Conceived Without Sin (17 page)

"And," Buzz continued, "you want to know about timing."

Sam nodded. "And sex."

Buzz raised his eyebrows. "Hmmn."

"Yeah," Sam agreed.

"Timing first," Sam said finally.

"Timing. You mean like when to ask her?"

"Yeah. Is it too soon? I haven't known her for very long. She's brought it up. Sometimes hints. Sometimes outright. It's like she's just assumed it since we started dating."

"Let's see," Buzz continued, rubbing his chin.
I need more information. Dear Saint Anthony, help me find the right advice.
"Tell me something, first."

"Like what?"

"Like if you love her. Like why you want to get married. Like
what you think marriage is."

"That's a lot," Sam said.

"I've got all night."

"Well, yeah, I guess I love her."

"You
guess
you love her?"

"Look, am I on trial?"

"Hey, Sam, relax. I'm not going to give you advice without doing some background research."

Sam paused. "Sorry, man."

"Forget it. I was being too pushy. Of course you love her. I've seen too many movies. I feel like the dad in every marriage
discussion scene in every movie ever made. 'Do you love her, son? Do you
really
love my Muffy?' Then you say, 'Yes, sir. I love her more than anything in the world, sir.' Then the dad says, 'Just don't hurt her, boy, or I'll kill you.' 'Sir, yes sir, sir!'"

Sam snorted softly, and took a sip of beer.

"Look, Sam, I'm no expert on marriage. I'm an expert on bad marriages…"

"I know you, Buzz. You're
dying to give me the Catholic perspective on things. I'm willing to listen. I'm open. Not to believe. But I know you won't shovel manure on my plate."

"Long version or short version?"

"Short version," Sam replied, businesslike.

"You've got to agree on three things first: kids, money, religion. Religion first. You've got to pray together every day."

Buzz saw Sam's eyebrows rise.

"Relax, Sam. I
know you're going to have trouble praying together, because you don't pray. But not praying hurts your odds. Couples who pray together daily have a one-in-one thousand chance of breaking up."

"You're kidding," Sam said.

"I kid you not. I read it in Reader's Digest. Then I saw it on Mother Angelica–she's a Catholic Billy Graham with her own cable television network. Doesn't matter what religion,
either. Jew, Catholic, Muslim. There was a big study. And get this: couples who didn't pray together every day but still attend weekly services–their odds for divorce are only one-in-ten. Wild, eh? Beats fifty-fifty."

Sam thought for a minute.

"Ellie goes to Mass just about every Sunday," Sam said, practically musing out loud. "She says her faith is very important to her. But she's never pushed
me to convert or anything. She has dropped hints that she wants a church wedding."

"I think, if you get permission, you can get married in a Catholic church, and you don't have to become a Catholic. Her pastor can fill you in. After the wedding, maybe you could go to Sunday Mass with her. Keep her company. There's no law against it."

Sam grunted, thinking.

Boy, he's open tonight,
Buzz thought.
Is Donna praying?

"What else did you say? Religion, kids–"

"And money," Buzz finished. "Wanna talk about money first?"

"Well, we're okay in the money department. My business is going great, and computers are going to be around for a long time. Ellie has a good job. No debt. Her dad is wealthy."

"That's not what I mean," Buzz said. "Sure, you don't have any money problems, but rich people get divorced,
too."

Buzz was keeping his advice religion-neutral as much as possible. Trying to sound factual, practical.

"What I mean is, you've got to agree on what money is all about, and, on what you want to do with it together. If she thinks money can make a person happy and you don't, you're in for rocky roads."

"Yeah, I get you."

"Before I go on, I can confirm all this by telling you that Sandi and I
screwed up every single one of these. We thought we had them down, but we really didn't. It caused huge battles."

"You make it sound like war," Sam said.

"My marriage was. And our daughter was a casualty."

A dark cloud came over Buzz's eyes. He looked away.

"Anyway, you and Ellie have a lot more going for you. I was a drunk. Immature. Sandi had her own problems."

"Do you mind telling me about
her?"

