Life Goes On (3 page)

W
hen my wife and I had agreed to purchase Dr. Neely's ancestral home, we had been so taken with the oak trees, brick sidewalks, and porches, we'd failed to notice the flaking paint and the rotten eaves. I don't do well with heights, but I had, with a little prodding from my wife, been scraping and painting the lower half of the house for the past year whenever I've had a spare moment.

Around the middle of May, I turned my attention to the eaves. I borrowed a ladder from my father and inched my way upward, clinging to the rungs with a white-knuckled grip. I hoped if I could build up enough layers of paint on the wood, I might not have to replace it.

When I reached the second-story window, my knees began to tremble and I felt dizzy. Barbara was standing at the base of the ladder, holding a sofa cushion in the event I fell, which was looking more probable every moment.

“Why don't we hire someone to do this?” she yelled up from the ground.

“I can do it myself,” I shouted back.

It would stagger the mind to know how many men in Harmony have perished while saying, “I can do it myself”—that brief, seemingly harmless declaration, followed by an explosion or anguished scream or severed limb.

I peered at the wood sill beneath the window. It looked spongy. I pulled a screwdriver from my back pocket and began probing. The screwdriver sank in up to its hilt.

“Remind me to replace this piece,” I called down to Barbara.

“Do you know how to do that?”

“No, but I can read a book about it.”

My books on home repairs are a source of merriment to the other men in town, who consider directions an affront to their masculinity. These men also believe it's immoral to hire someone to work on their houses so long as they can stand erect. Consequently, most of the houses in town are monuments to the half-finished project.

Two winters before, Bill Muldock's roof had sprung a leak. He'd covered the entire roof with blue plastic sheets until the weather was warm enough to reshingle the roof, which he still hasn't gotten around to doing. Kyle Weathers is his neighbor and thought about complaining to Bill, but then he'd have had to fill in the hole in his own yard from when the sewer pipe had burst the year before.

Bill had read in a magazine about a new type of roofing material that can be sprayed on using a garden hose, and he's waiting for Uly Grant to order it in at the hardware store. Kyle isn't filling in the hole because he's been thinking of putting in an ornamental pond in that very spot, just as soon as he has time.

I would be the same way if Barbara didn't step in and finish the jobs I'd started. As a result, she is well versed in home repair and can often be seen in Grant's Hardware buying plumbing innards and various tools. I hear about it whenever I visit the Coffee Cup.

“Say, Sam, I saw your wife buying duct tape last week. What'd you mess up this time?”

After painting the first level of our home, I decided it would be less embarrassing to hire Ernie Matthews to finish the job than it would be for the Coffee Cup men to drive past, see my wife perched on the ladder, paintbrush in hand, and taunt me for the remainder of my life.

So in late May I stopped by Ernie's house. I'd never been inside Ernie's house before, and seeing it in person didn't increase my confidence in his abilities. The screen was torn out of the front door and the floor of the porch was rotted through. Even before I crossed the porch, I detected an unpleasant odor. I knocked on the door.

“Who is it?” Ernie yelled from inside the house.

“It's me, Sam Gardner.”

“Oh, come on in, Sam. But watch where you step. Haven't had time to clean things up this week.”

From the looks of it, Ernie hadn't had time to clean things up for several years. Cages were stacked around the living room and kitchen. Ernie was seated on the couch, wedged between two cages, a TV remote control in his hand, which he was jabbing vigorously in the direction of the television.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hi, Ernie,” I said in a strained voice, trying not to breathe.

“What's up?”

“Just wanted to know if you could maybe paint the top half of my house.”

“I'm not doing much painting these days,” Ernie said. “Been too busy.” He continued working the remote control, cycling through the stations. “I'm in the ferret business. Wanna buy a ferret?”

“Not right now,” I said. “Maybe later.”

“So how come you just want the top half of your house painted?” Ernie asked.

“Uh, well, I did the bottom part myself. But I'm not so good on ladders.”

Ernie thought for a moment, then looked around, surveying his ferrets. “I got my hands full here, what with all my corporate interests, but maybe I could finish paintin' your house. But I got to warn you, I sent Oprah a picture of me and my ferrets and if she calls and wants us on her show, we're off to Hollywood.”

“I'm willing to take that chance. Could you start tomorrow?”

“Don't see why not.”

