She wasn’t exactly sure when it happened, but sometime around the second chorus—when Monica’s voice found a lower, haunting harmony with her own—something changed. As she sang, Gail listened to the resonant sounds, harmonics, and rhythms, and a bad feeling crept like a thief into her mind.
This new world wasn’t hers.
Her song now sounded like a Barbara Jean song.
She leaned into the microphone and kept singing, reassuring herself that the new sound was much better than her own; it was also her big chance.
But it wasn’t her song anymore.
The character and mood of the original feeling- idea had been made into something brighter and easy to find. Fleeting images of her mother’s face and her childhood friend no longer rose out of the chord changes in the second verse. The hard edge of the song had been softened and its outcry had been nuanced. The smoldering sorrow was now almost pretty, and the spirit beyond wonder and beyond love had been lost.
Gail stopped singing, closed her bass case, took the tape out of the player, and walked toward the staircase.
“Where are you going?” asked Barbara Jean, almost angrily.
Gail stopped and looked into her resplendent green eyes and tried to think of something to say. Nothing seemed right. She could not tell what was happening to her. Trying to smile, she felt a wall of tears building up behind her eyes and she walked up the stairs, through the kitchen, and outdoors.
Her convertible started on the second try and she drove away.
THE UNIVERSAL ACORN
T
O PREPARE FOR HER SUNDAY SERMON, WINNIE DROVE TO THE Grange Public Library. The little brick building often exerted a calming influence over her; it possessed an almost monastic quality,a free from telephone calls, the smell of food, and visitors. On occafree from telephone calls, the smell of food, and visitors. On occasion, it also served as a place of meditation and prayer.
Inside, she sat at the large, spartan desk in the reading room, surrounded by her favorite books of biblical annotation and reference, and wrote notes on a legal pad. Except for Leslie Weedle, the librarian, and Maxine Smith, a volunteer, the building was as deserted and as still as old age. The late-afternoon sun drove through the windows, illuminating shafts of paper motes and creating a bright, pleasant pattern on the worn wooden floor.
By 8:30 p.m. Winnie had outlined a sermon based on passages in Revelation—passages of dreamlike imagery, illuminating the paths that Spirit often rode through the mind. She closed her notebook, shut her eyes, and entered deeply into a private thought just before Maxine placed her hand on her shoulder in an unexpectedly friendly manner and told her in a practiced, lowered voice that the library would be closing soon.
Winnie collected her things and went to her yellow car.
The damp evening air chilled her to the bone, and she was famished. It seemed an eternity before the heater began pouring warmth onto her feet. She took a shortcut past the cemetery on the hill, driving faster than normal. Then she noticed the long drive heading back into the dark woods, stopped, backed up, and drove down it.
Jacob opened the door, wearing a gray sweatshirt and dark green sweatpants, his feet bare, his hair wet and uncombed. He was clearly surprised to see her, and during his halting greeting Winnie decided he had forgotten her name.
“I hope I’m not bothering you,” she said. “Perhaps you don’t remember me. I’m Winifred Smith.”
Jacob looked beyond her to the car. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, nothing’s wrong. I was on my way home from the library and wanted to stop and apologize for several days ago. I behaved unconscionably and I ask your forgiveness.”
“Come in,” said Jacob, swinging the door open.
“I can’t stay,” she said, but stepped inside and stood on a small oval woven mat.
Jacob closed the door.
Winnie felt the warm, humid air surrounding her in such a sudden, ambient embrace that she wondered how anyone could afford to have the heat turned up so high. It seemed like bad stewardship, wasteful, irresponsible, and self-indulgent. It also felt wonderful. The woody interior of the house and the smell of burning wood made it seem as though she had just stepped inside a roasting chestnut.
“You’d better take off your coat,” said Jacob. “I’m afraid I forgot to close the door on the stove before I took a shower and, well, it’s pretty warm in here.”
“I can’t stay,” said Winnie. “I just wanted to apologize.”
“What for?”
