Keohane, G. - Solomon's Grave

“Very generous.” From his voice, he knew his father was smiling.

Nathan asked, “What have they got you doing these days?” He wanted to jump in to the topic of the men’s club, but instincts told him to move slowly, keep his father from getting defensive.

“Oh, same old, same old. I’ll be a mainframe dinosaur until I retire. I’m too old to learn any of the GUI, object-oriented stuff the kids work on today. Besides, someone’s got to keep the lights on in this place.”

Nathan only understood half of what his father just said, but he didn’t care. The working world wasn’t something he’d ever have to worry about understanding, save for its effect on his parishioners.

“The pastor’s last service is next weekend; then I officially take over.”

“That’s good.” Then, as if Art couldn’t think of anything else to say he repeated, “That’s good, Nate.” No I’m proud of you , his trademark line. It seemed the right time to broach the reason he’d called.

“Listen, Dad. I know I’ve been away a lot with school, then my stint in Florida. Been kind of out of touch lately.”

“Naw,” Art said. “You called more than most children probably ever would in their lifetime. Don’t worry about it.”

“Well, OK.” Nathan fiddled with a blue and white Bic pen he’d lifted off the desk. “Still, you’ve joined this new group in town and I don’t know anything about it. I have to admit it’s got me a little curious.”

The pause which followed made Nathan wonder if he’d already gone too far. His suspicions were confirmed when Art finally said, “Your mother put you up to this?”

“No, not at all. She doesn’t even know I’m calling. I’m just curious. You’re an adult; you can do whatever you want. I’m just wondering, like I said. I—”

“It’s just a bunch of us guys from town getting together, shooting the breeze. Nothing to get uptight about.” His voice was terse, without the comfortable warmth of a minute ago. Nathan knew he should just let it drop, but something pushed him on. Whatever his father was involved in suddenly felt bigger. Nathan wondered again if this change in behavior had less to do with the men’s club, than with something in the man himself. Drinking? God forbid, another woman? The latter seemed too out of place. Too much to swallow.

“Well,” Nathan said, hardening himself for a possible argument. “Let’s just say I like to know what my new congregation is up to.”

“I’m not part of your congregation, Reverend. I’m your father. Don’t forget that.”

The statement, and its cold, unfamiliar tone hit Nathan as if his father had physically punched him. He found himself without anything to say.

Art continued, “Listen, I have to get back to work. If there’s nothing else?”

Nathan moved his lips, feeling the emotion, the rejection creep along his skin and settle in his chest. He finally managed to say, “No, I guess not.”

“Thanks for calling. I’ll talk to you later.”

The line disconnected. Nathan continued to hold the phone, even when its warning klaxon bleated in his ear.

On the other end of the severed connection, Art Dinneck buried his face in his hands and leaned on the cubicle’s desktop. He took a deep breath through closed fingers, willed himself not to start sobbing. Why had he spoken like that, to Nate of all people? Why did he do the same thing to Beverly every time she asked the same question? It was as if some switch in his head turned on whenever someone pushed him for answers. They’re intruding , a buried voice said, How dare they ask you about us? You’re a grown man—you can make your own decisions. At times it sounded like an actual voice, but when he tried to place it, the sensation passed.

Beverly must suspect more than he originally thought. If Nate was so quick to see the guilt in his father’s eyes, surely Bev saw much more. One night. One stupid drunken night, and everything changed. What had he been thinking? He loved his wife, loved his family and God. But if that was true, why feel such a strong desire to keep away from the church? If anything, he should be falling to his knees and begging for forgiveness, from both the Lord and Beverly; two absolutions which would quickly pull him from the confusing spiral in which he found himself these last few months. Instead, he returned to the men’s club, night after night, pulled there like an addiction.

Waiting for the woman to return, perhaps? the voice asked.

“No,” he whispered through his hands, and hoped no one heard. Too much to drink that night, that was all. For him, who normally had no more than an occasional beer or glass of wine, he must have passed whatever limit his body could handle that night, so much that later events blurred in his memory. The odd thing was he didn’t remember having more than one beer. Still, if it wasn’t for Manny Paulson filling in the blanks as he drove him home that night, Art likely wouldn’t have remembered any of it. Maybe that would have been better. Ignorance is bliss, as the saying went.

Art leaned back in his chair, absently tapped the space bar on his keyboard to keep the screen saver from kicking in. Even now, he had trouble visualizing details about the woman. She had frizzy red hair, he was sure of that. White blouse, big smile. He remembered talking to her after she’d entered the club, something about a car broken down, stranding her for the moment. She decided to stay, “and party.” Those two words were clear. The club hadn’t been crowded that night—Paulson, Quinn, and a couple of others who’d already begun to drink themselves into a quagmire and became lost in their usual poker game. Art did recall that first beer, at least. He wondered, not for the first time, if something had been added to the drink. That implied someone there had done it, and...

...everyone in the Hillcrest Men’s Club can be trusted , the voice in his head said. It is safe there.

No, it couldn’t have been anyone there. Why would they lie about that? After all, he’d come to his senses in the back room, the woman lying beside him with a contented smile. The memory sent a pained revulsion through him.

He leaned forward to pray for forgiveness, for clarity in thought. And, like the other times he’d tried this, he felt only a hesitancy, an unwillingness to give this burden over to God. An invisible hand seemed to fall over him. He grew angry...

...weak man, can’t depend on his own strength....

He cursed his weakness. Was this the man he’d turned out to be? So what? He was drunk that night. Nothing wrong with that. If something happened with the woman, he wasn’t to blame. He couldn’t even remember it except in quick flashes, as if he’d been watching rather than participating. He loved his wife, and would not feel guilty the rest of his life over one mistake.

...if the church tries to make you feel guilty, you should forget all about it....

He looked at his computer screen, focusing through the reflected overhead lights on the program he’d been working on. In the reflection, he could make out the edges of the cubicles behind him. A man with short white hair stood there, watching him.

Art spun in his chair. No one was standing in the aisle outside his cubicle.

There never had been, of course. The building was secure enough in that regard. Peter Quinn would not have been allowed in without an escort. He was seeing things again. The need to go to the club tonight— just for a little while, for crying out loud —came over him like a junkie’s need for a fix.

Not that Art thought of it that way. To him, it was a perfectly natural desire for a man to have.