Conceived Without Sin (28 page)

"Mark, you could say that all he asked me to do was to take up my Cross. I did. I suffered. I nailed my selfishness to the Cross for the sake of my
family, and Mary and the children received a resurrection of love in return.

"I finally understand what Jesus meant when he said, 'My burden is light and my yoke is easy.' The burden, the yoke, the Cross I carry is Mary's holiness and well-being, and I can tell you that this is God's will for me. That's what my vows mean. Mary is light and easy to carry. I'm in love with her."

Chapter Twelve

1

On a warm, clear evening, Buzz and Sam found themselves walking along the boardwalk down on the Flats.

I don't like the endless winters here,
Buzz thought wistfully, thinking of New Jersey.
But I wouldn't trade Cleveland summers for anything. It seems like every day is perfect for three months in a row. Warm. Sunny. Not humid at all. Even the summer showers are nice, a lovely break
to help you appreciate the perfection. Just right. If only I felt like the weather.

The Flats had been a dilapidated, ugly port-of-call on the Cuyahoga River next to the downtown section of Cleveland. To the everlasting embarrassment of residents of northeastern Ohio, it was the location where refuse and oil on the surface of the river caught fire a couple of decades earlier.

A partnership between
the city and developers had transformed the area into a safe, exciting string of restaurants, night clubs, and family game rooms on both sides of the river. The only blemishes were a few 'men's clubs' on the fringes of the huge area.

The western side of the Flats had a long boardwalk, and on summer nights, cabin cruisers and cigarette boats came to dock there. Thousands of patrons, including whole
families, came to enjoy the multicolored view shimmering off the river's surface, the sounds of live bands wafting across the water, the eclectic mix of food, and water taxis shuttling from one side of the river to the other.

Sam had invited Buzz to dinner at Shooters, one of the classier, and lower-key establishments. It was a treat for Buzz, who could not afford an expensive social life. The
alcoholic in Buzz avoided places like the Flats anyway. Shooters happened to be the place where he had first met Sandi, his ex-wife. Sam had forgotten that.

They walked in and were taken to a reserved table with a view of the water. As they sat down, they heard the sounds of a freight train crossing the river to the north.

"I want you to be my best man," Sam said after his wine arrived, holding
up his glass.

Buzz smiled broadly. "I thought you'd never ask!"

Sam was used to Buzz by now. That's why he was asking him to stand up for him in the wedding.

Buzz raised his Pepsi, a slice of lemon floating with the ice.

"Here's to you and Ellie," he said soberly, happily.

They drank.

"Why me?" Buzz asked.

"Because you're my best friend in the whole world, just like you predicted the day we met.
I've never had a best friend. I've been a loner all my life. I don't even have a friend at work. I don't like getting close with people I might have to fire or lay off. Johnny's okay, but he has his own life. He's too wild for me.

"Listen to me! You've got me talking more and more since I met you. Anyway, you're the best man for the job, no pun intended. And I probably wouldn't have met Ellie
without you, or been able to keep her without your advice."

"You underestimate yourself, Sam," was all Buzz could say.

Buzz felt mixed emotions. His daily battle with the blues had been wearing him down. This invitation from Sam should have perked him up. Instead, Buzz had the odd emotion of feeling as if he should be happy for Sam and himself, but not actually feeling happy at all.

I'm a good
actor, though,
he told himself.
Why spoil it for Sam? He's happy. What can I ask him to make him feel good?

"So Sam, what do you want me to get you for a wedding gift?"

That gave Sam pause.

"Your presence is enough for me," Sam said sincerely.

"Oh, that's too bad. I had this lamp picked out," Buzz paused for a second. "It's got a shade with a Hawaiian girl on it, just like the one in Joe Versus
the Volcano."

Sam laughed lightly.
Ellie would hate it.

"Speaking of Ellie," Sam began.

"Were we speaking of Ellie?" Buzz asked innocently, lighting a cigarette. Sam had asked for the smoking section–a nice gesture. Buzz knew that Sam detested the smell, and the idea of smoking. From Buzz's point of view, it was one of Sam's few weaknesses.

A waitress arrived with a bowl of nachos. Buzz helped
himself.
High salt. Low fat.

