Almost Heaven (33 page)

And to this end, Callie abruptly and with many tears broke off the engagement. Billy, beside himself with worry, pursued her, not as a child weeping for his mother, but as one who does not understand. She would not be dissuaded from her contention that something was holding them back. She suggested Billy meet with a counselor and gave him the name of a man who worked with her own counselor.

Billy approached him, and on the week of their first meeting, Billy's station began running a commercial about the man's marriage and family practice. Indeed, if one were to simply listen to the station's spot load, they would be able to tell much about the life of the proprietor.

I spent much time watching them both, at times following Callie home, other times accompanying her on her route. I had the sense that somehow the enemy had confounded her. But after she returned to work, she was just as productive and her devotion to her church knew no limits. Her sessions with her counselor were filled with tears and frank conversation. But this forward movement seemed to steel her, as if she were digging a sure foundation rather than rushing the construction of their lives. Perhaps it was coincidence, perhaps it was providence, but my seeming rest with the incongruities of Billy's past yielded a stirring in Callie's heart that equally sought answers.

There were tears in the night and anguish. There were sweat-producing nightmares and dark times, which I assumed were from the experiences in Kentucky. And then, on a cloudy morning in late spring, when the earth was full of new life and almost ready to burst, she drove to the counselor's office and sat in the parking lot writing a note. She dropped it in the slot on the man's door and drove away. Billy would arrive an hour later.

I have heard the stories of the Almighty working on people, changing them drastically, moving in hearts and melting the hardness and anger and bitterness and dross away. I was not prepared for what I was about to witness.

25

“She won't tell me what's wrong,” I said to my counselor. This was another counselor at the same place Callie went every week. “She talks to me, but when I try to get close, there's something between us. I feel we were made for each other in a lot of ways. That we were cut from the same cloth.”

“And that took you a while to figure out,” he said.

“Yes, sir, it did. I can't believe I was blind to it for so long. I want more than anything for us to be together, but she won't tell me what I need to do to make that happen.”

“Maybe it's not about her,” the counselor said.

“What do you mean?”

“From what I can tell, she's making progress in her therapy. It's important for her long-term health to heal from the wounds inside, what drove her to look for someone to fill what was missing. But she's dealing with those ghosts and putting them to rest.”

“How would you know she's making progress?”

“A conversation or two we had. She's interested in the process we're going through here, Billy. She really loves you. She wants this to work out as much as you do. Maybe more.”

“I thought what we talked about was supposed to be between you and me. You said it was confidential.”

“It is. I've never discussed anything you've said here. But I find it helpful to get other insights on your life when possible. And it hasn't been anything I scheduled. I just saw her in the waiting room one day and another day she stopped by the office to talk. She says glowing things about you. I wish I lived closer to Dogwood so I could hear your station.”

My cheeks were always kind of red anytime I walked into that office. Being with a counselor was the last thing I thought would ever happen to me. But there was a measure of comfort in sharing some of the things I'd locked up inside. Family stuff. The flood. Some of the heartache.

“If she loves me so much, why won't she marry me? Is it my hygiene?”

He smiled. “I believe she wants to marry you. She's committed to you. But she thinks there are some old wounds of yours that may not have been dealt with. That need to heal before the two of you can become one.”

“And you agree with her.”

“I think every person on earth has baggage they're carrying around that would be better left at the side of the road. The problem is, we don't leave it behind; we carry it.”

“I've told you everything I can think of. The flood, the death of my father, my mother, my brother—I could go into more detail if you want, but—”

He held up a hand. “No, you've been very forthright with me and I appreciate it. Your openness and candor speak well of you. I don't think it's that you're afraid to deal with some things in the past; it's more a question of whether or not you see them as important. As shaping you.”

“I'm a simple man,” I said. “I live one day to the next and take whatever I'm given and praise the Lord for it. I try not to look back because if you look back, the row you're plowing gets crooked. I don't know what shaping and all this stuff about the past have to do with getting married.”

He leaned back, picking up a card from his desk. “I found this on the floor of my office this morning. It's a note from Callie.”

“What's it say?”

He handed it to me. It was Callie's writing on a thank-you note that I had gotten her from Walmart right after she came home and people started bringing food and whatnot. Her writing had changed from the diary and was now a kind of elegant scratching.

Dear Dr. Maynard,

I think there is something about a pastor Billy once knew that has affected him. I'm just starting to put it together. Ask him about Vernon Turley. I think something happened with him but I don't know what.

Sincerely,

Callie Reynolds

I handed the card back to him. My cheeks were on fire and it felt like the air had been sucked out of the room, like the canary was teetering in the cage at the bottom of the mine.

“What is it, Billy?” he said. “What are you thinking?”

I shook my head. “I don't know.”

“Not a good answer. Tell me what you're feeling.”

“Trapped.”

“Okay. Why do you feel trapped?”

“I don't know.” I wrung my hands. “Why couldn't she just say that to my face?”

“Would you have talked about it with her?”

“I don't know. Maybe. I guess I just don't like other people messing with what we're trying to do. There's something not right about it.”

