by Tom Hilpert
“Guilt is an artificial construct, created by a patriarchal society to enforce its arbitrary mores.” She said it with a straight face, unblinking. She pronounced mores properly too, like 'mor-ays.' I wanted to compliment her enunciation, but I restrained myself.
“I know better than to fall for all that patriarchal social oppression,” she added, “but somehow I still feel guilty.”
“I'm not sure I understand,” I said. “What do you want from me?”
“I want you to help me to not feel guilty,” she said.
“Angela,” I said, “do you understand what it is I do here?”
She laughed, a short laugh, but genuine. Then she cocked her head at me. “You don't seriously still believe in sin and all that nonsense, do you? You seem so educated.”
“I am, in fact, ridiculously over-educated,” I said. “Even so, I'm wondering why you chose to come to me, rather than a therapist who might share your same views.”
“I’ve been taking a few classes in Feminism and Counseling at the University of Minnesota Duluth,” she said.
That explained a lot about her misconceptions concerning guilt
“One of my professors is also a certified therapist. I’ve been seeing him. Unfortunately, he can’t really help me in this matter.”
“You had an affair with your professor?” I blurted.
“How could you possibly have known that? Did Ethan call you?” She looked shaken.
“No, I don't even know who he is,” I said. “Sometimes I get these – insights. I think it’s a God thing.”
“Well, anyway, there is nothing wrong with our affair.”
“Actually,” I said, “there are all kinds of things wrong with it. Not least of which is malpractice. As a therapist, he is liable in a civil court for that, and possibly a criminal one too. I imagine UMD still frowns on that sort of thing also.”
There was an awkward silence. She didn't meet my eyes. “Anyway,” she said very quietly, but firmly, “I still feel guilty, and I don't think I should have to.”
“All right. Why do you think you should have no guilt?”
“It was a beautiful thing,” she said. “Nobody else even knows it happened, so it doesn't hurt my husband. And besides, like I said, guilt is an artificial construct created by a patriarchal society to enforce arbitrary mores.”
“Nice diction,” I said. She didn't seem to think it was as amusing as I did.
There was a slight pause. “If guilt is artificially created, then why has every single human society in every time period and every place come up with that same idea?”
She shrugged, “It is effective.”
“Angela, that's not really an answer, and you know it. And it isn't just guilt. Marriage is a universal idea too. Throughout history, every single culture has – most of them independently, mind you – arrived at some sort of idea of 'marriage.' Some cultures disagree about who can marry whom. Others disagree about how many people a person can marry. But all cultures have always agreed there is something called marriage, and that adultery is wrong. Most cultures came to that conclusion independent of the influence of any other culture. That can't be an accident.”
She seemed to shrink inside herself. “That doesn't really help me to feel not guilty.”
“In my profession, I deal with guilt quite a bit,” I said.
“That's why I came here,” she said. “I thought you would know more about how to get rid of it.”
“I guarantee I know more about it than your therapist, or professor, or whatever he is,” I said. I sipped some coffee, and felt no guilt myself. “In all my experiences and studies, I know of only one thing that can deal effectively with guilt.”
There was silence. “What is it?” she asked finally.
“Forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness? But that would mean that I had done something wrong, something that needs to be forgiven.”
“Precisely.”
“But there was nothing wrong with it. It was a beautiful thing. My husband doesn't even know about it, so it doesn't hurt him. It doesn't hurt anybody.”
“And yet, you feel guilty.”
She was quiet.
“Angela,” I said, “I have seen people try to deal with guilt in all sorts of ways. They try to work it off, fight it off, pay it off, or suffer it off. They try to drown it in drugs or alcohol or pleasure. They try – like you – to pretend it doesn't really exist. But the only thing that really takes care of it is forgiveness. And to receive forgiveness, you have to admit that you need it. That means you have to admit you were wrong. Your therapist was even more wrong than you – he took advantage of you – but you were wrong too.”
She started to cry, softly. “But it didn't hurt anybody,” she said.
“Who made that the only basis for deciding right and wrong?” I said. “Surgery to remove a tumor can be very painful. So can setting a broken leg. The right thing is, at times, desperately painful. And sometimes the wrong thing is easy and pleasurable, at least in the short term.” I watched her for a moment longer. “Besides, if it didn't hurt anyone, why are you crying?”
“So you want me to go tell my husband, and beg for his forgiveness? He's the reason I had to have an affair!”
“Now we're getting somewhere,” I said. “But, no, I don't necessarily recommend telling your spouse, and certainly not until we understand the situation a little more clearly.”
“Well, then, if I need forgiveness, but I don't tell my husband, where can I find it?”
I told her.
CHAPTER 8
After Angela left, I saw another couple who were struggling in their marriage. By the time they left, it was all starting to bug me a bit. I did enough study to have some material to think over, and by early afternoon, I was sitting in a canoe on Fish Lake, not catching any fish. Every fall for three years, I had been trying to catch crappie. For some reason, I was never very successful. Maybe they knew that secretly, I would rather be wading in a stream, catching trout.
