Bad to the Last Drop (3 page)

The bishop smiled thinly. ..."And your husband, Mitchell, is.?"

"Oh, he's just fine. Working, golfing, not ... it's not that or the kids. It's just ..."
How unlike me,
she thought, startled.
The bishop was listening and fully present. He really was a good man.

"You have other things that do fire you up?" the bishop asked.

She listed the things to which she gave her spare time— "Quilting, reading, watercolor painting, refinishing antique furniture, and my two grandbabies—"—a normal kind of leisure-time list.

Tilting his head to the side, as if listening to more than her words, he continued, "Yes, but are you enjoying your work and play?"

She blinked, surprised by his question. "Well, I suppose," Pat said, and suddenly let out a small chuckle. "Actually, I suppose I'm bored to tears with it."

He sat back and chuckled with her. There was something contagious and real about his laugh. "Then maybe it's time you looked for something less boring. We wouldn't want you tearing up every time you are at a meeting, would we?"

Her brow furrowed slowly. "I do enjoy my work, you know. It just seems like the problems are all the same, and I am there to fix whatever they are. Sweep up the mess. And all I really need is a good smile, a prayer, stick-to-itiveness, and ... well ... common sense to get the job done. She sighed. It seems so ..."

"What I have seen you do with troubled churches is fine work, Pat—not just anyone can do it. You have a real gift for working with problems in parishes, so I don't want you to misunderstand this next question. Is there something else you feel called to do? A doctorate? A book you want to write? A mission you've always wanted to go on?"

Pat shrugged. "Gee whiz, I don't know. Never had time to think about it."

The bishop nodded understandingly. He clasped his hands together as he leaned closer to her, his tone growing serious. "We all feel that way at a certain age, you know. The need becomes really strong to do all that we are called to do and to live up to our full potential. Otherwise, like those antique furniture pieces you like to restore, everything starts loosening up, dry rot sets in, and we start to wonder who we really are."

"Yes," she said simply, "but that wouldn't have been you, Bishop, and what am I to
do?
The kids have their own lives now. Mitchell is happy. I'm good at my work. It's just that——"

"It's just that you're too good at what you do. There is no chaos left in it. Too easy, perhaps?" He looked at her intently, his blue eyes filled with sympathy and just a little twinkle. "But isn't there something, somewhere, you want to do or to be? Something you never had the time or freedom for until now?"

Pat stared blankly at him. "Frankly, I'm tired. I can't even
think
with enthusiasm about doing anything. When I was in seminary, my best friend, Deb, was going to law school, and we were going to change the world—she as a judge, fighting injustice, and I ..." Pat leaned back in her chair, smiling. "I was going to be a bishop and change the Church."

Peter threw back his head and laughed, and Pat wondered, not for the first time, why, whenever she was being her most truthful, people found her so amusing. "I guess that I never really fit the profile of 'pastor,'" Pat explained. "Mitchell always called me his silly little crusader—his way of justifying my quirkiness of thinking I could save the world; something he loved me for but just didn't understand , Pat thought." Peter nodded, encouraging her to continue. "And the kids? Martin just accepted me for what I was—his crazy mom, who maybe could pull a rabbit out of her hat. But my daughter, Jane, was a different story. One day, Jane and I were walking. 'Mom,' she said to me. 'I can't believe you really do—you actually think you can change things just by giving your coat to that woman?' I never even tried to explain the look I saw in that woman's eye as she huddled in that door way. She was no cute child that someone would take care of. But she had been someone's child, once. Embarrassed, I had stopped as Jane was busy telling me of her latest corporate conquest and put my old jacket over the woman's shoulders and walked away. The woman looked frightened, then confused, and then astonished. It was an old coat anyway. But I knew I wouldn't hear the end of it from my daughter. Just another example of crazy Mom. 'Why did you do that? Honestly, Mom. Give money to the coat drive. That would be the sensible thing to do. But your own coat? Now you'll freeze before we get to the restaurant!' She thought of me as an easy mark."

