Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"The cafe is a block north," he said. "I hope you'll like it."

The restaurant was in the downstairs of an older home near Greene Square. A hostess wearing a black skirt and white blouse placed us at a table for two where we could look through a window into a garden much more elaborate than the one at Mrs. Fairmont's house. Everything about the place, from wall decorations to furniture, had a French flavor.

"This is really nice," I said after I'd had a chance to look around.

"The food is good too."

I opened the menu and didn't recognize a single entree by name. Only when I read the ingredients could I partially decipher what was offered.

"It really is a French place, isn't it?" I said.

"The chef is from Marseille."

"How do you know?"

Before he answered, a short waiter wearing rimless glasses came to our table. Vince spoke to him in French, and the man left.

"Is he from Marseille too?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"No, he's from a little town in Provence. He'll send out the chef so we can find out what he recommends."

"You speak French?"

"Enough to get by."

I took a sip of water. The more I learned about Vince, the less confident I felt in his presence. The waiter returned accompanied by a rotund man wearing an apron and a tall white chef's hat. Vince continued to speak exclusively in French. The chef bowed toward me. Vince held out the menu while the three men had a rapid-fire conversation. Most of the other patrons in the restaurant turned to watch. I pressed tightly into my seat, not even trying to pretend I could understand. The chef and waiter left.

"How did it go?" I asked.

"He's going to put together something special that isn't on the menu."

"The menu didn't have any good options?"

"Yes, but he wants to make the lunch memorable."

"It's already that. I've never been in the middle of a French conversation before."

"What foreign language did you take in college?"

"Spanish, but I've only used it in public with a few of the workers at the chicken plant."

As soon as I mentioned the chicken plant, I wanted to cram my napkin in my mouth. This was not the time or place for another discussion about my previous experience as an eviscerator. Vince looked across the room.

"Do you see that painting?" he asked, nodding toward the far wall. "The one above the fireplace."

I turned my head and saw a pastoral scene with vibrant colors. "Yes."

"It's an original. Twentieth-century but in an earlier style. What do you think?"

"I like it."

When I looked back, Vince was staring at me.

"Tell me more about you," he said. "Where you're from, something about your family, your travels."

"Well, I've lived my whole life in rural north Georgia with my parents, two brothers, and twin sisters. I didn't apply to any law schools except Georgia because I can't afford out-of-state tuition. Yesterday, I saw the ocean for the second time in my life. My conversational Spanish doesn't function past basic communication. I can't compete with you in any area of life or experience."

"Life isn't primarily about competition, is it?"

"No, it's about glorifying God," I said.

Vince nodded. "Gerry Patrick told me you were a serious Christian. Your faith made an impression on her, and I wanted to find out why."

"I'm not sure it was a good impression."

"She seemed positive, but the Bible says we shouldn't be surprised by persecution and misunderstanding."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Are you persecuted?"

Vince shrugged. "Imagine how people at the law school react when they find out I believe the Bible is true and Jesus Christ is the only way of salvation. The only acceptable belief is no belief, and the greatest foolishness is commitment to truth."

"How did you come to believe?" I asked.

Vince rubbed the back of his scarred right hand. "In high school I suffered a serious chemical burn to my right hand and arm when a lab partner caused a minor explosion during an experiment. The corrosive activity of the chemicals didn't stop until they took me into surgery."

I winced.

"I spent almost a week in the hospital and have had multiple skin grafts. I usually don't tell people this, but as I suffered, I thought about hell, where the fire never stops and the pain never ceases."

The waiter brought two cups of chilled soup.

"This is an asparagus-based soup," he said. "It sounds weird, but give it a try."

I touched a tiny spoonful to my lips. It was a puree with a much lighter flavor than I expected. I ate a larger spoonful.

"It's good," I said.

Vince ate several bites without speaking. I waited for him to continue. He kept eating, occasionally glancing around the restaurant.

"Are you going to leave me wondering why you decided not to go to hell?" I asked. "That would be stranger than this soup. Which is delicious," I quickly added.

Vince put down his spoon. "Sorry, I have a tendency to focus on one thing at a time. I'm not the best multitasker."

"Then eat your soup before you tell me more."

Vince efficiently reached the bottom of the cup.

"I'm listening," I said when I saw he'd finished. "Why did you think about hell at all? Not many preachers ever mention it."

"In a literature class I'd read Dante's Inferno and Jonathan Edwards' `Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God.' I had a cultural knowledge of the Bible and was familiar with the concept of eternal punishment. But until the accident, everything was theoretical. Afterward pain dominated my life. In between morphine injections I suffered horribly. The pain would ease, but I knew it would return and my mind couldn't escape the thought of suffering at an even more extreme level-forever."

"That's terrible."

"Do you want to change the subject?"

"No, no. Our church believes in hell, but I don't like to think about it. I'm more interested in learning how to obey the Lord in my day-to-day life."

The waiter brought our meal. The food looked like a picture from one of the magazines at Mrs. Fairmont's house.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Blanquette de veau. It's a veal dish."

I took a bite. There were unusual flavors with a hint of onion.

"Can you keep talking?" I asked. "In between bites?"

Vince nodded. "Hell wasn't the only thing I thought about in the hospital. Of course, I thought about my lab partner. He should have been the one suffering, not me. Many times I imagined the chemicals spewing onto his hand and arm instead of mine. Then I read what Paul wrote about forgiving people who have sinned against us. It made logical sense. If I wanted God to forgive me so that I wouldn't go to hell, I needed to forgive the student who sinned against me. I talked to my parents about it. My father listened, but my mother thought I was delusional."

"What did she say?"

"That my mind was too precious a gift to throw away on Judeo- Christian mythology. She's a strict humanist. My father sees the order in science and that makes him doubt random chance as the explanation for the universe."

"Discussions around your supper table must be interesting."

"Anyway, after I got out of the hospital, I started reading the Bible and started attending an Episcopal church not far from our house. The thoughts of hell went away, and the love of God filled my heart."

Vince's description of his conversion left me with doubts. It didn't sound like he'd prayed it through.

"What about your lab partner? Did you forgive him?"

"Yes, and when I told him what happened to me, he prayed to receive Christ too. Now, he's in a postgraduate chemistry program at Rutgers."

We ate in silence for a minute.

"But how do you know God's love is in your heart?" I asked.

Vince smiled. "Oh, when it happens, you'll know."

During the remainder of the meal, he plied me with questions. I had to fight the sense of being interviewed by an anthropologist studying a primitive religious sect. Several times he appeared puzzled, but there was no hint of criticism. I finally decided everything I told him was going into an internal computer file to be processed later.