Fiction

A Flash of Gold

 

            The voice of man on the phone sounded unbearably familiar.  Who was he, answering her ad for the wedding band she’d found at Clark Reservation?  Dorothy listened hard.  Just before he said his name, she knew:  he was the pastor of her church, a man with the ridiculously appropriate name of Foster Lovejoy.  His parents, she had often thought, must have had a weird sense of humor.  She saw a lot of him, but hadn’t expected him on the phone.

She described the ring to him, a simple gold band, 14 karat, no markings. Described briefly where she had found it:  along the lake trail below the cliff trail. It occurred to her that she hadn't seen Clara Lovejoy at Church for quite a while.  There were rumors.  Dorothy had been so busy making arrangements for her mother's many tests and treatments and sudden move to the nursing home that she hadn't had time to pay attention to the Lovejoy gossip.

            Mr. Lovejoy—Foster, as he preferred to be called—requested that she meet him for lunch.  When she said she had business to attend to at the nursing home in the morning, he suggested they meet at Danzer's at 1 PM.  She arrived a little early and was seated at a booth by the window.  She watched as he drove up in a black Lincoln.  Maybe black because he presided at so many funerals.  A big car probably because he had such long legs.  He unfolded himself from the car and stood up, his body lean as the mink Dorothy's uncle Ted used to raise.  Sheaves of white hair glowed in the early spring sun like the large patches of snow retreating on the distant hills.  He looked tired and older than she remembered, though she had seen him just last Sunday. He looked straight toward her and didn't seem to see her.  He turned quickly away, and Dorothy felt a little slighted.  Then she realized he probably saw only his own reflection.  Perhaps it doesn’t please him.  Too bad, he’s sort of cute.

            He blinked and stared around the restaurant as he straightened as if from bending to come in.  It was dark inside and, again, he probably couldn't see her.  She waved, feeling shy and a little foolish.  A smile changed his whole face from gruff-looking to almost radiant.  He strode forward reaching out his hand to shake hers.

            She held out her hand.  His ring was on her finger.  Seeing it, she was embarrassed.  She had slipped it on her pointer finer—it was too big for the ring finger—when she found it at Clark, so she would not forget to report it.  If she put it in her pocket, she knew from past experience it would slip her mind on the way back as she paused to look at fossils, feathers, mosses brilliant with new spring green and doves nesting in the hemlocks by the lakeshore.  When she’d stopped at the park office and found that no one had reported a missing ring, she kept it on her finger until she placed an ad for it. So she wouldn't forget.  Later, she kept it there to keep from losing it in the increasing chaos of her life.  It was starting to look as if it belonged there.  But of course, it wasn't hers, and was part of another marriage.  Foster and Clara's marriage.  She pulled her hand back, slipped the ring from her finger, felt the blood rush to her face. 

            "S-sorry," she stammered, "I just wanted to keep it safe."  She held out the ring.

            "That's okay, it's better than what I did."

            "What do you mean?"

            "Well, I lost the ring," he said, taking it gently from her and turning it in his fingers. She wondered if he noticed the dent on one side and the fact that it was a little flattened--no longer perfectly round.  She had studied it carefully in the days she'd been wearing it, looking for initials or any other inscription, some sign of identity.  She'd found none.

            "How did you lose it?" she asked, after the waitress handed them their menus.  He hesitated, and a shadow crossed his face.

            "I was throwing snowballs with my grandchildren at the top of the cliff.  It flew off my finger somehow.  An arching flash of gold, flung high.  I heard it clang on the rocks below."

            "Did you look for it?"

            "No, I had the grandkids, and Adam and Francie are too little to take the far cliff or lake cliff trails.  And then it snowed  . . ."  His voiced trailed off and there was a faraway look in his eyes that Dorothy couldn't decipher.  "How did you happen to find it?"  He asked, turning toward her and smiling again.  But his smile looked pained.

