Both Ways

by Edward Goble

  Mondays were hard on Madison Enright. His mind was a wide open spigot of mixed emotions, from inadequacy to overconfidence, from super spiritual and filled with vision, to depressed and distracted with thoughts of quitting and getting a real job. From what he had heard from counterparts, these highs and lows were a rather normal part of Post-Sunday Morning Recovery. Especially for those with sensitive, inflated egos that depended heavily on approval and flattery. Such was the life of the Pastor of Community Chapel in Almond Grove, CA.

  Against his better judgment and nearly against his will, he convinced himself that he needed to go for coffee and a drive this morning, before the family woke up, knowing that he could easily be back to spend the day with Jill after she got the little one off to school. He seemed unable to block the conflicting, mixed-up thoughts that were swirling around in his head. He drove past his local Starbucks, the one where he spent most Sunday mornings reviewing his notes, and got on Highway 4, headed east toward Madras. At the front of his mind, the part that made things look good and noble, he told himself that he wanted to drive by and see Greg and Terry’s new house. He’d been meaning to get out there and, since they were active, solid church members, it was natural and expected that the Pastor would know where they lived and even drop by once in a while to check in - just to say hello and see how they were doing, how they were enjoying their new home. That is what the front of his mind kept insisting. But the back of his mind had a different agenda all together. In the back of his mind, back through a locked door, one with only a keyhole for air, where secrets and desire and other dark things were kept, there was a different message. Behind that door was a little voice that whispered, “I want to see her again.” In fact, his initial image of Dawn Neilson had not been effectively erased from memory. It had instead hovered near enough to the front of his mind to keep him awake most of last night, and, when he was finally able to stow it behind the door, he found himself peering through the mental keyhole for another glimpse. “That’s crazy,” he thought to himself, “I just need to check in with Greg and Terry. I don’t even know if that woman is living with them anymore.” But the agenda became clear as he pulled into their quiet neighborhood. Madison found the right street and checked the address numbers painted on the curb and drove casually past those identifying Page home without so much as a glance toward the entrance. He passed another dozen houses before reaching the end of the cul-de-sac where he doubled back, easing in behind a white Econoline van that was parked across and up about two houses from Greg & Terry’s place. He turned off the motor and finally exhaled, the silence of the morning offering little cover as the grey sky continued to brighten and expose the day. Madison still felt confidently above any appearance of impropriety, convincing himself that checking the welfare of the Pages easily justified the early morning road trip. “Good morning, Greg! I was in the neighborhood, early meeting at Denny’s, and thought I’d stop by to see the new place.” He rehearsed in his mind. “M-hmm.” But he couldn’t move. He trained his eyes on the front of the little blue tract home he had driven twenty miles to find. He estimated a distance of maybe two hundred feet to the front door. The little house had an attached two-car garage, but three vehicles were parked out front, two in the driveway and a Toyota pickup on the street, providing confirmation to his question and quest. “She must still be with them,” the thought sending a flash of excitement through his mind and body.

  He hadn’t been there three minutes when the door to the house opened and Greg Page stepped out and walked to the Tacoma. As Greg buckled himself into the driver’s seat, he faced his Pastor sitting in the drivers seat of his own car just three houses down. Madison slunk down in the seat. Fortunately for him, Greg had other things on his mind and didn’t notice the black Range Rover parked on his street like a duck out of water. Greg sat in the cab looking casually down the street, allowing the truck a minute to warm up. Then, with a glance over his shoulder, he pulled a tight U-turn and headed toward the highway. Madison let out his breath with an audible heave, it struck him that he was trapped now, and the chances of being seen driving out of the cul-de-sac were real and likely. How did he get himself into this mess? He closed his eyes briefly in an attempt to focus his thinking on extracting himself from the awkward position he’d driven into and opened them again just in time to see Terry Page, a nurse at Children’s Clinic in Oakland, step out the front door, coffee in hand and canvas satchel over her shoulder. If Terry was a little more observant than her husband, Madison was in trouble. She backed out of the driveway and glanced in her rear-view mirror, where, for the briefest of moments, Madison felt their eyes meet, and then she shifted the Celica and drove out of the neighborhood without looking back again. Madison felt guilty and exposed. Had she seen him? Would it register in a few minutes, click when she pulled onto the freeway? He thought about driving away. He thought about walking up to the door. “Oh... Dawn, isn’t it? I just came by to see Greg and Terry. Don’t tell me they’ve left already?” He rehearsed it, played it back a few times, and decided against it. He would just wait a few minutes more and see if there was any sign of her. Ten minutes passed, fifteen. Then thirty minutes later, his eyes growing weary from concentration, the front door opened and out stepped Dawn Neilson. She had a phone tucked between her right shoulder and ear, cocking her head sideways to hold it as she walked toward her car carrying a small box. She looked in Madison’s direction as she walked, but the conversation was her only point of focus. Her hair was wet and she was wearing tight, faded jeans with a hole in the left knee. She made it to the back of the car, which was parked facing the house, and bent over, setting the box on the ground as she dug in a front pocket for her keys, the phone still attached to her ear and shoulder. Madison watched every movement and nuance. Time seemed to stand still.