“It was too late in the day to go all the way to Wisconsin for trout,” I said to my motionless float. “So why not give me a break here?”
The crappie had no pity on me.
I did, however, have a thermos of hot fresh coffee and a couple of flaky croissants, and so I drank and munched and ruminated on my study material.
Like all good voyageurs, I had my cell phone with me. Normally, I would have shut it off, but I was feeling slightly guilty for leaving the office so quickly. About five minutes into my second croissant, the phone rang. I didn't recognize the number.
“Borden,” I said, answering it, and tucking it between my ear and shoulder.
“Hello, Pastor Borden?” asked a man's voice. My bobber slid smoothly, but without haste, under the water.
“Shoot,” I said, jerking up on my rod and reeling in. The phone slipped. “Dang,” I added, as the fish came off, still well underwater and away from the canoe.
“I heard you weren't much for swearing,” said the man at the other end. “Is this a bad time?”
“Sorry,” I said. “It's fine now. How can I help you?” I set my rod down, leaving the bait in the water.
“My name is Red Hollis,” said the man. “I got your number from Mike Schwartz.” Schwartz was a counselor I knew down in Minneapolis.
“What can I do for you?” I asked.
“Well, I own a sailboat up on the North Shore. When I'm not using it, I have it chartered out. Sometimes Mike charters it for a marriage counseling weekend. You know, he takes two or three couples on the boat; they sail around, experience the beauty of Superior, and talk about their problems and so on. Mike says the atmosphere of the sailing charter really makes it a unique experience. Really helps the folks, you know.”
“Sounds interesting,” I said.
“Well, this year, I'm keeping the boat in the water a few weeks later than normal, and so I have some time still free for a late-season charter. Trying to fill it up, pay the bills
you know,” he chuckled. A genial, friendly guy. “Mike thought you might be interested in doing one of those 'marriage cruises' with some of your people.”
“Could be,” I said. My float began to dance back and forth across the surface of the water. As I watched, it slid under again. “What dates are we talking about here, and how much per person?”
My bobber stayed under. I gave in, picked up my rod, and began to crank. The float popped back up and I could tell there was no fish on. I put the rod back down.
“I'm sorry, could you repeat that?” I asked Red Hollis. “Bad reception or something.”
He told me again. “And you'd be free,” he added. “And I'll captain the boat, so you don't pay any extra for that either. Desperate times call for desperate measures, you know.”
The bobber disappeared again, this time with violent little sploosh. I turned and looked the other way. Red and I talked for a few more minutes. We arranged to meet for lunch for the next day.
I hung up, turned around, and found my bobber floating placidly next to the boat. When I reeled in the line, my bait was gone, of course.
Those were the only bites I got all afternoon.
CHAPTER 9
I met Red Hollis at an Applebee’s in Duluth. All Applebee’s restaurants are the same. No matter where in the country you find them, the bar is laid out the same way, the tables are arranged the same way, and the menu is also the same. That can be either very comforting or quite boring, depending on your outlook. Just for the heck of it, today I decided it was boring. Even so, they do know how to cook, especially appetizers.
“I'm buying,” said Red. He was a big guy, several inches taller than me. Whatever had given him the name nickname “Red” was no longer in evidence, since he had, like many balding men, shaved his head completely. He was probably in his mid or early thirties. I wondered what a man so young did to get enough money to buy a yacht. On the other hand, in my experience, doing almost anything was likely to make more money than being a pastor. Hollis was wearing casually expensive slacks and a lightweight black sweater under a nicely tailored blue blazer. He looked pretty much like what he was: a successful, wealthy businessman who owned his own big-water sailing yacht.
Maybe if he had looked poor or even sad or something, I would have argued with his offer to buy lunch. As it was, I just said thanks. And after all, it was Applebee’s, not the Saint Paul Grill.
“Sometime when you're down in the Cities, look me up, and I'll take you to a real lunch,” said Hollis after we were seated. “I don't know Duluth that well, so I just picked Applebee’s. You can always count on them being the same everywhere. It's almost kind of comforting.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That's what it is.”
He gave me a funny look. People are always giving me funny looks.
“How do you know Mike Schwartz?” I asked after we ordered drinks and appetizers. Hollis was having a beer, and I had a Coke. On the rocks.
“Don't really know him well,” said Hollis. Our drinks came, and he took a sip. “I met him over in Bayfield one time when I was sailing. We got to talking, and I ended up taking him and his little group on a cruise.”
“So, you are kind of wining and dining me here,” I said. “I'm wondering what you get out of it.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. “I thought pastors weren't supposed to be so blunt.”
“I'm a lot of things pastors aren't supposed to be,” I said.
He shrugged. “I'm a businessman. If you fill the boat for me for a weekend, that's a month's payment I don't have to make.” He took a sip of beer. “If you have a good experience, maybe you'll do it again next year. Maybe you'll do it more than once a year. It's worth my investing a little time and a meal or two in you.”
“So tell me again how it works for Mike.”
“Your buddy Mike Schwartz is not the only I guy I do this for, but here's generally what happens.”
