The Transformation

by Terri Kraus

  How could anyone in their right mind pay that much for a watch? I can buy a car or an entire house in some neighborhoods for a little more than that.

  Robert nosed along the sidewalk but kept his enthusiasm low. Some dogs, Oliver noted, when walking in an area with lots of dog traffic, would get agitated and nervous and bounce about, as if there were too many scents available for interpretation. Robert appeared above all that and sniffed only occasionally. And when he did, he did so in an almost delicate, detached manner.

  In the middle of the block, a pool of light filled the sidewalk, coming from the Coffee Tree Roasters, the one coffee shop that Oliver had hoped would be open. On warm days, like this Monday portended to be, the store would roll up its front windows, exposing everything to the elements. A few tables and chairs sat outside; more were inside, and Oliver gently tied Robert to a chair, saying, “You stay here, Robert. I’m just getting coffee. You can see me inside, okay? No whining.”

  Robert apparently understood as he sat down on his haunches, watching Oliver enter the shop. A few minutes later, his master returned with coffee and a tray with a bagel and a Danish with pats of butter and a hunk of plain cream cheese in foil, napkins, a plastic fork and spoon, and a glass of water. Oliver sat down and prepared his breakfast, Robert sidling next to him, positioning himself for the optimum amount of begged food. The dog was quickly rewarded with a piece of bagel with a hint of cream cheese.

  Oliver wasn’t sure if cream cheese was good for dogs, so even though Robert seemed to enjoy it, he tried to limit the amount of non-dog-food items Robert consumed every day.

  Oliver unfolded the newspaper. He didn’t have to purchase one after all, since the shop had a stack of papers, already discarded from even earlier customers. He read through the front page and the editorials, then hurried to the last section and the comics. As he had aged, he had stopped reading every single comic strip and now focused only on the half-dozen he really liked and found consistently amusing. He felt guilty about abandoning the rest of them but hoped it might be a sign he was finally becoming a mature adult.

  He sipped at his coffee. A stooped, older man with white hair made his way to the outside tables and pointed at the empty chair at Oliver’s table.

  “Anyone using this?” he asked, his words coated with early-morning phlegm.

  “No. Go ahead,” Oliver replied.

  The man put his hand on the back of the chair, then looked about. One of the other two tables was occupied by a man and a woman, apparently at the end of their day, not at the beginning, and at the other table a man had spread out his newspaper, laptop, coffee cup, and bagel in a wide array, as if clearly saying the entire table was occupied.

  The old man shrugged. “Okay if I park it here?”

  “Sure, that’s okay. We’re alone. Me and the dog.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Robert. Robert the Dog.”

  The old man nodded. “Robert the Dog. A nice noble name for a pooch. I like that.”

  Robert sat up straighter and leaned toward the newcomer. The old man reached out, tentatively, and patted Robert’s snout. Robert replied by brushing his tail back and forth on the sidewalk.

  “I’m Oliver.”

  “Barth. Barth Mills. Nice to meet you.”

  Both men hesitated, and both took drinks from their paper coffee cups.

  “Up early, Oliver. You on your way to work, or just an insomniac?”

  “Both. Sort of. I’m almost at work. But I woke up real early, and when that happens there’s no way I can get back to sleep. So Robert and I went for a walk and are enjoying the nice weather and a little breakfast.”

  The old man seemed to nod along with Oliver, stopping when Oliver stopped. “Would have brought my dog too. Rascal. Never liked that name. Rascal. Sounds like I’m a fan of the old Little Rascals movies—which I’m not—or like I’m stuck in one of those horrid motorized wheelchairs. Either way, it sounds stupid. But he was my wife’s dog. She’s gone, and I couldn’t bring myself to change the name on her, sort of behind her back. And Rascal’s old and was still asleep. The dog sleeps like a log, and I’m up and down a dozen times. Don’t seem fair at all. Sorry. Doesn’t seem fair. Live alone and your grammar goes to pot. No one there to worry about sounding right for. Or to. Or whatever.”

