Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  I arrived at the office already pooped from too little sleep and too much thinking. In fact, I could no longer think straight. I needed to talk to someone who could help me clear things up.

  The most logical candidate for the job was Sheldon Feinberg. After all, he’d had more sex than me, which wasn’t saying much, but he’d also had more experience in general. Plus, he’d matured over the years, become a husband, father and businessman. Maybe he could offer guidance, if not deep understanding.

  #

  After consuming a TV dinner of glazed ham and scalloped potatoes I called Sheldon that night and presented him with my dilemma, recounting my history with Ellen, her physical and spiritual metamorphosis, and our upcoming date, including how it came about.

  His response was, “So what’s the problem?”

  Immediately I put up my dukes. “Did I say there was a problem?”

  “No, you didn’t say there was a problem, but it’s not like you to brag. That’s my department. So if you call and tell me you’ve got a date with a former ugly duckling who’s now a raving beauty and wants to go out with you, it’s because you think that’s a problem, which coming from someone else would sound wacky, but from you it sounds just about right.” Pause. “So what’s the problem?”

  Clearly calling Sheldon was a mistake, but I couldn’t just hang up, especially since I’d initiated the call. So I forged ahead, trusting that in the end some good would come of this conversation.

  “Well, you’re wrong,” I lied. “There’s no problem. It’s just that, aside from our obvious differences … like she’s tall and attractive and vivacious and I’m none of those things … aside from that, she’s religious. Very religious, in fact. And you know me, I’m—”

  “Yes, I know you,” Sheldon butted in. “Here’s you. If you saw a million bucks lying on the sidewalk, you’d figure it was counterfeit or booby-trapped, and go around it.”

  I would not. I don’t think.

  “As I’ve told you many times,” Sheldon went on before I could stop him, “you think too much and you worry too much. You’ve got a date with a good-looking broad and instead of celebrating you’re trying to screw it up. Be thankful for the gift, for chrissake. So the woman is religious. What’s that tell you? She goes to church on Sunday. Big fucking deal. And speaking of fucking, you’re probably losing sleep over that too. You’re wondering, does she or doesn’t she. Well, maybe she does and maybe she doesn’t. If she doesn’t, no big whoop. You’ll live to try again with someone else. The important thing is, take the woman out, show her a good time and enjoy yourself. You’re familiar with the concept, right? Enjoy. E-N-J-O-Y.”

  I had to admit Sheldon was right about that. I don’t know why, but I had a hard time enjoying myself. At anything. I either did something solely out of obligation, or I worried about doing it correctly because I didn’t want to look stupid or inept or awkward.

  This thought was too troubling to dwell on so I forged ahead. “But what if something goes wrong? What if we quarrel over religion or I make a wrong move and she gets pissed? We work for the same paper, on the same floor, in the same building. Things could get uncomfortable. Plus, her best friend is my … that is, I’d like to … let’s just say we know the same people at work, and that could also complicate things. See what I mean?”

  He was silent for so long I thought he’d hung up or gone to sleep.

  “Sheldon?”

  “I’m still here, though why I don’t know.”

  There it was again, sarcasm. Maybe he and Rachel drank from the same cooler.

  Sheldon let out an exaggerated sigh. “I see what you mean. And what you mean, as usual, is cow pucky. The only one complicating things is you, and you’re doing a wonderful job of it.”

  How did I respond to that? Life was complicated, was it not, with its nuances and intricacies and, well, its complexities? But not for Sheldon Feinberg, who saw everything in the simplest terms. This happened, so you did that. That happened, so you did this. He had a simple solution for everything. So I gave him a simple response.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay what?”

  “Okay I’ll go out with her and hope for the best.”

  “Good attitude. It’ll take you far.”

  “Are you being sarcastic?”

  “You can tell, huh?”

  Obviously he was out of control. Maybe I should hang up after all. But before I could he said, “Hope for the best? Let me tell you something, bubeleh. Hope and a dime will get you a cup of coffee.”