He was interrupted by the arrival of our appetizers. Mine was a Tuscan-style cheese dip with ciabatti bread. I remained calm.
“Anyway,” said Red as our server left, “Mike, or you, or whoever, has people he counsels. Sometimes, you know, it helps to have a change of venue if you really want a change of perspective. So you get these people out of town, out of their ordinary life, and put in them in a situation where everything is new and different and stimulating.”
I was trying not to look like a pig as I ate my cheese dip. I'm not sure if I was successful.
“First off, they are going to have a good time. If it's married couples you're counseling, maybe this is the first time they've enjoyed themselves together for a long time.”
I had to admit, Hollis was making good sense. He'd obviously thought it through. I also had to admit, the cheese dip was as good as I remembered.
“And then,” Hollis went on, “not only are they actually enjoying themselves together, but also, being in that new and different environment makes them more open to changing, to actually dealing with their same old patterns of behavior.”
“So, you been counseling long, Red?”
He grinned. “I got most of this from Mike Schwartz, but I pay attention.”
I guess you don't earn enough money to buy a yacht without being pretty bright and observant.
“Actually,” said Hollis, “that's what got me to buy this boat in the first place. Another counselor-friend of your buddy Schwartz wanted to do this thing, but he didn't know how to sail. He knew I was into sailing and had some experience, so we chartered the boat, and I took care of the sailing and stuff, and he did the counseling. Then Schwartz started doing it too.”
He finally paused to take a bite of his quesadilla. It was probably cold by now. “Anyway, I saw pretty quick that these folks were shelling out some coin, you know, for the boat. I did the math, and figured I could buy one if I just did so many counseling trips a year. I already had two counselors on board – so to speak, a little pun, you know – and so I went for it.”
“When was that?” I asked, just to be polite. I'm not a huge fan of puns.
“A few years ago now,” he said, waving his hand vaguely. We paused as our entrees were served. An old Elton John tune was playing in the background.
“So, what's the name of your boat?” I asked. Hollis took a bite of his burger. He washed it down with a sip of beer.
“Tiny Dancer,” he said finally.
“Hey, just like this song,” I said, gesturing in the air to indicate the music.
“Yeah,” he said, sheepishly. “I love this song. I figure I spend this much money on a boat, I can name it whatever I want.” He took another sip of beer. “Do you have any more questions?”
Now I was chewing. “I thought Mike still chartered his trips,” I said.
Red Hollis was chewing now. He spoke with his mouth full, gesturing. “I don't know what all Schwartz does without me.” He swallowed and took another drink. “Truth is, he isn't real regular with me, which is why I was hoping you'd be interested.”
“Where is your boat?” I asked.
He looked uncomfortable. “I've been having slip troubles,” he said. “I'm over by Bayfield, but that's tough over there, to find a permanent slip. I'm hoping to get her up to Silver Bay before winter.”
“That's closer to Grand Lake, but that one's hard to get into, I hear,” I said.
“I know, but I know a guy,”
“So we'd be sailing out of Silver Bay?”
“That's the plan,” said Hollis.
“Isn't that a little late in the year to be going?”
“Naw,” he said. “Like I told you, I'm just trying to make the most of things, times being what they are.”
“But what about storms and bad weather?” I asked.
“Well, obviously, we won't go if the weather's bad, but there's no reason to assume it will be.”
“What if you can't get into Silver Bay?”
“Then we'll go from Bayfield,” he said. “Listen, if you schedule this with
your folks, I'll make sure it happens, one way or the other.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
CHAPTER 10
I was beginning to think that Red Hollis might have a pretty good idea. There are no magic bullets when you are dealing with real live people, but it couldn't hurt to get some couples on a yacht in the middle of Lake Superior and threaten to throw them off the boat unless they started behaving like adults.
Another couple had called, again out of the blue. They were new to the North Coast. Apparently, the wild beauty of the cliffs, the impossibly clear water, and the golden autumn on the ridges had not yet solved their marriage problems. Aside from my occasional fits of frustration, I did enjoy counseling couples, and it was often a good way to connect new folks with our church community.
She was small, with dark hair and olive skin, bursting with suppressed energy. She stalked into the main church office like a cat, looking all around her, touching books and running her hand along the reception desk.
She turned, quick and smooth, when she saw me. “I'm Jasmine,” she said, holding out her hand. Her grip was firm and cool.
He was medium height, badly cut brown hair, with broad shoulders and a powerful handshake. His face was coarse, his features blunt, and quite frankly, he was ugly to look at.
“Tony Stone,” he said.
Where she seemed to be full of energy and curiosity and passion, he seemed reserved and distant.
“Come on in to my office,” I said. I offered them coffee, but they both declined. The pot was half-full however, so I figured I had better drink some without them. The pot was always half-full, with me.
Jasmine Stone walked around my office, looking at pictures, and always touching something – my books, my desk or stroking chairs as she moved past them. Tony stood impassively.
“Please sit down,” I said to them. They sat next to each other on the little love seat in the sitting area in front of my desk. I sat in one of the armchairs in front of them.
“So how long have you been in Grand Lake?” I asked.
