
Griffin plunged in. “Chief, you and I both know your wife is a bona fide traffic stopper . . . she could very well be the most striking woman in the world. Does it bother you to drive off and leave her talking to a pair of men who probably stopped at your house just so they could look at her up close and listen to that voice?”
“Call me Pat. And, no, it doesn’t bother me. If it did, I would’ve gone off the deep end years ago.”
“What about when you introduced me to her . . . don’t you ever get tired of watching guys like me get turned into zombies when they meet her?”
“Nope.”
“You’re serious?”
“I’m serious.”
“Why doesn’t it bother you?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Why?”
Anna Gibson’s voice smiled at them from the outer office. “I’m back, y’all.”
Pat motioned at Griffin and said, “Shut the door.”
When it was closed, Griffin pulled one of the visitors’ chairs up and leaned close to the desk. “Why wouldn’t I understand?”
“Lots of reasons, but the main one is rooted in your worldview . . . you don’t believe God exists.”
Griffin sat back, crossed his arms, and sighed deeply. “You’re using my question as a springboard to try and convince me that God exists.”
“Yes and no,” Pat confessed.
“Yes?”
“Imagine this.” Pat tilted his chair back and put his feet on the desk. “I’m like the man who takes his boat out to pick up people who’ve been forced into the ocean because of a shipwreck. I pull my boat close to you, but you refuse to get in. You’re helpless . . . your survival is totally dependent upon your willingness to get into the boat, but you’ve got your fingers in your ears and your eyes squeezed shut—I touch your shoulder, and you pull away. What would you have me do?”
“I’ve heard that analogy before, and the premise doesn’t apply. I’m not in danger of drowning, because God doesn’t exist. There’s no ocean out there, and I’m not in it.”
Pat held up his hand. “One thing at a time. The main reason I used that story is to show you that the man with the lifeboat has a responsibility—that’s me, and what you would have me do does not factor into my choice. I can’t pass a man by because he doesn’t believe he’s in danger of drowning. I cannot and I will not.”
“Fine,” answered Griffin, “as long as we’re clear on my position.”
“That’s my second point. You’re adhering to a position that is suffering from a lack of proof.”
Griffin didn’t like being told he was wrong. “The concept of God is archaic, Pat. He was invented by man as a method of conquering fear.”
“That doesn’t weaken my point.”
“Of course it does. Thinking people have known for years that God does not exist.”
“Okay. Let’s use Missy to make my point,” Pat said. “You said she might be the most striking woman in the world. Right?”
“I did.” Griffin shrugged. “So?”
“It’s easy enough for me to assume she’s the most beautiful woman in the world; I’ve seen how men, including yours truly, conduct themselves when they first meet her. However, for me to prove she’s the most beautiful woman in the world, I have to start traveling; I’d have to see the face of every woman on the globe . . . all two billion.”
Griffin was thrown off balance. He frowned at Pat for a moment then said, “I don’t follow you. What has that to do with the existence of God?”
“It’s simple when you think about it. Only the man who has seen all the women can know which one is most beautiful—he has all the facts. A person would have to be possessed of all the knowledge in the universe to say that God does not exist.”
Someone chose that moment to tap on the door.
“Come in.”
Bill Mann pushed the door open and stood on the threshold in his sock feet; Pat’s note was pinned to his chest. He slumped against the doorjamb and massaged his bad shoulder. “What time is it?”
“One thirty. You hungry?”
“What day is it?”
“Still Tuesday,” Pat said. “You and I talked this morning.”
“Mmm. You got anything that needs doin’?”
“Not today,” answered Pat. He motioned at Griffin. “This is Hugh Griffin, the department’s newest instructor.”
“’Kay. I’m goin’ back to sleep.” He pushed himself off the jamb and shuffled toward the outer door.
Pat motioned at Griffin. “Make sure he can find his way to the lounge.”
Passing students nudged each other as they watched the shoeless guy with a note pinned to his shirt weaving slightly as he crossed the hall.
When Griffin caught up with him, Mann said, “You must be the new guy.”
“Yeah. Been on the job almost five hours.”
Mann nodded wisely. “Pat probably fired the other one. Whatta bum.”
“I wouldn’t know.” Griffin didn’t like being called a bum by a student assistant.
Mann sat down on the couch and tilted to one side, unconscious.
Griffin figured Pat would be checking on his pet, so he picked Mann’s feet up and arranged him lengthwise on the couch. When he turned around, he found Anna Gibson standing in the doorway. The expression on her face was a mixture of soft surprise and interest.
She said, “You didn’t strike me as the compassionate type.”
He looked back at Mann and shrugged. “I was just making sure he didn’t hurt his back; I don’t want to have to do his work and mine too.”
She cocked her head to one side, frankly appraising him. “Mm-hmm.”
Her steady gaze, a study in innocence, was unlike anything he’d ever experienced, and it unnerved him slightly. When she refused to speak, he finally said, “If you’re thinking about buying me, I have to tell you that I’m not for sale.”
The spell was broken, and her smile returned. She patted the pockets of her skirt and said, “I’m glad to hear it, because I don’t have anything smaller than a quarter.”
She went back to her desk, and he went to his office and closed the door.
There was a wide expanse of grass and oak trees between Cartwright Hall and the library, and it seemed to attract the coeds who wanted to spend their spare time congregating in the sun. When Griffin finished rearranging his furniture, he only had to swivel his chair to take in the landscape. Denton wasn’t much of a town, but surely there was a store where he could pick up a pair of binoculars.
At three o’clock he decided he’d already put in a full day and walked out to see if anyone else was leaving for the day. Anna was behind her desk; Patterson and another man were standing nearby. When
Griffin approached, Patterson said, “Hugh, this is Mike Epstein. Mike, this is Hugh Griffin . . . newly arrived from Stanford.”
“My pleasure.” Griffin extended his hand. Epstein was medium height and on the lean side; a pair of Buddy Holly glasses and a dark mustache covered the biggest part of his face.
Before Epstein could respond to Griffin, Bill Mann limped through the door; he was carrying a pair of penny loafers in one hand and Patterson’s “Do Not Disturb” note in the other.
“Afternoon, Bill,” said Patterson.
Mann ignored his audience and concentrated on negotiating his way across the uncluttered reception area. As he disappeared into Patterson’s office, he mumbled, “Coffee.”
Griffin’s mouth fell open for the second time that day—a new record. Patterson smiled, and Anna came out of her chair, laughing her infectious laugh. Epstein was noncommittal.
When she recovered, Anna excused herself and left the room, still smiling to herself. Patterson followed Mann into the choice office.
Griffin looked at Epstein; Epstein shrugged. The two trailed Patterson into his office and found their boss behind his desk. Mann was slumped in one of the visitors’ chairs with his belongings in his lap.
Anna came in with the coffee, and when he stood to take it the shoes and sign spilled onto the floor. He nudged the litter aside with his toe and said, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled. “Are you okay?”
“Mmm . . . downright feisty, I guess.” He looked at Patterson. “I miss anything?”
“A couple of introductions. This is Hugh Griffin; he’s fresh out of California.”
Mann shook hands and wrinkled his brow. “Haven’t we met?”
“Once or twice”—Griffin held up two fingers—“but you were running a little behind at the time.”
“Mmm.”
Patterson pointed at the newest man. “And this is Mike Epstein.”
Mann put out his hand. “Super Jew, huh?”
“That’s me,” said Epstein.
“Super Jew?” Patterson didn’t understand.
“Baseball player,” Mann and Epstein answered together.
And If I Die Page 20