Pat shook her head somewhat wearily, as she continued her explanation. "I guess I'm not very realistic or sensible or even logical. Maybe," she said, as if she had sudden clarity, "I'm not happy trying to be what I'm not."

The bishop put on his glasses and ran his fingers through his hair, signaling the end of their talk. "No, you really aren't very realistic or logical sometimes, but then, neither was Jesus, was he? But he didn't try to be someone he wasn't. Maybe you need to take some time off—go paint or write a great mystery or just sit for a while. You know we will always find something for you. Whatever else you are, you are a good pastor."

Pat nodded in agreement.

They chatted a few minutes longer—about their families and the new hymnal but without the closeness from a moment before. As Pat rose and walked to the door, she looked back to see

Peter, smiling and shaking his head as he murmured, "A bishop."

Except I wasn't making a joke.
She realized she was a little miffed as she walked out to the parking lot.
I really was going to try to change the Church! The dear Lord knows it needs a good airing out. I'll ask for leave-of-call paperwork tomorrow.

And she did.

Still thinking about her talk with the Bishop, Pat entered her townhouse and looked around. The sunlight streaming through the windows seemed to highlight the dust on the antique end table. She threw off her coat, walked into the kitchen, and picked up a dust rag. Her personal calendar was on the counter, opened to this day, and as she glanced at it in passing, she had a strange sense of awareness of the mundane details of her life.

Today was Wednesday—that usually meant a "church night" filled with a variety of activities. There would be confirmation classes, Wednesday night school and supper for the little kids, meetings of one or more of the church committees, and then choir practice. But then every day was filled to the brim with activities: a Bible study on Thursday morning, followed by the women's group executive board. On Friday, a men's coffee and work group, and then the president of the council would be in to talk about building problems. It would be a rush, of course, to make sure her sermon was ready for Sunday. And she'd fit in one or more unhappy wives or husbands and a visit or two to a hospital. Another week of church work.

On Saturday, she would have lunch with her old friend, Christine, but Christine would talk about all the trips she and Ron had been taking, along with the adventures and joys of traveling first class.

Peter had said,
Isn't there something you've always wanted to do but never had the time?

Pat tossed the dust rag on the chair, then reluctantly picked it up and dusted the table, knowing if she didn't do it now she would have to do it sometime. It was important to keep the house up. As she returned the rag to the kitchen, she stooped to pick up yesterday's paper that Mitchell had left by his chair the night before.
Might as well put this in the recycling,
Pat thought.

She was about to toss the paper in the recycling bin when an article caught her eye on the front of the human interest section—a 58 year old woman about her age—two years younger, in fact—had quit her job, sold her house and all of her belongings, and joined the Peace Corps. For the last year she had been helping children in Uganda learn to read and had lived in a village in a small hut and written a novel in her evenings, which was now to be published.

"I could have never done this when I was young," the woman had told the reporter. "Everyone thinks the Peace Corps is for kids right out of college, and there are a lot of them doing it, but I believe this village needed me, an older woman, who could use the things I had learned in the past to help them. My book is not really about this experience; it's a mystery book. At my age, I've decided to do the things I want. And that's the kind of book I read, so that's what I wrote." The reporter went on to say that the book was refreshingly silly and an unexpectedly delightful read. "A good gift book for that reader in your life," the reporter had noted.

Pat tossed the paper into the bin.
"They needed me." What an idea,
she thought, walking to the closet to hang up her coat. She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror and stared at the woman who looked back at her. She saw a woman of average height with more around the waist and hips than was healthy. And frown lines.
Where did they come from?
Leaning closer, she looked into her eyes. Sad? No, that wasn't it, but she definitely had seen more sorrow than most women her age. And her eyes were dull.
Where's the sparkle that used to be in my eyes? Could I sell everything and move to a faraway village, just for the adventure?