They paused to order. Sam, throwing caution to the wind, requested the blackened catfish. Buzz asked for the biggest steak on the menu.
How often do I get to eat steak? Damn the torpedoes and the diet.

"Where were we?" Sam asked, avoiding the nachos. Eating with his fingers still seemed gauche.

"Ellie," Buzz said, looking back from the water's edge. He quickly put
his napkin on his lap, following Sam's example. Even as a salesman in the old days, he never quite felt comfortable while dining out. He felt like an interloper.

"Yes, Ellie. Buzz, I'm not sure how to go about asking you about a particular subject. I need advice."

"Hmmn. What kind of advice?" Buzz raised an eyebrow.
I bet I know what it is…

"Well, uh. Advice for after the reception, let's say."

"Oh, that. That's easy."

"It is?"

"Yeah," Buzz said. "Use a limo."

"A limo!" Sam replied, surprised.

"Yeah, take a limo to the hotel. I suggest the Ritz-Carlton. It's the ritziest place in town. Ha ha!"

"You're teasing me, aren't you?" Sam said, grabbing a nervous nacho.

"Just trying to break the ice. To get you to relax a little bit. What you mean is that you want the lowdown on what to do after
the limo arrives at the Ritz."

"Yes. That's about right. But it won't be the Ritz. Ellie wants a corner suite in Stouffer's Hotel. She says it's more old-fashioned."

"I wouldn't know about that. But I do know about the other thing. I have two caveats, though, before I start talking and say something I might regret. First, I want to remind you that you're asking advice from a divorced alcoholic.
Second, are we talking about theology or, shall we say, technique?"

"Buzz, I know you pretty well; I think it's safe to say that you'll mix both of them in. But I'm, uh, not very experienced with women. I want our first night to be…" Sam fumbled for the right words. "…singularly memorable. I overheard one of the girls in the office say her first night was awful over an office divider the other
day. It's been bothering me ever since."

"I see," Buzz said sagely.
Tell me more.

"And," Sam continued, looking down at his hands, "Ellie is, without getting into details, experienced. I don't want to disappoint her."

"Why are we talking around this whole thing?" Buzz asked.

"Because I prefer it that way. Whenever I talk about this subject, I feel like my father is looking over my shoulder. I
want to respect him. I don't mind respecting him. I don't think he's ever talked about the subject directly to me in his life.

"I used to feel like a total reject in high school and college. I had my books and my computers. I'm not a prude. But I'm glad that luck or whatever–"
being ugly,
he thought, "–saved me for Ellie. And maybe some of my father's strictness was justified. It filtered down
to me. He thinks that premarital sex will destroy our civilization. Destroy the social compact."

"I see," Buzz said again, straight-faced, amazed by his friend.
What planet did you come from?
Buzz prayed a quick prayer to Saint Anthony.

There was a very long pause. Sam eyed his friend, who was deep in thought, looking down at his napkin. Buzz pulled a cheap pen out of his shirt pocket. He scrawled
tiny markings on the napkin. Sam couldn't make them out.

"Then let's not talk about
that
subject," Buzz said finally. "Let's talk about violins."

"Violins?"

"Yeah, they're used in orchestras. Ever heard of 'em?"

"Yes," Sam replied, smiling. "I know what a violin is."

"Good, because," Buzz cleared his throat. "A tuba won't do for this conversation."

"A tuba?"

"You don't know what a tuba is? I thought
you were a professor's son?" Buzz feigned surprise.

"Okay, okay. Forget tubas. Let's talk about violins."

"Yeah, let's. Think about a violin and a violin player. We'll call the violin player the violinist. Imagine that the violinist is a man, and he's playing a violin in a room in the Stouffer's Plaza Hotel, a corner suite, after arriving in a limousine."

Sam finally caught on. He gave Buzz a
toothy smile.
The Magnificent Buzz!

"Okay. I follow you now," Sam said, excited like a schoolboy, but in a good way.

"I've played a few violins in my day. Some of those musical experiences I'm not very proud of. But we'll set that aside. We're just talking about violins in a theoretical sense. Just a couple of music lovers, me and you, here in the Flats. But when we drove home from the shore,
I told you about seeing the little man in the electrical socket. Well, that part of me, that gift I have to see things that don't have names, has given me insight into violins that maybe is not so common.

