Brockton
LEAVING THE STADIUM, I turned right on to Neyland Drive, driving slowly beside the emerald waters of the Tennessee, my thoughts spinning like the eddies and whorls spooling downriver as the silent current poured over ledges and pits lurking deep and invisible beneath the surface.
At Kingston Pike I made the left toward Sequoyah Hills and home, but then, to my surprise, I found myself turning in to the parking lot of Second Presbyterian. Two cars were parked in front of the office: an aging Ford Escort, which I seemed to recall belonged to Mary Cowan, the church secretary; and a new Toyota Camry, recently bought by the senior minister, Rev. Mike Michaelson.
Mary—on her way out just as I was headed in—stumbled and nearly fell as I tugged the office door from her grasp. “Oh, sorry,” I said, catching her elbow to steady her. “Didn’t mean to pull you off balance.”
She laughed. “I’ve been klutzy all day today. I would’ve tripped no matter what. I’m just praying I make it home in one piece.” She started down the sidewalk, raising a hand and waving as she walked away.
I paused in the doorway and called after her, “Looks like he’s in?”
“He’s got a finance committee meeting in an hour,” she said over her shoulder. “Go on in—he’d be thrilled to talk about something besides balance sheets and revenue projections.”
Passing through the outer office, I noticed that his door was ajar. Rapping gently with one knuckle on the oak, I said, “Mike?”
“Hello? Come in.” I stepped into a pool of golden light, created by two floor lamps, a mica-shaded desk lamp, and walls of honey-colored sandstone. I couldn’t help smiling at the contrast between the pastor’s warm, elegant study and my own shabby, grimy corner of the Ivory Tower. If I felt a brief twinge of envy, it was good-natured and short-lived envy. Reverend Michaelson looked up from a daunting spreadsheet. “Bill, what a nice surprise. Have a seat. How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I said, sinking into a large leather armchair. “Busy. A lot going on.”
He nodded, looking thoughtful. Was that an instinctive response, I wondered, or was it part of his training—Empathy 101? Pastoral Counseling 202? I’d always been impressed by how well he kept current on the activities of his parishioners, so I wasn’t surprised when he said, “Seems like you’ve been in the news a lot lately. I can’t pick up the Sentinel or turn on Channel 10 without coming across you.”
“Yeah. Unfortunately.”
He leaned his head slightly to one side. “Tell me, is it difficult, doing what you do?”
I shrugged. “I had good teachers. And great opportunities to learn—two summers at the Smithsonian, a bunch of summers digging up Indian bones in South Dakota. Sometimes I get stumped, but often I stumble onto the right answer.”
He smiled. “Clearly. But I didn’t mean intellectually difficult. I meant emotionally difficult; spiritually difficult. What kind of toll does it take, doing what you do? Seeing what you see?”
“Huh.” I half laughed, half grunted. “They teach you guys mind reading in seminary?”
“No, it’s probably better they don’t. I’d be afraid of what I’d find out.” He leaned back in his chair, a high-backed swivel rocker, and tented his fingers, the same way my boss, the dean, tended to. “It takes courage to confront the dark side of life on a daily basis. Not many people are up to it. I’m not sure I would be.”
“Thing is,” I said, “some days it’s more daily than others. Lately . . . ” My words trailed off, and I waited for him to jump in with a question or some shepherdly counsel or comfort. Instead, he just sat there, his eyes attentive above the finger tent. I backed up and took another run at it. “Lately, though, it feels extra daily. And darker. Much darker.” He nodded, still waiting. “I worked a double homicide yesterday in East Knox County. Two bodies in the woods. The man, he died almost instantly; no suffering to speak of, except on the part of the wife he left behind. But the woman? She died slowly. In agony. The guy who killed her did unspeakable things to her.” I paused, unsure where to go next. Surprisingly, I went to Tyler. “My graduate assistant worked the scene with me. Smart, good-hearted kid. Name’s Tyler. Tyler threw up when he saw what had been done to the woman. I’m not sure Tyler’s ‘up to it,’ as you put it.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of, if he’s not.”
“I know he doesn’t owe it to me to follow in my footsteps, though I’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t. But that’s not what’s eating at me.”
“What is eating at you?”
“Tyler said something today that I can’t get out of my head.”