“I was angry with you. I don’t know why. Well, I do know why but I know I shouldn’t have felt that way. It was small-minded of me. And when I said that eating meat wasn’t the point, well, it was very much the point—or at least a contributing factor—and I guess I wanted to look the other way so I could remain on my tiny blessed island of self-delusion. So I snapped at you and I’m sorry. I just wanted you to know that I’ve thought a lot about it and will never again eat meat, at least not meat from cattle. And I’m sorry.”
“You were upset, and understandably so. Take off your coat and sit down. I’ll make some tea.”
“You forgot my name.”
“I didn’t know whether to call you Winnie, Winifred, or Reverend, but I didn’t forget.”
“It’s no matter. My, is it ever warm in here!”
“Here, let me take your coat. Sit down.”
“It’s late and I think I’ve said all I need to. I really can’t stay.”
She watched him put her coat in the closet, noticing his bare feet, again.
“How about a cup of tea?”
“I don’t drink anything with caffeine.”
“Then I have the just right kind. Are you hungry?”
“No,” she said and scowled because it was untrue.
“You haven’t eaten,” said Jacob, as though he had momentarily peered into her mind. “Let me get you something. I was just about to eat myself. I have soup, made yesterday. It’s ready.”
“Listen, Mr. Helm,” began Winnie.
“Call me Jacob. Besides, you fed me a couple days ago.”
“I’m afraid Violet brought most of the food. She’s both a cooking expert and a cooking machine.”
Winnie followed him into the kitchen, and with surprising efficiency, for a man, he set out a meal of soup, salad, bread, and cheese on the table next to the computer. “Here, sit down,” he said, seating her and returning to the refrigerator for salad dressing. “I apologize for the computer. I don’t have another place to put it. Do you take cream or sugar with tea?”
“No thank you. Is this squash soup?”
“I’m afraid so—you don’t like it?”
“Yes, very much. I haven’t had squash soup for many years and the smell is laden with pleasant memories.”
“I hope it won’t be too spicy for you.”
“That would be impossible,” said Winnie.
“Will you ask a blessing before we eat?” asked Jacob, seating himself across from her.
She looked at him suspiciously, but he had already closed his eyes and lowered his head.
“Precious Lord, we ask that it may please You to bless this food to our bodies so our lives may be in the service of Your Kingdom. Amen.”
“Amen,” said Jacob.
Winnie tasted the soup, then set the spoon down and frowned.
“You don’t like it?” asked Jacob.
“Excuse me, Mr. Helm, but I was under the impression that you were not a believer and I don’t understand why you would say ‘amen’ to something you could not in all honesty affirm. I suppose you are just trying in your own way to be nice but there is something terribly offensive in pretending something you do not believe—as though it were an empty formality.”
“I apologize if I offended you,” said Jacob. “It’s not exactly true that I do not believe in God, but it always seems more truthful to deny it rather than allow someone to think I agree with whatever their religious position might be.”
“I don’t have a ‘position,’ ” said Winnie.
“Then I apologize again,” said Jacob. “I’m afraid talking about these things makes me uncomfortable. I only wanted to affirm your request.”
“For whom?”
“For you.”
“By saying ‘amen,’ Mr. Helm, you gave the impression you had committed yourself to the service of the Kingdom as well.”
Jacob put down his own spoon. “I don’t know you well enough to understand what you mean by that, Winifred. I have only a vague notion, so the best I can do is give my consent to your own wishes—for yourself—whatever they are.”
“In that case I accept your apology,” said Winnie and resumed eating. “I’m overly sensitive about being mocked. It’s a weakness of mine, I’m afraid. This soup is quite good. It so much reminds me of my mother. She made this every fall. What joy those memories of her bring to me.”
“I have something I’d like to ask of you,” said Jacob.
“What?”
“Perhaps we can talk about it after we’ve finished.”
“I really must not stay long. Do you always keep your house this warm?”
“I told you, it was an oversight. Should I open the door?”
“No. It feels so good to be warm. I’m not used to it.”
“I suppose you have many people who talk to you about personal things,” said Jacob.
“It’s not unusual,” said Winnie. “It’s my ‘position.’ ”
Jacob laughed.
