Signs of Struggle (10 page)

I did not know until then that it was Sunday.

We walked slowly back to the house. Inside, I gave the panting Bulldog a Large Milk-Bone, looked at the clock on the computer. Ten AM. I decided to go to church.

I changed into my best clothes; a pair of khaki’s and a dark blue knit shirt. Shoes and socks. I said so long to Gotcha and headed for town, grateful for the overcast morning, determined to attend a church, any church, feeling guilty after Ernie’s comment and knowing Karen and the girls would have wanted me in worship.

When I pulled into the parking lot of the first mainline denominational church I saw, I noticed people going inside who were not cheerful in their countenance, and who did not seem interested in a stranger, even though I nodded at several people.

In any Belue, Georgia church where a new face might show up, swarming handshakes, greetings, questions, and information would transpire immediately. I could do without the questions, but I had hoped to at least be welcomed.

Inside the narthex of the large, limestone church, I found a table stacked with pamphlets and bulletins. I took a bulletin. At the back of the church, where dark walnut double doors opened wide, an usher offered his hand and said, “Good morning” as if it were a chore. Inside the sanctuary, I noticed that the back half was filled, the front half vacant. Maybe a hundred people, more or less. With no other choice, I crept to the first available pew feeling everyone’s eyes on me.

I endured a service that took fifty-five minutes with an Order of Worship that included two hymns sung as if each note had to be extracted from amber, an anthem provided by a choir of grim-looking people, a sermon which included a brief quote from the Bible, and an offering, to which I contributed a hundred dollar bill for the fun of it. There was no reading of the Gospel, and I needed that. I craved a message with grace as the centerpiece.

The worship service was quiet, a kind of verbal chloroform. Had there been a rat licking flour in the basement, I would have heard it. To my relief, the Benediction arrived just before I would have started screaming.

The quiet of the service disappeared when earsplitting organ music burst forth at the end of the service as if The Bride of Dracula were at the instrument, committed to making it impossible to carry on a conversation. I jumped a foot when the organist blasted the first note.

I hoped to escape through an open side door, but I found none, so I plodded through a few minutes of worshippers’ skimpy smiles, perfunctory nods, and mouthed greetings followed immediately by averted eyes and rapid pivots away from me. As the last person to enter the church and therefore the last to leave, I was the final lamb to speak with the pastor, a man older than I, sporting a paunch and a shock of gray hair, combed straight back, used car salesman style. Finally face to face with the pastor, we shook hands and the shepherd said, “Your first time at our worship service?”

“Yes. Good scripture in your sermon,” I said with unassailable logic.

“We do hope you will come back,” the pastor said, glancing at the parking lot.

I said, “Thank you,” then resisted the urge to sprint to my truck. By the time I reached the parking lot, everyone else had left. I have learned over the years that good churches tend to have people arriving early and staying late, carrying on conversations with fellow believers on the steps and in the parking lot. My truck looked lonely as a well-proportioned girl at a fashion show.

I didn’t want to go home, so I decided to just drive around and see what might strike my fancy for lunch since The Grain o’ Truth was closed on Sundays.

Driving over the bridge, I again noticed the restaurant with the deck jutting out over the river, the one I saw when Gotcha and I took our walk. People were scattered about the deck, chatting, eating, and watching the Whitetail River flowing by. It looked inviting, friendly. I parked and walked up to the entrance.

The restaurant, Blossom’s Bistro, churned with clientele. Two people left as I pushed my way inside. Immediately, a well-tanned, blonde, blue-eyed young woman with perfect white teeth, not yet employed by FOX News, came up to me and asked, “Deck or booth?” I wondered if Lansberger was her last name.

“Deck, please.”

She smiled, turned, asked me to follow, and out we went. Her uniform consisted of khaki, loose-fitting Bermuda shorts and a bright orange golf shirt. She wore her hair in a ponytail, and it bounced joyfully as I followed her to the wide double doors, propped open, that led out to the deck. She turned back and asked, “Are you meeting someone, or are you alone?”