“You're worried about what's right? But the person trying to influence this is Callie. The woman you say you love.”

“What do you mean, ‘say you love'? I do love her. She's the one who doesn't love me.”

“I don't think that's true. Sometimes the people who love us have to say hard things. Get us to talk about what's holding us back. They can see the truth because they're not as close to it as we are.”

I took in a short breath and stared at the floor. There was a spot on the carpet where the installers hadn't fixed a seam properly.

“If she were here right now, asking you what happened, what would you tell her about this pastor?” the counselor said. “Was he a mentor to you?”

I nodded. “He took an interest in me. And he let me be part of his music group.”

“What did you do with the group?”

“We rode around and played in churches. County fairs and anybody that would invite us.”

“You played the mandolin.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And from what I hear, you were pretty good.”

“I tried hard.”

“Now, you traveled with this group and played your music, but at some point you put that aside. You even sold the mandolin your father gave you.”

“I was running low on money and I needed something for the station.”

“But don't you think it was a little drastic to sell the very instrument you had perfected?”

“Nobody perfects the mandolin. There's always mystery to it. Always more to learn and more to get out of it.”

“Which makes it hard for me to understand why you would sell it, particularly if it had sentimental value.”

I stood up and moved to the window, my hands deep in my pockets. There was something building down inside, bubbling up. I could feel it like pressure against a dam, the black water growing and rising to the top. “I don't see what this has to do with anything. I sold a mandolin. It's not the end of the world.”

“Billy, you said that Callie wouldn't tell you what you needed to do in order for you two to get married. Is that right?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if telling me about this event or series of events with this mentor would help you, why wouldn't you want to discuss it? If you knew it could lead to getting together, would you talk about it then?”

I glanced back at him and the look on my face must have given away something. “Is that what love really is? Dragging the past up before you like roadkill? If it is, I don't want anything to do with it.”

I turned to the window again. It was one of those West Virginia days with the mist and foggy dew mixing together. Usually it would burn off by now, but the calm wind and the humidity made it hang over the roadway like a ghost. I stood there awhile, swaying a little, getting up the nerve. He sure wasn't in a hurry. He just sat and watched me.

“I don't remember a whole lot of it. It was a long time ago.”

“Why don't you tell me what you do remember?”

A car passed along the road and I watched it round the curve and disappear.

Finally he said, “What are you thinking, Billy?”

I just let that hang there as the clock ticked. “I didn't expect this to be easy, but I didn't expect it to be this hard, either.”

“What's hard about it?”

“Remembering. Going back through old stuff. Aren't we supposed to press on toward the mark of the high calling? Aren't we supposed to leave the past behind? You can't drive looking in the rearview mirror.”

“True, you shouldn't focus your whole life on history, but if you're dragging a ball and chain, stopping and cutting it off will give you a measure of freedom you've probably never felt. If you don't do it, at some point you'll have to amputate the leg. Or just stop altogether.”

I crossed my arms and leaned back against the window frame. He leaned forward with his hands folded in front of him. His voice was soft but firm.

“There's freedom here, Billy. I know it doesn't feel like that right now, but it's available. You don't have to walk around with the weight you have pressing you down. But you have to want freedom. You have to want to be done with the ball and chain.”

“It hurts,” I said, some emotion there and surprising me. It always caught me off guard. “I thought you were supposed to make me feel better. Talking about it doesn't feel good at all.”

He shook his head. “I'm sure it does hurt, and I'm sorry for that pain. But pain is sometimes a gift. And my job is not to make you feel better. In fact, part of why I'm here is not to make you feel good or bad, but to help you
feel
.”

“You don't think I feel anything?”

“When you talk about the painful things that happened with your parents—like finding your father in bed that day or what happened with your mother—it almost sounds like it's happening to somebody else. The only time I've seen you weep is when you talked about Rogers.”

“You think it's bad to care for an animal?”

“Not at all. But when you have trouble feeling something deep down for the people in your life, it shows me there is something going on inside. Something ‘out of whack,' as you say.”

I didn't respond, but I could see the sense in what he was telling me. I'd always thought that counselors like this were just in it for the money, but there was something about his demeanor that showed me he really cared.

“Let me put it this way,” he continued. “I don't play a musical instrument. I tried when I was young and failed miserably. But my wife plays the piano. And she's pretty good. She says there are two ways to play. One way is that you look at the notes and press your hands down at the right time and you go from beginning to end and try not to make any mistakes. You can get pretty good playing that way. But the other way makes the player part of the music. He's present with all of the others, the strings and the woodwinds and the percussion. Or he might just be playing with a singer. Doesn't matter. She says music really happens when the notes become part of you and you express them not just by following them on a line, but playing them from someplace deep inside. From the heart. Does that make sense?”

I nodded.

“The feeling you have deep inside you is not your enemy. It helps tap into what's real. That's what Callie is calling you to. Not a cheap imitation, but all that Billy Allman can be.”

“Are you saying that everything I've done with my life doesn't count for anything because I've been playing from sheet music?”