I’ll spend time with Henry Clayton. We’ll stay at the Howard Johnson Motel and I’ll eat my fill of hot fudge sundaes. Henry and I always share a room to be frugal and to feel like boys again. It is four blocks to the convention center, and the walk to and from is when a lot of stuff gets sorted out. I need to talk to my old friend. He’s a good listener. He knows me better than anybody.
The day before I leave for convention on Sunday afternoon, I go see Kate. The stray dog that came and stayed is at her side with a grin on his face. I’m thankful he is here as company or to protect her in my absence—as if me staying ever protected her.
The dog and the woman have come down from the summit. Her face is flushed and open and happy. When I didn’t find her home, I waited. I didn’t want to leave a note. I wanted to tell her firsthand I’d be away for five whole days.
“I head to the Baptist Convention tomorrow after church,” I say, like it’s a regular commute for me and she cares. “I’ll be back Friday. Need anything from the valley?”
“Would you like tea while I make a list?” she asks and heads inside with me right behind. I’m used to the long shadow she casts. While the tea steeps, Kate checks her few cupboards, tears a page from her journal, and makes a list, writing in bold strokes. The sun finds the silver strands entwined in her dark hair growing on the head that holds the brain I admire.
“This should do.” She hands me the paper. “The big thing is my supply of penny candy. Don’t want to run out. And, if you find a new Country Song Roundup with a Loretta Lynn article in it, I’d love that as well.”
I fold the list and put it in my shirt pocket over my heart.
“I envy you walking through a grocery store with stocked shelves,” she says, laughing.
I almost say I’d love you to be with me but stop myself from sounding silly.
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Henry never changes. He walks across the parking lot toward me, long strides, coattail flapping, toothy grin, old leather briefcase clutched under his arm because the handle broke long ago. He’s the same height as Kate, and I mildly wonder about my comfort and attraction to tall people. We hug and clap each other roughly on the back, and grin like the boys we used to be.
“Made it another year, brother,” Henry says. “Lucky for me when I consider the people I’m around. I opened my mail last week and found an envelope with a single sheet of paper in it. It had only one word on it. FOOL.”
“You don’t say…”
“So last Sunday, I said to my congregation, ‘I’ve known people who’ve written letters and forgotten to sign their names. This week I got a letter from someone who signed his name, then forgot to write the letter!’”
That’s how it always is. Henry and I pick up where we left off, easy as pie. Henry supplies the entertainment and I give him my good ear and file away the wit.
It isn’t until later that evening, as I enjoy my first hot fudge sundae while we sit in a Howard Johnson red leather booth and I babble on about Kate Shaw and inspired students, that he asks, “Is there something I should know, buddy?”
“What do you mean?” I’m puzzled. I wipe whipped cream from my chin with my napkin.
“Come on, Eli. You can confide in your oldest friend.”
When I shrug my shoulders and keep eating, Henry sits back, lays both palms on the table, and studies me. “I got it.” He slaps the table. “You’re in love.”
Whoa! What did he say? “Love?” I put my spoon down and shake my head at this ludicrous thought while Henry laughs and nods.
“No, no, no,” I say, completely out of my comfort zone, pushing away my empty sundae glass. “Why in the world would you say that?”
Henry studies me like I’m an insect trapped under a magnifying glass until I squirm. I don’t know what I’ve called these weeks with Kate. Intellectual? Stimulating? Marvelous? But in love? That’s too priceless a gift for me to receive or give or even name. I’m too old. Too set in my ways…
“If you could see the look on your face, Eli Perkins. It’s a first for you. Talk to me.”
Henry holds up his hand and signals to the waitress another round, and I get a second hot fudge sundae and he a Coke float. We skip the lecture “When Hell Freezes Over.” Convention lectures can be predictable.
Where to start? When Kate first said my name and I had my head down in the soup pot, unprepared for a flush of dizziness? When I saw her sitting on the quilt in the sunshine surrounded by children? Or when she argued the misplacement of women in religious history?
“She’s tall,” I say.
“Uh-huh…and?”
“Old.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And fifty-one. Name’s Kate. She’s tall…”
“Eli, I’ll clock you side the head if you tell me one more statistic that could apply to half the people in this restaurant, considering you’re a runt.”
“No, I mean she’s really tall. Okay. Okay… She’s that teacher I told you about from Ravenscroft. The one who saw your index card. She got fired and came to Baines Creek. She’s fifty-one,” I fumble, completely bad at this and truly unaware of my repetition until Henry stops me.
“Well, you’re sweating, your sentences have been reduced to repetitions, and you haven’t touched your second hot fudge sundae. Therefore it’s official: you stink at love.”
I laugh halfheartedly, feel sick to my stomach, and think part of this is a joke and part of this is serious and all of it will end poorly if I allow myself to dream. A preacher’s life isn’t about dreams. It’s about garnering strength to face an arduous life, to prepare souls for the afterlife, and hold people’s hands on the rough rides when it all tumbles down.
“Henry, you’ve got to talk me out of this. I’m too old to court. I’m a preacher to Kate, one who comes by to talk. That’s all. She’s never even been to my place. Prudence thinks poorly of her.”
Henry roars at that declaration, and people turn to look. “Your sister thinking poorly of Kate is a huge plus in my book. But let me get this straight.” Henry actually wipes tears from his eyes with the palms of his hands he’s laughing so hard. “This Kate’s tall and fifty-one, and love isn’t possible for an educated woman who’s never been to your home, and of whom your sister doesn’t approve. I get it,” he chides me. “You came all the way down off the mountain and carried this as a burden, didn’t you?”
He turns serious on me, and I feel my lungs have collapsed and I’m a puddle of hot fudge oozing out onto the table without a vessel to hold me together.
“I’m lost, Henry. Hopelessly, totally lost…and sick inside.”
“No, you’re not. You’re a novice. You’ll flounder like all mortal men, ill-prepared. That’s part of the initiation.” His voice turns to preacher comfort. “I remind you of Deuteronomy 31:8. ‘And the Lord, he it is that doth go before thee; he will be with thee, he will not fail thee, neither forsake thee: fear not, neither be dismayed.’”
“How can I not?” I wail on low volume. “Kate Shaw’s an agnostic!”
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