  I’d gotten something, all right. A headache. So I thanked Sheldon for his—ahem—advice and hung up. I was so upset that, throbbing headache and all, I phoned Ellen Drury to make arrangements for our date.

  Our enjoyable date.

  #

  A picnic? Really?

  That was Ellen’s counteroffer when I suggested we go to a movie a week from Saturday. As if our date wouldn’t be problematic enough, she proposed that we go on a lovely summer outing at a park of my choosing.

  I hated dining alfresco, whether at a table or on the ground, but especially the latter. Picnics attracted ants, flies and blood-sucking mosquitoes, so you spent more time swiping at insects than eating. That may sound like an overstatement, but if you’ve ever been on a picnic you know what I’m talking about. I almost made a counter-counteroffer, but decided that haggling over what to do on our date would hardly improve its chances of success.

  One good thing did come of our conversation, though. Ellen volunteered to play chef if I supplied the drinks, ice and a cooler. I happily agreed because I ate mainly out of cans and cartons, so cooking was not my forte.

  And that’s an understatement.

  Chapter 57

  Ellen and I agreed on one other thing besides our respective assignments, and that was our picnic’s venue. Although Palmer Park had lost much of its charm over the years, thanks to vandals and poor upkeep, it was still shady and picturesque enough to lure diehard picnickers and nature lovers. Ellen was both, obviously, and though I was neither I liked the park anyway. Let’s say for its hominess and leave it at that.

  We arrived shortly before noon, and after a brief search discovered a secluded area dense with maple trees and devoid of people.

  Perfect.

  Or rather almost perfect. The area lacked a picnic table, which required us to sit on the cruel, hard ground, cushioned only by a layer of grass. I gritted my teeth and spread the blanket Ellen had brought for such an emergency, and together we laid out paper cups and plates, plastic utensils, and a homemade repast of chicken salad sandwiches, potato salad and coleslaw, plus a jar of Vlasic dill pickles.

  After setting the “table” we sat across from each other and dug in. Or rather I dug in, since Miss Drury ignored her plate in favor of watching me clean mine. I ate like a starving vagrant, partly because I was hungry, partly to avoid staring at my date in her form-fitting polo shirt and Daisy Mae shorts. Fortunately, my concern over marauders proved groundless, and the overhanging branches shielding us from the sun kept us from shvitzing, another concern about this outing that I’d refrained from mentioning lest I sound like a kvetch.

  “How was it?” Ellen asked after I’d finished pigging out.

  I pointed to my plate.

  “Silly question,” she said.

  “It was great, really,” I stated for the record,

  She dipped her head. “Why thank you, sir.”

  I may not have cited it among Ellen’s changes, but her voice had dropped an octave since her Post days, so now she sounded more like Lauren Bacall than Minnie Mouse. Even that simple thank-you seemed like a sultry invitation.

  Following her show of gratitude we both remained quiet, lost in our respective thoughts. I couldn’t read hers but mine were clearly salacious. I was just getting to the climax, so to speak, when Ellen rudely interrupted me.

  “I like silence, don’t you?”

  Groggy from food, or lust, or both, I said, “Um-huh.”
>
  “Nature doesn’t abhor a vacuum, people do,” Ellen observed. “They think they have to talk all the time, to say something. But then they can’t listen to others, or to the sounds of nature, or to God.”

  Shit.

  Here it comes.

  “Am I right?” she asked.

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. You must appreciate silence because you’re so quiet all the time. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

  That I could handle—a compliment, merited or not, from an attractive woman.

  “I guess so, maybe,” was my lame reply.

  “What do you hear when you’re quiet?”

  “You.”

  That earned a chuckle, followed by, “It’s always nice to be heard, but I mean other than people.”

  Now I scrambled. “Birds chirping. Um, crickets singing. A dog barking maybe. Stuff like that.”

  “And?”

  Perspiring at last, I wiped my forehead with a napkin. “Cats meowing?”

  “And?”

  Since Ellen admired my quiet nature, I said nothing.

  “Do you hear God, Nate?”