"My wife Sandi, when times were good, and there were some good times, used to tell me that I was quite a violin player. The best ever. I'm not bragging. I've been told that by many violins. That
is, if violins could talk."

"I see," Sam said. "That's why I asked you. I've never played the violin." Sam cleared his throat.

"I understand. That's a great advantage for you, Sam. As your music teacher," Buzz cleared his throat again.
There's a lot of throat-clearing going on,
he thought, enjoying himself. "I would like to tell you that the enemy of good violin-playing is having bad habits. As
a true novice, you haven't developed any bad habits. That's good. That's very good."

"It is?" Sam asked.

"Yes. It is. I'm proud of you. That's the way God meant it to be, violin-wise. Where was I?"

"Bad habits," Sam said. He was paying close attention.

"I'm not going to go into violin technical points, Sam. Just theory. Let's start with the violin itself. What's the difference between a cheap
violin and a Stradivarius?"

"Workmanship?"

"Right. Well, imagine a world where every violin is a Stradivarius. This is the world of our violinist in the hotel. The maker of his violin is better than a perfect master, better than even the Stradmeister–"

"But I don't believe in God," Sam said, breaking from the metaphor.

"Who said anything about God? Let's stick to violins. You asked for my advice,"
Buzz said sternly.

"Okay, I'll use my imagination. Sorry. Go on."

"Okay. The way I look at it, Sam, every violin is a masterpiece. Every one. And like all masterpieces, every violin is unique. Each one has different strong points. Sometimes the differences are subtle. Very subtle. I know this from personal violin experience. I'm sure a master violinist in any orchestra would tell you that there
are even pronounced differences between one Stradivarius and another Stradivarius. But only a master could tell those differences. Your job is to become a master of the violin you've been given."

Buzz paused for a nacho and a sip of Pepsi.

"For the master violinist," he continued, "it takes a lifetime to get to know his violin. He shouldn't expect to get to know everything in just one night or
one month, or even one year, or even over a few years. Besides, violins, at least the ones we're talking about, can change over the years. From age. From the arrival of little baby violins. The master dedicates himself to knowing all the changes. He knows how the violin was made, its natural rhythms, how it feels in good weather or bad. You know what I mean?"

"I'm following you," Sam said. "I
think."

The waitress came with the surf and turf. Neither man started to eat. Buzz did pause to pray a silent grace. He did not make a sign of the cross.
Why make Sam uncomfortable?

"Good. Here is a key point, Sammy. A very key point. When the violin is being played, which one is more full of music, the violin or the violinist?"

"I don't know what you mean?"

"Then I'll just explain. The violinist
is playing by using two main, er, characteristics. He's using his mind. He's using his hands, his eyes, his ears mostly. That's the way God designed it. Our violinist is a man, and men are separated from reality to a certain extent. They are not the violin. This is hard to say even without the metaphor.

"But the violin, its whole structure makes music. Let's call the violin a she. Her whole body
is full of the music, resonating with it, when everything is going right. And if this violin could talk, she would say that it is very difficult to enjoy the music if her whole person is not involved. In fact, being played can be a very distasteful experience for the violin if it is not, shall we say, in tune.

"But if the violinist is a hack, he is still able to physically enjoy the experience
of playing the violin even if the violin doesn't enjoy it. Oh, the music might not sound as good as playing a violin that's in tune, but he doesn't care. He can ruin a good violin that way, if he does that."

"He can?" Sam asked, mildly alarmed.

"Sure, he can. Even a Stradivarius like Ellen James."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Buzz said, taking a sip of Pepsi. "He can ruin it. Unless you learn to read the violin's
every little quirk and preference. Unless you know how to tune the violin carefully before you start playing. Become a master. Don't play indifferently, or just to hack around, like having a quick beer after a game of hoops. Become a master.

"The biggest difference between a hack and a master, I think," Buzz continued, watching the words sink into Sam, "is charity. The violinist should put the,
uh, pleasure, the violin feels before his own pleasure at all times. That's true charity. Seeking the good of the other over the good of the self. He should take his time, be patient. Stick around after he's done playing and make sure the violin is properly cared for, lovingly polished, and gently put back under the covers. The kind of violins we're talking about need time to cool off, even if the
violinist cools off in a minute. But that kind of charity takes a kind of discipline that most guys are lacking."