by Dan Walsh
The priest’s face broke into a wide grin. “Just messing with you, Rick.” They shook hands. “I am a bishop, and some people in the church do call me things like that. But I hate it when they do. Your dad helped me get free of that stuff. You can call me what he calls me . . . Charlie.”
“Actually, Art’s not my dad.” He didn’t see how he could ever call this man Charlie. Except for the smile, he really did look like a Right Reverend.
“Your stepfather, then?”
“Yes, sir.”
Father Charlie stood up straight. “Know when he’ll be back?”
“Guess you haven’t heard. Art’s in the hospital. He’s on his way to Shands right now, in Gainesville.”
“Oh no,” Father Charlie said.
Rick filled him in over the next few minutes, carefully choosing his words. The priest’s face shifted through ever-increasing measures of concern. When Rick finished, he simply said, “My, my.”
“The surgery is supposed to be tomorrow morning,” Rick said.
“I need to check my schedule, see how soon I can get over there.”
If Rick could get past the way the man looked, he seemed almost like a normal person. “Were you and my stepfather close?” It felt strange to Rick, calling Art that.
The priest leaned over the counter. “Not as close as I’d like to be, but I consider him a good friend. My job makes it hard sometimes. I have to see so many people it can be challenging to carve out enough time for deep friendships. But when we do get time together, I can always be myself. You have no idea what a gift that is.”
He walked over to a short rack of greeting cards and slowly spun it around. “When I first came in here—must have been three years ago, around Christmastime then too—I was pretty uptight. See, even that . . . I would have never said uptight back then. That’s Art. I had just been made a bishop, which made my life even more complicated. People already treated me like some untouchable holy man. Once they made me a bishop, even some of my fellow clergymen treated me the same. But not Art.”
Rick started feeling uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was heading.
“Art didn’t seem the least unsettled by me. I liked him right away. He invited me over to the couch back there, fixed me a cup of coffee. Fixed himself one and sat right next to me. Just started asking me questions. He didn’t want anything from me, didn’t want me to answer any deep theological questions. He just wanted to get to know me. See how I was doing. Pretty soon, I was telling him about the struggles I’d been having, things I’d only felt free to say to Alice. That’s my wife.”
Rick nodded. Then thought, You have a wife? His confusion must have been obvious.
“I’m not Catholic, if you’re wondering,” Father Charlie said. “Only Catholic priests aren’t allowed to get married. Anyway, I was telling Art how lonely and isolated I felt, always having to act this certain way around people, trying to figure out everyone’s expectations, trying to live up to them. All the while, knowing deep inside, I couldn’t do it. Nothing I tried ever seemed enough. And some people seemed to make it their aim to keep reminding me of that. Know what Art said?”
“No,” Rick said with one eye on the bishop and the other on that little brass bell, hoping it would ring at any moment.
“Art said, ‘What do people call you?’ So I told him all the high-sounding religious titles I get in an average week. Then Art says, ‘What would you like me to call you when you’re in here?’ And I said that, before all this, I used to be just Charlie. It’s what my wife calls me when we’re alone. From then on, Art started calling me Charlie. And he said, ‘You know, Charlie, that’s what Jesus calls you. You don’t have to be anyone else with him than who you really are.’ It was a wonderful thing.”
Rick saw Father Charlie’s eyes start to well up with tears. Father Charlie pulled a white handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped them away.
“After that, I started coming in here every chance I’d get. A few months later in the spring, we were talking and Art said, ‘Charlie, you like fishing?’ I hadn’t been fishing since before college. So he said, let’s go out together, he knew some great spots. And so we did. There’s just something special about being out there in the morning. So quiet. The trees, the stillness of the water, all the different birds, the fresh air. It’s just hard not to be at peace. But I remember this one time . . .”
Rick tried to stop himself from thrumming his fingers on the counter. He felt like he should be in a confessional. Why did people feel like they could bare their souls to him in here? It was a bookstore, for crying out loud.
“I was at a real low point, almost ready to leave the ministry. I’d just had it up to here with people,” he said. “People and all their problems. Always coming to me, as if I should instantly know what they need to make everything right. I mean, life is hard for ministers too. I need God just like they do. But by then I’d seen something different in Art . . . and Leanne too. People come in here all the time, from all different denominations and branches of the faith. I’d seen them open up to Art and Leanne, telling them all their problems.”
You mean like you’re doing right now, Rick thought.
“But people unloading their problems never seemed to bother them the way it did me. So out there fishing one morning, I asked Art about it, told him how I felt. You know what he said? He said, ‘Charlie, how would you treat people if you knew you didn’t have to fix them? If you knew that was God’s job, and all he was asking of you was show them his love, maybe tell them some things he wanted them to know?’”
As Father Charlie said this, he looked up at the ceiling. Then he turned and looked right at Rick. “That conversation changed my life, Rick. We’ve been out fishing a number of times since then.” He looked away, choking up again. “Lord, I hope he’s all right. Poor Leanne must be worried sick.”
“I think she is,” Rick said. “I was just talking to her before you walked in. She’s trying to be strong, but I can tell, she’s really worried.”