The next morning, Ernie still hadn't arrived by the time I was ready to leave for work. “Have him start on the front of the house first,” I told Barbara. At any given time, Ernie was painting three or four houses in town, moving from one to the other as the mood struck him. If he painted the front first, it would look nice from the street for the remaining two months it took him to finish the job.

I phoned at noon to see if Ernie had started.

“He's here,” Barbara reported. “And I told him to start on the front of the house, just like you said. But something doesn't look
quite right. Maybe you ought to come home.”

It's a three-block walk from the meetinghouse to home, which I covered in just under two minutes. My wife was standing on the sidewalk, her hands on her hips, inspecting the house from a variety of angles.

“That doesn't look like the right color,” she said as I approached. “What do you think?”

I studied our home. “I think you're right. Hey, Ernie, what color of paint is that?”

“Eggshell.”

I groaned. “That's the wrong color. I told you ecru.”

Ernie climbed down the ladder. “I had some eggshell left over from Hester Gladden's house. With all the trees in your front yard, people won't be able to tell the difference.”

“I can tell the difference,” my wife yelled from the sidewalk.

I was in a predicament. If I made Ernie mad, he'd pack his paintbrushes and leave. Still, I didn't think it was asking too much for Ernie to paint the upper half of our house the same color as the lower half. I lowered my voice conspiratorially, draped my arm around Ernie, and steered him out of earshot of my wife. “Personally, Ernie, I think it looks just fine. But you know how picky women can be.”

“Don't I know it,” Ernie said.

Ernie is forty-two and has never been married, due to the pickiness of women, who for some reason don't feel romantically inclined toward a man who never shaves his neck.

“Darn women,” Ernie said.

“You got that right.”

Now it was us guys standing united against the women of the world. I was halfway home. “We're probably better off just painting it the way she wants it.”

Ernie glanced at Barbara. “Yeah, I suppose you're right.”

With the crisis averted, I went in the house for lunch. A grilled cheese and tomato soup with peaches in heavy syrup. My favorite.

By one o'clock I was back at my desk, working on my sermon. People haven't been listening as closely to my sermons as they once did. They appear bored. The month before, I had purchased a new book on the writing and delivery of sermons called
From Humdrum to Hallelujah!
The first chapter concerned itself with the appropriate facial expressions a pastor should employ while preaching. The author advised keeping the eyebrows raised throughout the sermon to convey enthusiasm, the idea being that the congregation won't be enthusiastic if the minister isn't.

The next Sunday, I kept my eyebrows raised during the entire sermon, but only succeeded in giving myself a headache.

On the walk home, Barbara asked me if anything was wrong with me during my sermon.

“I was trying to appear enthusiastic,” I said.

“You looked alarmed, like you had to use the bathroom.”

The book also suggested working personal anecdotes into the sermon that revealed the pastor's frailties. So while preaching on the text, “Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” I confessed my struggle with lust.

Fortunately for me, no one was paying attention except my wife, whose job it is to look enthralled with my every public utterance.
But she was less than enthralled with my confession and for the next several days grilled me on the object of my lust. When I said it was her, she snorted. “That shows what you know,” she said. “You can't lust after your own spouse.”

“You most certainly can.” I'd looked up the word in the dictionary. “
Lust
means to have an intense desire or need for someone or something. Why can't I have an intense desire or need for you?”

That mollified her somewhat. The next day I gave
From Humdrum to Hallelujah!
to Pastor Jimmy of the Harmony Worship Center, hoping it would make his life as miserable as it had my own.

This is our fourth year back home. All things considered, it's been a good move. I like it because I have to be only slightly better than the other men in town, and the competition is not very stiff. As long as my neck is shaved and I refrain from wearing a seed-corn cap, I'm head and shoulders above the crowd.

It occurs to me that most of the people in town are content with the humdrum. If they wanted hallelujah, they'd live someplace where excellence isn't suspect. Ernie Matthews is right. No one would have noticed if our house had been painted two colors. It's the same way with my sermons. If they're bad, I'm the only one who notices. Everyone still shakes my hand and says, “Nice sermon, Pastor,” whether it was or not.

Ernie finished painting our house on a Friday, after an unusually quick two weeks. That evening, we stood out front underneath the oak trees marveling at our home. There are few moments as pleasant as surveying your freshly painted house, knowing you're good for another ten years.

“Isn't it beautiful?” I said.

“It looks very nice,” my wife agreed. “Ernie did a good job.”

“Don't forget that I painted the bottom half.”

