Рита Браун - Outfoxed

Crawford made no secret of being an Anglophile in everything except cars. Anyone worth their salt was.

He pulled into the parking lot of Saint Luke’s, secure in leaving his Mercedes surrounded by other Mercedes, BMWs, Audis, and Volvos. His ex-wife’s flame-red Grand Wagoneer stood out like a sore thumb. He grimaced, then cut his motor and reached down for his umbrella. He hadn’t yet put the parking brake on, so the car drifted a bit before he realized it. He pressed the brake, irritated at his loss of focus. He turned the motor on and backed properly into the parking place. He locked the car and walked confidently into the church. He sat next to Marty, who smiled reflexively as he nodded to her.

The first year of their divorce he avoided her, sitting on the other side of the church, but he thought of himself as a proper gentleman, so as time passed he moved closer to his ex-wife each week until finally he was sitting beside her. Loath to admit the guilt and loneliness he felt, he couched his behavior in terms of friendship and civility.

The sermon by Reverend Thigpin, a young, swarthy man, intrigued Crawford because he’d chosen as his text Christ’s admonition about a rich man entering heaven.

Reading from Luke, chapter eighteen, verses twenty-two through twenty-five, where Jesus is speaking to a rich man, Reverend Thigpin’s deep voice filled the old building: “ ‘There is still one thing lacking: sell everything you have and distribute unto the poor, and you will have riches in heaven; and come, follow me.’ At these words his heart sank; for he was a very rich man. Then Jesus said, ‘How hard it is for the wealthy to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.’ ” Reverend Thigpin surveyed his congregation as he took a deep breath. “Are we to divest ourselves of all our worldly goods? Let’s look at this in another fashion. At the time this text was written the gulf between rich and poor was cavernous. There was no strong middle class as we know it. Life was brutal, nasty, and short, to paraphrase Hobbes.” Reverend Thigpin could use such references. Episcopalians went to college. They may not have read Thomas Hobbes but they knew who he was.

As Crawford listened to the sermon, he admired the young man’s audacity in speaking thus in the lion’s den. And he agreed with Thigpin’s conclusions. We must read the Bible in historical context. We must cherish the message of forgiveness and redemption.

As to wealth, if one shares, one is doing one’s duty. After all, in ancient Judaea there were no relief agencies. No one today led such a wretched life as the maimed and poor of that time. And what would happen if people of means chose poverty? There would be even more mouths to feed. The choice was to use one’s wealth in a structured, moral manner

Crawford liked that. He was going to remember that phrase, “structured, moral manner.”

When the service ended he leaned over. “May I take you to breakfast?”

Marty studied her fingernail polish, then replied, “The club?”

“Yes.”

Within fifteen minutes they were seated at Crawford’s favorite table by the large fireplace, cherry logs crackling, each drinking a robust coffee.

“You know, Marty, time teaches us all and it has taught me that I allowed my lawyers to manipulate my complex feelings over our parting. I’ve spoken to Adrian”—he mentioned the director of the country club—“and I have purchased a full membership in your name. Now you can golf without those long waits at the public course.”

Her lovely light brown eyes opened wide. “Crawford.”

He lowered his voice. “Perhaps you would tee off with me from time to time, although I will never be as good a golfer as you. Used to frustrate me, Martha.” He leaned forward. “I have been foolishly competitive and controlling. Then I turned forty and I don’t know what happened exactly. Male menopause and all that but it was more. Some kind of primal fear. Didn’t you feel it when you turned forty?”

“No, but I only just did.”

“I thought women feared age more than men.”

“Depends on the woman. Crawford, this is a generous gift. I’ll regard it as a thoughtful birthday present.”

“I sent you a dozen roses for your birthday. I almost sent forty but then I thought, ‘Maybe not.’ ”

“How’s the farm?” She changed the subject.

“Good, although I’m afraid the water will jump the banks again. If that bridge goes down, I’m building a suspension bridge out of steel girders.”

“You’ll rebuild what is already there because it’s utterly perfect. You have an incredible eye.” She laughed low. “Your strip malls look prettier than anyone else’s.”

“Do you ever regret leaving Indiana and moving here with me?”

“No. It’s magical here. I only regret our marriage blew up like a grenade.”

“My fault.”

“I’d like to think that but maybe I’ve had to learn a few things myself. I thought I was inadequate. Then I thought you were inadequate. I’m not using the words I used at the time.” He tipped his head to one side as she continued. “I was raised to believe my task was to complete you and that you would complete me. But I lived through you. When we were young that must have made you feel quite manly, I suppose. But as we jostled along in years, it must have been a burden. And face it, the sex wears off. No one wants to admit it. God knows, the bookstores are filled with remedies about how to keep the fire in your marriage. Perhaps some people can, but we didn’t. I understand your chorus girl.” Using the words “chorus girl” was the only hint she gave of a trace of bitterness. “So you see, it wasn’t exactly your fault. You acted on your feelings. I didn’t.”

“You were bored, too?” He felt so incredibly relieved that she wasn’t swinging the wronged-and-superior-woman cudgel.

“Constricted.” Her hand reached for her throat.

They stopped the conversation while the waitress, the same one he usually had at the club, brought her eggs and his waffles. She refilled their coffee cups, then retreated.

“I went into therapy, you know.”

“I did, too.” She giggled. “I’m still going.”

“Me, too. No one knows but you. Doesn’t look good for a man to be, well, you know.”

“I know.” She told the truth. The double standard cut both ways.

“You won’t rat on me?”

“No.”

“Martha, do you think we could date? Get to know one another again on a better footing?”

She lifted her eyes to his. “Crawford, I never stopped loving you. I stopped trusting you. Perhaps we should take it slow.”

“Tuesday nights?”

“Why don’t we hunt together in the morning first, provided you don’t run Fontaine into any more jumps.”

A sly smile betrayed his glee. “Still mad, is he?”

“Fontaine has an endless capacity for revenge. Underneath that priapic exterior lies something darker than I realized.”

“He has to one-up every other man he meets. Like you once said to me, it’s ‘testosterone poisoning.’ I have a fair amount of the stuff myself.” He poured more maple syrup on his waffles, which were so light they might have flown away.

She leaned closer. “Maybe it’s a deep anger because he’ll never be the man his grandfather was. People say Nathaniel Buruss crushed people underfoot.”

“It’s hard to become rich in business without crushing others. I thought that was a good sermon. Thigpin is quite good. When Tom Farley retired I worried for Saint Luke’s but I think Thigpin is tough, good tough.”

“Me, too. Back to Fontaine. I mean it. Don’t run him into another jump. He’s a pretty good rider. You were lucky this time but I’d stay behind him in the hunt field if I were you.”