Father Charlie took a deep breath, composed himself. He picked out a card from the rack. “This one will do. But I’m not going to mail it, I’m going to take it over there myself. I’m going back to my office right now to free up some time. You wouldn’t happen to know a number where I can reach your mom, would you?”
“I’ve got a number right here, Father. She just gave it to me.” Rick wrote it on a slip of paper and handed it to him.
“Thanks, Rick, and please, you’re family. Just call me Charlie.” His big smile returned.
“Okay . . . Charlie.” It didn’t feel right at all.
Father Charlie set the card down by the register. It seemed to Rick like he was about to unload more of his heart. But then the little bell rang. A young mother was wrestling a stroller through the doorway. Her presence insured his visit with Father Charlie was at an end.
Saved by the bell.
28
Rick paid particular attention to his new little bell, especially after 2:30. Each time it rang, his heart rose and fell when Andrea didn’t come through the door. It was now almost 3:30. She was much later than usual.
Good grief, what difference did it make when she got here? But if he didn’t care, why did he keep staring at the door?
She’s not right for you.
What are you thinking, are you nuts?
She’s not like anyone you’ve ever gone out with.
She’s beautiful, but thousands of women are beautiful.
She’s not the casual dating kind; she’d want a serious relationship.
She goes to church because she likes to—and she has a kid.
Did you catch that . . . she has a kid.
You know what that means.
He did know.
If he got involved with Andrea, there was only one place the relationship could go. She was the marrying kind. She wouldn’t get into a relationship with a man for anything less. He was certain of it. And that meant he’d have t
o become a stepfather someday to little Amy. Like Art was to him. He’d be the strange man coming in between a mother and her child. The unwanted intruder. The man she’d reject one day and grow up despising.
But he felt a strange reaction inside to these thoughts. Did he despise Art? Really despise him? Maybe a long time ago, but did he still? Art was a lousy businessman; Rick found that irritating. He thought back to the days when he did despise Art. What had Art really done to deserve his contempt?
He thought about this a good long while.
All he could come up with were a number of memories of Art trying to reach out to him, trying to create some kind of father-son bond. If Art was guilty of anything, it was of being too nice and trying too hard to win Rick over, and that he’d kept trying long after Rick had completely rejected him. Art had been guilty of not being Rick’s real father. For Rick, it had been a capital offense.
He remembered a handful of times in high school when he’d gotten into trouble. There was Art, reaching out to him again. He’d start up these conversations about God, talking about the youth group down at their church and how much fun they had. About the third time this happened, Rick had said, “Quit trying to cram your religion down my throat!” He didn’t know where he’d heard that. Probably on television. Seemed like an effective thing to say. And it worked. Art had stopped doing that too.
The bell rang. He looked up and smiled. It was Andrea, and right behind her Amy . . . the kid.
“Sorry I’m late,” Andrea said.
“Hi, Mr. Rick,” Amy said. She ran past her mom and past him down the aisle, carrying her doll in one hand, her handmade Christmas catalog in the other.
Rick looked at his watch then at Andrea. “Boy, you are late.” He tried to act surprised.
She walked over to the counter, set her purse down behind it. “Amy’s sitter called just as I was leaving the diner, said her daughter was home sick and she didn’t want Amy to catch it. I had to pick Amy up at school, then tried getting her another sitter for almost an hour. I’m sorry I had to bring her. I had no other choice.” She looked upset.
Rick walked over, stood on the other side. “It’s okay, Andrea. Really. You can bring her here every day after school if you want. I don’t mind.” Had he really said that? Then he went further. “I like Amy.” He really did like her. But that’s not why he said it. He was trying to make an impression on Andrea. He had to stop this.
“Thanks, Rick. That’s very kind.” She took a deep breath, like she was trying to calm down. “Your mom and Art offered the same thing, quite a few times. But Amy really likes going to her friend’s house after school. And I like her to go. She gets to do little girl things over there. Here she mostly just has to behave.”
“You still seem a little upset. Anything wrong?”
She looked away then reached for a tissue under the counter. “I’m worried sick about Art. Have you heard anything?”
“No. But they should be at Shands by now. I’m sure if anything went wrong, she’d have called. I’ve been going on no-news-is-good-news all day.”
Andrea dabbed her eyes. “I’m sure you’re right. Hope you are. One of my regular customers could tell I was off today. A few minutes later, he’s telling me his uncle had an aneurysm and died from a second bleed a week later.”
“What an idiot.”
“Well, I guess it’s just what happened.”
“Maybe so, but that’s not something you say to somebody who’s worried sick.”
“No, it’s not.” She looked like she could use a hug. “Isn’t the surgery tomorrow morning?”
“That’s what Mom said. But Andrea, Art’s in the best of hands. She said the whole reason his doctor wanted him there was because this guy’s the best surgeon in the southeast.”
“I know.”
The Christmas music stopped. “I’ll get that.” He walked toward the back. He put the cassette marked #2 in the player. It began with “Silent Night.” Might help calm her down.