At the back of Pat's mind flashed a time when she was driving, and she'd just stopped the car along the road and cried— cried for no reason. She'd almost been afraid to drive the car for fear of whether she would care if she
—no,
she cautioned herself,
best not to think of that
. She stared more intently into the mirror. "Isn't there something you've always wanted to do?" she asked her reflection.

Pat thought of Deb, her friend for thirty-five years. They knew more about each other than their husbands and kids knew about them. As best friends, they'd raised their kids together. They'd been there for each other through babies' fevers and chicken pox and husbands' coming (and going). They'd been friends before cell phones were even thought of, and they had to stretch the cord on the phone as far as it would reach, so they could talk and still make dinner for their respective families; friends through picnics and camping, through weight gains and losses.

I was there when she married Marc,
thought Pat fondly, as she recalled their history.
It was a new beginning for her and the girls. She was there when I was ordained. I laughed out loud when she finally got her law degree, refusing her daughter's advice to sit out the ceremony because she was nine months pregnant. And she cried with me when my pop died.

Suddenly missing her friend, Pat picked up the phone and dialed Deb's number.

After Pat told Deb about her restless thoughts, Deb replied, "Come live up here for a while. You and Mitch could fix up one of these old houses. You could paint the lake, and he could paint the outside of the house. And if you really feel guilty about not helping people every minute of the day," she gently chided, "I'm sure there are kids here who need a reading buddy or lots of other things."

It was insane; a silly imagining. "What would I tell people I was doing?" Pat asked.

Deb laughed. "Tell them you're writing a mystery."

"Of course, I could at least ask Mitchell about it," Pat said, feeling her way around the idea as it grew. Just thinking about how they would go about it would be a nice little break.

"Don't just daydream about," Deb insisted. "Get a 'for sale' sign and put it out in the yard. See what happens."

It was crazy; simply crazy.

Still, Pat gave a lot of thought to Deb's suggestion.
How like her to be so generous. A gift of a place and a time where no one listens to me but the waves on the big lake as I walk on its stony shore. A place where I can bring out my brushes and drink coffee every morning, and read the paper from front to back. Where no cell phone connects me to someone who needs my sympathy or
advice, or calls me to judge whether the women's group should really be having a bingo fund-raiser. No one at all to need me, except maybe the big lake herself, to tell her how beautiful she is in my watercolors.
Pat sniffed and blew her nose.

After speaking to her friend on the phone, Deb picked up her journal and wrote.
Ashland really is a place where I felt at home from the first moment I gazed at the big lake, the "Tall Water," on the drive into town nearly thirteen years ago. Marc and I moved to this sleepy little college town of eight thousand, located right on the south shore of Lake Superior at the base of Chequamegon Bay, in search of new adventure and a progressive place to raise our two babies, Julia and Eric. We found all of our requirements in one town: big water for sailing, some intellectual stimulation, a place where everyone knows your face, scenic beauty and a place rich in history—a town that knows where it came from.

We are both fortunate to have careers that transfer almost anywhere. Marc a family doctor who loves the challenge of working in underserved areas. His Peace Corps experience in this country, he calls it. Except the town of Ashland is anything but underserved. His first practice didn't suit his style. Now he commutes around the Bayfield peninsula twenty-five miles north to the Red Cliff Indian Reservation every day.

I started a family law office at home to be available for the kids and to try to limit my time at work. Strange thing about home offices. As much as it is charming and convenient to greet clients on the back deck on a warm summer's day, it becomes harder and harder, as time goes on, to close the door to the office at the end of the day. The work is always there, calling like a siren, constantly beckoning. So when the opportunity arose to join with another local attorney and set up a joint practice at the center of town, I jumped at it. And I still have no regrets.

About the same time as Pat and Deb sat relaxing in the Black Cat Coffeehouse after meeting the Russian sisters, the phone rang loudly in the nearby Ashland office of Detective Gary LeSeur. He swung his long legs off the desk as he reached over to pick up. "LeSeur here."