Conceived Without Sin (35 page)

And Buzz Woodward was happy, his creeping depression fading away like a ball swishing through a hoop in slow motion.
He had always been an intuitive person, even as a child. Perhaps because he had lost touch with himself in the past, he was more attuned to the web, because his fragile happiness depended more on things beyond himself. Or so it seemed.

He sat in a plastic Adirondack chair, unusually silent, sipping Pepsi, enjoying long drags on his cigarette, thinking about webs. He was aware that he had helped
spin this web. He remembered slamming into Sam on the court more than a year earlier.

They're all here because of me. I was the first human cause,
Buzz thought.

This awareness gave meaning to his life, and because it was true, it made him happy. As G.K. Chesterton wrote of the madman, he is the most rational of men, but his rationality is built on misperceptions of reality. During Buzz's frequent
slides into mild depression, he grasped at webstrings that formed realistic-looking but irrational forms.

My daughter hates me
was one of those false strings. So was:
It doesn't really matter if I get out of bed today.
Every morning for months had been a battle over this one false assumption. He was just sane enough to climb out of bed, deny the false assumption, hoping that
It doesn't really
matter
was a fake thread.

In the Johnson's backyard, looking at Sam conversing comfortably with Joe Kemp (who, upon being asked, admitted to being a terrible basketball player), Buzz knew that it did matter. It did matter to get out of bed. There were webs to weave. Strings to grasp. Packages to deliver. Conversations to start. Thoughts to be expressed. Sams to slam into. Oceans to swim. And sad
little men hiding in electrical sockets, waiting to be born of the human imagination. Every human being had dozens of strings to tie every day.

Maybe the socket guy isn't saying Nooooo! Maybe he's saying Yooooo!

"What are you smiling about?" Donna asked sweetly, coming to kneel next to her sleepy-eyed friend.

"Webs," Buzz said distantly, with a certain reigned-in excitement. "Weaving webs, getting
out of bed, playing basketball on summer nights, little men in electrical sockets, and how much I love your friendship."

Donna smiled. "Talking in riddles again. Sounds poetic. What does it all mean?"

"I don't think I could say, Donna," Buzz told her honestly. "Just that it matters. It all matters, everything. Nothing is without purpose for God. Just look at this scene. How did we get here?"

"I don't know. It just happened."

"That's my point. I don't think anything
just
happens. It all matters. I know it does, because I'm happy. I haven't felt this good since springtime…"

"Oh, Buzz, that's wonderful! I've been praying for you. Every night."

He took her hand, and raised it to his lips, kissing her gently on the back of the hand.

"Keep praying. It's working," he whispered.

2

Late that
evening, Buzz, Sam, Ellie, and Donna watched
Casablanca
in Buzz's apartment. Tonight they had another guest at their video showing: Bill White. Buzz had invited him to come over when the gathering at the Johnson's came to an end.

Sam and Ellie sat on Buzz's couch, one of Ellie's long legs casually draped over Sam's longer leg. Buzz sat on the floor, his back against the front of the couch, Donna
sitting Indian-style behind him. Bill was given Buzz's comfortable green leather chair, a place of honor.

They watched in silence as the screen threw black and white lights upon them, mesmerized by the witty, often dark dialogue, the quick editing, and the superb acting. What a story: a classic love triangle, perhaps the best ever in movie history. By coincidence, it had been years since anyone
had seen it. Sam had not seen it at all, not even on television.

At the misty climax of the movie, Donna's life was changed forever. As she listened to the dialogue, she was pierced by a certain inner knowledge of what she was called to do with the remainder of her life. It all became icy clear, after endless months of being drawn like a piece of iron between the two magnets of her hopeless desire
for Sam and her ill-suited love for Buzz.

Rick's words to Ilse opened her heart to a greater possibility, and at the same time, a greater suffering. Tiny gray images reflected in a single tear as it slipped down her cheek. She quickly wiped it away, wondering if her love for movies had been planted just for this moment, for this one singular movie, from all eternity.

It all matters,
Buzz's mysterious
words earlier, under the stars in the Johnson's backyard, vibrated in her mind now.

