The union worker on the throne loudly proclaimed into the mic, “The great Oz has spoken!”
Titters from the crew.
“Rick!” came a voice from the sound system. “Not cool.”
Joe took my hand. “You know how we agreed to live ten years in Seattle for me, then ten years in New York for you?”
“Actually, I do.”
“Ten years is up. That’s why I applied to Columbia.”
“Columbia? So on top of everything else, I’m supposed to pack up and leave all my friends?”
“You don’t like your friends,” Joe said.
“That’s a different conversation.”
“If you prefer,” he said, “there’s a school in Spokane.”
“Now you’ve got me preferring Spokane?”
“There’s Duke,” he said, maintaining his inside voice. “University of Chicago. St. Andrews in Scotland.”
“Did you just say Scotland?” I sprang to my feet. “You don’t just decide we’re moving to Scotland without consulting me! Timby’s in school. When were you going to tell me?”
“Tonight!” a knitting woman cried.
“How do you work for the Seahawks from Scotland?”
“We’re going to have to make some decisions.”
“You got that right.”
Now Joe was on his feet. Any pretense that we weren’t the kind of couple who fought in public, well, that veil had just fallen.
“What I’m going through is new and fragile,” Joe said.
“Which is why you let it pass! You don’t become a Jesus freak! Where’s the goddamned pride?”
“I knew how hard this would be for you,” Joe shot back.
“So of course you just lied!”
“I’m not a liar!” he said. “I hated lying.” His voice went soft. “But I felt trapped.”
That hit me… hard.
“Eleanor?” Joe said.
“That’s why you were facedown at the breakfast table,” I said, reeling. “It was because of me. This whole thing is my fault.”
“Fault?”
Beside us was a forest of six-foot-high potted palms, stage dressing waiting to be set. I went over and slid a bunch of pots aside with my foot, creating a path. I took Joe by the hand and led him inside the oasis. It was just us.
I placed my hands on his shoulders. “I know what this is.”
“You do?”
“I’m the one who should have your back. Not Jesus.”
“Eleanor,” Joe said gently. “God’s bigger than you. That’s kind of the whole point.”
“You couldn’t lean on me,” I said. “I was too rickety. I was too all over the place. And I know why. I’m still messed up about Bucky and Ivy.”
“Them?” he said, swatting palm fronds from his face.
“I thought I could shove them into quarantine. But it doesn’t work. Do you want to know how fragmented my brain is? Last week, on the radio, it said a train in Ohio derailed because someone had left a backhoe on the tracks. And I actually thought, Was it me? Did I leave a backhoe on the tracks?”
“You’re distracted,” Joe said. “I’ll give you that.”
“So distracted that I’ve driven you into the River Jordan!”
“This is my path,” Joe said. “My struggle.”
“I know you think that,” I said. “But listen to me. Since we fell in love, I’ve been keeping a Gratitude List.”
“Have you been following the Hubble telescope?” he said.
“Heh?”
“They recently aimed it at the most boring and empty patch of sky they could find. After collecting light for weeks, it found ten thousand galaxies thirteen billion light-years away. The human mind can’t comprehend that. And it goes the other way too. The smallest particle used to be a grain of sand. Then a molecule, then an atom, then an electron, then a quark. Now it’s a string. You know what a string is? It’s a millionth of a billionth of a billionth of a billionth of a centimeter. But I was going around like I had it all figured out? And where did it lead me? To wig out at a Seahawks game! That’s over now. I’m welcoming the mystery. I’m comforted by the mystery.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I feel like we’re getting away from the Gratitude List.”
“Prince of Peace!” a voice called over the loudspeaker.
Through the dense green crosshatch, Joe’s group rose, leaving behind their purses and jackets. Twenty folks, none looking great from behind, trudged up the stairs.
“If you go up there,” I said, frustration quickening to panic, “you’re giving up on our marriage.”
“Eleanor…” Joe said.
“I’ve been neglecting you,” I said, beginning to crumble. “I didn’t mean to. But we can’t turn into one of those couples who live on parallel tracks. Oh, Eleanor, she locks herself in her closet and draws her pictures and even her own son says, ‘Mom, that’s just how you are,’ but don’t you worry about Joe, Joe’s got his church friends.” Tears, snot, drool, it was all happening.
A stage manager had arranged the choir on risers. People were muttering, looking for Joe.
“Our marriage and me finding God?” Joe said. “They’re not connected.”
“Prince of Peace!” a voice said from the stage. “We need one more.”
“What if I convince you they are?” I said to Joe.