The Marriage Plot (33 page)

It’s going to feel strange not to have our “baby” with us at Christmas this year. Your father and I are thrilled that you and Larry have this chance to “see the world.” After all the hard work you did at college, you deserve it. I think of you every day and try to imagine where you might be and what you might be doing. Usually I know where you’re living and sleeping. Even at college we usually knew what your apartment looked like, so it wasn’t so hard for me to picture you in my mind’s eye. But now I don’t know where you are most of the time, and so am grateful for any postcard you send. We got your postcard from Venice with the arrow pointing to “our hotel.” I couldn’t quite make out the hotel itself, but I’m glad it’s “dirt cheap,” as you said in your note. Venice looks like a magical place, a perfect locale for a young “literary man” to get inspiration.

Kerbi has a spot on his backside where the fur’s nearly gone. He’s been licking it something fierce. The way he twists himself into a pretzel to get at the itch always makes me laugh. (I wish I could do that when I get an itch on my back!) If it doesn’t get better in a few days, I’ll have to take Kerbi to the vet.

I’m writing this from our patio, under the umbrella, trying to stay out of the sun. Even in wintertime, the sun down here dries out my skin, no matter how much moisturizer I slather on. Right now, “the ol’ dad” is sitting in the living room, arguing with some politician on TV (I’ll spare you the salty language, but the gist is “Bull-Š-Š-Š-!”) I don’t understand how anyone can watch so much news in one day. Dean told me to tell you, when you get to Greece, to be sure to tell “all those socialists over there, ‘Thank God for Ronald Reagan.’”

Speaking of “God,” a package for you from “The Paulist Fathers” arrived at the lake house in Michigan before we left. I know you’re thinking of applying to divinity school and that it may have something to do with that, but it got me wondering a little. Your last letter—not the postcard from Venice but the one on the blue paper that folds into a letter (I think they’re called aerograms?)—didn’t sound like you. What did you mean about the “Kingdom of God” not being a place but a state of mind and that you thought you saw “glimmers” of it? You know I tried for years to find a church to take you boys to, and that I’ve never been quite able to believe in anything, as much as I’d like to. So I think I do understand your interest in religion. But all this “mysticism” you write about in your letters, and “the Dark Night of the Soul,” can sound a little “far out,” as your brother Winston would say. You’ve been gone for four months now, Mitchell. We haven’t seen you, and it’s hard for us to get a good picture of how you’re doing. I’m glad Larry is traveling with you, because I think I would worry even more if you were traveling all by yourself. Your father and I are still not too thrilled that you’re going to India, but you’re an adult now and can do what you like.
But we are very concerned that there is no way to contact you, or for you to contact us in case of an emergency.

Okay, that’s enough advice from Mom for now. As much as we miss you, and will miss you especially at Christmas, your father and I are happy that you have been able to undertake this big adventure. From the day you were born, Mitchell, you have been the most precious gift to us, and though I’m not sure I believe in “God,” I do thank “someone up there” every single day for giving us a son as wonderful, loving, and talented as you. Ever since you were little I’ve always known that you were going to grow up and make something of yourself. As Grammy always told you, “Hit ’em high, boy, hit ’em high.”

I found a really nice little writing desk at an antique store in Vero and am having them put it in the guest bedroom here, so it will be ready for you when you visit. With all the experiences you’ve been having on your trip, you might want to

That was as far as Mitchell got before the person behind him tapped him on the shoulder. It was a woman, older than he was, in her thirties.

“There’s a teller free,” she said.

Mitchell thanked her. Putting Lillian’s letter back into its envelope, he proceeded to the open window. As he was countersigning his traveler’s checks, the next window became free and the woman who’d been in line behind him went up to it. She smiled at Mitchell, and he smiled back. When the teller had counted out his drachmas, Mitchell returned to look for Larry.

