Just Shy of Harmony

by Philip Gulley

  Then Kate, the five-year-old, took Deena’s hand and said, “Our mommy left us. Can you be our mommy?”

  There was an awkward quiet. Deena said, “It’s not quite that easy, honey. It doesn’t work like that.” Her face turned red.

  Wayne was embarrassed, having his children troll for a mother in public. He gathered them up, said good-bye to Deena, and drove home.

  He walked past the Legal Grounds often after that, looking in the window and watching her pour coffee. But he’d stay outside. Deena would smile at him. He’d smile back, then walk away.

  Why torture myself? he’d think.

  He was glad Kyle was back from California. It gave him someone to talk with.

  A few weeks later Wayne sat in the barber’s chair while Kyle buzzed his hair and talked about his Internet girlfriend from California.

  It was his fault, Kyle admitted. He never should have gone out there. “I’m thinking now if we’d just have stuck to the Internet and not tried to meet one another face to face, we’d still be together.”

  “What kind of life would that have been?” Wayne asked. “Wasn’t getting to know her worth the risk?”

  Kyle didn’t think so. “I was happier just dreaming about her. Then I had to go and act on it, and now my heart’s broken. Maybe you’re better off not asking Deena out. At least this way you still have your dream. I don’t even have that anymore.”

  Wayne looked at Kyle. Fifty-five years old and all alone, with not a prospect in sight. That would be him one day, if he didn’t act. Now.

  He rose from the chair and said, “I’m going to risk it. I’m going to ask Deena Morrison for a date. Right now.” He strode from the barbershop.

  “She’ll crush your soul,” Kyle yelled after him.

  Wayne marched down past the Rexall and the Baptist church, crossed Main Street against the light, and flung open the door of the Legal Grounds Coffee Shop. It was empty except for Deena, who was sweeping the wooden floor.

  She stared at Wayne. Wayne stared back. He didn’t know what to say so he just stood there, looking.

  “Why are you wearing a barber’s cape?” she asked.

  Dumb, dumb, dumb, Wayne thought. Wayne Fleming, you are a moron.

  “Uh, I was getting a haircut.”

  “It looks nice so far.”

  “Thank you. Kyle’s not quite done with it yet. Uh, I have a question to ask you.”

  “Yes?” Deena smiled at him.

  Oh, she had a beautiful smile. Wayne’s insides shuddered. He felt his bowels release momentarily.

  “Could I please have a cup of coffee?” he asked.

  She poured him a cup.

  Wayne sat a table. Deena went back to sweeping. He gazed at her over the top of his coffee mug, hoping she’d sweep her way toward him. She moved closer. This is it, he thought. “Uh, say, Deena, how would you like to go somewhere with me?”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  He hadn’t thought that far ahead. It would have to be somewhere cheap. He didn’t have any money.

  “I was thinking maybe we could go to church,” Wayne said.

  “Church? Did you say church?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  Dumb, dumb, dumb, Wayne thought. You just asked Deena Morrison on a date to church. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

  “Where do you go to church?” Deena asked.

  Dumb, dumb, dumb. I don’t even have a church. “Uh…well…I went to the Quaker church this past Easter. Maybe we could go there.”

  “I’d like that.” Deena smiled at Wayne. He smiled at her and his insides shuddered.

  He walked back to Kyle’s to finish his haircut.

  “She said yes,” he told Kyle.

  Kyle shook his head, sadly. “Your life is ruined. You watch and see. You should have just stuck with your dreams,” he said, then picked up his clippers. “But if you insist on ruining your life, let’s at least make sure you have a good haircut while you do it.”

  Wayne lay awake that night. Here he was, a married man, taking another woman to the Lord’s house. God’s gonna strike me dead, he thought.

  The next morning was Sunday. Wayne rose early, showered, and shaved. He woke up his children. They ate breakfast. Then he gave them a bath, combed their hair, and dressed them in their nicest clothes. He dabbed on some Old Spice and put on his one suit. They drove into town to Deena’s house.

  She answered the door. She was radiant.