  “Well, the next time you come, bring Rascal,” Oliver said. “Robert loves meeting new friends.”

  “I’ll do that. I live down a few blocks that way. Top half of an old house. Summerlea.”

  “I don’t really live around here, but I am staying at the church around the corner while it’s being remodeled.”

  Barth stopped and glared at him. “The big stone place just around the corner? The beautiful old stone church? The one no one should be messing with? You’re tearing that apart? You should be ashamed, young man, of desecrating not only God’s house, but an architectural treasure.”

  Oliver was stunned but pretty sure Barth really meant what he said. He certainly wasn’t joking; he actually looked angry.

  “The outside will be the same. Nothing’s changing on the outside,” Oliver said, his defense quick. “And the inside will be very nice. I’m only the contractor. I don’t own it or anything.”

  Barth’s scowl softened as he tore off a piece of his scone. “So the outside stays the same?”

  “Might be a new name on the building, but basically it’ll be the same.”

  “Restaurant?”

  “Yes,” Oliver replied, leaving out the nightclub aspect.

  “How come it’s not a church anymore?” Barth asked, his tone more suited to an attorney on cross-examination.

  Oliver calmly explained the series of owners and what had happened.

  Barth harrumphed at the end. “Presbyterians. Back when I was preaching, I rarely found much common ground with ’em—theologically speaking. And the Koreans.” He harrumphed again. “My father served in that war …”

  Oliver thought for a second and realized that he didn’t know any Presbyterians—or Koreans, either. He figured he might have known a Presbyterian, but maybe they were just quiet about where they went to church. Oliver was pretty sure there was a Presbyterian church in Jeannette, but growing up, his mother had never found much good to say about the big Protestant denominations.

  Oliver decided that discussing Presbyterians might not be the most edifying early-morning conversation. “You’re a pastor?” he asked instead.

  “Was,” Barth replied, his voice more rumble than most and graced with the hint of pastoral verve. “I’m not from a big, fancy denomination. In my humble opinion, God doesn’t like big and fancy. Retired five years ago, after my wife passed. Lived up in Kane. Kane Church of the Savior. Good people. Mostly good, I guess. Rile up the wrong people in a church and the pastor don’t stand … doesn’t stand a chance. I was done with the fighting by then, so I came back to Pittsburgh.”

  Oliver nodded as he spoke, wondering why the man was sharing so much with a complete stranger. “Did you grow up here?”

  “I did. A few blocks from here. No one’s left, though. Just me and Rascal. It’s enough.” He took another bite of his scone and chewed slowly. “Breakfast is the best meal of the day. The rest of the meals are just for refueling. Breakfast though, light of dawn, a new day … I like it the best.”

  Barth held out a piece of scone. “Okay for the dog?”

  “Sure. I give him treats like that all the time. I figure if it won’t kill me, he’ll be okay with it.”

  Barth leaned over and opened his palm with the corner of the scone cupped in it. Robert the Dog sniffed, and with canine gentleness, picked up the scone with his teeth and appeared to chew with deliberation. Barth put his hand on the dog’s head and ruffled his fur.

  “You got a good dog here, Oliver. Some dogs see something special
and they snap at it, like a wolf, and that scares the person doing the offering. Robert was right gentle about it. I like that.”

  Robert sniffed at the old man’s hand nicely, hoping to find another bit of scone, wagging his tail in a slow show of excitement.

  The old man stood up, grabbed what was left of his coffee, and took a step toward the sidewalk. “Rascal is probably awake by now. Need to get him outside.” Barth was on the sidewalk, then turned back. “I’ll bring Rascal tomorrow. I’ll get him up early. What’s he have to sleep in for, right? If you’re here, we’ll have coffee.”

  He waved, and Oliver waved back, wondering if Barth would be able to get Rascal up in time.