When they had finished eating, he carried their remaining tea into the living room and Winnie seated herself on the edge of the straight-backed chair nearest the door, pulling aside her long hair to avoid sitting on it. Once again, she noticed his bare feet.
“Here,” Jacob said and handed her a framed picture of a young woman wearing white shorts and standing in a garden.
“That’s Angela,” he said. “I mean that
was
Angela. We were married for about five years and she died of pancreatic cancer a while ago—quite a while ago, actually.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Winnie, feeling the same confusion she always felt when she was given a photograph of a stranger. Was it expected that a human connection could be achieved through the picture alone? It seemed so self-evident that nothing important could be communicated in this way, when all the living parts were missing. Better to show a button from a dress, share a memory, a grocery list—anything but a picture. Pictures were for people to whom the frozen physical outline had some resemblance. Pictures of pure strangers evoked stereotypes. It was a desperate act, like prying a faded photo out of a wallet on the eve of battle and showing it to someone next to you. It made her sad.
So instead of seeing what Jacob hoped for her to see in the picture—his own perceptions of his beloved former wife—what Winnie saw was a pair of shorts that were in her opinion too short for any woman to wear outdoors, too white to be worn in a garden, and too tight for someone in need of some exercise. And from these impressions she attempted to understand how deeply Jacob had felt about his wife. It was maddening.
“I didn’t know you had lost your wife,” she said, handing the picture back.
“How could you?” said Jacob. “Have you ever lost someone you really loved?”
“I’m familiar with grief, if that’s what you mean,” said Winnie. “Would you like to tell me about her?”
“Yes, but I’m not going to. Anyway, I was wondering if you might
pray for me—I mean if you could. I can’t stop mourning. I can’t seem to quit. It’s gone on too long. Way too long. It was understandable in the beginning, but this has gotten out of hand. I have a gaping absence in my center. It isn’t leaving enough of me. I’m surrounded by loneliness and this grieving simply must end.”
“I don’t know if I can pray for that,” said Winnie. “It’s not right to stop grieving until you’re all done. Grief has its own rules and they must be followed.”
“Then pray I finish soon,” said Jacob.
“Very well,” said Winnie. “That’s what most prayers are for—speed.” She tossed her head, closed her eyes, folded her hands together, straightened her back, and said, “Dearest Heavenly Mother and Father, hear our prayer. We thank You for all You have given us, especially Your Son and Light of Our Life, and we commit into Your Care the soul of Mr. Helm, trusting You will accomplish Your Work in him swiftly. Amen.”
When Winnie opened her eyes she discovered Jacob staring into them. She worried that perhaps he had been looking at her for some time and her earlier fear of being mocked returned.
“Thank you,” said Jacob.
“You’re welcome.”
“Do you think anyone has ever understood why some people, good people, die so young?”
“Probably not,” said Winnie. “Sometimes it’s best not to ask why. We must accept things as they are.”
“You don’t,” said Jacob, remembering the park.
“I try as hard as I can.”
“Shouldn’t we strive to change the world, to make it better?”
“Yes and no.”
“Doesn’t history teach us that real progress only comes through struggle?”
Winnie’s expression darkened. She looked at the floor and remained silent. Jacob pursued her. “I can tell you would like to say something.”
“I’d better not.”
“What is it?”
“I should be going.”
“Say it.”
“I hope this won’t make you think less of me, Mr. Helm, but I don’t think ‘progress’ or ‘history’ really exist. They’re made up. People imagine them to flatter themselves. We live in an eternal present, as does every other living thing. It changes yet doesn’t change. We can no more understand the past than we can fly. The idea of progress and history is a product of pure cultural arrogance.”
“What a wonderful thought!” said Jacob with a surprised, spreading smile. “Do you honestly think that?”
“I do, but I don’t expect you to understand it. So many of my thoughts are nearly incomprehensible, especially to me. But that’s something else I must accept. There really is no place for me—no place in this world I belong. And I don’t expect that to change.”
“I know the feeling,” said Jacob.