A Matter of Time (14 page)

Under it, Bartholomew wrote:

Who says we’re friends?

I do
.

Bartholomew hastily responded:

Saint Teresa was right when she told you: “If this is the way you treat your friends, it’s no wonder you have so few of them.”

It hurt when she said that. It hurts now, when you say it
.

Good! Now you know what it feels like!

I know
.

All at once, another thought came to him, hard and cold: You are crazy, thinking you’re talking to God. You’re just imagining
what He might say to you. It’s nothing more than “Let’s Pretend.”

He considered that. It made sense: The psychiatric explanation would probably be that this was some form of mild, schizophrenic
self-delusion, or, taken to the extreme, a multiple-personality disorder. Bizarre, perhaps, but explicable.

And yet… the Bible did say that anyone filled with the Spirit of God should be able to hear His still, small voice within.
Believers had been doing it for centuries. And not just saints or mystics. Look at Tevye, in “Fiddler on the Roof.”

He smiled at that. And besides, even if he
was
imagining it, or making it up, was his imagination not inspired by the Holy Spirit? At the very least, he was giving voice
to his conscience.

He decided to continue the exercise.

All right, Father, what do you want of me?

You can stop behaving like a child
.

That stung. You’re right, he admitted. I have been. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

Do not be sarcastic with me. And give up your self-pity. It is merely anger, denied an external focus
.

That sounds like it came off a Salada tea-bag, he wrote. Then, abashed at being so smart-mouthed, he added: What am I so angry
at?

What do you think?

You?

Yes. Who else?

Father Francis.

My son, he was only speaking for me. It was difficult for him to do, because he is fond of you
.

Bartholomew thought about that. Then he wrote:

Now that you say that, I can see it. I was lonely and—in self-pity. I really wanted to have lunch with them!

Why?

He thought about that and wanted to write something else in response, other than what was coming to him. But if this was—what
he thought it was—there was no point in being anything less than excoriatingly honest. So he wrote:

Probably to release the pressure that’s been building in me these past two weeks down here.

Probably?

All right! I
was
trying to get out of the pressure cooker, if only for an hour or so.

He paused and added: And all Father Francis was doing was keeping the lid on. Your lid.

Yes
.

The poor guy was only trying to do what you were calling him to.

Yes
.

And it cost him.

It usually does
.

Well, you know what? Now—I love him!

Good. He is my gift to you, my son
.

Bartholomew yawned and glanced at his watch—and was astonished to see that an hour had passed. Once again, he asked:

Father, what do you want of me?

You already know
.

If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.

You know
.

Feeling himself getting angry again, he wrote:

I suspect you want me to say “Surrender.” But I already have! Look what I’ve given up for you! I’m not allowed to earn a living.
I’m celibate. I’m under obedience. What more do you want?

Your opinions. Your will. Your independence
.

Why don’t you just say my essence and be done with it!

Your essence
.

Bartholomew threw down the pen, which skittered away under the bed. He got up and with difficulty retrieved it.

This is ridiculous! he wrote. When did anyone ever win an argument with you? And Jacob doesn’t count; he was only wrestling
an angel.

He sighed and laid the pen down. Then picked it up again:

What’s the point of going on with this?

It is important for you to write down what is in your heart, my son. For while I already know what you are going to say, you
do not know what my reply will be
.

They spoke in this fashion for another hour, and gradually Bartholomew’s heart softened. Finally he wrote:

You know, I enjoy this, just talking with you, one on
one. In fact, I think I enjoy it more than anything you and I have ever done.

Why?

He thought for a moment, then wrote: I was only seventeen the last time I saw my earthly father, and he was never one for
talking much. So I guess somehow this—talking with my Heavenly Father—is finishing that.

Your father was a good man, my son. He loved you very much
.

Me, too. I never told him. And it’s a little late now.

He is here with me now, my son. And he knows
.

Bartholomew wiped his eyes, to keep the tears off the pad.

This is weird, he wrote, when his emotions had calmed down. Really weird. But—it’s also the best birthday I’ve ever had.

Another wave of emotion swept over him, and he covered his eyes with his hand, his shoulders shaking.

Then he wrote: Thank you, Father. I love you.

I love you, too. Now get some sleep. There is more we must cover tonight
.

16
  
  
a miserable saturday afternoon

Everyone, it seemed, was miserable that Saturday afternoon. Amy Baxter Bennett sat in the paneled den of her family’s plantation
house, gazing out the window where her son Jamie had been playing with Blitzkrieg, one of her father’s pointers.

