Courting Mr. Emerson

by Melody Carlson

  He sighed and shook his head again. The truth was he’d actually hoped that he was dying. He’d wanted the doctor to say something like “I’m sorry, you’ve got six months to a year left, George.” And then George had intended to live differently. Oh, he hadn’t known exactly what he’d do or how he’d do it, but he’d make some big changes. Maybe he’d volunteer at the soup kitchen or send money to feed orphans in Africa or even join the local square dancing club. But now that he had this obnoxious “clean bill of health” George had seriously considered taking up activities like smoking and drinking and recreational drugs. Maybe he’d get a motorcycle—and a tattoo. Or try skydiving.

  George knew, of course, that he wouldn’t do any of those things. The problem was he didn’t know what to do anymore. Nothing brought him any pleasure. Nothing motivated him. Nothing appeared worth living for. And the truth was, he didn’t even have anything worth dying for. Maybe he was simply a lost cause.

  “Can I give you some advice, George?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Well, you seem really down to me. And I’m thinking you need someone to talk to—like a professional someone. Pastor Hal has a counseling degree and he’s really pretty good at it. Maybe you should consider giving him a call.” She got up and went over to his telephone table. After checking on her cell phone, she wrote something down on his notepad, then turned to him. “I’m glad to hear you’re not dying, George. But it could be you need to do something to get yourself back on track.”

  “All things are possible.”

  She smiled sheepishly. “Take it from someone who’s been in the pit of despair—you can make a comeback.” Then, to his relief, she let herself out. After he locked the door and pulled the blind down on the side window, he sat back down and pondered her words. Was it possible that George Emerson had sunk so low that he was now taking advice from someone like Josie? He looked around his mess of a living room. Maybe so.

  For the next week, Willow spent long days in the Rockwell house cleaning, planning, and even helping with some of the painting. Although she called George a time or two to give updates, he continued to maintain an off-putting nonchalance about the renovating. But at least, according to Josie, George was not dying. That was something to be thankful for.

  Although George promised to come by to check on the progress, so far he’d not shown his face. Perhaps that was for the best. Willow had no idea how she’d react if George didn’t approve of something already in the works. She knew how persnickety he could be. And she really didn’t like the idea of him showing up while things were torn up and in process, like these last few days when everything was in flux. But by the end of the week, with most of the painting finished and the kitchen nearly in place, she began to hope that he might pop in.

  So it was that on Sunday, with no workers around to get in the way, Willow stopped by the house after church and gave George a call. “I know you appear to have no interest in seeing what’s going on up here, but I’d really appreciate it if you stopped by.”

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  “No. Something is right. The place is really in good shape. And I think you’d enjoy seeing it.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Please, George,” she begged. “I’m doing this for you. The least you could do for me would be to stop by. Just give me fifteen minutes of your time—we’ll walk through it and you can—”

  “Fine,” he said. “I’ll leave straightaway.”

  After she hung up, Willow immediately felt nervous. She walked through room after room, taking an inventory of what had been done, pleased with how light and clean it all looked. The walls were painted in light neutral shades that not only brightened the place but added a depth. Some of the worn woodwork was painted a clean milky white, which set off the recently refinished wood floors that gleamed with warmth and character. And the kitchen—that was the best. The tall Shaker-style cherry cabinets with some glass doors reflected the era of the home but were functional in a modern way. The white marble was classic and clean looking, and the checkerboard floors, with concrete tiles in white and gray, looked both modern and classic. She felt certain George would love it—and she couldn’t wait to show him.

  She hurried to the front of the house, waiting eagerly in the freshly painted foyer, impatient for George to arrive. Spying him coming up the walk, she opened the tall, oversized door wide and smiled brightly. “Welcome,” she said happily.

  George frowned as he came up the walk. “Someone painted the trim,” he said a bit sharply.

  “Yes. Doesn’t it look—”

  “That trim has always been white,” he snapped.

  “Yes, but the white looked so stark. Don’t you think that charcoal gray sets off the red bricks nicely? It’s so classic and brings out the leaded glass—”

  “The white trim was just fine.”

  “But it was dirty and the paint was cracking and—”

  “I could’ve painted it myself. And I would’ve painted it white.” He waved some envelopes at her. “And I assume that’s what these bills are for—”

  “You told me to have them sent to—”

  “These are things I could’ve done myself,” he declared as he stormed through the front door.

  “But you said you didn’t want to—”

  “Oh, no!” He stopped in the foyer with a horrified expression. “No, no, no.”

  “That old dark wallpaper is gone and the woodwork has been re—”

  “This is just terrible.”

  “But it looks lovely, George. So fresh and clean and—”

  “I cannot believe it.” He walked on through to the living room. “Oh, no.” He shook his head. “Oh, no, no, no.”

  Willow began to feel sick inside. “George, you knew what we were doing—”

  “This is horrible. Just horrible.” He continued on through the dining room, muttering complaints about everything. “Everything gone. Everything changed. No, no, no.”

  “I don’t understand,” Willow said meekly. “You wanted the house updated. I told you exactly what we were do—”

  “Oh, no.” George stopped in the kitchen, covering his mouth with his hand. “Did that contractor do this? That Cliff Grant?”