  “Do you mind if we walk?” Wayne asked.

  They walked down the sidewalk, underneath the trees. It was a pleasant spring morning, not too hot. The dogwoods were in bloom.

  “It’s a beautiful day,” Deena said.

  He gazed at her. “Absolutely stunning.”

  Rachel and Kate held Deena’s hand. Wayne rested his hand on Adam’s cowlicky head and stole glances at Deena.

  They sat in the seventh row, just behind the Fern Hampton pew. Deena on one end and Wayne on the other with the children in between. Wayne’s right arm rested on the back of the pew, Deena’s left arm across the back of the pew. Their hands accidentally brushed. Wayne’s face turned red. Deena smiled and kept her hand on top of Wayne’s for a brief moment. Well, if God’s gonna strike me, this would be the time, he thought. But nothing happened. All he felt was joy, and a little confusion.

  He sat in the pew thinking how messy love was. He’d loved his wife. Then she’d left him and the desolation nearly killed him. For a while he was angry, but that passed. Now he pitied her. A small part of him still loved her. He’d be sitting in the chair at Kyle’s, listening to the songs, and would miss her and want her back. He’d remember sliding the ring on her finger. Till death do us part. Whoever wrote that had the order wrong. It isn’t death that causes the parting. It’s the parting that causes death. Wayne had felt dead for so long.

  But sitting there in church, with Deena’s hand touching his, Wayne didn’t feel dead anymore. He felt wonderfully alive. During the Quaker silence, he dreamed of marrying Deena and graduating from college and teaching. Imagined he and Deena tucking the kids into bed and kissing their scrubbed heads and telling them stories. Then he thought of lying in bed with Deena and talking and maybe doing the things husbands and wives do.

  His insides shuddered at the thought of it.

  He grew afraid God would strike him dead for thinking such things in church. He tried to think about something else, but couldn’t. All he could think about was Deena.

  Dear sweet Lord, he prayed silently, give me this woman and let me know some joy. Please, Lord. I’m so lonely.

  Then he turned his wrist, and Deena’s hand settled into his. He glanced at her. Oh, she was lovely. She was watching him, smiling a shy smile.

  It must be the haircut, he thought.

  Then he didn’t think anything. He just sat there, in the seventh pew, his hand in hers, nauseous with love.

  Four

  Sam’s Fading Faith

  Something had been wrong since Easter, almost two months ago. A cloudy desolation had swept over Sam Gardner, fast as a summer storm, raging in and pounding down.

  He’d read an article in a Christian magazine about the ten warning signs of depression. He had seven of them. A note at the bottom of the article read:

  If you exhibit seven of these symptoms, you are at risk for depression. Please see your pastor for guidance.

  But Sam was the pastor. It’s hopeless, he thought. Hopeless. That was another sign of depression—feelings of hopelessness. Now he had eight signs of depression.

  Sam had thought about getting counseling. The mental-health agency rented a room in the upstairs of the Harmony Herald building. Bob Miles, the editor of the Herald, liked to sit at his desk and look out the window at the town square and write about what he saw in his column, “The Bobservation Post.” If you visited the mental-health center, chances were good you’d be written about.

  Sam could just imagine what Bob would write:

  People are up and about early
this morning. I see Jessie Peacock walking into the Kroger as Fern Hampton is walking out. Jessie and Fern stop to visit in front of the bags of peat moss stacked on the sidewalk. There’s Vinny Toricelli, washing windows at the Coffee Cup. Kyle Weathers is sitting out front of his barbershop, reading a magazine. I see Sam Gardner coming down the sidewalk. He’s stopping here at the Herald for a visit. No, he’s heading upstairs to the mental-health center.

  That’s why Sam couldn’t go to the mental-health center.

  He was going to talk with Barbara, but didn’t want to worry her, so he talked with his father instead, on a Saturday morning in early June. He hadn’t planned to, but he’d been walking past his parents’ house on his way to the meetinghouse and saw his father in the garage, repairing their wooden screen door.

