Life Goes On (13 page)

T
he month of December sped past. To my deep disappointment, Christmas came and went without a hitch. I had been hankering for the opportunity to be more bold and to speak out against ignorance wherever I found it. Unfortunately, Dale chose that month to be perfectly appropriate. He made no mention of reviving his annual progressive Nativity scene. He didn't stand the Sunday before Christmas and ask people to raise their hands if they believed in the Virgin Birth. He didn't declare that Santa was the Antichrist, that if you moved three letters around
Santa
spelled
Satan.

In fact, he had been unusually subdued the past several months. He had scaled down his salvation balloons ministry, cutting back the launches to once a month. Where he had once released hundreds of salvation balloons at a time, preferably when the wind would carry them toward Episcopalian strongholds, he now limited himself to a few dozen balloons and didn't seem to care where they landed. He offered no explanation except that
being around all that helium made him talk funny, but I suspect that was just an excuse.

In the weeks before Christmas, he was curiously reserved during Sunday school. He stopped loading the hat with questions and for the first Sunday in memory didn't bring his chart showing the time line for the Lord's return.

I worried he might be dying, but the more I thought about it, the more unlikely it seemed. Dale isn't the type to slip quietly into the night. If he were dying, he'd want everyone to know. He would encourage everyone to reflect on the frailty of life and urge them to be saved, even though we've all been saved three or four times. He would boast about fighting the good fight and finishing the race and keeping the faith, how he was looking forward to the crown of righteousness. He would make his death the focus of our church, so that when he died we would be secretly relieved.

When New Year's passed and he remained unusually passive, I went to visit him. I didn't call first, which I usually do. I was driving past, saw Dale's car in their driveway, and on a whim pulled in behind it. In the four years I'd been their pastor, I'd never visited the Hinshaws. Seeing Dale at church was enough fellowship for me; I didn't crave more.

A variety of concrete animals were arrayed across their front yard, along with a wishing well, a windmill, and a plywood cutout of a man leaning against a tree fishing with the phrase “
I will make you fishers of men”
painted down one leg.

I rang the doorbell and from deep within the bowels of their
home I could hear the faint strains of the Doxology. When I was a teenager, a man from the Good News Doorbell Company of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, had come through our town selling doorbells guaranteed to inspire the saints and convict the wayward of their sins.

The speaker for our annual revival had fallen ill when the doorbell salesman happened along, which the elders at Harmony Friends interpreted as a sign from God, so they invited him to preach our revival. He spoke about the thousands of people added to the Kingdom through the ministry of the Good News doorbells. He read several stirring testimonials, one from a Fuller Brush salesman trapped in a life of sin, who happened to ring a Good News doorbell, hear “Just as I Am,” think of his sainted mother, break down in tears, give his heart to the Lord, and become a missionary serving in Africa among the headhunters. It was a stirring account, leaving grown men reaching for their handkerchiefs.

In addition to the Doxology, extra doorbell hymns could be purchased each month, with appropriate hymns for Christmas, Easter, and the Fourth of July. Dale had bought the entire set, which had resulted in children all over town ringing his doorbell each month so they could hear the tunes. Several of the children made up alternative lyrics that were less than godly, driving Dale to distraction. He would charge out of his house and try to catch them, but I always got away. I was young and nimble and, though he says he's forgiven me, I sometimes wonder.

Now the only hymn that still played was the Doxology, Dale's least favorite hymn because it smacks of Catholicism. It ran through two verses before he opened the door. He hadn't shaved that morning, wore wrinkled clothes, and was bleary-eyed. He looked like Uly Grant's father used to look after an evening at the Buckhorn bar.

His appearance so startled me, my pastoral tact deserted me. “What's wrong, Dale? You look terrible.”

His grizzled chin began to tremble. “It's Dolores. She left me.”

“She what?”

“She left me. I woke up this morning and there was a note on the table and her suitcase is gone. Her sister came and got her.”