  His cell phone broke the spell his lust had cast with a startling ring he was certain could be heard by the whole neighborhood. He fumbled to flip it open before she turned and spotted him. “This is Madison,” he said, trying to will his voice to sound normal and his heart to return to his chest.

  “Mad, where are you? I woke up and you were just gone,” Jill said, not really concerned, just curious.

  “Oh, sorry honey. I got up early and went for coffee and a drive,” he said quietly as he watched Dawn pop the trunk lid and reach back down for the box. Picking it up, she placed it in the trunk of the car. The whole sequence of movement left an image that would not soon leave his imagination. She returned to the house, her free hand now tussling her wet hair. He brought his left index finger to his mouth, biting it firmly as he watched her disappear.

  “I should have left you a note. I’m sorry,” he said, trying to pull his mind away from the house across the street and back into the SUV.

  “It’s okay, I know it’s Monday and all, your manic day,” Jill said, as if accustomed to nursing his roller coaster Monday moods. “But, hey, Dave just called, said he wanted to apologize for not making it over last night. You have his number?” she said.

  “Uh, yeah, I’ve got it here. I’ll give him a call. Thanks.”

  “Be home soon?”

  “On my way.”

  “Okay, love ya.” “Love you, too,” he said as he snapped the phone shut. Madison closed his eyes and saw his wonderful, beautiful, trusting wife, saw her amazing green eyes, the perfect way she walked and looked in the special green dress. He was disappointed in himself, disappointed and afraid. He had gotten what he came for and gotten more than he bargained for. He realized that what he was feeling toward Dawn Neilson wasn’t just lust, although there was plenty of that mixed in.

  As he drove carefully away, the shame he felt for his actions was mixed with questions of why. He was happily married, couldn’t see himself cheating, and adultery was not even in his vocabulary as a minister and moral man. On the contrary, he was a powerful, successful agent of change for the community, a revered and respected pillar. Lust was powerful, but when combined with the risk, se
crecy and danger, a foursome was forged that had proved strong enough to draw him out against all better judgment. He hated seeing weakness in himself. He vowed to be stronger. And in the back of his mind, he quietly acknowledged that he couldn’t wait to see her again.

  The ride back home was like a stroll down memory lane - only this dark street was filled with images he would have rather left in lockdown.

  He was seven years old. His mother and father were fighting. She was screaming at him for cheating on her. Said something about shacking up with “that Mexican whore.” “If that’s what you want, you’re just a cheating’ bastard that will rot in hell.” The old man didn’t say a word in his own defense. He just sat there taking the verbal beating that mom was dishing out. The little boy knew they didn’t always see eye to eye, and that his dad had been gone more lately, but nothing prepared him for this blowout. Only, he might have seen it coming if he had been watching closely. For the past month or so, when they would leave to play ball in the evening, his dad would take him across the tracks to “a friend’s house.” He said that this friend was “really a good ball player and might be able to teach Madison a thing or two.” And he had thrown the ball around with some girls - there were four or five of them - the oldest of whom was really clinging to Madison’s dad, or his dad was clinging to her, he couldn’t really tell. It dawned on him that his mother would not approve of her boys playing around with all these girls. It seemed, even to his seven-year-old mind, that this wasn’t appropriate behavior for a dad. It scared him. It seemed naughty and dangerous. It was a side of his father that he couldn’t understand. Madison always felt guilty and sick afterwards.

  These images gave way to others that showed his dad and “the Mexican whore” driving away in his Plymouth, suitcase in the back seat, mother standing at the kitchen sink crying.

  His mind then shifted to their next house, the one in the neighborhood with the neat white homes, the small manicured lawns and white sidewalks and cars parked neatly along the curb. It was just Madison and his mother now. He was thirteen, riding his second-hand ten-speed around the street, pulling wheelies, craving friendship. Down about seven houses from theirs, a new car pulled to the curb. Not brand new, but new to the street. The man who got out of the car looked like an army vet or something. Madison remembered him shutting the door to the car and it making a big creaking sound, like the door was out of alignment. It was a ‘65 Plymouth Valiant, maybe a little older. Madison remembered thinking the guy looked like kind of a low life - long scraggly hair, holey jeans and dirty army jacket. He disappeared into the house, and the street became quiet again. Madison’s eyes followed the scraggly guy into the house as his bike coasted in that direction. He passed the Valiant and saw that the dude had left all the windows open, front and back. It was a hot summer evening and the old tank probably didn’t have air. When Madison passed the car again, he looked inside and saw a bunch of paper cups and bags, t-shirts and old tennis shoes. It looked like the guy lived in his car, or else he was just a big slob. Up and back he rode. The next time he passed the car he saw the back seat, and the sight caused Madison to slow his bike to a crawl. For there, littering the back seat, had to be a hundred Playboy and Penthouse magazines, maybe more. They were thick on the back seat, not stacked or boxed, but rather strewn about, like they were regularly rummaged through. Looking closer, on the next trip by, he saw other titles, ones he’d never seen behind the counter at the Circle K - magazines with explicit, sexual titles. Madison’s head started to throb; his heart was in his throat. He rode back to his own yard and laid the bike down in the front grass and sat on the curb staring back at the ‘65 Plymouth. His mind spun as his eyes fixated on the car. The sun was going down and, in his memory, as if it were yesterday, he remembered going into the house, opening his bedroom window and returning to his spot at the curb. The danger in what he was thinking was great. He watched down the street for a while longer, and then he mounted his bike and rode past the car and on up to the end of the street, making sure no one was around. Slowly, he started back toward his house and then, as he sidled up to the Valiant, he quickly came to a stop and thrust his hand into the back seat, keeping one eye on the front door of the house. He grabbed a pile of magazines and sped off, his heart pounding. He flew into the driveway and around the far side of the house, doubling back to see if he had been spotted. But the street was still. He deposited the haul into his bedroom window from the outside where they fell into a trashcan he had placed there for that purpose. And he went back for more. Over the course of the evening he probably grabbed thirty or forty magazines, not enough to be noticed by casual glance, for there were hundreds. But, if the guy really knew his collection, he would know something was missing.