  Sam walked up the driveway and into the garage. “Hey, Dad, what you doing?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Dad, I was hoping maybe we could talk.”

  His father kept working. “Whatcha need, Sam?”

  “Could you put down the hammer, please?”

  Charlie set down the hammer and turned toward Sam, concerned. “What is it, son? Is anything wrong?”

  “I’m not quite sure. It’s just that lately I haven’t been feeling well.”

  “Have you been to see Doc Neely?”

  “No, it’s not that kind of not feeling well. I’m feeling depressed.”

  His father laughed. “Depressed? Is that all? For crying out loud, what have you got to be depressed about? You got it easy. Why, when I was your age, I didn’t have time to be depressed. I had too much work to do. Maybe that’s your problem. Maybe you don’t have enough to do.”

  That wasn’t Sam’s problem. He had more than enough to do. It never let up. Sixty hours a week. His phone ringing off the hook. Plus, in the two months since Goal-Setting Sunday, Dale Hinshaw had been hounding him about the Scripture egg project.

  “Sam,” Dale had said one Sunday after worship, “I think we oughta get together on Monday mornings to discuss what you need to do for the Scripture egg project.”

  “Mondays aren’t good days. It’s my one day off. I like spending the day with my family.”

  “Bring them along. Who knows, maybe they can help too.”

  The next morning, at eight o’clock, Dale had knocked on their door.

  “Hi, Dale, what brings you by here on my day off?” Sam asked.

  “I stopped by the meetinghouse, but you weren’t there. If you want to meet here, that’s fine with me.” Dale walked into the house. “Say, is that bacon I smell? Why don’t we eat a little breakfast first. It’s hard to think lofty thoughts on an empty stomach.”

  Every Monday since, Dale had stopped by to discuss his Scripture egg project. He’d stay all morning, until Sam could edge him out the door. And every Monday Dale would ask Sam to preach about the Scripture egg project.

  “I will if the Lord leads me,” Sam promised.

  But lately the Lord hadn’t led Sam on much of anything. He usually wrote his sermons on Fridays. He would think about his sermon all week long, then on Fridays he’d arrive at the meetinghouse by eight in the morning. Frank, his secretary, was always waiting with coffee. They’d drink their coffee, sitting in Sam’s office. At eight-thirty Sam would say, “Well, it’s sermon day. I’d better get at it.”

  But ever since Easter, Sam had been struggling with what to say. He was tired of writing sermons. One Friday in early June, he figured he had written over seven hundred sermons in his fourteen years of ministry.

  What can I say that hasn’t already been said? he thought. I’m tired of words. Talk, talk, talk. That’s all we do in the church. I’ve already preached more sermons than Jesus did.

  That was the week he decided he wasn’t going to preach.

  Sam stood at the pulpit that Sunday and spoke to the congregation.

  “Quakers believe God leads us to speak, and that unless God leads us to speak, we shouldn’t speak. God did not give me a message this week, so I will not speak. If God has led any of you to speak, we would welcome your message.”

  Then he sat down.

  People looked at one another, puzzled. Although it was true no one should preach without being led, it was also true that God had been in the habit of speaking to Sam every Friday in his office between the hours of eight-thirty and noon.

  The congregation sat in a fidgety silence. Always before, the Quaker silence had been tolerated because they knew it wouldn’t last, that Sam would eventually rise to his feet and bring a message. But this was silence with no end in sight. This was uncomfortable, bordering on painful. What would happen? How long would they have to sit there?

  All across the meeting room, people asked themselves, Lord, are you leading me to speak today?

  They listened for God’s voice and were relieved not to hear it.

  Then they began to pray for God to lead someone—anyone—to speak.

  Dale Hinshaw cleared his throat and stood up from his pew.

  Several dozen people told the Lord that Dale wasn’t who they’d had in mind.

  It was Mr. and Mrs. Dale Hinshaw’s fortieth wedding anniversary. He told how they’d met as students at the Ozark School of the Scriptures. How they’d married right after college and gone to pastor a church, but that it didn’t work out. His throat caught as he spoke. He hadn’t intended to reveal this much, but standing there, speaking, he could scarcely contain himself.