“Just to visit though, right? She didn't
leave-you
leave you, did she?”

Dale nodded his head miserably, then began to weep.

My pastoral instincts kicked in. I put my arm around him, steered him into the living room to the couch, then sat down beside him. “Dale, let's start at the beginning.”

“She's been real mad at me. I gave our anniversary money to the Mighty Men of God and then I burned the car, and now she's sayin' she's made a New Year's resolution to leave me.”

I sat quietly, not knowing what to say. Dale continued to cry with phlegmy heaves and occasional snorts, pausing occasionally to wipe his nose on his shirt sleeve. I edged closer to him and patted his back. “Look on the bright side, Dale. People never keep their New Year's resolutions. She'll be back before you know it.”

But she didn't return that day, or the next. I stopped by Dale's house each morning to fix his breakfast and encourage him along, but it wasn't helping. He'd gone three days without shaving and hadn't changed his clothes. He looked as if he'd been shipwrecked and washed up on the shore. He wasn't eating, except for the tiny bit of scrambled eggs I forced upon him each morning.

On the third day, at Dale's request, I phoned Dolores at her sister's house in the city and urged her to return, which she refused to do. “It's been like this forty-one years, Sam. He thinks only of himself, and I'm worn out. It took me ten years to save that money for our anniversary cruise, and he gave it away without even askin' me. I'm fed up.” Then she hung up the phone.

“What'd she say?” Dale asked. “Is she comin' home?”

“Probably not anytime soon,” I said. “Dale, we need to talk.”

I tried to think what I could tell him without violating pastoral confidentiality. “I have the feeling Dolores is very upset with you. Do you understand why she might feel that way?”

He nodded his head glumly. “She's real mad about me givin' away our cruise money.” He let out a sob and wiped his nose on his sleeve, which, after three days of wiping, was rather unsightly. My stomach rolled.

I decided to postpone our conversation and get him cleaned up. “But first things first,” I said, helping him to his feet. “Let's get you in the shower and get some fresh clothes on you.” I helped him to the bathroom, turned on the water for a shower, then went to his bedroom, pulled a clean shirt and a pair of pants
from their hangers and laid them on the bathroom countertop.

“Okay, Dale, you take your shower and go ahead and shave and put on these clean clothes. And don't forget to change your underwear. Trust me, you'll feel 100 percent better.”

I let myself out, then went to my office, and phoned Dolores again, pleading with her to return. “He's really going downhill,” I told her. “He needs you.”

“I can't talk now,” she said. “My sister and I are getting massages today. I might call you later, but don't wait up.”

Three days away from her husband and she's already letting some stranger rub his paws all over her, I thought. I was learning loads about Dolores Hinshaw, not all of it good.

Then she hung up again, something I was getting used to.

I sat at my desk, pondering what the extent of my involvement in the Hinshaw marriage should be. Counseling wasn't my strong suit, and the idea of spending quality time with Dale wasn't all that appealing.

I stopped by each day that week to check on Dale. He wasn't doing any better. Uninterested in all hobbies and activities, he confided that he hadn't launched a salvation balloon the entire week. “I've lost my heart for the lost,” he said. “I just sit around and think about Dolores.”

“She'll be back,” I assured him, though I wasn't persuaded myself. “She just needed some time away.”

He came to church by himself that Sunday. He slipped in after the start of worship and left before it ended. He sat slumped in his pew, defeated and worn, a broken man.

My phone rang early the next day. “How's Dale?” It took me a moment to figure out who was asking.

“Dolores, perhaps you should call him and ask him yourself. I'm sure he'd be happy to hear from you.”

“Can't today,” she said. “My sister and I are going to Louisville.”

“What's in Louisville?”

“The riverboat casino,” she said. “I had a hundred dollars left in our cruise fund and it's burning a hole in my pocket.”

She was out of control.

Ironically, scarcely a week after I'd worked up the courage to voice my liberality, I found myself reverting to the theology of my childhood. “Dolores, as your pastor, I must say that you're on spiritually shaky ground. You need to come home to your husband.”

