Rendezvous with God - Volume One: A Novel

PART ONE

CHAPTER

ONE

IT’S CHRISTMAS EVE. Fifty minutes have passed since I last checked the mail—that would be one Diet Coke, a half-bag of Doritos, and a handful of grapes. It’s not that I was hungry. I wasn’t even interested in the mail. Just bored. And grazing, along with these little excursions through the muddy gravel to the mailbox, gave me something to do. I know I should be grading papers, but I’m only good for so many essays at a time on, The Contemporary Relevancy of Emily Dickinson, before my brain grows numb.

The pewter light of what was supposed to be day had faded and the perpetual fog had turned to heavy mist—though it’s hard to tell the difference out here. I tugged open the mailbox to find the mother lode of junk mail—scores of holiday grocery specials, a real estate ad, one AARP magazine, two going-out-of-business furniture flyers, and a last-minute donation plea from some church I visited once in July.

It wasn’t until I pulled them out that I saw the Christmas card tucked inside. My sixth for the season—if you count my chiropractor and insurance agent. The breezy scrawl and a stamped, Postage Due with a little red arrow pointing to fifty-two cents, meant it could only come from one person. It was postmarked, Barcelona, Spain. I saved it for last. Best to let anger and self-pity fester in anticipation. Tucking the bundle under my arm, I lowered my head against the drizzle and sloshed back down the driveway to the house.

Sigmund, our golden retriever, greeted me at the kitchen door like I’d been gone a week. His neediness was always a comfort—and irritation. Like father, like son, Cindy used to say. It was supposed to be a joke but we both knew better. Not that Cindy didn’t have her own issues. But, somehow, we always managed to ignore them so we could focus more clearly on mine.

I kicked off my shoes and padded across the kitchen tile onto the living room carpet. Removing our shoes was something we agreed upon but it never stuck—the dark path on the ivory-colored carpet a testimony to our failure. When we first bought it, the light color seemed a great idea; no kids, indoor pets, responsible adults.

Well, two out of three wasn’t bad.

Clenching his gooey chew toy and wagging his tail, Siggy followed me to one of the two recliners in the glass-enclosed alcove overlooking the beach. The tide was out. Through windows pebbled with mist I could see the mudflat stretching into darkness. In twelve hours, it would all be different. The bay would have slipped back in, raising my beached rowboat, and lapping at stray pieces of driftwood. That was the beauty of living on the islands of Puget Sound. The scenery was in constant flux—not in great, unforeseen drama, but in safe, predictable patterns.

I noticed the cat had taken my chair. Again.

Karl, move.

He didn’t even bother opening his eyes.

Karl.

I picked him up, all sixteen pounds of overindulged, Special, Prime Cut Kitty Filet, and dropped him to the floor. Why he always chose my chair instead of Cindy’s was a mystery, considering our mutual lack of affection. But mine clearly became his go-to day bed. And at night? Don’t even get me started on the under-the-covers, turf wars for foot space. Still, I’d promised to take care of him until Cindy and her boy toy—seven years her junior—got back from Europe and found a place. Ours was an amicable divorce.

I snapped on the table lamp with its patina of dust and started through the mail. Not that I could focus with that card lurking at the back. But it didn’t stop me from going through the motions of examining each piece, one by one—a warm-up act for the main event. When the time came, I carefully opened the envelope and pulled out the card. It was a generic Santa Claus waving from a generic sleigh with generic reindeer. The text was equally original:

Merry Christmas. Happy New Year.

But it was the signature that got me. After all these months …

Love ya! Cindy and Buster.

Buster. What a stupid name.

I’m telling you, dude, she wants you. Sean’s words from the faculty party continued rattling in my brain. I remembered scoffing and glancing down at the Merlot I held as a prop. Have you been out of circulation so long you don’t know the signals? he said.

Signals?

My point exactly.

I pushed the words out of my head and looked back into the bathroom mirror where I’d been flossing. It had been four days since the faculty party and I still couldn’t shake them. Flattering? Sure, even at my age. And silly? Like being back in junior high.