            Dorothy recounted her tale of snowshoeing through the park, down the long narrow path to the lake, circling left out across the lake, which was frozen and snow-covered.  Coming back around, she had seen a flash of gold in the trees and found the ring hung on a small twig on a sugar maple about 30 feet up the steep side of the rubble heap at the bottom of the cliff.

            "It was so steep that if I hadn't been wearing crampons, I would never have gotten up to where it was, and if the snow wasn't so deep, I could never have reached it."  Foster had cocked his head and was looking at her somewhat skeptically, with wide eyes and a puzzled expression.

            "Why are you looking at me like that?  Because I weigh 250 pounds and have grey hair, you think I can't climb up a steep grade on snowshoes and crampons?"  Dorothy heard her own voice becoming suddenly strident and angry.  She remembered going in to Eastern Mountain Sports to buy a North Face Expedition jacket for a trip along the Colorado trail in October.  One of the sales-boys, still downy-faced and soft-cheeked, took one look at her plump greying body in a flour-sack of a dress and said, "You don't need that jacket; it’s for serious climbing."  She'd walked angrily out without it, embarrassed and unhappy.  That scenario had been repeated several more times.  Why did people think you had to look like an ad for Patagonia in order to be competent in the woods?

            "No, no, that's not it, I was thinking how amazing you are, and how courageous.  I was thinking I would never attempt something like that myself. Never!  Please, I'm sorry I upset you, don't misjudge me."

            "Forgive me; I've had some nasty encounters that have left me feeling a little bitter."  She told him about the young salesman at EMS.  The waitress returned and they apologized for not having looked at their menus.  They opened them quickly and made some hasty selections before she returned.

            When they had finished their meals and walked out together, the Reverend asked Dorothy if she would like to take a little walk.  "It's the first really warm day of spring,” he added, "we shouldn't waste it."

            "We could go up to Clark," she suggested.  He agreed and asked if she'd like to ride up with him and pick up her car at the restaurant after the walk.  When they got out of the car, Dorothy looked at Foster's shiny black shoes and suggested they walk up the service road.

            "I have a pair of running shoes in the trunk," he said, sitting on the side of the car to slip them on. 

            "We could walk up the service road anyway.  The cliff trail probably still has ice and snow on it."

            "It's such a nice day, let's try the cliff trail.  It’s so much prettier.  If it's bad, we'll go back and take the service road."

            "Okay, it is nice. It smells like spring, and there're robins over there.  The sun feels good after all those dark snowy days."

            They walked along side by side admiring signs of spring and stepping gingerly over the snowy and icy spots.

            Dorothy said she'd like to go back to Loretto and finish up some paperwork for her Mom's account there, if he didn't mind. 

“I could go with you and visit your Mom.”

"She’d probably be happy to see you—but she’s a little confused after her brain surgery.  Maybe we could turn back in about 15 minutes.  I'd like to get there before the business office closes at 5.  I have to sign some papers and they said they'd have them ready after 4:30."  She looked at her watch, "Yeah, 15 more minutes, I hate to go back."

            "Me, too."

            After they'd walked a while longer, turning their faces up to the sun, admiring fossils in the rocks and the stunning view of the still mostly frozen lake with its fractal-like star patterns, they came to a narrow spot in the trail.  Dorothy went first and Foster dropped back.  She could see blue on the rocks ahead and knew immediately what it was before she could focus.  Two people were having sex.  Half under a bright blue blanket.

            She glanced at her watch.  It wasn't time to turn back yet, they had five more minutes out and five back.  But if they kept going, they'd have to walk past the tangled people twice. "Foster, there are people ahead making love.  Shall we walk past or go back."

            "Walk past; I don't want to go back yet."

            Dorothy hurried past. The people having sex pulled the blue blanket over their faces.  A small pair of jeans lay on the rocks beside them.  Dorothy averted her eyes as much as possible on the rough trail.  Foster followed her.

            When they got out of earshot, Dorothy asked, "Why would people make love right in the trail?  If I were going to do that, I would go off in the bushes somewhere.  And if I wanted to make love with a view of the lake, I would go on one of the ledges off the cliff, out of sight.  Oh, sorry Reverend."  She felt herself blushing.