I said, “Quite alone.”

“We’re very informal here, so feel free to find a place and I’ll send someone to take your order. We have a salad bar and a light lunch menu on Sundays. I’m Beth Gustafson,” she said, “and you’re…?”

“Thomas O’Shea.” Beth grinned, tilted her head, and was gone. I plunged ahead into the bright sunshine, looking for a place to sit. A voice stopped me.

“Mr. O’Shea?”

A woman’s voice, pleasant and soft. I glanced around and started forward again, and then she said, “Thomas? I’m over here.”

Liv Olson sat at a little round table with two chairs in the corner of the deck above the Whitetail River. She smiled and mouthed a silent “hello” and waved me over.

I said, “What a pleasure to be new in town and see someone I’ve already met. Makes me feel more at home.”

“I’m glad!” she said, and smiled.

“Are you waiting for someone?” I asked, then quickly, “Not that it’s any of my business.”

“No, I just decided on the spur of the moment to wander down here. Blossom’s is usually kind of fun, the day is drop-dead gorgeous, and my stomach was growling. So here I am. I just got here, too. Grabbed the last good spot.”

Liv Olson was dressed in white walking shorts and a pink sleeveless blouse, both of which made me want to look at her. A lot.

“Would you care to join me?”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

She smiled and pushed the empty chair toward me with her foot. I noticed brief sandals, bright pink toenails, shapely, tan legs. Her casual nudging the chair my way made me smile. I took the seat. She looked so good I found myself trying not to stare.

“Your first time here, G.I.?”

I laughed. “Yes. Pure impulse. Went to church and decided I didn’t want to cook for myself, so I took a little excursion and here I am. I like this place.”

“Me, too. I come down here every now and then, and have never been disappointed. Where’d you go to church?”

In a neutral tone, and with a poker face, I told her.

“How’d you like it?” A little smile played on her lips and an eyebrow went up.

“That’s a loaded question, especially in a small town. I step on the wrong toe here and someone down the street yelps.”

“Well. Let me unload it for you then. It’s a terrible church. On a hot day without air conditioning its fervor for Christ might ascend to the level of lukewarm.”

“I thought it was just me and my critical attitude. My spiritual gift.”

Liv’s laugh was rich and deep. “I went there twice and came away thinking if those folks have Jesus in their hearts, they ought to inform their faces.”

The waitress appeared. She looked like the younger sister of Beth Gustafson. Maybe all of twenty. No bumps in her life so far. She was a little bubbly, but she explained the options pleasantly, asked if we were prepared to order or if she should come back. I told her five minutes would be excellent. I turned to Liv.

“What would you suggest?”

“Everything’s good. Extraordinary salad bar. Menu is solid, too. I like their blackened redfish.”

“Sounds good, but I’m more in the mood for salad. My approach to nutrition hasn’t been exemplary lately.”

“Can’t go wrong with the salad bar.”

The waitress, who had introduced herself as Ellyn, returned. “Are you ready to order?” she asked.

“The lady would like the blackened redfish…”

Liv said, “The lady, and thank you for that, has changed her mind. Woman’s prerogative. She’d like the salad bar.”

“Two,” I said, and Ellyn left after taking our drink orders: iced tea for both of us.

“I just thought it would be nice to go through the salad bar with you. You look nice, and this is pleasant, and besides, I can offer expert commentary on the various choices. Let’s go,” she said, and I came to my feet and held out her chair for her. “Salad bowls are at the bar,” she said, winking.

I could not remember the last time a pretty woman had winked at me, but I did know this: It had been too long. I was happy to follow Liv.

E
veryone seemed to know Liv Olson. They smiled and nodded or waved from across the room. And still another tall, blonde girl, obviously one of her students said, “Hello, Miss Olson!” and gave me the once-over.