Shivering, she drew the beige cashmere cardigan closer about her shoulders. And sneezed, adding another wadded-up tissue to
the small pile beside her chair. Her cold had blossomed into a full-fledged case of the flu. Her head throbbed, her energy
level was zilch, and her father had gotten his doctor to prescribe a potent antibiotic and an even more potent antidepressant.
Most of the time she was halfway to la-la land.

She shivered again. It
was
cold in here, despite the fire Eustace had laid in the hearth. She looked up at the portrait of her father above the cherry
wood mantel, next to the huge Hagerbaumer of a covey of quail breaking cover in the early morning. Avery Baxter was resplendent
in his red Abercrombie & Fitch tweed shooting jacket and chamois vest with its shotgun-shell buttons. He was standing in a
pine grove alongside a horse-drawn shooting
wagon, with his prized Holland & Holland cradled in his arm. Seated at his feet, looking alert, were his two German shorthair
pointers, Panzer and Blitzkrieg.

“You’re such a snob,” she murmured at the portrait. If it were just that, she thought, smiling sadly, she could probably endure
this penance vile, to which she had sentenced herself and Jamie. But the side of her father that had always chilled her, despite
his efforts at genial behavior, was beginning to show again. He always got his way eventually, and it was beginning to look
like he had, once again.

A small noise behind her, made her turn. It was Jamie, in from playing. “Mommy? I miss Dad. I miss our boat.”

“I know, dear.”

The boy looked at her, head tilted. “We are going home soon, aren’t we?”

“I don’t know, darling; we’ll see.”

“I hate it when grown-ups say, ‘We’ll see.’ It’s such a cop-out! They want to say no, but they don’t have the guts!”

“Stop talking like your father.”

“I miss him.”

“You said that.”

He frowned at her. “Well, I want you to know it! I want you to
consider
that, when you make your decision.”

“What decision?”

“About what’s going to happen to us.”

She sighed and shook her head. Their thirty-year-old, eight-year-old. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard you guys.”

“Heard—what?” she asked, suddenly dreading the answer.

“The fight, about what was going to happen to me.”

“Jamie!” she exclaimed, reaching out to enfold him in her arms. “I’m sorry!”

He pulled away. “You guys never fight. Then you did, and now we’re here.”

She was at a loss for words.

Her son wasn’t. “I just want you to know: This place sucks!”

“That’s an ugly expression.”

“Dad uses it. A lot.”

She sighed. “It’s almost supper time. Why don’t you go play computer games.”

Scowling, he nonetheless turned and went down the hall. Avery Baxter had done a shrewd thing in anticipation of their coming.
He had hired an electronic games consultant to fill a room with the games young people played—all the latest, all the best.
And Jamie, in spite of himself, had been impressed.

But he still thought the place sucked, she reminded herself. How did
she
feel about it?

It’s a little late to be wondering about that, she rebuked herself. I mean, since you’ve just done something that will make
this “home” for the rest of your life.

Oh, God, if only he would call!

Down the hall came Eustace, gently bonging the four dinner chimes with the padded mallet.

“What did you do this afternoon, Jamie?” asked his grandfather, when they were all at their places.

“Played computer games.”

“All afternoon?”

“No, sir,” said the boy, poking his peas, “after I’d played with Blitzen.”

His grandfather smiled. “His name is Blitzkrieg.”

“Blitzen, Blitzkrieg, whatever.” The boy shrugged and did not look up.

“It’s an important distinction,” his grandfather went on, with a patient smile. “One is the name of a reindeer, the other
is a concept that revolutionized modern mechanized warfare.”

“Oh,” the boy responded, still not looking up.

“Oh?” his grandfather persisted.

Jamie slammed his fork down, sending peas in all directions. “Okay, I’m sorry, all right?” he blurted out. “I won’t play with
Blitzen any more.”

He turned to his mother and shouted, “You remember what I told you about this place? Well, it does! Big-time!” And with that
he ran from the table.

Her father took a bite of fat-free salad and chewed thoughtfully. “What did he say about this place?”

Amy sighed. “He just misses his father. He’ll get over it.”

She did not tell him the exact quote, because she was beginning to believe that Jamie might be right.

17
  
  
the beater

The White Horse’s chief bartender came down to Colin’s end of the bar. “Phone’s for you,” he said, nodding at the kitchen
end of the bar.

“Who is it?” asked Colin.

“How should I know?”

“Aye, me sainted mother, God rest her soul, warned me never to talk to strangers.” Colin squinted at his friend. “Michael,
me lad, now tell me: Is it man or woman?”

“It’s a man,” said the bartender, wiping his hands on a bar towel. “Take the call or I’m hanging it up.”

“I don’t care to talk to a man. I want to talk to a woman. One woman. My wife.”