"I'd rather not. I'm trying to encourage you, not discourage you."

"Didn't mean to pry."

"Forget it, Sammy. I brought it up."

Silence came, a welcome respite.

"I guess we agree on money." Sam picked up the thread as if there had been no pause. "We've never talked about it. But it seems like our backgrounds are the same. We take money for granted. Neither one of us has ever wanted for anything
a day in our lives. I suspect we never will. It's just not a big deal to either one of us. Even when I struggled during the start-up of Edwards & Associates, it didn't bother me. Money is just a means to an end."

"Good. You don't strike me as a materialist. Funny, when it comes to spiritual truth, you are. But day-to-day, I've never seen anything about you that showed you were preoccupied with
money. But that's getting off the subject. I think you should talk to Ellie about it."

"I will."

"Good. That leaves…let's see…"

"Kids," Sam filled in.

"Which brings us back to sex. You can guess what I think. No, that's not fair. Maybe you can't."

"Whatever it is, it's Catholic," Sam said, but there was no teasing in his voice. It was–almost–a compliment.

"Yeah," Buzz said, standing up. He stretched.
He walked over to Sam, who was still leaning against the deck rail, and put an arm around his neck, bearishly.

"Sex," Buzz began, pausing slightly for effect, "equals kids. We've come full circle. You said you wanted to talk about sex. But maybe you had something different in mind. In my opinion, Sam, and I tell you this as a friend who loves you–"

Buzz cut himself off. He stifled a violent urge
to get emotional. That would lead to tears. That was not in the playbook. He took his arm away and continued, gesturing with his hands.

"–that the religion and the money are tied to the kids and to the sex. I'm not just saying that. That's the key to understanding marriage. It's not a war. No, it's not a war.

"But it's the most important thing people do: they get married. And I'm telling you right
now that marriage boils down to kids. Everything else is just window-dressing and Bing Crosby singing White Christmas."

Sam thought suddenly of his mother, holding him, riding in the convertible, the moon following them.

"I'm still listening, Buzz. Just because I don't believe in God doesn't mean I don't think kids are important. I've never told you this, but…"

Now it was his turn to bang his
emotions down, hard and fast, before they even considered showing up in this conversation.

"But I've always wanted kids. Not a lot. No numbers. My dad is my best friend. He's all I have. I–I want more of that. I don't know how to say it."

"I know," Buzz said, thinking of his own father. He had truly loved the old lush, and still mourned him.

"You don't have to say it. I ache for my daughter. I…"
he trailed off. They both shook their heads, then turned to look at the ocean.

After a while, Buzz said, "Can you see Donna?"

"Yeah, she's there on the jetty. She's staying close by."

"Good," Buzz said.
Dear God, if she's praying, give us some of the grace. I know Sam responds to it, even if he's not aware of it.

+  +  +

The jetty was made of stone. Huge black boulders formed a wide spine that
stretched out into the ocean. It was the width of two men, and its tail reached back into the beach until it disappeared beneath the sand. At low tide it was like a huge armored whale sunning itself. At high tide, it became like a submarine perpetually diving into the big waves that surrounded it.

The boulders nearest the surf had rough craggy surfaces pitted with barnacles or ancient seaweed.
Donna stood upon one, her feet set firmly, the water lapping in the crevices around her as the waves broke and receded. It was louder here, and the breezes seemed to shift from warm to cold in a flash.

She was having a particularly difficult time concentrating on the fourth sorrowful mystery, the Carrying of the Cross.

God was aware of this. He had not pulled away from His daughter, so much as
hidden Himself from her for her greater good.

Donna was disturbed. Her concentration had been excellent up to that point. She called time out.

What would I do if I was having trouble on the court?
she asked herself.
Hustle. Try harder. Win.

Grace rejoiced!

She looked up at the stars.

They're not light coming to me across light years. They're angels. They're weeping.

She bore down. She forced herself
to imagine what it was like for Christ; bruised, His flesh in tatters on His back from the scourging, His blood dripping on the rocks, His mother softly sobbing nearby, the shouts and taunts from the crowd distracting Him, and much worse to come on the top of the hill…

If He could gut it out, so can I,
she thought.