Not seeing him, he sat down in a lobby chair and pulled out Madeleine’s letter again. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to read it. For the past week, ever since the night in Venice, when he’d got so incredibly drunk, Mitchell had been recovering his emotional equilibrium. That was to say, he now thought about Madeleine two or three times a day rather than ten or fifteen. Time and distance were doing their work. The letter, however, threatened to undo this in a few moments. In a world of IBM Selectrics and sleek Olivettis, Madeleine had insisted on typing her papers on a vintage machine, so that her typescripts came out looking like something in an archive. That Madeleine was in love with old-fashioned things like her typewriter had given Mitchell hope that she might love him. Coupled with Madeleine’s fidelity to the old machine was her ineptitude with all things mechanical, which explained why she hadn’t changed the ribbon, leaving the
a
and
s
inkless (because those keys were worn down from overuse). Obviously, for all his scientific brilliance, Bankhead wasn’t up to the job of replacing Madeleine’s typewriter ribbon. Obviously, Bankhead was too self-involved, or lazy, or possibly even
opposed
to her using a manual typewriter. Madeleine’s letter made it clear that Bankhead was wrong for her and that Mitchell was right, and he hadn’t even opened it yet.

Mitchell knew what he should do. If he was serious about maintaining his equilibrium, about detaching himself from earthly things, then he should take the letter across the lobby to the trash can and pitch it in. That was what he should do.

Instead, he put the letter in his knapsack, way down in the inside pocket, where he wouldn’t have to think about it.

When he looked up again he saw the woman from the line approaching. She had long, lank blond hair, high cheekbones, and narrow eyes. She wore no makeup and her clothes were odd. Under a baggy T-shirt she wore a long skirt that came down to her ankles. She was wearing running shoes.

“First time in Greece?” she asked, smiling excessively, like a salesperson.

“Yes.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Just three days.”

“I’ve been here three months. Most people come here to see the Acropolis. And that’s beautiful. It is. The antiquities are really something. But what gets me is all the history. I don’t mean the ancient history. I mean the Christian history. So much happened here! Where do you think the Thessalonians were? Or the Corinthians? The apostle John wrote Revelation on the island of Patmos. It just goes on and on. The gospel was revealed in the Holy Land, but Greece is where evangelism began. What brings
you
here?”

“I’m Greek,” Mitchell said. “This is where I began.”

The woman laughed. “Are you saving that seat for someone?”

“I’m waiting for my friend,” Mitchell said.

“I’ll just sit a minute,” the woman said. “If your friend comes, I’ll go.”

“That’s O.K.,” Mitchell said. “We’re leaving in a minute.”

He thought that had ended it. The woman sat down and began going through her shoulder bag, looking for something. Mitchell scanned the office for Larry again.

“I came here to study,” the woman started up again. “At the New Bible Institute. I’m learning Koine. You know what Koine is?”

“That’s the language the New Testament was written in. Ancient demotic form of Greek.”

“Wow. Most people don’t know that. I’m impressed.” She leaned toward him and said in a quiet voice, “Are you a Christian?”

Mitchell hesitated to answer. The worst thing about religion was religious people.

“I’m Greek Orthodox,” he said finally.

“Well, that’s Christian.”

“The Patriarch will be pleased to know that.”

“You’ve got a good sense of humor, don’t you?” the woman said, not smiling for the first time. “You probably use that to skate over a lot of problems in your life.”

This provocation worked. Mitchell turned his head to look at her directly.

“The Orthodox Church is like the Catholic Church,” the woman said. “They’re Christian but they’re not always Bible-believing. They’ve got so much ritual going on, it sometimes distracts from the message.”

Mitchell decided it was time to make his move. He stood up. “Nice meeting you,” he said. “Good luck with the Koine.”

“Nice meeting you!” the woman said. “Can I ask you one question before you go?”

Mitchell waited. The fixity of her gaze was unnerving.

“Are you saved?”

Just say yes, Mitchell thought. Say yes and get going.

“That’s difficult to say,” he said.