  “Well, yes. Cliff has overseen everything. But he’s just doing what I asked of him. And the cabinets were made by—”

  “It’s all wrong.” He stomped out, mumbling under his breath. Then, after going quickly through the other first-floor rooms, he marched up the stairs, complaining with each step. “Everything’s gone,” he finally said. “Everything is changed. It’s all gone. All wrong. All changed.”

  “But that’s what you wanted,” Willow tried again. “You said you—”

  “You should’ve known I was having a hard time.” He looked at her with tear-filled eyes. “I was in a bad way, Willow. In no position to deal with all this.” He waved a hand toward an empty bedroom. “Everything is gone.”

  “I know, but—”

  “Never mind. I have to go.” And then without giving her a chance to say another word—not that she knew what to say—George ran down the stairs.

  After hearing the front door slam, Willow sat down on the top step and cried. Of course, George was absolutely right. She should’ve recognized that he wasn’t himself. Probably in the midst of some sort of midlife crisis or mental breakdown. She should’ve just backed off . . . given him room to recover. Instead, she’d been a camel’s nose. She’d charged along in her usual bossy way, always ready for a challenge, eager to tackle the world, nothing too hard, nothing too big . . . and now this. She’d spoiled everything.

  twenty-eight

  By Monday morning George was in a bad way again, and he really wanted to talk to someone. Someone beyond a cat. Not that Baxter wasn’t a sympathetic listener or a great comfort. But George needed a fellow human to talk to. That in itself was unusual. But why should he be surprised? Nothing about this summer or his “retirement”
had been usual. That, he knew, was mostly due to Willow. But she was the last person he wanted to talk to right now.

  George paced back and forth in his living room, feeling somewhat like a caged lion—toothless, declawed, and aging, but still full of some sort of pent-up rage that made him feel trapped and slightly frightened. Eventually he noticed a name and phone number by his telephone. He picked up the pad, remembering that Josie had jotted this down. Ironic that he’d take the advice of an unstable woman who’d spent her adult life as a grunge groupie, but just the same, George dialed the number and asked for Pastor Hal. When a friendly male voice answered, George stammered through an explanation of why he’d called, finally saying, “I’m not a part of your congregation, but I’m a friend of the West family. They recommended you as a counselor and—”

  “Let’s meet for coffee,” Pastor Hal said. “How about Common Grounds at ten thirty? Does that work?”

  “Sure,” George agreed. That would give him just enough time to clean himself up and walk over there.

  Just before ten thirty, George stood at the counter of Common Grounds wearing a suit and tie and ordering the “house coffee” as if he were a perfectly normal sort of fellow. At least that was how he hoped he looked. The barista had just served him his coffee when a short, bald man walked in. “Hey, Hal,” the barista called out. “You want your regular?”

  “Thanks.” He grinned. “I’m meeting a guy named George here.”

  George went over to introduce himself and, after a warm, firm handshake, Hal led them to a table in the back. “So tell me about yourself,” Hal said as they sat down. George stammered a bit but explained he was newly retired from teaching and possibly having some adjustment issues. He paused as the barista set down Hal’s coffee, some fancy drink with whipped cream on top. “My wife tells me that this coffee is more like dessert in a cup.” He chuckled, then took a sip that topped his upper lip with a white mustache. He wiped it with a napkin and smiled. “So you’re having a rough summer?”

  George wasn’t sure he’d said that, but since it was true he nodded.

  “And you called a pastor for some counsel?”

  George sighed. “Rather ironic, since I consider myself an atheist.”

  “I think an atheist is simply a seeker who is hoping God will show up.”

  “I heard someone else say something like that.” George wasn’t ready to tell Hal about his relationship with Willow. Especially since he didn’t understand it himself.

  “So are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Hoping that God will show up?”

  George folded and refolded his napkin then looked at Hal. “Do you think God could speak through music—more specifically, through Simon and Garfunkel?”

  Hal grinned. “You bet I do.”

  George felt a bit of relief as he told the pastor about listening to “Bridge Over Troubled Water.” “It’s embarrassing to say, but the song completely unhinged me. I honestly felt like I was having a nervous breakdown, like I’d wake up in a straitjacket or in a padded cell in Crestview.”

  “That’s a wonderful song, George. Every time I hear it, it’s like God is singing directly to me.”

  “You too?” George felt a small wave of relief.

  “It’s a song about being in pain, being alone, being tired and down . . . and then this amazing friend is going to lay himself down for you—like a bridge over a raging river—just so you can get across. To me that’s like Jesus. He laid himself down to get me through all that pain and loneliness . . . to get me safely to the other side.” He took a sip of his frothy coffee with a look of deep contentment. George wasn’t sure if it was from the “dessert in a cup” or from what he’d just said.

  “Do you really believe that?” George studied him closely.

  Hal set down his cup firmly. “You bet I do.”

  George slowly shook his head. “Well, I’ve always been a follower of Ralph Waldo Emerson. At first I thought it was because of the name . . . because my last name is Emerson. But the more I read about Ralph Waldo, the more I identified.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, we have many commonalities. He was a teacher. And he experienced a lot of losses—his father died when he was a boy, his first wife died at the age of twenty, his brother . . .”