“I haven't forgotten. I still haven't scraped all the paint off the windows.”

We walked up the sidewalk to the porch and sat down on the swing, rocking back and forth, enjoying a slight breeze from the west, watching our boys play baseball in the side yard.

“Sometimes,” I said, “I catch myself thinking of the boys being grown and gone away and it being just you and I rattling around in this old house.”

“You like that feeling?”

“I do,” I said. “I really do.”

We continued to swing in a companionable silence.

“I hope the boys don't move too far away,” Barbara said after a while.

“Maybe just far enough away to meet some nice girls and get married,” I said. “Then they can move back here and start having babies and help me paint the house.”

Barbara laughed. She reached over and took my hand. “You know what I love about you?”

“My rugged good looks?”

“Besides that.”

“I give up. What?”

“A lot of men would never admit they were too scared to get up on a ladder and paint their house, but not you.”

“It's not that I was afraid to do it, or that I couldn't do it,” I
explained. “I just knew Ernie needed the work. I did it to help Ernie.”

“That's another thing I love about you. You're always thinking of other people.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“It isn't always easy to point to a particular instance and say, “That was the moment our house became our home.” But I knew this was such a time—sitting on the porch swing, my arm around my beloved, whom I intensely desired and needed, listening to the slap of a ball in a baseball mitt.

“Now all we need is a new roof,” Barbara said.

“Funny you should mention that. Bill Muldock told me about something you can spray on your roof that keeps you from having to replace it. He read about it in a magazine.”

My wife sighed.

Yes, this was the moment, I thought. Fully aware of my home's every blemish, but loving it just the same.

I
t was early in June, and the church was holding its annual meeting to decide whether they'd keep me on another year. Theoretically, we were to wait quietly upon the Lord to discern His will in the matter. But the way it really worked was that I could keep the job so long as I didn't annoy a majority of the congregation. Dale Hinshaw wanted to know where I stood on the evolution issue and suggested I was derelict in my duties for not preaching about hell. Miriam Hodge gave him his customary five minutes to rant before announcing it was the Lord's will for me to stay. The congregation rumbled their approval and, with that, I was on the payroll for another year.

The next day was Friday, my sermon-writing day. When Frank arrived, I was seated at my desk, joining paper clips into a length while quibbling on the phone with my wife about where to have lunch. We meet for lunch every Friday. It's our standing date, our ongoing effort to keep the marital flame ablaze. So far all it's done is provide one more thing to argue about, namely, where to dine. I
prefer hamburgers and onion rings from the Coffee Cup, while Barbara is fond of tuna-salad croissants with pasta salad and a fruit cup at the Legal Grounds Coffee Shop.

“How can you stand that place?” she said. “It's so greasy. They'd fry the orange juice if they could figure out a way.”

A week before, the Coffee Cup had caught fire after Vinny tried dousing a match by immersing it in dishwater. It was the first time the fire department had ever been called to put out a sink. It was that greasy.

“It's the same old people talking about the same old things,” she said. “You don't even like some of them. Why do you keep going there?”

I like to think that eating at the Coffee Cup is my way of heeding Christ's call to make disciples of all nations. Men not known for their spiritual prowess stop past my table to solicit my opinion on certain religious matters, like whether their sister's pastor, who says people are only saved if they've been baptized in the name of Jesus, is full of beans.

“Maybe you know her minister,” they say. “He pastors over in Ohio.”

It puzzles me why people think I know every minister in a three-state radius.

Occasionally, someone will accost me while I'm eating lunch. When Kyle Weathers's cousin had a minister in Alabama who left his wife and kids to run off with the church organist, I was a handy target. “What is it with you ministers anyway? Standing up there tellin' the rest of us what to do, then pullin' a stunt like that,” Kyle complained. “You oughta be ashamed of yourself.”

I apologized on behalf of all ministers everywhere, then returned to my hamburger and onion rings.

But every now and then, an opportunity will arise for me to minister. Like when Vernley Stout, the bank president, had to have a double knee replacement, and he asked me to pray for him. Vernley was eating a triple cheeseburger and drinking a milkshake, while pondering aloud why God had caused his knees to go bad. It was all I could do not to point out that Vernley's being a hundred pounds overweight might have had something to do with it. Instead, I prayed for Vernley and even drove to the hospital in the city to visit him.