            "Please call me Foster," he said, grinning.  "I'm not Catholic, as you know."

            "Well, sorry, it seems weird to talk to a minister about sex."

            "How about thinking of me as a friend rather than as a minister.  I'm just a person, like you."

            "I guess ministers must have friends.  Other ministers?"

            "No, not other ministers.  Regular people.  Just like you."

            "Are you sure?"  Dorothy was being silly, teasing.  Of course ministers had friends.  But could they have lady friends, if they were married?  And what had she heard about Clara?  "What happened with you and Clara?  I heard some vague rumors."

            "There's nothing vague about the rumors.  She's left and is getting a divorce and engaged to Sam Freund.  The divorce papers are scheduled to arrive on May 26 and they are getting married on Memorial Day."

            "Are you sad?"

            "Yes . . .  and no.  I really loved her, or thought I did.  We were married a long time and she was a good mother and partner.  Ran the Bible school and the women's programs at church.  As you know.  But she was never warm or loving.  She was kind of prickly.  I was devastated at first, when she left.  Felt like someone had cut off half my body.  Ground up my heart for hamburger.  But after a while I realized that in some ways, I was happier without her. I am still kind of sad, though.

            "I keep picturing her with Sam Freund.  They are both so cranky I can't imagine how they can stand each other.  But maybe it's a match made in heaven."

            "Sounds more like hell, to me.  Sounds like Billy Angel.  He didn’t deserve that stupid nickname.  Clara could never have been as bad as he was."

            "She was pretty abusive.  I know you were at Vera House, the women's shelter, so Billy Angel was no angel.  Neither was Clara.  She used to throw things.  Hard, with the intent to hurt.  And she could be mean.  I loved her, though.  She was smart and funny and sometimes sweet as could be.  The love of my life."

            "The love of your life?"  Dorothy wanted to puke.  How could he call someone who threw things at him the love of his life?  But then again, Billy Angel threw things at her.  Once, he threw a mug full of beer at her, so hard that it when it missed her, it made a big dent in the stove.  Another time, he was working on the car, and he threw the carburetor at her and it made a deep hole in the garage door.  And she'd gone on loving him until he left her for Betti the librarian.  Betti with her horse teeth and flat chest, she thought, spitefully.  Puke-worthy for sure. After he was screwing Betti, she started seeing Gerry, and that was when Billy Angel came back and beat her up.  Repeatedly.  That was when she'd called the cops and had a restraining order put on him.  Which he broke.  And she ended up at the shelter.  Billy Angel was not the love of her life.  Neither was Gerry, who made himself scarce when Billy Angel threatened him.  She never had a love of her life.  And at 58, she probably never would.  She would die without having the love of her life.  A shiver a pain crossed through her heart.

            "Oh, oh," she said, "We've already gone farther, or longer, than we should have.  We need to go back if we’re going to make it by 5:00.  But to tell you the truth, I am not sure I want to walk back past those people who are having sex.  I feel as if we're intruding.  It's not really fair of them to make us feel that way, but I'm a little uncomfortable.  What do you think?"

            "Can you take care of that business tomorrow?  I could arrange to visit your Mom tomorrow or another time."

            "Yeah, I need to collect some clothes for my Mom anyway.  A hairbrush and toothbrush and such.  How about you?"

            "Tomorrow would be fine for me. Tonight, I have to attend a “Help for the Bereaved” meeting at 7:30.  I am one of the moderators for this evening’s speakers.  But it's not even 5.  Can we make it around the trail in half an hour or 45 minutes if we keep going?"

            "I'm not sure.  It depends on the trail condition.  It could be fine, it could be difficult, or could even be impassable.  Sometimes, in the early spring, the trail submerges in the lake.  Or, to be more precise, the lake rises with rain and snowmelt and swallows the trail."

            "Well, it's a beautiful day.  I'd love to walk a little longer.  Why don't we check it out?  We can always come back this way later."