“Mr. Rick, look, I’m almost done.”
He walked over and sat on the couch next to Amy. “Let me see. Wow, look how thick it is.” He wanted to say something about her doll but couldn’t remember its name.
“Annabelle’s been very patient,” Amy said. “I told her she couldn’t look at it until it was ready. I only have a few more pictures to paste.” She leaned over and whispered so her doll couldn’t hear. “I couldn’t finish it ’cause I left the Penney’s catalog here last time. Then my mom kept forgetting to bring it home.”
“Is your mom always forgetting things?”
“No, not always. But she’s been real worried lately.”
“You’re a good little girl.” Such a cliché thing to say. “She must be worried about Art’s surgery.”
“That and one more thing, I think.”
“Really, what else?”
She leaned over and whispered again. “She didn’t really tell me, but I heard her praying last night in her bedroom. I came in to ask for a drink. She was telling God she needed more money but didn’t know where to get it.”
“More money?”
“She said she’s afraid she’ll have to get a third job at night, but she didn’t want to leave me any more than she already does.” She sat back and pulled Annabelle close. “I don’t want her to leave me any more, either.”
Rick looked down at her catalog lying open on the coffee table. The left page was blank, awaiting, he supposed, the final two cutouts from the Penney’s catalog. But on the right page Amy had pasted an ad for Disney World, and above it, she’d written “Mommy.” “What’s this one?” he asked.
Amy leaned toward him again and whispered. “That’s what Annabelle wants to get Mommy for Christmas.”
“Your mom wants to go to Disney World?”
Amy nodded.
“How does Annabelle know?”
“We asked her. Last week. I said, ‘What do you want for Christmas?’ And she said she didn’t want anything. I said, everybody wants something for Christmas. I asked her to just pretend. If she could have anything she wanted, what would it be?” She pointed to the Disney World ad and whispered, “She wants to go to Disney World and go on nothing but E-ticket rides the whole time.”
Just then Andrea came walking toward them. Amy closed her catalog. “Okay, you two,” Andrea said, “no fair telling secrets.”
“I was just asking Amy what you wanted for Christmas,” Rick said.
“Rick, you better not get me anything for Christmas.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t even know where I’m getting Christmas money for—” She paused. “Let’s just don’t, okay?”
“Fair enough. But how about you let me take you and Amy out for dinner after we close up here? You’ve had a rough day. I’m sure you don’t want to go home and have to cook after this.”
“Can we, Mom?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Please, Mom.”
“C’mon, Andrea. It would be great for me too. Not having to eat alone again.”
She thought about it a moment. The little brass bell rang. “I better go up front.” She turned and walked away.
Rick quickly followed and stopped her halfway down the aisle. “Don’t think of it as a date, Andrea,” he said quietly. “Just a meal between friends.”
“I . . . I don’t think so, Rick. Maybe another time.” She seemed to force a smile then walked toward the counter.
Rick stood there confused. Almost stunned.
He hadn’t even considered the possibility of being turned down.
“Put your seat belt on,” Andrea said, instantly regretting her edgy tone. She turned on the car.
“Why didn’t you say yes to Mr. Rick?” Amy asked. “We haven’t been out to eat . . . forever.”
“I know that,” she snapped. She pulled the car onto the street. She didn’t look over but could almost feel Amy wilting beside her. “I’m sorry.”
Amy sat up and turne
d around. “Then it’s not too late. There he is now, just locking up the store. We can still turn around.”
“No, Amy, we can’t. I didn’t apologize for saying no to Mr. Rick. I apologized for the way I talked to you.”
Amy plopped back down in her seat. “So why did you?”
“Why did I what?”
“Why did you say no?”
One day Andrea hoped she and Amy could talk like friends, but they were nowhere close to that now. “It’s just hard to explain. I didn’t want to give him the wrong . . .”
“You didn’t want him to think you like him?”
Is she already able to catch things like this? “In a way, yes.”
“But don’t you like Mr. Rick?”
“I do but—”
“So why not say yes?”
Andrea looked at her, the edginess subsiding. She tried to read her eyes. She could tell that Amy really was too young to grasp the situation. She couldn’t think of any collection of words that would help her understand.
Or, for that matter, any words that would help her with her own feelings right now.
29
A wasted moon.
Far too beautiful to be viewing alone.
It had begun to rise above the horizon two hours ago, all of its light perfectly contained within the borders of a glowing orange sphere. Except for a shimmering golden path that rolled out across the sea to the water’s edge. It was mesmerizing. He could see the outline of every crater on the lunar surface.
Rick was sitting on a sand dune three blocks down the beach from the Howard Johnson’s. His bare feet felt cool in the soft white sand. A night breeze rustled across the dunes, swishing through the sea oats like the wind through a field of wheat. The calming influence was aided by tiny waves that lapped against the shore.
A fried clam dinner from HoJo’s sat heavy in his stomach—the third clam dinner he’d eaten this week. If Andrea had agreed to join him for dinner, he’d have taken them someplace nice. Maybe the new steakhouse out by the highway or Abe’s Crab Shack right on the water down by the inlet.