I closed the cabinet and started for the bedroom then stopped just long enough to check my profile in the mirror. Even under my pajama top there was no missing the slight paunch slowly gaining ground—alright, maybe not so slight—but the operative word was slowly. And slowly could be reversed. In the meantime—I lifted the pajama top and sucked in my gut. I shook my head. Definitely junior high.

I barely entered the bedroom before my mind was back at the party. Sean Fulton—my associate in the English department who sported John Lennon glasses and bow ties—coughed and glanced away. Here she comes. Good luck, partner. Before I could stop him, he disappeared into the festivities.

Hi, Will.

I turned and there was Darlene Pratford, late forties, dressed to kill, with more cleavage showing than a Norwegian fjord.

Hey there, I said, careful to keep my eyes locked on her face. How are things in the biology department?

My biology couldn’t be better. She grinned, smoothing the dress on her thigh. How ’bout yours?

I coughed. It’s hard swallowing and pretending to laugh at the same time.

You okay? she asked.

I nodded. She took another sip of her drink. By the color in her cheeks and the watery eyes, I’m guessing it wasn’t her first. How are you? she said. Adjusting okay?

Adjusting?

You know, out there on the island, all by yourself. Holidays coming up. They say the first year is the hardest.

Actually, I’m doing all right.

Not too lonely?

You get used to it.

Well, if it gets too quiet, you can always give me a call. I could hop the ferry and we could grab some coffee. Compare war injuries. She took another sip. I could give you some tips on how to recover. As an experienced veteran of two divorces, I’m sure she could.

We stood awkwardly amidst the holiday music and party conversations. Well, I stood awkwardly. I hate parties. I don’t mind people. Despite Cindy’s accusations, I like them. Mostly. It’s just small talk that kills me. The superficial clichés. I’d take a deep, one-on-one conversation with anybody—shoe salesman or serial killer—over a room full of people speaking on autopilot. Which probably explains Cindy’s mantra: You don’t know how to have fun. There’s a whole world out there just passing you by. As always, she missed the point. I like the world. But instead of mobs, I’d prefer experiencing it one person at a time.

So, there we stood, my mind racing to find small talk while Darlene continued on her own, not-so-hidden agenda. Rumor has it you’re up for department chair, she said.

I cupped my ear to better hear over the music; some rapper’s rendition of O, Holy Night. There should be a law. Pardon me?

Department chair, she repeated. With Seneca’s retirement, they say you’re next in line.

Yeah, well you know rumors. I caught Sean’s eye across the room, smirking like Yente the Matchmaker.

I think you’d be great.

Really, why do you say that? I wasn’t fishing for compliments, just a little reality to anchor our conversation.

I don’t know. Smart, witty, educated. She took another sip of her drink. All the right qualifications in all the right places.

Oh, hey, I said, there’s Sean. Excuse me, I need to talk to him.

Back in the bedroom, I shook my head as I pulled down the covers. Actually, I was honest when I told Darlene I was getting by. Well, on good days. And the others? A few weeks ago, I began feeling a tightness around my chest. I hate self-pity. People get divorced every day. But the tightness wouldn’t go away. I originally noticed it when I sat at the Golden Fin Sushi Bar enjoying my first solo Thanksgiving dinner. Somewhere between the edamame and the spicy tuna roll it grew harder to breathe. And things got no better. As the days turned to weeks, Christmas carols began to mock. Holiday wishes rang hollow. Each day grew just a little worse. And each night? Well, thank God for Ambien.

I peeled off my socks, folded them neatly on the dresser, and sat a moment on my side of the bed. Always my side. Finally, I slipped under the quilt and cool sheets only to discover the cat had already taken up residence.

Karl.

No response.

I nudged him with my foot. Scoot over.

Nothing.

I tried again but with the same results. Truth be told, his warmth didn’t feel all that bad against my cold feet. So, instead of fighting, I slipped them under his massive, furlined belly and reached for the light. Alright, I sighed, but just this once.