            The trail was easy and the air warm and smelled of damp hemlock needles.  They stood together at the edge of the cliff again, looking down at the skin of ice.  Geese flew in overhead and others answered from the water.  A lone goose honked plaintively until it joined another.  Perhaps its mate.  Dorothy felt a pang looking at them.  Walking with Foster was stirring up a lot of painful memories she usually avoided thinking about.

            "You know," he said, "I have a confession to make.  I didn't lose that ring throwing snowballs with the grandkids.  I threw it over the cliff in a fit of rage at Clara.  I did lose my grandfather's wedding band throwing snowballs when I was sixteen--it just sort of flew off my hand, along with the snowball.  But not this one.  I'm sorry I lied to you.  Please forgive me."

            "Wow!  I never thought you, of all people, would tell a lie.  I'm sort of shocked; Foster, to tell the truth.  Forgive me for asking, but do you make a habit of lying?"

            She turned and started down the trail again.  He followed and came up beside her.

            "No, I don't, and it was weighing quite heavily on me, but at first I thought it would be better not to drag you through all that--that--that dirt.   That ugly stuff."

            He looked deeply repentant and worried.  So worried that Dorothy giggled. "Of course I forgive you, silly.  If we were an item, I wouldn't forgive you for cheating on me or abusing me.  But we’re not an item, so we don't have to worry about that.  I read somewhere that telling a lie makes you a liar, but somehow, I don't think that's you, constitutionally, anyway."

            "She was cheating on me," Foster croaked.  A quiet croak.  His face sort of crumpled.

            "I'm so sorry.  Billy Angel, too.  It feels crummy.  Really really crummy."  She touched his arm, just with her fingertips.  "I'm sorry."

            "She lost the diamond out of her ring, making play dough for the grandchildren.  It stuck in the play dough, and we couldn't find it.  She thought it was symbolic, she told me later.  She thought we were all washed up."

            "Oh, my goodness, I can't believe it--I lost my diamond making bread.  I felt the same way.  But Billy Angel was already running around.  I just knew right then we were finished.  And we were."

            "But we weren't.  I didn't think we were, anyway.  I thought we could still work things out, that we could forgive each other."

            "Each other?"

            "I was unfaithful, too. When I found out she was messing around, I, um, I . . . "

            "You don't have to tell me.  I guess you are human.  I did almost the same thing.  I was really sorry afterwards.  I did it not out of love or even attraction, but out of a desire to get even.  I wish I hadn't. It messed up the divorce proceedings later, though.  And I was afraid I was going to need an abortion.  I was worried about AIDS.  It was scary.  But you’re a minister.  Yup, I guess you’re human."

            They came out on a ledge above the huge cattail marsh at the end of the cliff trail.  Red winged blackbirds were trilling.

            "We all fall short of the glory of God," Foster said, softly.

            "Fuck God!  Where does he get off being so high and mighty anyway?  Who is He to judge us, he in his perfection judging our imperfections, anyway?  It's not fair.  I don't like God.  I'm not sure I even believe in God. Fuck Him anyway. Oh, shit, Foster, I'm sorry.  I'm really sorry.

            "When my father got cancer, I prayed and prayed for his healing,” she continued, "but he died anyway, and when my mother got a brain tumor, I prayed and prayed that she would recover, but even though she lived, she has dementia now and can't take care of herself. And all my life, I've prayed to be thin, and instead, I just got fatter and fatter.  God's never done anything to help me that I can see, and has never given me any sign or spoken to me in any way."

            "Then why do you come to church every Sunday?"

            "Habit I guess.  I grew up doing it and just kept on keeping on.  I'm really sorry I offended you."

            "You didn't offend me.  Believe me, I've heard much worse.  Probably said as much myself, to boot."

            "You never said 'Fuck God!'  You are the nicest, sweetest gentlest person I ever met.  I've never heard you raise your voice, even in your most hell and brimstone sermons.  Most of your sermons are about love.  I don't believe you ever said that."