She began praying again.

Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed
art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners,
now
and at the hour of our death.

She didn't know why she emphasized the word
now.
She allowed herself a pause.
Because now is here. Now is where I am, on this jetty. Jesus is hearing me now.

His mother prayed
now.
Donna fought on beside her, climbing Calvary with her and her Son.

+  +  +

After a while–a whole cigarette on Buzz's part, the conversation began again. Buzz had looked up at the stars, and was inspired.

"Wanna hear a story? A true story. In a roundabout way, it's about marriage and kids, my friend." Buzz's tone, usually straightforward, was almost tender.

Sam nodded, watching Donna on the jetty.

"I know this guy. His name is Bill White. He runs a big advertising
company in Cleveland. The biggest. He's a bachelor. I don't see him much. I ran into him in a deli during lunch while driving my truck a few months back. He noticed my scapular hanging out the front of my shirt. Anyway, he's a good Catholic, and I've had lunch with him now and again. I even asked him to pray for you and Ellie."

He watched for Sam's reaction. None. Sam kept looking at the shadow
on the jetty. Buzz took it as a good sign.
He's used to me,
Buzz thought.
And he's still my friend?

"So at lunch about two weeks ago he told me this story. I just thought of it as I was looking at the stars, at the Milky Way. It's amazing how many stars you can see when you're down the shore.

"Bill has a cousin, Whitey Michaels. Whitey told him this story. Nobody really knows about it, and I'll
explain why at the end. Turns out that Whitey's mom is one of the founders of the Breastfeeding League, which has its headquarters in Chicago, but that's not part of the story. His uncle was an astronaut."

"Really?" Sam asked. He had always been fascinated by astronauts and space travel.

"Really. That reminds me, we should rent
The Right Stuff.
I didn't see it when it came out–"

"Yeah, yeah, tell
me the story," Sam interrupted.

"Sorry. So Bill's cousin Whitey's mom's brother is an astronaut, and he got to go up on Skylab. He donned the white monkey suit and surfed the stars, man, for like four months. Well, I don't know how long, but it was a long time.

"Now, they let astronauts take a tiny box of stuff up with them. You know, knickknacks and things, so they can bring them back and give
stuff that's been in space to their kids. But every extra ounce costs a billion dollars in fuel, or something like that, so they don't let them bring much up there.

"Well, Bill told me that his mother gave her brother a special something to bring up with him."

Buzz stopped talking. He lit a cigarette. He went back to the table and got his water, and slowly took a sip.

"Okay, Buzz. Tell me, what
did the guy bring up to Skylab with him."

"Thought you'd never ask," Buzz said calmly. He paused again, and took another drag on his smoke, smiling all the while.

"He took a piece of the True Cross," Buzz finally said.

"The what?"

"The True Cross. The cross Jesus Christ was crucified on," Buzz whispered.

+  +  +

Donna carried herself–supported by Grace–up the fifth sorrowful mystery. Jesus is
Crucified on the Cross. Tears flowed freely from her eyes now, their salt mixing with the salt in the ocean at her feet.

+  +  +

Buzz looked up at the stars again.
It's up there. Right now.

"When Emperor Constantine converted and became a Catholic, it was because he had a dream of his legions winning a battle with a cross on their shields. Your father must have told you. You know the story," Buzz
began.

"Yes," Sam said, "I know the story."

"But did you know about Helen?"

"You mean Helen of Troy?"

"No, Saint Helen, Constantine's mother."

"Okay." Sam's tone told Buzz to continue.

"Well, Saint Helen also converted. As the story goes–"

"You mean, as the legend goes," Sam said. His tone, for the first time, was hard to decipher.

"Whatever. Story for me, legend for you. How's that?"

"Fair enough,"
Sam answered equably. "Just keeping you honest."

Buzz stifled an urge to sigh relief.
Go! Go!
he told himself.
Hit the hole.

"So Saint Helen, according to
legend,"
Buzz began again, diplomatically. A small act of charity.
It can't hurt.