CHAPTER

TWO

IT WAS TOO realistic for a dream. And I never dream in color. But off in the distance I saw a cobalt blue horizon smeared with growing traces of pink. I seemed to be standing on some sort of bluff. Below, stretched a large, flat plateau; black, except for the pockets of fog. Then there were the smells—cool dampness, the roasted-oat smell of dried grass, and the feted mixture of dirt and animal. But it was the quiet sobs that drew my attention. They came from a boy, I’m guessing around six, silhouetted on a boulder overlooking the plain. The light was too dim to see much detail, except for his wavy, black hair, and the coarse robe he was wearing.

I quietly cleared my throat so I wouldn’t startle him. He didn’t even flinch, just slowly turned to face me.

Hi there, I said. Are you okay?

He nodded, rubbing an eye with the heel of his hand. He gave a quiet sniff and asked, Who are you?

I stayed where I was so I wouldn’t frighten him. My name is Will.

You’re not one of them, he said.

Them?

He motioned to an empty tree limb not far away, then to a couple boulders. Suitable locations for any imaginary friend.

Um, no, I said. I’m real. Well, sort of.

He gave his eyes another swipe and giggled.

What?

Your clothes, they’re funny. You don’t live here.

I glanced down to see I was still in my pajamas. Apparently not.

He grinned and looked back over the plain. The horizon was growing more pink.

Should you be up here by yourself? I asked.

He motioned to the empty limb and boulders. I’ve got them.

Right, I said. And your parents?

Mom’s visiting my aunt and uncle. He’s old. He’s going to die.

And your dad?

Which one?

Ah, I thought, a blended family. I said nothing more, just sat in the silence broken only by a slight breeze. The boy also remained silent. I thought it odd to see a child sit so patient and still. But as the designated dreamer, I knew it was my responsibility to move things along, so I asked, Were you crying?

He shrugged.

You can tell me. I’ll forget everything by morning. I eased toward the closest boulder and pretended to address his imaginary friend. May I?

The boy giggled again. Permission granted. I turned back to him and was drawn to his eyes. Golden brown with lighter flecks that almost sparkled.

You sure you’re okay? I said.

He took a deep breath. I just wish—I wish I had some friends.

Ah, I said as I sat. I can relate to that.

You can?

I nodded. Big time.

You’re a bastard, too?

What? No. Is that why you don’t have friends?

He looked to the ground.

What is this, the Dark Ages?

Not yet, he said. Then with another breath, he added, It wouldn’t be so bad if I could do stuff for people. You know, like healing Ben Hazarah. He lives next door and—

Hold it. ‘Healing’?

He grimaced. Sorry, I’m not supposed to tell.

I bet.

But doing stuff for people, that’s the best way to stop being lonely, you know.

Pretty insightful, for what, a six-year-old?

He gave a heavy sigh. Another one of my problems. But it’s so hard.

Hard?

To see everybody hurting. And knowing you can do something but just having to sit around and wait.

Wait? I said. For what?

I’ve got so much to learn.

About?

Another sigh. Feeling what you feel, thinking like you think. He paused and looked back out over the plain. Everyone’s so sad and lonely. That hurts the most. How can you stand it? What do you do?

I have a dog.

A dog?

And a cat.

He gave me a look.

It was my turn to shrug.

Maybe if you helped people more, he said. That’s why we made you, right?

Excuse me?

He started to answer, then shook his head as if he’d said too much.

What about you? I said. Up here crying all by yourself?

I told you. Nobody wants to be with me.

Right, I motioned to the empty tree and boulder. Just you and your little buddies.

Another giggle.

What?

They’re not so little. And they can be real helpful, but …

But?

They’re not like you. They don’t have our … he paused. They weren’t made in God’s image.

I scowled. Six years old, right?

He ignored me. They weren’t made to be his friends.

His friends—God has friends.

That’s why he made you. To be his friend so you can play with him.

God wants to—play with me?

He nodded.

"So that makes me like what, his toy, a little