            She turned and headed down the trail toward the lake.  He took two steps with his long legs and was beside her again.

            "Listen, do you think I show my worst side at church?  I am human, like everyone else.  I have my faults and I have my doubts.  Like the guys from AA who meet in the Sunday school rooms say, my shit stinks too."

            "Oh, you said a bad word, Reverend Lovejoy."

            "Don't call me 'Reverend!'"

            "But that's who you are."

            "Not to you.  I am Foster to you."

            "Foster who has doubts?  Doubts about what?  Not about God?"

            "Yes I do.  All the time.  How could I not?"

            "How could you get up there and say what you say if you have doubts?"

            "I don't know. Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes I think of quitting.  But I think everyone has doubts.  Sometimes I think of talking about that in my sermon, but I worry about upsetting people."

            "I can guarantee it would shock and upset people.  But it might also reassure them that they are normal.  Yikes!"  The trail was narrow and steep, and in the deep shadow of hemlocks, it was icy.  Her feet slipped out from under her.  He reached out to catch her.  And slipped, too.  Clutching each other, they staggered and slipped and managed to keep from falling and to anchor themselves on a rock at the edge of the trail.

            "If the trail is like this all the way, we will never make it back in time for your meeting.  Do you think we should go back?"

            "Are we halfway?  Is it shorter to go back or forward?"

            "Six of one, a half dozen of the other. We may be a little more than halfway, probably are.  But we know the trail behind and not ahead.  I mean, I know the trail, but not its condition."

            "Let's go a little further if we can and check it out."

            "I think this trail is dangerous," Dorothy said, walking gingerly along the edge of the ice.  Foster went to ahead to check the trail at the bottom, slipping and skittering on the ice.  Dorothy decided to climb down off the trail through the bushes.  She lost her footing and careened down the steep slope, barely managing to keep from falling.  She got to the bottom just as Foster did, and led the way to the next intersection. 

            "Which way do you want to go?" she asked. "There are three choices, back the way we came, left around the lake to the stairs or right around the lake to the stairs."

            "Which way is the shortest?"

            "Left, I think."

            "Let's go that way then."  Dorothy led the way, but hadn't gone more than 20 feet through the woods when she stopped and Foster bumped into her.

            "What's wrong?"

            "The trail is completely submerged.  The other way might be, too.  What shall we do?"

            "Let's look and see."

            As they started down the other trail, Dorothy asked, "I'm curious, Foster.  If you threw your wedding ring over the cliff because you were mad at Clara, why did you answer my ad?"

            "Um . . . ah . . .  do I have to answer truthfully, or can I claim the 5th?"

            "The 5th?  In what way will you incriminate yourself?"

            "Ah, well, ah, I wanted to have lunch with you."

            "YOU wanted to have lunch with ME? Why?"

            "Uh, I thought you were cute?"

            "Me, cute?  You've got to be kidding.  I weigh 250 pounds and have grey hair."

            "Yeah, and I weigh 165 pounds, am six two and have white hair.  Your point?"

            "I haven’t got a cute bone in my body.  You're the one who’s cute."

            "I'm not cute, I'm emaciated."

            "I think you're cute."

            "You do?  Really?  Or are you just saying that?"

            Dorothy had looked at her watch and noting that it was getting later and later, was walking over the rough rocky trail as fast as she could. She stopped and turned around and looked at Foster.  She saw two men superimposed over each other.  One was a scrawny white haired old man and the other a radiantly handsome, attractive man of uncertain age.  His gently blue eyes shown from a face that was flushed with exercise and maybe embarrassment.

            "If we don't hurry, Foster," she said, "you won't make your 7:30 meeting."  She turned and hurried on.

            The trail disappeared under the water and she climbed through the branches and scrambled over the rocks on the steep, slippery bank above it.  The going got progressively steeper and more difficult.  They rounded a bend in the trail and before them; the whole side of the cliff and scree beds were covered with snow and ice.  The north slope.  It was hopelessly steep and the trail was invisible—probably lost under the ice.  (continued on fiction 2)