Seeing Vernley writhing in the hospital bed, twisting in pain, with Frankenstein stitches down both knees, deepened my appreciation for tuna-salad croissants with pasta salad and a fruit cup. So I gave in and took my wife to the Legal Grounds for lunch.

“Now isn't this better than the Coffee Cup?” Barbara said, as she speared a chunk of watermelon from her fruit cup.

It was better, if only because being in the same room as Deena Morrison, the owner of the Legal Grounds, was far more appealing than spending my lunch hour with the mechanics from Harvey Muldock's garage. Of course, I couldn't tell my wife that, so instead I said, “Yes, and I don't feel greasy like I do after I've been to the Coffee Cup.”

“Exactly,” she agreed.

I finished my fruit cup, left a dollar tip for Deena, kissed my wife good-bye, then walked back to the meetinghouse office.

It was one of those early summer days a person would have to
work hard to ruin. Which isn't impossible, of course, as some people have a knack for spoiling perfectly fine days. People who, when they reached heaven, would complain that the light hurt their eyes and ask God to dim His radiance, and while He was at it, could He please tell the cherubim and seraphim to pipe down, for crying out loud.

But my day was remarkably free of such people. Even Frank was in a pleasant mood when I arrived back at the meetinghouse.

He congratulated me for keeping my job another year, then told me to close my eyes, that he had a surprise for me.

“You're not going to kiss me, are you?”

“Of course not.”

I heard him rise from his desk, open the closet door, then grunt. “Okay, you can open your eyes.”

There was a large box on Frank's desk, tied shut with string. Small holes were cut in the top of the box. I heard a slight rustle.

“Well, go ahead, open it up,” Frank said.

I untied the string and peered in the box. Two black eyes peered back. I saw a flash of white teeth and heard a snarling sound.

“Whatever it is, it's growling at me. Does it bite?”

“It might at first, but probably not after it gets to know you.”

“What exactly is it?” I asked.

“A ferret.”

“Oh.”

I continued to look in the box. “Well, Frank,” I said after a while, “I don't know what to say.”

Frank beamed. “I knew you'd like it. I got it from Ernie Matthews. Did you know he raises them?”

“Yes, I had heard something about that.”

“Well, I thought you and your boys might enjoy it.”

“I'm sure we will.” I knew I had to choose my next words carefully, so I thought for a moment, then said, “But Frank, you're the one who'd probably like the company. If you want to keep it for yourself, I certainly wouldn't blame you.”

“Nope, having a pet isn't for me. I want my freedom. Oh, by the way, he'll need a cage so he doesn't chew on the furniture. I think they sell them over at the hardware store. And Ernie told me they'll spray if you don't get 'em neutered.”

I nodded. “Well, it's good to know those things, I guess.”

“Oh, one more thing. You have to be careful what you feed them. They're prone to diarrhea. Other than that, they're real low maintenance.”

“I guess I better this little guy home,” I said.

I picked up the box, held it at arm's length, and loaded the ferret in the backseat of my car. It was scrambling around inside the box, scratching to get out.

First, a cage, I thought.

I drove to Grant's Hardware. Uly Grant was standing behind the counter with his son, Billy.

“Hey, Uly. Hi, Billy. How are you, buddy?”

“Fine, except I have head lice,” Billy said, just as I reached down to rub his head.

I drew my hand back. “Sorry to hear that, Billy.”

“That's okay. Today's my birthday.”

A thought passed through my mind. “Twelve, right?”

“Yep.”

“Say, Billy, I've brought you a birthday present. But you and your daddy will need to come out to the car.”

Billy grinned. Uly came out from around the counter. “Sam, this is awful nice of you. How'd you know it was his birthday.”

“Uh, it's in the church calendar. Remember?”

“Oh, that's right.”

We walked through the door to my car. “It's right here in the backseat, in the box.”

I slid the box across the seat, placed it on the sidewalk, and opened the lid. The ferret poked its head out of the box.

“Oh, boy, a rat!” said Billy, thoroughly pleased.

“Not exactly,” I said. “It's a ferret.”

To say Uly was thrilled was a stretch, but it was Billy's birthday, and their dog had just died, so he kept quiet.

“You'll love it too,” I told Uly. “They're a lot of fun. Very gentle animals.”

“I thought I heard where a lady over in Cartersburg got attacked by one and it bit her nose off,” Uly said.

“That was an urban legend,” I said. “It never happened. These little guys are gentle as lambs.” I reached out to stroke the ferret's head. A low snarl rose from it's throat and the fur on its neck stood up. I snatched back my hand. “They do get a little cranky when they're hungry, though.”