  Oliver was alone in the church, the morning sun a few hours from being strong enough to illuminate the colors of the stained glass. The once nicely stacked pews now lay about, not exactly scattered haphazardly, but not exactly following a tight formation. The Pratt brothers had discarded a few of the pew sections—those with broken arms, split seats, cracked backs, missing supports—all of which would prove too costly to repair. As it was, there would be a surplus of pews at the end of the job. Of that Oliver was sure.

  We’ll need a dozen or so to use as booth seating, as incorporated into the space plan. Maybe Samantha can sell the rest of them on eBay or at an auction or something.

  Oliver would be alone this morning. Taller had a dentist appointment. The Pratt brothers wouldn’t be early. Maybe only one of them would come, or maybe all three, to collect their tools. Oliver still wasn’t sure of his decision on hiring them for the job and was glad to have a bit more time to think about it.

  I know that they did wrong. I wish I knew which one did the more wrong thing … but the eldest Pratt brother was right—I probably would treat them differently. I know what Pastor Mosco said about hiring people with a criminal past, what the implications are for my business. But I don’t believe bad people always stay bad. That’s what the church is for, isn’t it? To be an agent of transformation in people’s lives … to help turn bad people into good people by helping them find God and grow in their faith. If we isolate ourselves as Christians, how can we ever make a difference in the world?

  The more Oliver thought about it, the more frustrated he became.

  Maybe it’s time to look for a new church.

  This morning, instead of wallowing in his frustration, he decided to putter about the project, maybe not diving into a specific task, but assessing where they were on the timeline, what needed to be tackled now, what subs might have to be lined up in the next few weeks. Contractor “busy work,” Oliver called it, a task that he secretly enjoyed. He walked through the church with a clipboard in hand as the sun came up, making notes as he went, ticking off projects that needed to be buttoned up before other work could progress.

  The support beams in the basement needed to be covered with wallboard, and just before that, conduit had to be extended, and lighting fixtures would have to be installed. A few more days of work would be required before the kitchen could be started.

  Upstairs, in the former sanctuary, the work appeared to be simpler—a sign that Oliver always considered to be an omen foretelling of complications and headaches. What might be most troubling was providing electrical service throughout the building. As it stood, there was exposed conduit attached to the thick stone walls, almost at floor level. Oliver made a note to double-check with the architect about the current electrical code. He imagined that the outlets would have to be higher off the floor, in spaced increments, and if that was the case, it would require a lot of extra work.

  I’ll call him today. And I’ll need to talk to Samantha. If all the electrical outlets need to be revamped, it could cost a lot more than I estimated.

  Instead of worrying about what might be, Oliver spent a half hour tidying up a row of pews, lining them up straight, at right angles to the wall. Then he heard the front door of the church bang open.

  That’s one thing we’ll have to fix. New doors have not been specified, so we’ll need some sort of hydraulic open-and-close system for them.

  He stepped out of the shadows and smiled. Samantha stood alone in the now-sunlit space, holding a cardboard tray with six coffees and a large brown paper bag.

  “Breakfast!” she called out.

  Oliver made his way to her. “I’m afraid I’m your only company today. My brother’s at the dentist, and the Pratt brothers aren’t scheduled to work today.”

  If Samantha was at all disappointed with the less-than-full crew, she was expert at hiding it. “Well, that means more for us then, doesn’t it, Oliver-not-Ollie?”

  That’s like a nickname for me, isn’t it? I sort of like it when she says it like that.

  “How was New York?” he asked.

  Samantha found an accessible empty pew, set the coffee container down, laid out a napkin, and began to unpack the paper bag. “I hate New York. Too big. Too busy. Too many Jews. That self-loathing thing again. But seeing the family is fun—in short doses.”

  Instead of using a knife like she had done every other morning, spreading cream cheese on her bagel with some delicacy, this morning, Samantha just tore off a healthy chunk of bagel and swiped it through the open cream-cheese container.