  And thud went the other shoe.

  To lie or not to lie, that was the question. Whether ’twas better to pretend I heard God, and earn her contempt later when she found out I didn’t, or to be honest and earn her contempt right away. Buddha, with whom I’d become acquainted, however briefly, after dumping Judaism, recommended the middle path.

  So I tried, “God is in nature, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in all the animals, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I hear nature and the animals so …”

  Ellen waited. When I failed to complete the syllogism she prompted me.

  “So?”

  “So …” I repeated to delay the inevitable.

  “You don’t believe in God, do you, Nate?”

  And there it was. The jig was up.

  I figured I may as well tell the truth.

  “No.”

  I waited for the pejoratives—pagan, heathen, the devil’s spawn, etcetera—all of which I’d heard before. Or maybe for the second time in my life I’d get my face slapped.

  But instead of insulting or smacking me, Ellen laughed. “You should see yourself.”

  No I shouldn’t. No matter what I looked like, it couldn’t be see-worthy.

  “Why … what …?” I replied.

  “You look so guilty, like you just robbed the collection plate.”

  Unlikely, since I’d never stepped foot in a church, but I no doubt appeared guilty of something.

  Ellen stretched her legs out on either side of me, making it even harder to concentrate. “I don’t feel guilty,” I said, somewhat truthfully. “But I usually get a different reaction when I declare I’m a … when I tell people I don’t believe in God.”

  “You can say the word, Nate.”

  “Okay, fine. When I tell people I’m an atheist.”

  Ellen was silent for a moment, then said, “Look, I have a strong belief in God … everyone knows that because I don’t try to hide it.” She fingered her ever-present cross. “But I realize some good people are nonbelievers. Rachel, for instance. She thinks God, Jesus, religion, all of that, is hokum. But we’re still friends and I hope you and I can be too.”

  And there went even a slim chance that Ellen Drury and I would end up in bed. Good friends, devout Christians or otherwise, did not engage in sex. With all hope gone, I told the truth. Or something akin to it.

  “Okay, sure, we can be friends,” I said. “As long as you don’t try to convert me.”

  Ellen looked puzzled. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Because … I thought … well, others have tried.”

  “Oh, I get it. You think I’m a born-again.”

  “You aren’t?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been born again in a way, but I’m not a born-again, meaning I don’t try to bully people into believing in God or accepting Jesus. Besides, one person can’t convert another, so they shouldn’t even try. Belief comes from within, not from a sales pitch. And you have to be ready. I was, and there they were … God and His Son, waiting patiently.”

  She got up in one fluid motion. “C’mon, let’s take a walk.” She offered her hand, and I grabbed it and struggled to my feet.

  We’d gone only a short distance when I glanced back.

  “Don’t worry,” Ellen said, “everything will be there when we return. You’ve got to have faith.”

  Normally I gnashed my teeth when people said things like that, but she grinned so impishly I smiled in return.

  Ellen’s hand remained in mine as we crossed an open stretch of grass into another shady area, where a crude wooden sign indicated the Garden Path to our right and Apache Trail to our left. Ellen tugged me to the right.

  A woman leading me down the garden path. Should I be concerned?

  Don’t get crazy, Nate.

  Flowers lined both sides of the trail, their colors ranging from vibrant yellow to lush indigo. The hues were so vivid that not even a heathen like me could fail to appreciate them.

  Ellen halted and waved her free hand at our surroundings. “This just happened? This is an accident? Nothing or no one created it?”

  I’d heard all this countless times before, so I knew no argument to the contrary, no matter how compelling, would prove persuasive. Still, I owed her an answer.

  “I …”

  And that’s as far as I got before Ellen placed a hand, ever so gently, over my mouth.

  “Shhhh. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. All I wanted was to enjoy nature with you, but sometimes the feeling of God’s presence so overwhelms me that …” Instead of finishing she put both hands on my shoulders. “Forgive me?”

  With her body throbbing a hairsbreadth away and her breath caressing my now-flushed face, I’d have forgiven her infanticide.