  The congregation was amazed. Dale Hinshaw, a minister? They tried to imagine that.

  Dale told how guilty he’d felt for leaving the ministry but that now, with his Scripture eggs, he believed God was giving him a second chance.

  “I won’t be here next Sunday. I’ll be at the Unitarians up in the city passing out my Scripture eggs. I sure could use some help. If the Lord’s nudging you that way, come see me after church.”

  Then he sat down, just as Fern Hampton stood up. Fern had never spoken during worship. They leaned forward, eager to hear her message from the Lord. She placed her hands on the back of the pew in front of her, steadying herself.

  She paused. Every eye was on her. Her voice rose up from the sixth row.

  “I’ve been thinking of the new bathroom vanity we’ll be buying for the ladies’ rest room. As long as we’re all here together, I’d like to take a quick vote. Men, this is for the ladies only. Ladies, if you’d like a white vanity, raise your hand.”

  Bea Majors queried from her seat behind the organ, “Is it white-white or cream-white?”

  “White-white.”

  Twenty-one ladies raised their hands. Fern counted once, then counted again just to be sure.

  “Okay, that’s twenty-one votes for a white vanity. Now the other option is an oak-grain vanity. Ladies, raise your hands if you want an oak-grain vanity.”

  Fern scanned the meeting room, counting twenty-nine upraised hands.

  “Oak-grained it is,” she announced, then sat back down, her sacred duty accomplished.

  Sam sat in his chair behind the pulpit, his head in his hands. No wonder I’m discouraged, he thought. He stood up before anyone else could speak. “Let us pray.” They bowed their heads while Sam prayed for God to bless their meeting. And soon, he prayed silently.

  “Amen,” he concluded.

  “Amen,” mumbled the congregation.

  Sam didn’t stay to talk. He slipped out the back door and walked home by himself, taking the long way home. He wasn’t ready to face his wife. Didn’t want to talk about what had happened. Mostly, he wanted to think.

  When Sam had been in seminary, he’d dreamed of pastoring struggling churches and transforming them by the power of his words. Back then, Sam had loved words. He believed if he said the right words, his church would grow and lives would be changed.

  But when Sam said the right words, people grew mad, and after a while it became easier to say the agreeable words. He discovered people weren’t interested in change, but in stability. />
  For seven hundred sermons he chased after the perfect, elusive words that would open hearts. But the words never came.

  Now Sam was tired of words.

  He went home and sat on the porch. Barbara came out of the house. She sat down next to Sam on the porch swing. “What’s wrong, honey?” she asked.

  “I can’t keep this up.”

  “Can’t keep what up?”

  “Being a pastor. I can’t keep it up. I’m absolutely empty.”

  “Then quit.”

  “I can’t quit. What will I do? Being a pastor is all I know to do.”

  “Find something else to do.”

  “Look, I’m thirty-nine years old. I’ve got a family to take care of and a mortgage to pay. It’s a little too late to find something else to do.”

  They didn’t talk for the longest time. They just pushed back and forth in the swing. Somewhere down the block, a screen door banged.

  “Maybe I should find another church,” Sam said.

  “That would work for about a year. Then you’d be empty again. Why are you empty?”

  Sam knew why, but he was afraid to say it out loud. He’d known since Easter why he was empty. He remembered the very moment. It had happened in Easter worship. He had been preaching about the power of God to overcome death, but as he preached he realized he no longer believed it. He’d wanted to sit down right then, but feared what people might think.

  Instead, he finished his sermon and sat in his chair behind the pulpit, asking himself, If God can overcome death, why are so many of His churches dead?

  It was a question he couldn’t answer.

  And that’s when Sam Gardner had stopped believing.

  In everything he’d once believed.

  Five

  Hard Times

  When the elders of Harmony Friends Meeting put lottery tickets in the church bulletins to increase attendance, they never imagined Jessie Peacock would win five million dollars.