  Madison remembered going to bed early that night and being introduced to the opposite sex in a way he had never imagined.

  “Why,” he thought, now back in the present and trying to sort out the morning detour. The shame that resurfaced from his childhood was exactly the same thing he was feeling now. It was adolescent curiosity that drove him to steal the magazines that evening. He was curious why the scraggly man had the books, and curious as to what might be in them. Once he discovered the contents, he began wondering about the women. Who were they, what were they thinking, what did they smell like, feel like? Curiosity drove him. But he was a man now. Now he had no excuse.

  In spite of his age, some of the same questions began to swirl through his mind about Dawn Neilson. That Dawn was “built,” as they used to say, went without saying. She reminded him of the silver silhouette on Big Rig mud flaps and made him think of Jessica Rabbit from the old Roger Rabbit cartoon, “I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way.” He wondered what she was like, what she thought about. He wondered what it was like - to be her, to be so... genetically... he struggled to find a word that wasn’t crass... so sexual. He found himself thinking about the firmness of her skin and the feel of the curve between her hips and waist.

  He shook his head to get the image out of his mind - or at least locked up in the back room. He felt horrible. He felt dirty and sinful. He felt nauseated. It hurt to feel God’s disappointment.

  Chapter 14

  Staff meeting at Community Chapel was held every Wednesday at 9:00 am, and you could set your clock by it. Paula Stone made sure of that. Madison met Paula at a seminar she was leading on proper use of the Franklin Planner. He befriended her and hired her away a few months later with the mission of bringing her obsessive level of efficiency to the Chapel. She was as organized, networked, wired and technologically connected as anyone he’d ever known. She knew everybody, could make miracles happen when it came to event production and promotion, was a public relations genius, and she was easy to get along with. Madison had always thought that, if she lost this job, she could always take over a Fortune 500 company or rule a small country. She had the skills and the connections.

  Madison had the floor for a few minutes at the front-end of the staff meeting, during which he would cast vision and make sure everyone was on the same page, namely, his page. Then he would defer to Paula, who would make the magic happen.

  “So the conference is in February, which seems like a long ways away, but really it’s only about nine months from now. I’m planning on taking two mid-week study leaves, the first one in Dallas, meeting with Dr. Cross, the conference organizer, and spending a few days holed up in a hotel studying. For that week, I’m going to invite Dr. Raymond Culbert to speak for the weekend services. I’m going to ask if he can spend an extra day and hang out with us on Monday. You all know that Dr. Ray is the man I consider to be my Pastor and is a servant of highest integrity and character. If there was ever a man you could get the straight scoop from, it’s Dr. Ray. Sound good?” Nods around the room, as people were clearly pleased with the whole package.

  “Then, probably in early August, I’ll take another couple of days away, to polish up the material. I’ll probably go up to the cabin this time, and Da
n, I’d like you to teach the weekend services that week. Work for you?” Dan nodded, “Sounds good. Thanks,” he replied.

  “Before I finish up with this track,” Madison said, “you all realize that we are running between 750 and 900 every week lately. That will probably change during the summer, and we’ve just got to stay as level as possible during the down time. There’s nothing we can really do about it. People are going to go on vacation and drift a little, but it’s really okay. If, that is... if we can come back in the fall with something that really captures people’s imagination and draws them back to the chapel.” He was beginning to paint the picture. “What I’d like to do is begin to build toward a back-to-school family series of sermons for September, something we advertise and get the word out to the whole region, really fill a need for families as kids start back to school. I think it could really draw people in. I’ll use the conference material to see how it plays with real families. Then you can all help me tweak any weak spots before Dallas.” He was on a roll and pleased with his brilliance. The lights were coming on over people heads all over the room as they caught the vision. “With any luck, and God’s favor, we’ll be able to top one thousand by Christmas, which,” he added, “would sure look nice on the conference bio back in Dallas.” His team was a highly-skilled, intelligent, productive group of people, and, once they latched onto a plan, they were relentless in making it happen. As the details of the plan took shape, the staff started talking about community outreach and department integration. Madison excused himself and left the nuts and bolts to the mechanics.