Chapter 16. Taking the Punch
Taking the Punch
April 15, 1987. Taxes due. I flew home that day; left work early, claiming a doctor’s appointment, and for once had the house to myself. I took three bites of the sandwich I’d bought along the way, then wrapped it back up and stuck it in the refrigerator. I washed my face, and getting changed, put the radio on. Shimmying into my clothes, I locked hands and lifted my arms overhead as if about to take flight; I was ready.
Half an hour later, walking down Temple Street, the nervous energy continued bouncing around inside me like billiard balls just racked and broken. A few people passing by gave me curious, disapproving looks. ‘What’s up with her?’ they must be thinking. A crazy woman, looking like blast-off was imminent, the countdown already begun. Rounding the corner to the church, a middle-aged man walking towards me sensed my unguardedness and winked at me. ‘Not dead yet,’ I silently concurred, and smiled back.
However, my psyche was too out of shape to carry such a payload for very long, and on reaching the church it all collapsed, depression settling in. I didn’t want to go inside now; I was tired. I stood in front of the old facade, scanning for the holy, unable to discern it, unable to go further. A sense of super-reality gripped me and I could see myself acting out my delusions. Was I crazy? If so, when did that happen? I couldn’t have said at what point my sanity turned.
One after another, doubts assailed me. What if Ross Fowler was not as advertised? As imagined? Blind like Pete Bishop, or a zealot who used seekers merely to get down the righteous path. Not able to paint a clear picture of him in my mind, I sunk to the level of thinking perhaps God was not reflected in his face after all. Perhaps he was ugly. How could he rescue me?
Instead of going downstairs to the lecture hall, I went up the main stone steps and slipped through the doors into the darkened quiet church proper. I sat down in a pew in the back. The inner sanctum was empty, the last rays of sunlight slanting through the stained glass. I welcomed the silence and serenity, the sheltering rarefied atmosphere. Assuming the prostrate attitude of a reprobate seeking redemption, I rested my forehead on the back of the pew in front of me, my arms limp and dangling, breathing deeply, rhythmically, trying to slow down my racing thoughts. I was suffering a crisis of my newfound faith.
Not an artist, I had to admit; certainly not a genius; yet I wanted to leave my mark. I wanted to throw whatever little weight I had on the side of truth and beauty. And, yes, I was looking, had always been looking, for a guide—all alone I'd lose the path. I ran through a catalog of my weaknesses, lashing out at myself for my lack of self-sufficiency, my need for help in order to see the stars. Blind and trapped in the ashes. I felt like that at times, but I knew I could move, knew I could see; sometimes I could see great things.
Slowly, my anxieties dissipated, and after sitting quietly for a while, head pressed against the pew, eyes staring unseeing at the floor, a second wind came in—just in time. Raising my head, focusing on the lilies on the altar, a happy certitude took up motion again, spreading warmly through my veins. Yes, I believe. I really do. Deep down, I really didn’t care what Fowler looked like or about any other niceties of his personality; I’d passed that point long ago. Passed so many points I had nothing left to do except do exactly what I wanted to.
I rose from the pew and tiptoed back out to the main church doors. Putting one hand on each door handle, I pushed them forward and open, exposing the brightening street scene shimmering against the darkening sky. Parents with their christened children, brides and grooms, the newly ordained and the newly departed all made this same exit, but none amid more expectations than this dreamer. It was getting late. I trotted down the steps and around the corner. As I reached the stairs leading to the basement entrance, the light above the transom switched on. Another sign. People were now coming down the steps behind me. Clutching the doorknob, I took a deep breath, blowing it out through puffed-up cheeks, opened the door, and went in.
* * *
Right away, I was taken aback by the ordinariness of the scene on entering the room. There were barely some thirty people in the activity hall, mostly students and two or three older couples waiting for the lecture to begin. My patron saint was not appearing on stage or behind a pulpit, but in a fluorescent-lit basement complete with red linoleum floor, folding metal chairs, and a pockmarked wooden table for a lectern. The church coffeepot stood on a longer table against the back wall—polystyrene cups, instant creamer, pink packets of artificial sweetener, a donation jar by its side. Next to it in the corner, a tall man in jeans and a herringbone wool jacket with a black scarf wound round his neck was talking to the minister. His hair was dark, almost black, and cut short and tousled, giving him the tattered appearance that was the style at the time. It didn’t dawn on me who he was until he turned my way.
It shook me that truth, as I understood it, was standing so solidly in front of me. The corners of my mouth unconsciously turned up in a smile. (You shall go to the ball!) Ross was exactly as he should be. A slim build—not too skinny, though—strong enough to carry the weight. An intelligent face that showed signs of the strong will lurking just below the surface; a little tired, a little worn, but a face to take comfort in; you could seek sanctuary here. Blue eyes—a knockout.
Those eyes were now turned toward their audience as Fowler, slowly unwinding his scarf and draping it over the back of a chair, surveyed the group assembled. His gaze was calm, if slightly defensive, and suddenly it was focused squarely on me. Which wasn’t too surprising since on recognizing him I had taken up a rigid, apparently permanent stance, staring intently at him. I looked at him so hard, in fact, his eyes seemed to dissolve into black Xs, giving him a momentarily blank expression superseded by an inquisitive look as he walked over and held out his hand.
“Hi. Ross Fowler.”
“Yes . . .” was all I could get out, shaking his hand, my legs shaking on their own.
Undaunted by my wit, he continued in a half-bantering, half-puzzled tone, “I hope you don’t mind my asking, but are you a member of some kind of obscure religious order?”
The gears in my brain whirled furiously, but I could come up with no response to this, if indeed any answer was appropriate. Religious order? Obscure . . .? Why was this happening? My expectations were being blown to smithereens. I’d met Ross many times before in my mind—in fantasies ranging from the merely improbable to the blissfully absurd—but if I had daydreamed for a thousand years, I would never have come up with the scenario playing out now.
Seeing my distress, Ross tapped his finger on his forehead. Mimicking him, I put my hand up to my face and realized what was wrong. I fingered a deeply patterned indentation running straight across my forehead, the result, I immediately guessed, of leaning my head against the back of the ornate pew during my rumination earlier that evening. I’d been too wrapped up in my own little world before to notice. If I were wearing bell bottoms, I’d look just like a hippie freak, complete with headband stamped right into my head. As it was, I knew what I did look like—a complete ass.
“Oh! Oh! I was up in the church. I must have, uh, Jeez, I was sitting and, ah . . . er . . .” I was floundering badly.
“Look,” he interrupted. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to . . .” He made a vague gesture, twirling his hand around, appearing sincerely contrite, but also trying without great success to suppress a grin, completing my humiliation. “You’re not mad, I hope?”
“No, of course not,” I said stiffly. Ross smiled and awkwardly made a little bow, but he knew he had blown it. Mortified, face burning, I turned around blindly and slunk into a chair a few rows from the speaker’s table, hiding behind the large man seated in front of me.
Ross was now being introduced by the minister, and hostility welled up in me toward him for making me feel like a fool, but he began his talk and I forgot my anger as his words sunk in and took hold. A quietly forceful speaker of great sense, his calm tone belied the strength of his passion. Your mind took the punch without feeling the blow land.
Image: Grand expectations. Source: Georges Grondin, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons, edited by J. Weigley