  She caught him staring and grinned. “This is the single woman’s way to do it. Fast. Easier. But don’t tell my father.”

  “It’s the single man’s method as well. Saves washing utensils.”

  They ate in silence for a moment, Oliver considering it a very pleasant silence and not the sort of awkward silence he felt when he was around most women.

  “I thought you would be the sort of person who would love New York. You know—shopping and theater and going to clubs and all that sort of thing,” he said.

  Samantha held up her finger, indicating a needed pause, then pointed at her closed mouth as she exaggerated her chewing and swallowing. “Shopping I can take or leave. With the Internet, I can find anything I want from anywhere, so walking down a crowded street in New York is no longer a thrill. And Broadway shows? If you don’t mind spending a few hundred dollars on a ticket, it’s okay—but I can wait. Eventually one of the touring companies from every Broadway hit shows up in podunk Pittsburgh.”

  Her face tightened up, as if she was remembering something, then brightened. “You mentioned clubs. I don’t do them much anymore. There is little charm to being groped by strangers in the dark … if you know what I mean.”

  Oliver did not. His experience was limited, and groping anyone, even in the dark, seemed to him almost criminal, if not downright rude.

  “There are enough bad clubs here where I can get hit on by half-shikker married men who think they are God’s gift,” Samantha added.

  “Shikker?”

  “Drunk.”

  Again, Oliver had no frame of reference for her comments. He was not married, had never imbibed to even half-drunkenness, and never once considered himself as God’s gift to anyone.

  Samantha brushed her bushy hair back from her face, the morning light catching her eyes and cheekbones. “You understand, Oliver-not-Ollie?”

  “No, I really don’t,” he admitted in a rush. “I don’t go to bars very often. And I don’t think I’ve ever been to a bar that could be described as a club, other than the Elks Club. But I don’t think that’s what you mean.”

  Samantha laughed and put her hand on his knee. “You are such a dear, Oliver. I mean that.”

  She let her hand rest on his knee for a longer moment than was called for by his cute remark, but not as long as he would have liked.

  Then what he did next would astound him later on as he thought about it, and astound his brother Taller even more when he heard about it. Occasionally, Oliver let himself do what his gut wanted him to do, instead of thinking about how and why and should he and what might happen if he did. He simply
acted on impulse, on what his heart was urging him to do and not what his brain was saying.

  Something about this building …

  He turned a bit, to face her more directly. She had the prettiest, deepest brown eyes he had ever seen. He wondered, in that splinter of a moment, if all Jewish people had brown eyes. He didn’t think so, and maybe he would ask her later, if everything worked out just so.

  “Samantha,” he said without hesitation, and with as much verve as he could muster, even though he was not a man to have a lot of verve to begin with, “I can’t say I have ever been in this position before.”

  He thought she might be ready with a funny comeback, but she must have seen something in his face so held her words.

  “I know you’re the boss here and all, but do you think you might like to go to dinner with me? Maybe tonight? Or this week sometime? If you’re available.”

  She looked down at her hands, then up to find his eyes. “I would love that, Oliver. I’m free tonight. We could go out tonight.” She smiled.

  Oliver bobbed his head, as if setting the appointment down permanently. “Okay then. Good,” he said, his words unwinding from a spool under great tension.

  “Seven?”

  “Seven is good. Casual?”

  “Casual is all I have with me, Samantha.”

  “I like casual. Should I meet you here?”

  Oliver shook his head. “No. A gentleman picks his …” As Oliver felt the word in his mouth and realized what that meant, he wondered, in a sort of terrified way, if she felt the same way. But he had marched too far down this road to take a detour or retreat. “A gentleman picks up his date at her house. Yours is the big Victorian with the second-floor turret, right? I drove past it last week. It’s really beautiful.”

  “That’s my house. I’ll be ready at seven, then, Oliver.”