Conversations with Saint Bernard

by Jim Kraus

  George tried not to stare at her hand around his. This would be the first time in years and years he’d felt a woman’s touch on his hand, or anywhere on his body, other than the nurses at the health clinic back home.

  It was not an entirely unpleasant touch, not an unwelcome feeling.

  But then George drew back and gently pulled his hand away.

  I can’t let this go on. I can’t have her think I’m . . . a regular, nice person. When I’m not. When I know it’s a lie.

  Lewis whined, softly.

  Tell the truth.

  * * *

  George sat up straight and bowed his head for a moment. And during this silence, Irene did not intrude, and George was grateful. He was trying to untangle a convoluted, twisted rope of emotions and thoughts and guilt and pain and memories—a veritable Gordian knot, all knitted and kinked and tight and locked inside of him.

  “Are you a praying woman, Irene?” he said after a long period of silence, only broken by the baleful call of the lighthouse, miles into the harbor.

  “No, not much,” she replied, without hesitation. “My second husband, the pastor, now he was a person who prayed. He prayed all the time. I used to joke he prayed more than enough for the both of us. And I guess I could say I pray sometimes. When I’m confused. Or in serious trouble. But praying every day? No, I don’t. It would seem . . . I don’t know . . . hypocritical. Or dishonest.”

  She looked at George, examined him, tried to decipher his tight expression. She looked at his hands clasped together in his lap. She looked at Lewis, and even in the darkness, she could see a most serious, somber expression on the dog’s face—an unusual expression, to say the least.

  “George, why do you ask? Are you a praying person? Do you see some hurdle . . . you know . . . for our . . . friendship?”

  “No. I mean . . . I don’t know.”

  Our friendship . . .? This had not been on my radar. Other things have been there, but not a friendship with a woman. The other things are bigger things. Terrible things. Nightmare sort of things.

  Lewis stood up and whined.

  Tell the truth.

  Lewis put his chin on George’s knee and looked up into his eyes. The dog, apparently, had no idea of what secret George might be concealing. He had no idea if the “truth” would do his companion good or harm. Lewis was a simple creature, and as a simple creature, with simple wants, he simply wanted to help George lighten his burdens.

  “I was not a praying man,” George said, his words almost inaudible. Irene leaned closer to him, not wanting to interrupt by asking him to repeat things. She would listen carefully.

  “Before we were married, Hazel and I, well, we went to church, on occasion. It was the thing to do back then. People went to church, some church, any church, on Sunday. You went to church, then came home and had lunch or dinner and read the paper and maybe watched the ball game or listened to it on the radio. It’s what I did when I was younger. Before Hazel and I could afford a TV, it was the newspaper and the radio. But going to church did not make me a praying man. Maybe I didn’t listen closely. But I didn’t pray.”

  Irene lifted her arm, slightly, as if she wanted to speak or wanted to touch him, to offer some comfort, but she stopped herself. She remained still, and silent, as did Lewis.

  “Now, Hazel, at first, the two of us . . . we were pretty much alike. We went to church, and we were good people, or at least, we thought we were. I slipped a ten or twenty into the collection plate when I could. Not always. But Hazel said it was okay. We gave what we could. And we always dressed up for church. I always wore a suit and tie. It was important. To look like you’re going to church, you know what I mean?”

  George looked away from both of them, both Irene and Lewis, and stared upwards, upwards into the overcast, into the thickness of humidity, into the blanketing clouds of vapor protecting them, hiding them from the heavens.

  “But later on, years later, Hazel started to take it seriously. Church. Like it was a special place. She started going to some women’s thing at church. I thought it was like my mother had done when I was small—where the women got together and made bandages and things. But this must have been different, what Hazel was going to, because she never talked about bandages. She did talk about the Bible. What it said. What she had learned. I listened like a good husband. I nodded. I agreed with her. It all seemed to make her happy, and if she was happy, I was happy.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “I loved her, Irene. I loved Hazel.”

  Irene spoke this time.

  “I know, George. It’s obvious. I think we all see it. We can tell. From the way you talk about her.”

  Lewis backed up a step, and George stood, his hands at his side, formed into loose fists, as if he wanted to let go, to release something long hidden, but was simply not sure of what to do, or to say next, to provide the release.

  Lewis wuffed several times, his tone low and friendly, as if offering George encouragement to go on. At least, it’s how George heard it, for he cleared his throat and turned back to face them both.

  “So Hazel began to pray. A lot. For lots of things. For the church. For missionaries. For people she had never met but appeared to be in trouble. She was often asking people, sometimes complete strangers she met in the supermarket, if there was anything she could pray about for them. And what was so surprising to me, is those complete strangers often took her up on her offer. They would share all sorts of deeply personal matters—just so my wife, a complete stranger to them, could pray about it. People said she had a sense about her—something seemed to glow inside of her—and people reacted to her. I didn’t see it. Maybe I was too close.”

  “Like Lewis?” Irene asked softly.