When we arrived at the salad bar, I said “After you.”

“Thank you,” she said, and we began working our way along the stainless steel containers under the Plexiglas shields and bright lights. “That’s good, and that’s good,” she said, pointing at various options along the line. “That cheese is local and wonderful, and the salad dressings are made from scratch by Blossom himself. I like the bleu cheese, but suit yourself.”

We customized our salads and maneuvered our way back onto the deck, once again Liv nodding and speaking briefly to people as we passed. Two of the women looked at us and glanced at Liv as if to solicit an introduction, but it was not forthcoming. We returned to our small table at the corner of the sunny deck.

I held her chair and she scooched in. I sat, smiled at Liv and said, “I’d offer up grace but I guess you could say I’ve backslid a little.”

She smiled. “A regular experience for me. And most of us, I imagine.”

“Yes. Anyway, I just forgot. To bless the food,” I quickly added.

“Are you a religious man, Thomas?"

I took a small bite of salad, mostly cubed ham and shredded local cheddar smothered in bleu cheese dressing, chewed briefly, and said, “The roots of my faith go back to a church in Clinton, where I went as a child and young man, although I wasn’t much for faith back then. I thought I was too intellectual. Shows how dumb I was.”

Liv chuckled. “Lots of dumb intellectuals.”

“Anyway, years later I wised up a little.”

“HEY, LIV! THOMAS!”

The voice interrupting us came from below, and slightly upstream. Horace Norris, again floating down the Whitetail River in a big inner tube, was waving his skinny arms. He wore a bright yellow t-shirt with “I-O-W-A” in black, block letters across the chest. Baggy chartreuse swimming trunks, big blue-mirrored sunglasses, and that Cubs baseball cap completed his ensemble.

“Mr. Norris, great to see you!” Liv laughed, standing and waving vigorously.

“Looking good!” I said after coming to my feet for a better look.

Horace held up a twenty-ounce bottle of Hamm’s and grinned. “It’s a great day to be alive and celebrating the last day of May! Tomorrow let’s get together and celebrate the first day of June! Behave yourselves now, you two!” He coasted on by Blossom’s and headed under the right arch of the limestone bridge dividing the town.

We sat down, laughing. She said, “I’ve known Mr. Norris all my life. He was a teacher here, then a principal, and finally, superintendent. Retired from the school system about eight years ago. A good man. Never married. Threw himself into the life of the community. Now, since he’s been diagnosed, he seems to be throwing himself into life itself."

“I’ve had a few short conversations with him at The Grain o’ Truth. He seems happy,” I said.

“He is that. So, what do you think of Lunatic Mooning, Thomas?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Well, I haven’t figured him out. You know, that ‘inevitable distastefulness of man' stuff he likes to pontificate upon. For someone who has a pub to affirm his negative beliefs about people, he seems like he might be a soft touch.”

“He really is a softy. Always helping people out. Likes to hire people who’ve made bad decisions and then help them get straightened out. I love the big guy, truth be told. We go back,” she smiled, taking another bite of salad. “Just don’t let him get away with the noble savage routine. Or the fractured syntax. The guy is a well read, astute businessman, and an individual with very strong feelings about right and wrong.”

“He told me he wasn’t married. True?”

“I think so. Rumor has it he has various intoxicating women of all colors and ages stashed in small towns spanning northeastern Iowa, southeastern Minnesota and southwestern Wisconsin.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” I said.

Ellyn came by, asked if she could clear our dishes, received permission, picked them up, and then asked if dessert might be an option. Before I could answer, Liv said, “Thomas, I’m still hungry.”

“I was going to say the same thing,” I said. “As good as it was, salad doesn’t cut it for Sunday dinner.” I turned to Ellyn. “Dessert options?”

There were several, and Liv settled on something called Chocolate Epiphany. I ordered cherry cheesecake. “This will take care of my chocolate craving for the next two weeks,” she said. “After this, I hope I can get into my bikini. It’s hot enough.”