  “Have you had a lot of loss?” Hal’s pale gray eyes looked kind.

  George quickly listed his lost loved ones.

  “I’m sorry.” Hal shook his head. “I’m sure that’s taken a toll on you, George.”

  “But that wasn’t all I liked about Emerson,” George said quickly. He didn’t want to talk about his personal pain . . . didn’t want to break down here in public. “I embraced Emerson’s general philosophy. Independence, self-reliance, a literary man in need of no one. A man who shunned religion.” George studied the pastor, curious if he’d offended him, but not particularly concerned if he had.

  “Admittedly, I don’t know a lot about your Emerson, but I have studied him some, and I think he must’ve been a lonely man.” Hal smiled sadly. “I can appreciate how his anti-God rhetoric might’ve been related to the church of his day. I don’t disagree with his opposition to a church that had grown rigid and judgmental and, in my opinion, not particularly Christlike. To be honest, I’m sorry to say there’s too much of that in the church today.”

  George felt his brows arch. “But you’re a pastor of a church.”

  “That’s true. And our church has its problems. But I like to think we are trying . . . that we are being sincere and honest and genuine . . . attempting to live in a Christlike manner even if we stumble a bit.”

  “What do you mean when you say Christlike?”

  “That’s a very good question, George. Not easy to answer, but simply put, I think it means we believe in Jesus and trust him enough to follow him, to imitate his example.”

  “What does that mean? What kind of example? I went to church as a kid, but I found it confusing. Lots of rules and laws—do this, don’t do that. Act like this, not that. Say this, not that. Frankly, it was a relief to let the whole religion thing go.”

  “That’s the problem with religion, George. And the very thing that I’ll bet Emerson rejected. As a matter of fact, I do too. Emerson and I agree that religion basically sucks.”

  “But you’re a pastor.”

  “Just for the record, George, Jesus wasn’t a fan of religion either. The religious leaders of his day were bogged down in it, and they were crippling the people with their laws and restrictions. But Jesus only gave us two rules.”

  “Yes?” George thought this sounded vaguely familiar but couldn’t really remember.

  Hal held up two fingers. “Number one, Jesus said we need to love God with everything we’ve got—heart, soul, mind. And number two, he said to love the folks around us as much as we love ourselves.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Jesus knew we humans need to keep it simple.” Hal sighed. “But he also knew it was humanly impossible to keep those two simple rules—without his help.”

  “I don’t really understand.”

  “It’s kind of like the ‘Bridge Over Troubled Water’ song,” Hal said. “We get weary and lonely and down and sad on our own. We need Jesus to transport us across the raging river.”

  “I think I get the metaphor—but how does Jesus do that on a pragmatic level?”

  “By becoming your friend, George. He’s eager to have a daily friendship with you. But you have to believe in him, you have to agree to his terms. And that’s when everything changes.” Hal smiled.

  George didn’t know what to say, so he just sipped his coffee. This counseling session was not going as he’d imagined. Not that he had much experience with such things. But he’d envisioned this pastor giving him some encouraging words of advice. Sort of like his doctor had done—not that George had followed it.

  “I realize I just threw a lot at you,” Hal said quietly. “But it was only because you asked, Georg
e. I hope I didn’t overwhelm you. I know I made it sound simple—and it really is—but it’s also something that takes a lifetime to fully understand. And maybe not then. The good news is you only have to take these things one day at a time.”

  “Well, you have certainly given me a lot to think about,” George admitted. “Although I must say I’m surprised to hear a clergyman saying some of the things you just said. And yet I find some of it refreshing.” He was still chewing on what Hal had said about relating to Emerson’s views on religion. That was very interesting.

  “I can see that you’re well on your way, George—on your own spiritual journey.” Hal’s eyes lit up. “Please feel free to call me anytime you want to talk. And not just about spiritual things either. I’m interested in lots of topics—everything from soccer to French cuisine to gardening to literature. In fact, you’ve given me the urge to do some research on Ralph Waldo Emerson. I don’t think I’ve read any Emerson since college days.”

  “I have lots of Emerson books if you’re interested.”

  “I most certainly am. And I want you to feel free to come to our Sunday service. I don’t care what your beliefs are—you are welcome. I think you’ll be surprised to see it’s different from what you recall as a child. After talking to you, I’m considering some Simon and Garfunkel music for our next Sunday service.” Hal shook George’s hand, and George thanked him for meeting impromptu like this.

  But as he slowly walked home, George wasn’t sure what to think. Although Hal had given him plenty to consider, George still felt stirred up and unsettled inside. Still, it was encouraging to think he might be on his own spiritual journey. At least that meant he was going somewhere.

  twenty-nine

  Once again, George felt the need to apologize to Willow. How many times would this make for him? Oh, sure, she’d apologized to him as well. But he was usually the one holding his hat in his hands. And after going into fits over his grandparents’ house—after he’d given her complete freedom to do as she pleased—well, he knew he was in the wrong.