  “Exactly. People tell Lewis things. Scary, private things. But with Lewis, I see it. I get it. I see what he has causes people to respond to him. Something in his eyes. His expression. Makes you want to tell him the truth. A seriousness. Solemnity. Maybe even a sense of peace humans don’t normally see in a dog. Like he knows things we don’t. Secrets. And something about him tells people he would never judge them. Not like people. Lewis just listens. Never judges.”

  Irene nodded. Lewis looked almost embarrassed, if dogs could know what embarrassment was.

  George sat back on the bench. Lewis could see George was anxious this evening, agitated almost, unsettled, and not at peace. Lewis stepped closer, so his jaw rested again on George’s knee.

  “When she got sick, when Hazel was diagnosed . . . she still prayed. Sometimes for herself. But mostly for others. Always for others. People in the church prayed for her. A group of her lady friends came in twice a month, like clockwork, with a meal for me, and sat around her and prayed.”

  “George, you have nothing to be troubled about. What you’re describing sounds so normal. Sad, but normal.”

  George held up his hand, indicating she should stop—he had much more to say.

  “Toward the end, the last few years, she would ask me to pray with her. In her room. While she would lay there—with the oxygen hooked up and everything, just the small wheeze of clean, powerful air being pumped into her lungs, it was the only sound in the room. I would sit in the chair by the bed and hold her hand, and she would pray. Mostly out loud. I told her I was self-conscious praying out loud and she said it was okay and I said I prayed silently. She said God would hear it regardless. Loud or soft or unspoken. God would hear. And he would listen. And he would answer prayers. She was certain God, the God she believed in, would answer prayers.”

  “It was nice of you, George. It is what people do who love someone.”

  “No. No. Not me. I said I prayed silently. But I didn’t. I didn’t tell her the truth. I didn’t say the words. I didn’t think the words. I didn’t even want to know the words. So while she thought I was praying, I wasn’t. I was thinking about something else or making up a shopping list in my head or thinking about when I needed to change the filters on the furnace or change th
e oil in the car or whatever. And after a while, after I sat there pretending for a while, well, then I would squeeze her hand and she would think it was a sign I was through praying and she would smile and I would kiss her forehead and then slip out of the room, so she could get some sleep. Toward the end, she did not sleep much at all.”

  “George . . .”

  George waved his hand, this time with some quickness, as if he did not want to be interrupted again, as if he did not want her sympathy or her understanding.

  “She got sicker and sicker and more and more weak, and we knew she did not have time on her side. No one held out any real hope for any sort of real recovery. ALS has no hope. It is always downhill.”

  “I know . . .”

  George just ignored Irene and kept talking, like he had to continue, as if he were to stop, all momentum would be lost and perhaps, perhaps he would not be able to ever release whatever demon he had imprisoned all these years.

  “She grew weaker, and as she grew weaker, she prayed all the harder. Her friends remained faithful. She prayed with them. The pastors from the church would show up. Sometimes church people I did not know would show up. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Short prayers. Long prayers. They would all pray. I would make coffee for them in the kitchen, and afterward we would sit and talk about the weather while we all drank coffee.”

  He drew in a deep breath.

  “All of them prayed . . . all except me. I never prayed. Never once in all those years, watching the disease slowly rob me of my best friend, my wife, the woman I wanted to spend all my days with, the woman I wanted to die next to. I never prayed once.”

  “George . . .”

  “So at the end . . . though neither of us thought it was the end, is when it happened. She had actually gotten a little stronger. Not much. She could sit up for a bit. It was a major achievement. Maybe it was some sort of plateau. It’s what I hoped it was. So she could find some rest.”

  “George . . .”

  “So one evening, she grew limp and tired and sad and scared and she asked me again to pray for her. Whispered, I guess. She couldn’t speak loudly then. She whispered her request to me, and I said I would, just like all the other times I said I would pray.”

  From the distance, in the darkness of the water of the outer harbor, a bell sounded, then a horn. A ship was coming into the port, looking for a safe harbor, a secure anchorage.

  “But this time I actually prayed. It was the first and maybe the only time I prayed. I was angry. I was angry—at God mostly. I wondered why I should pray to a God who let this happen to Hazel. Why? But this time, I had a request for this God of diseases and separation. I had something to pray about. Finally, I had a reason to pray. I said to Him, to God, I am tired of watching my wife waste away. I was tired of seeing her die just by fractions of an inch each day. I was tired of watching her wither and pass away, all without dying. So I asked if He was God, and He was this all-powerful, all-compassionate, all wonderful God, then why doesn’t He just let her die? Why would He make anyone, or allow anyone to suffer for nearly a decade with a death sentence?”

  George drew in another deep breath and sniffed. Lewis looked up at him with some dismay. He had never seen George shed a tear or grow hoarse with emotion, and it was obvious Lewis was not comfortable with the sight.

  “I was so exhausted and spent and . . . just done with it all—I asked Him to let her die.”

  “George . . .”

  “All these years, I never once prayed. Other people, prayed all the time for healing, for peace, for grace, for joy, if you can believe it. Not me. I prayed for death.”

  George wiped his face with his hand.

  “I prayed for her death.”

  He coughed just a little, perhaps holding back a sob.

  “Two days later, in the middle of the night, I heard a slight wavering from her bed. The nurse was asleep. And I rushed to Hazel’s side to see her die, in front of me, just stop breathing, close her eyes, and cease to be.”