“Don't be such a wet blanket, Sam. It's time I lived a little. By the way, if you see Dale, remind him to water the houseplants.” Then she hung up the phone on me, again.

I got dressed, ate breakfast, then went past Dale's house. He was still in bed. The doorbell played through four verses before he opened the door. He had slept in his clothes.

I steered him toward the bathroom, turned on the shower, and laid out fresh clothes. While he was getting dressed, I fixed his breakfast: scrambled eggs, toast with butter and strawberry jam (butter first, then jam—he was getting pickier every day), bacon (not quite crisp, but not chewy either), and coffee.

By now his appetite had recovered and he tapped his coffee
cup against the edge the table in rapid succession when he wanted it refilled. It was all I could do not to break it over his head. “Don't forget the cream,” he said.

“Dolores phoned this morning,” I said.

“She did! Is she comin' home today?”

“No, not today. She and her sister are going to Louisville for a boat ride.”

“In the middle of winter?”

“Apparently so. Anyway, she wanted you to water the houseplants.”

“Gee, Sam, could you do that for me? I just don't have it in me right now.”

“Sure, Dale.”

There were a lot of plants. It took me fifteen minutes to water them, then another twenty minutes to wash the breakfast dishes.

“Do you know how to run a washing machine?” Dale asked, as I wiped the counter dry.

“Sure.”

“Maybe you could start a load of laundry. I'm running out of skivvies.”

“I can show you how to run it, Dale. It's not hard.”

“It's those basement stairs,” he said. “I can't get up and down 'em very easy on these old knees.” He chuckled. “Guess I've worn 'em out praying on 'em all these years.” Vintage Dale, taking every opportunity to remind me of his piety.

“Tell you what, Dale, why don't you gather up your underwear and I'll get them started.”

I started the washer, then prepared to leave. “I'll be back later today to move them to the dryer.”

“What's for lunch?” he asked.

“How about the Coffee Cup?”

“Can't afford it,” he said. “They're wanting three-fifty for the hamburger platter now. Must think people in this town are made of money.”

I reached into my wallet and pulled out a twenty. “This'll get you through the week, Dale.”

“What about my pie?”

“What pie?”

“The pie I like to eat with my hamburger platter.”

I fished out a ten-dollar bill and handed it over.

“Thanks, Sam.”

“No problem, Dale.”

“Sure am gonna be awful thirsty, though.”

“Why's that?”

“Coffee's a dollar a cup now.”

I handed him a five, which was the last of my money.

“How about tip money? I'd hate for Heather to think I'm cheap.”

“Check your couch cushions.”

It took me an hour to track down an address for Dolores's sister, and another two hours to drive to the city. I sat for four hours in her driveway until they arrived home from the riverboat.

“What are you doing here, Sam?”

“I've come to take you home, Dolores.”

“Is Dale at the end of his rope?”

“No, I am. Now please get your suitcase and come with me.”

“Sam, you don't know what it's like to live with that man.”

“I'm starting to get an idea, and I am not without sympathy. But you've made your point, and we'll make Dale promise to go to marriage counseling if you come home. I think he'll agree to that now.”

“You think?”

“If he doesn't, I'll kill him. Either way, your problem will be solved.”

I had her home in time for supper. As we turned into the driveway, she began to tear up, and when Dale came to the door, they broke down.

I arranged them in a sodden lump on the couch. “You,” I said, pointing to Dale, “will attend marriage counseling with your wife. Is that understood?”

“Yes.”

“And you,” I said, singling out Dolores, “will stop being a doormat and stop running away from home and gambling and letting strangers massage you. Is that clear?”

She sniffed and nodded her agreement.

“I'm going home now. I'll meet with you tomorrow, and we'll make arrangements for marriage counseling.”

“Sam, before you leave, could you switch my underwear to the dryer like you promised?” Dale asked.