Liv in a bikini. Something to think about. Maybe a string bikini.
Be still, my heart
. There I go again, but I’m not telling Ernie.

“We did have salads, remember,” I said, “and there is protein in chocolate.”

“There is that,” she said, “and I love you for saying so.”

“I read a study somewhere claiming women actually have a physical need for chocolate to maintain their equilibrium and sense of well-being.”

“I have no doubt about the validity of that study.”

The desserts arrived and we consumed them in quiet pleasure with minimal conversation. Ellyn brought the check, I took it and left the tip, then escorted Liv to the front door, where the cashier waited. After I paid, we stepped onto the sunny street.

“Thank you, Thomas. That was a wonderful treat. You made my day,” she said, touching my arm.

“My pleasure. May I give you a lift home?”

“No, but thank you. I think it would be wise to walk after scarfing up that Chocolate Epiphany. I walked down, so a walk home would be good.”

“May I walk you home, then?”

“I’d like that,” she replied. We began walking.

“Thomas, since you decided to come back to Iowa, I’m curious why you didn’t move back to Clinton. Home town, all the reasons for returning to something you know.” We walked past bungalows and neat, two-story frame houses.

“Most of the guys I hung around with in high school have scattered. One’s in New Mexico, several in Chicago, one in Des Moines. This is close enough. I still keep in touch with e-mails.”

“Any old flames?”

“Actually, I keep in touch with a couple females I didn’t date, just out of friendship. I missed a class reunion a while back and this one girl, woman, was telling the attendees that she’d heard I was dead. No one seemed to be able to refute it, so when I heard about her comments through a rather circuitous route, I sent her a letter informing her that I, despite rumors to the contrary, still existed.”

“You and Mark Twain.”

“Me and Mark Twain. Good company.”

We stopped walking. “This is it!” she said, providing a sweeping gesture toward a small, one-story brick cottage. A white picket fence, a gate and a rose-bedecked arbor over the gate framed the front yard. Flower beds flourished. A neatly edged sidewalk split a recently-mowed, tidy yard. A half-dozen steps led up to a brief porch. Big windows gave the house an open, airy look.

“I like your home,” I said.

I wondered if she would invite me in, and felt a sudden tug of fear that she would.

“Thank you for a nice time,” Liv said. She extended her hand and I took it.

“And thank you for a nice time, too. Oh, and by the way, I meant to ask you, where do
you
go to church?”

“Here and there as the Spirit moves me. Usually, if Pastor Heisler is preaching, I drop in at Christ the King, up the street, north of here.”

“I was there for Hugh Soderstrom’s funeral.”

“Oh, well, then you know why I’m not enthralled with the good Reverend Doctor VanderKellen. I think he’s a priss and a gadfly. He just has an attitude of superiority that I can’t abide. I take fleshly pleasure in thinking about how pride goeth before the fall. I am an evil woman and I look forward to his fall. Forgive me.”

“Who’s Pastor Heisler? Assistant Pastor?”

“Yes, and he’s very good. If Carl’s not preaching, I go other places, sometimes out of town, combining a Sunday drive with a worship service in a new place.”

“I guess I’ll need to check out Christ the King, then, when Reverend Heisler is conducting. Well, I’d better let you go. I hope to see you again. Soon.”

“Me, too. Have a nice Sunday!” Liv said, giving me a hearty squeeze on the shoulder. “Good muscle there,” she said, smiling, bopping my shoulder with her fist. Then she opened the gate and closed it behind her before she headed up her stairs. In the interests of rehab, according to my spiritual advisor, I stole a glance at her lovely backside, waited until she disappeared inside, then turned away.

I still didn’t want to go home. And I was suddenly sorry she hadn’t invited me in, and almost as suddenly, a little guilty about being sorry she hadn’t invited me in. I wondered if I were going to be conflicted about women the rest of my life. I walked back to my truck and drove home.