  Irene did not speak. Lewis remained silent.

  “The one time I prayed—and it was for her death—and it is the prayer God chose to answer.”

  “George . . .”

  “I can’t forgive myself for it. Ever. It is the unforgivable prayer.”

  Irene reached over to him and tried to take his hand, but he did not respond to her gesture, so she drew her hand back.

  “George, God did not answer your prayer. He did not let her die because of what you said or thought. God is not in the killing business. You did not kill your wife, George.”

  George was quick to reply.

  “And how are you so sure?”

  Irene looked hard at his face, trying to read through the anger and pain.

  “Because He wouldn’t, that’s all.”

  “It’s just your faith, or how you think God should act. I don’t believe it at all. Not for a moment. I think she’s dead because I asked for her to be dead. It’s how an engineer thinks. On or off. Black or white. Up or down. Alive or dead.”

  “George,” Irene said, struggling to find the words, “There is no proof of what you just said.”

  “Exactly,” George snapped back. “Exactly. It’s why I can’t be forgiven.”

  A small trail of tears marked Irene’s cheek.

  “George . . .”

  “It’s why I can hardly live with myself most days.”

  Irene sniffed loudly.

  “George, you didn’t do anything different than probably everyone in your situation has done. Pray for release. Pray for mercy. Pray God takes them home and makes their suffering stop.”

  George acted as if he didn’t even hear her.

  “It’s why I can’t let my daughter be put in the same situation. I cannot let her find herself in a situation where she has to pray for my death. No one should have such pain and guilt and shame. No one. Ever.”

  And then Lewis lifted his head, stared at the clouds above, and began to howl, softly at first, then growing into a howl of pain and release and fear and anger and loneliness.

  Only when they both stood, and they both urged Lewis to stop,he did.

  He looked at them with the saddest eyes either of them had ever seen. Then he shook his head a bit and started off toward home, not waiting to see if either of them followed him.

  But they did. They followed him home—no one speaking, just the sound of their footsteps damply echoing in the stillness of the night.

  45

  The humidity, the oppressive humidity of the night before had vanished, leaving behind a clear sky and breathable air.

  George and Lewis slipped out early for their morning constitutional—very early—around 5 a.m. The sky remained dark, and the streets remained deserted.

  Southern gentility does not rise before dawn, George thought. At least not in the rich section of town.

  They saw no one; they passed no one on the streets.

  And when they returned, the house remained quiet and dark. George quietly picked up his small satchel and left the handwritten note on the breakfast table where someone was sure to see it. They slipped out the rear door and quietly got into the RV. George tried to start it with the minimum of noise. He had already positioned it so he would not have to worry about backing up with a trailer attached; instead, he simply pulled out onto the main street and headed north, through the historic district, and out toward the freeway pointing west.

  The note, left on the table, read:

  Dear Eleanor, Irene, and Douglas—

  Thank you so much for your gracious hospitality these past weeks. I have never met people as kind and as inviting as you. You are truly admirable in all respects.

  I dislike good-byes, so I have chosen to ignore proper etiquette—just this once—and make my farewells from the emotional safety of a thank-you note. I hope you will forgive me.

  And I know Lewis would have had a hard time saying good-bye to Burby. This spares them all the confusion.

  Agai
n, my deepest regards and heartfelt thanks,

  George Gibson . . . and Lewis

  * * *

  By the time the noon hour arrived, George was cruising into Jacksonville, Florida. They had only stopped twice, for comfort reasons and for coffee, on their morning trip.

  Lewis actually appeared confused at not finding Burby lurking behind some potted plant or couch or floor-length drapery, and having him charge out, full of barks and squeaks, in his effort to intimidate the much larger animal.

  Lewis had never once been intimidated.

  And he also seemed to enjoy the game immensely.

  And sitting in the passenger seat, Lewis did not ask for the window to be lowered. He simply lay down, curled in a semi-circle on the seat, and slept.

  He might not have been sleeping. George glanced over, every few miles, and Lewis’s eyelids never appeared totally shut—not sleep shut, just closed enough to prevent people from talking to him.

  And if George had been talkative in the morning, which he was not, Lewis would have been able to travel in silence.

  As he watched for the signs for Interstate 10, a thought came to George.

  Funny how we get things we don’t think we will, and then not realize it . . .like Lewis wanting silence.

  The junction for Interstate 10 West was five miles ahead.

  Or maybe I’m simply projecting. Anthropomorphism is alive and well in the Gibson RV.

  George would have smiled at the thought a week ago. But today he did not feel like smiling, not at all. He and Lewis seemed to share the same withdrawn, almost sullen mood.

  * * *

  Irene got to the note first. It was addressed to all three, so she did not hesitate to open it. As she read it, she hurried to the rear window of the solarium, thinking perhaps she might see George pulling away, and if she did, she would run downstairs, jump into her van, and give chase.

  But there was no RV lumbering out of the sheltered drive.

  There was no hint of him or Lewis having been there, save for Burby sniffing frantically, thinking, perhaps, Lewis had somehow hidden himself behind a chair or under the rug.