Uly looked skeptical. “Well, I suppose we can keep it. Billy, what do you say?”

“Thank you, Mr. Gardner.” He reached up and gave me a hug,
which was all it took to give me head lice, though it took several days for me to notice.

Frank was waiting when I came into the office the next morning. “So how'd the boys like it? What'd you name it?”

I thought quickly. “Furhead,” I said. “Furhead the Ferret. And the boys love it.”

Then I changed the subject.

The next day I began itching in earnest. I asked Barbara if she noticed a rash on my head. She parted my hair to observe my scalp, then recoiled. “Lice!” she shrieked. “You've got head lice!” She ran to the bathroom to wash her hands. “Get out of the house and don't come back inside,” she yelled from the bathroom. “Go get a haircut.”

The last time I'd had a burr haircut was in the first grade. Ever since then I'd worn it just off the collar. So when I came home from Kyle's barbershop shorn like a sheep and smelling most unpleasant, Barbara and the boys were beset with curiosity.

Levi sniffed around me. “What'd they put on you, Daddy?”

“Kerosene,” I said glumly. “I have to keep it in my hair for twenty-four hours.”

“Back away from your father, honey,” Barbara warned Levi. “You,” she said, pointing at me, “are sleeping in the garage tonight.”

I felt like a leper, with open sores oozing pus. My penance, I thought, for unloading the ferret on Billy Grant and lying to Frank. Still, it wasn't all that bad in the garage. It was not unlike being a monk—a deep sense of guilt, coupled with a bad haircut and an uncomfortable place to sleep. Now I knew why monks got up early.

When I woke the next morning, I considered phoning in sick to church, but figured I'd lied enough lately, so I put on my good clothes and walked with my family to meeting for worship.

A few people mentioned my hair. Dale Hinshaw was positively gleeful. He thought my burr haircut signaled a theological shift, that I was giving up my liberal ways and getting serious about obeying the Word, specifically 1 Corinthians 11:14: “Does not nature itself teach you that for a man to wear long hair is degrading to him.” Dale was so pleased with my conversion, I didn't have the heart to tell him it was head lice.

Frank was standing in the entryway, passing out the bulletins. He bent down to Levi. “Say, little man, how's ol' Furhead getting along?”

Levi looked puzzled, then it occurred to him Frank was probably talking about me, whose hair did, in fact, appear rather furry.

Levi laughed. “Fine, but Mom made him sleep in the garage last night.”

“Don't you have a cage for him?” Frank asked.

“Nope, just the garage. But Mom said he could come in the house once he takes a bath and gets the smell out.”

“Well, sure, that makes sense.” Frank reached in his pocket. “Here, I brought a carrot for you to give him.”

“I'm not sure he likes carrots. He doesn't eat many vegetables.”

“What does he like?” Frank asked.

Levi thought for a moment. “Well, this morning for breakfast he had Cocoa Krispies.”

“Are you sure that's good for him?”

“Mom said he was gonna get fat, eating like that. She fixed him oatmeal, but he wouldn't eat it.”

“I didn't know he was that picky,” Frank said.

“Mom said it's like having another kid.”

“Gee, I hope he's not too much trouble. I suppose if you want he can come live with me.”

“No, we like having him.”

“Well, okay then.” Frank leaned closer to Levi and whispered in his ear, “But you tell your Dad if he potties on the carpet, he can come stay with me.”

Levi laughed. “Okay, you can have him if he starts doing that.”

Frank rubbed Levi's hair, which was all it took to give him head lice, though it was several days before he noticed.

On Monday, Levi and Addison had their hair buzzed and their heads swabbed with kerosene. I took Tuesday off to wash all the bedding and clothing. We hung the bedding on the clothesline to dry, which occupied the boys a good part of the day, playing fort among the sheets.

Frank came to work on Wednesday sporting a burr haircut, reeking of kerosene, and appearing thoroughly miserable. It was hard to feel sorry for him.

He deserves it, I thought. If he hadn't given me that stupid ferret in the first place, we'd still have our hair.

But I didn't say that. Instead, I apologized for passing on the head lice, and even though my knees had been stiff the past few days and I worried they might need to be replaced, I invited Frank to join me for lunch at the Coffee Cup, reasoning if I was going to have an operation, it might be wise to go into it weighing a few extra pounds.