  “Yes” was all I said.

  Then, eager to demonstrate my forgiving nature, I drew her against me and kissed her, perhaps a little harder than I intended. She surprised me by responding in kind, so I went further and cupped an ample breast. Which is apparently where Ellen drew the line. She stepped back, leaving my hand cupping air. Feeling both idiotic and apologetic, I opened my mouth to speak but she shushed me again.

  “No need, I felt the same way. But I can’t. One thing would lead to another, if not here then elsewhere, and I won’t let that happen. I just won’t. Not before … well, you know.”

  I knew only that I felt stupid, inept and awkward.

  We both stood there, she as if waiting for me to say something, I as if incapable of speech. Silently, we started back for the picnic area.

  We remained mute until we came to those varicolored flowers and Ellen said, “Hold on.” Perhaps instructed by God, she stooped to smell them. I lingered nearby, still smarting from my latest rejection. I was in such a pissy mood, in fact, I resolved to ask a question that had been preying on my mind and might very well upset her.

  Finally Ellen straightened and we resumed walking.

  Tentatively I said, “I’ve been wondering …”

  “About what?”

  “Well … you believe in God and Jesus, right? That’s kinda obvious. And you go to church and pray and all that—”

  “Yes, all that and more.”

  “Then why …”

  Now that I’d started down this road, I wasn’t sure I wanted to continue.

  “Then why what?” Ellen urged.

  I was pondering how to pose the question when we arrived back at the picnic area. Granted a reprieve, I busied myself straightening the blanket, then we both grabbed Cokes and sat.

  Ellen leaned back and stretched her legs out again. “Well, finish what you started. What’ve you been wondering about?”

  Maybe I wouldn’t have to say it outright. Maybe I could just let my eyes roam her body. But that would be
risky in more ways than one. So I looked her in the eye (and don’t think that was easy) and said, “It’s just … you’re so religious and all, but the way you dress …”

  “Oh, I get it.” Ellen smiled her understanding. “You expect me to wear high-necked blouses and long, loose skirts, maybe go without makeup and behave like a schoolmarm, as befits a woman of God. Am I right?”

  “Well no, but—”

  “You needn’t deny it, Nate. Believe me, I understand. Pious women, a lot of them anyway, act like God wanted them to hide what they have.” She paused to sip her Coke. “I spent my entire life doing that, because what I had was so unattractive. But now that I’ve got a figure, I refuse to cover it up. And so far God hasn’t objected.”

  Score one for the Deity.

  “You know Jane Russell, right?” Ellen asked out of nowhere.

  How’d she get into my room, for chrissake? Or worse, into my head?

  “I know Jane Russell,” I said. “That is, I’ve seen a few of her movies.”

  All of them, to be exact.

  “The question was rhetorical, Nate. Everyone knows Jane Russell, especially every guy. But not everyone knows she’s a dedicated Christian. I mean, very dedicated. Came to Jesus a long time ago and spreads the word between films.”

  “How?” was all I could manage after this unsettling news.

  “Concerts, small ones, for charitable events. She sings mainly hymns and spirituals. As you know, she’s got a wonderful voice.”

  She had a sexy voice, I knew that. I tried to imagine Miss Russell singing “A Closer Walk with Thee” instead of “Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend” but couldn’t pull it off, especially since she was wearing a curve-hugging gown.

  “I’m not sure what your point is,” I said.

  “My point is, just because a woman worships God with all her heart doesn’t mean she has to stop being a woman.”

  “Except when it comes to—”

  “Yes, except when it comes to that. Until marriage anyway, and then it’s no holds barred.”

  Before my imagination ran wild with that I said I understood, then let a few seconds pass before suggesting we leave. Ellen agreed, and I busied myself folding the blanket and dumping melted ice from the cooler. By the time we left, my mood had improved. After all, this wasn’t the first time I’d been rebuffed and probably wouldn’t be the last. Besides, I knew the score going in, so what happened was no big surprise, though briefly disappointing.