But it's just a movie,
she countered.

No, it all matters.
The little call would not let itself be ignored. She could no longer unhear it.

After the movie, it was late and everyone was too worn out for conversation. Sam and Ellie made their good-byes, and Bill White left with a firm handshake. Donna meandered behind,
slowly cleaning up the empty glasses and bowls of pot-cooked popcorn.

"You need to go, too," Buzz said wearily, slowly stretching, then rubbing the back of his crewcut. "I'll clean up."

She was in his little kitchen. She turned from the sink, and found him standing behind her.

He looked down, then looked up. She raised her lips to his, then tried to kiss him.

Why are you doing this?
she asked
herself.
This is not good. This is a Bad Thing. Are you running away?

Are you running away from a movie?

Buzz, who was fatigued yet thrilled by the long day, was taken by surprise. Donna was opening a book that had been finished months ago. He did not respond. He gently pulled her arms down, but kept her hands in his. He saw a flash of anger in her eyes that spread down to her mouth, forming a
line.

"Why?" he asked her.

She looked down at her feet, feeling intense shame. "I don't know."

"I think you do know. Why did you just kiss me?"

"Because…"

She wanted to tell him, but she couldn't. "Please forgive me, Buzz."

She put her arms around his wide back. This was not like the kiss. This was chaste.

"I don't know what came over me."

It was a lie.

"Why do I need to forgive you?" His voice
was gentle. He stroked her hair. "Tell me what's the matter, Donna. Is it Sam and Ellie?"

"No," she muttered sadly. "It's not that. It's something in the movie. I can't form it into words right now. Like you said in the backyard, some things you can't put into words. But it's the same thing you were talking about. Everything matters. Can I leave it at that? It all matters."

He let the string go.
He held her for a few moments longer, then said, "I think you better go now, my little one."

His arm around her shoulder, he led her to the door. Wordless, she left him.

3

From the Diary of Ellen James

It's been two weeks since I started my company with the loan Sam gave me. He's also set up my one computer for this one-woman show. I'm so excited! I landed my first client today. I will pay him
back, with interest, as soon as I can, though he hasn't mentioned the loan since I asked him for it. "It would be my pleasure," was all he said. If I thought he would hold it over my head, I wouldn't have asked. He's not the least bit competitive when it comes to my career. I keep waiting for his ego to show up. Then again, Sam is not like that. Sam is not even like Bucky when it comes to ego.

Am I really in love? How long does being in love last? Will I feel this way about Sam forever? Or will it wear off after a year or two of being married like it did for the bitter divorcées at my old firm? Will I catch the "fever," as Sam calls it, falling in love with my company, preferring the office to sitting with Sam in front of a cozy fire? Why can't I have both? Even as I made cold call after
cold call over the last two weeks, desperate for those first crucial appointments, I felt restless without Sam near me. I look forward to going to work (I commute all the way to the downstairs den) and I look forward to being with Sam when the work is done. What's so wrong with that? Isn't that how he feels about me and work?

So many questions, Diary!

I'm looking at the ring on my left hand as
I type this into my fancy new computer. Sam installed WordPerfect for me today, and this is my way of taking my computer out for a test drive. Sam also installed extra simms chips, or something like that.

I've never kept a diary before, so don't be surprised if I give it up tomorrow!

Only twenty-two days until the wedding! Each day seems like a month. Except for the choice of the band for the
reception, Sam has taken little interest in planning the details with me. Even his interest in the band, Sam says, is to satisfy the tastes of Buzz. Seems that Buzz wants a band that will "rock the rafters." Well, the Garden Club doesn't have rafters, I said to Sam. Then we'll just have to have some rafters installed, he told me.

That, dearest Diary, is the extent of our disagreements over wedding
plans. Our pre-Cana counselor at the parish told us that making wedding plans is a great opportunity to learn how to work with your future "mate" and to get to know each other better. It's supposed to be a chance to "bond" with my betrothed. But Sam defies all the books; locking horns is simply not his style. And I've felt bonded to him since the first night we met. Frankly, Di, I'm glad Sam
doesn't care about "sweating the details," as he calls it. And I'm having the time of my life planning the wedding. I just met a woman named Maggie Johnson who says she can make alterations to my gown better than the bridal shop. She's the wife of a friend of Sam's. (Do I have to explain every detail, or can I skip telling you more about Maggie? Are there rules for diaries?)