Right away he realized his mistake. The woman stood up, her blue eyes lasering in on his. “No, it isn’t,” she said. “It’s not difficult, at all. You just ask Jesus Christ to come into your heart and He will. That’s what I did. And it changed my life. I wasn’t always a Christian. I spent most of my life apart from God. Didn’t know Him. Didn’t care about Him. I wasn’t doing drugs or anything. I wasn’t running around all night. But there was this emptiness inside me. Because I was living for myself.”

To his surprise, Mitchell found himself listening to her. Not to her fundamentalist script about being saved or accepting the Lord. But to what she was saying about her own life.

“It’s a funny thing. You’re born in America. You grow up and what do they tell you? They tell you that you have a right to the pursuit of happiness. And that the way to be happy is to get a lot of nice stuff, right? I did all that. Had a house, a job, a boyfriend. But I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t happy because all I did every day was think about myself. I thought that the world revolved around me. But guess what? It doesn’t.”

This seemed sound enough, and genuine. Mitchell thought he might be able to agree here and be on his way.

But before he could do that, the woman said, “When we were standing in line, you were reading a letter. It was from your mother.”

Mitchell raised his chin. “How did you know that?”

“I just felt that right now.”

“You looked over my shoulder.”

“I did not!” she said, playfully slapping him. “Go on now. God just put it on my heart right now that you were reading a letter from your mother. But I want to tell you something. The Lord sent you a letter at American Express too. You know what it is? It’s me.
I’m
that letter. The Lord sent me without my even knowing it, so that I could end up behind you in line and tell you how the Lord loves you, how He died for you.”

Just then, near the elevators, Larry appeared.

“There’s my friend,” Mitchell said. “Nice talking with you.”

“Nice talking to
you
. Have a nice time in Greece and God Bless.”

He was halfway across the lobby when she tapped him on the shoulder again.

“I just wanted to give you this.”

In her hand was a pocket-size New Testament. Green, like a leaf.

“You take this and read the Gospels. Read about the good news of Jesus. And remember, it’s not complicated. It’s simple. The only thing that matters is that you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior and then you’ll have eternal life.”

To get away from her, to shut her up, Mitchell took the book and continued on out of the lobby.

“Where were you?” he said to Larry when he reached him. “I’ve been waiting for like an hour.”

Twenty minutes later, they were on their way to Delphi. The bus traveled for miles through the overbuilt basin of the city before climbing to a coastal road. The other passengers carried bundles on their laps: booty from the big city. Every few miles a shrine marked the site of a traffic fatality. The bus driver stopped to leave a coin in one offertory box. Later, he pulled the bus over to a roadside café and, without explanation, went inside to have lunch, while the passengers waited patiently in their seats. Larry got off to have a smoke and a coffee. Mitchell pulled Madeleine’s letter out of his knapsack, looked at it again, and put it back.

They reached Corinth in mid-afternoon. After trudging around the Temple of Apollo in a mild drizzle, they repaired to a restaurant to get out of the rain, and Mitchell took out his New Testament to reacquaint himself with what Saint Paul had written to the Corinthians back around AD 55.

He read:

For it is written, I will destroy the wisdom of the wise, and will bring to nothing the understanding of the prudent:

And:

For ye are yet carnal

It is reported commonly that there is fornication among you

It is good for a man not to touch a woman. Nevertheless, to avoid fornication, let every man have his own wife, and let every woman have her own husband. I say therefore to the unmarried and widows, It is good if they abide even as I. But if they cannot contain, let them marry: for it is better to marry than to burn.

The woman who’d given him the pocket New Testament had left her card inside, along with an Athens phone number. Her name was Janice P.

She must have been reading over my shoulder, Mitchell decided.

Winter was coming on. From Corinth they took a minibus southward toward the Mani, stopping for the night in the small mountain village of Andritsena. The temperature was crisp, the air pine-scented, the local retsina a shocking pink. The only room they could find was above a taverna. It was unheated. As thunderclouds moved in from the north, Larry got into one of the beds, complaining about the cold. Mitchell kept his sweater on. When he was sure Larry was asleep, he took out Madeleine’s letter and began reading it by the faint red light on the bedside table.