I just hope I'm not
taking on too much between starting Northcoast Marketing Consultants and planning the wedding. The constant activity is helping pass the time until the Big Day. That, and my daily exercise program–aerobics and jogging. I'm going to make sure this old bod is perfect for the Big Night.

Last night, over a nightcap with Bucky, I asked him if he felt about my mother the way I feel about Sam. (News
flash: we still haven't gotten her reply to the invitation. Bucky insisted on sending her one, but predicts she won't show. I really couldn't care less.) He said that he was more in love with
what
she was than with the woman herself, but that he is sure Sam and I are different. He says it's obvious that I'm in love with the man, not what he does. I'm not sure what Bucky meant by that. Maybe he
was making a reference to mother being a blue blood. Oh, I don't know!

He rarely speaks about my mother. I've always been able to talk to Bucky about everything, though I can't recall talking to him about her until last night.

And Bucky also said that Sam is one in a million. Bucky says that Sam's not being nice to get something from you. Sam's being nice because that's the only way he can dream
of being. I'm so glad that Bucky sees what I see in Sam. They're all I have in the world.

Unless you count Buzz Woodward! Yuck! Sam says Buzz will grow on me. Maybe he will. It's been almost a year and it still hasn't happened. Oh, it's not that I don't like Buzz. He can be sweet at times. It's just that he can be
so embarrassing
when he starts yelling at the top of his lungs in public places,
thinking it's funny or something. Sam seems taken in by his riddles and philosophical babbling.

Maybe Buzz is like Tip Greyson, Bucky's gin rummy partner from yesteryear (died of a heart attack, I'm afraid to report, Diary. To Tip's relatives: if you're reading this, shame on you!). Tip was also a loud, overbearing, social bore. When I was still in knee socks and complained about old Tipper, Bucky
told me he liked having Tip around because it made him (Bucky, I mean) feel like the calm, quiet one. Bucky, quiet? There's a laugher. But there's a certain logic to it. Sam's so quiet that maybe having a talker like Buzz around takes the pressure off Sam having to say anything at all. Sam's a doer, not a talker.

Still, I have to admit that Donna Beck has grown on me, and the people we met after
Sam's basketball game the other night were very nice. And it looks like Sam is quite serious about this Revco Ten Thousand tournament. I'm actually looking forward to it myself. I don't know much about basketball, but this whole thing might be like going back to my cheerleading days at ole Beachwood High, dating the captain of the football team. I have truly enjoyed watching my Sam play. He's quite
good, you know.

Well, well. I'm tired of typing. And I have a client to go see tomorrow: Built-to-Last Machine Tools, Inc. I'm going to straighten out their marketing strategy! Move over Edwards & Associates: Northcoast Marketing Consultants is off and running!

4

A week later, they were again gathered around a picnic table on the patio in Mark Johnson's backyard. Mark was a natural-born party
thrower. Maggie and Mary had taken the children bike riding in the nearby Metroparks after dinner.

Mark held court with a regal bearing, a sweaty knee brace pulled down to his right ankle.

"To Boys Night Out, gentlemen!" he toasted, holding up his bottle of Michelob Light.

"Hear hear!" Bill White seconded.

Buzz raised his Pepsi with a lemon twist, while Sam and Joe Kemp raised their own beers.

"Bill tells me you were quite a wrestler in high school," Buzz said with a grin.

"I was okay," Mark responded modestly. "I miss it."

"I've never lost a wrestling match in my own career," Buzz bragged.

"Maybe that's because you never wrestled," Sam needled.

"That's perfectly true, Sam," Buzz agreed. "But I used to wrestle the guys for fun on the football team in high school. Nobody could get me
to the ground. Greco-Roman style."

"I think our friend Buzz is drawing a line in the sand," Bill said to Mark.

"I think our friend Buzz is about to get his lunch handed to him," Sam observed, raising a beer in Buzz's direction.