Otherworld (10 page)

 

Mike read Dr. Bering's article four times, and each time it made more sense. He was sure there was a lot of data left out. Bering alluded to many theories and studies and researchers' findings without fully elaborating on them all. The magazine the article appeared in,
Science Quest
, was intended for mass audiences, not scholars or the intellectual elite. Mike assumed Bering was writing for people like himself—people who would have great difficulty understanding complex physics without the proper education, yet who had, as hobbyists perhaps, studied up enough to both expect and appreciate the supporting science. There was enough advanced material to make Bering's claims appear credible, and Mike decided he'd like to meet with him to discuss the matter further. In their original meeting, Mike was intrigued enough by the theories to take interest, but he had been dismissive, considering them overly speculative despite the mental amusement they offered. But subsequent readings of the article hinted at something deeper. At times, Bering's writing seemed to be not hypothetical posturing but the ideas of a man who knew of what he was speaking. A man who knew his subject very well. He moved from theories and “research suggests” to making bold statements as if he had firsthand experience.

Mike combed the pockets in his computer bag for his course syllabus. He found it and located Dr. Bering's office number on the cover page.

“Hello, you've reached the office of Dr. Samuel Bering. If you are one of my philosophy students, please call the alternate number listed on your syllabus. If you are a student in any of my other classes or need any other information from me, please leave a brief message after the tone.”

“Dr. Bering. This is Mike Walsh. I was just wondering if maybe we could get together again sometime and talk about your article. I hated to leave so abruptly on you the other day, and I just wondered if we could meet again. If you can, please call me at home any time. If you can't, I'll see you in class Tuesday. Thanks. Bye.” He hung up. Mike always felt stupid leaving voice mail. He hated leaving recorded evidence of his being a complete moron.

After a long shower and a little more coffee, Mike left to meet Robbie for a late lunch. At the Dixie Shack, he found his seat opposite Robbie in a window booth.

“So, man,” Robbie said. “After this morning, I gotta ask. How you been?”

“Oh, all right.” His voice, as much as his choice of words, gave him away, and he was not entirely disappointed. He wanted to talk about it.

“No, like, for real. How are you? Am I gonna pick up the paper some morning and see a gruesome story about you or what?”

Mike faked a smile. “No. I'm … getting by.”

“You didn't really tell me what happened when you met up with Molly.”

“Nothing happened. I was an idiot. I tried to play it cool, like I said, but I guess …”

“She wanted it warm.”

“Yeah. I don't know.”

“Talked to her since then?”

“No. I wanted to, but it didn't feel right. I guess I felt like I messed it up when she was here, and I want to give it some time.”

Robbie didn't seem to know what to say. He said, “You miss her.”

“Of course.” Of course he missed her! Wouldn't you miss your center of gravity? It was hard to do any writing without drifting off into a daydream about her that seemed to last for a few minutes. But he would glance at the clock and be shocked to see an hour had passed. He couldn't sleep at night. He was paranoid. Easily upset. Simple pleasures like a cup of coffee on the back porch or a football game on TV offered no solace, especially since she was not there to share the coffee with him or yell for joy with him when Arian Foster battled across the goal line. Only two days ago, he awoke from sleep and turned over in the bed, fully expecting to see her all bundled up in the sheets and blankets. When he registered her absence, he began to cry, and Mike had not cried since … well, since the day she left.
Of course
he missed her.

“What's she been doing?” Robbie asked.

“She's still staying with her sister in Dallas.”

“The painter?”

“Yeah.”

“She working?”

“Who? Molly, or her sister?”

“Molly.”

“No.” He was encouraged by this. If Molly went out and landed herself a job, it would only solidify the permanence of their separation.

Robbie seemed to realize this as well. “That's good,” he said. Then he changed the subject. “Hey, your piece turned out really great. I wish you could've got ahold of that Dickey guy in Trumbull. But it was still good.”

Their food arrived, and Mike was sure the jalapeños on his burger were going to give him heartburn. The talk of Molly had soured his spirits. They stayed for a while after they finished eating, sipping coffee and talking.

“So what else is going on?” Robbie asked.

“Nothin' much. There's not much to do. I read or watch TV.”

“What about cultural anthropology?”

“Pretty interesting, actually. This professor? Bering? A pretty interesting guy.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“He's one of those tweed-suit types. Older guy. He teaches
everything
. Philosophy, physics, anthropology. Crazy published.”

“Don't say? What does he write about?”

“Everything. Religion and literature and history. Most of them are science-related or philosophy-related, though.” And then he remembered. “And UFOs.”

“He writes about UFOs?”

“Yeah. I was in the library the other day doing research for the article, and he just shows up and starts talking to me. Next thing I know, he's telling me he's an ufologist, and he goes into the periodicals stacks and gets me some piece he wrote.”

“What was it about?”

“Craziness, man. He doesn't believe UFOs are aliens from outer space. But he doesn't think they are hallucinations or natural phenomena, either. He thinks they are people from another dimension.”

“Oh-kay.”

“He seemed to know what he was talking about. His article is full of research and studies done in prestigious universities and the theories of Einstein and other scientists.”

“Another dimension?” Robbie said.

Mike nodded.

Robbie hummed
The Twilight Zone
theme.

“Yeah, that's what I think.” Mike chuckled. “But he
really
sounds like he knows what he's talking about.”

“Are you saying you believe him?”

“No, of course not. But it makes a lot of sense. And it's
new
. I hadn't heard this sort of thing before. And it's halfway intelligent, with the hyper-dimensional stuff. I mean, it's certainly out of the mainstream. But it's slightly more respectable than most of the crap out there.”

“Yeah,” Robbie said. “Sounds totally respectable.”

Mike chuckled. “Seriously, though. A lot of scientists are starting to come around on this stuff. Not the UFOs, I mean, but hyperspace. Supposedly, at the time of the big bang, two universes split apart. One was our four-dimensional world, and the other is a six-dimensional world. It sounds stupid, I know, but Einstein's own theories and the formulas of his successors all seem to support it. It's pretty complicated. I don't understand it all, but it sounds like there's some truth there. I mean, who am I to argue with some of the greatest minds in science?”

“You got me,” Robbie answered.

 

Sunday arrived, and Pastor Steve Woodbridge stumbled through his sermon. His memorization of the text he usually wrote out word for word offered no help. He didn't forget anything. Anything, that is, except the zeal. The fire. The eloquence his congregation had come to expect from him. He was a dandy of a preacher and usually earned a generous share of “Amens” and “That's rights” from the crowd. But they were not into it that morning because
he
was not into it. He usually roamed the stage, addressing each section of the sanctuary, making each listener feel as though he were right there sitting face-to-face with them alone, giving them sound biblical advice. He could even make those in the back pews feel that way. This morning, however, he remained behind the broad wooden pulpit. The fuzzy end of the pulpit microphone, which extended from the lectern in a flexible metal rod, obscured the view of his face, so all anyone could see was the red end of it and the top of his head. It looked like a clown nose. Yes, gone was the fire. Gone was his unique brand of homiletical intimacy. He was drained of urgency, charm, warmth—it was all gone.

The warmth was gone in more ways than one. The congregation sat huddled together, a huge mass of shivers and chattering teeth. They were bundled up in jackets and coats, the older ones in shawls. They resembled a gathering of winter football fans in the bleachers more than a gathering of churchgoers. The heating system was still out, and by the end of the morning's service, they'd be happy to shell out whatever it took to get it repaired. By the end of the service, they'd be happy to hear a sermon on hellfire and damnation if it would put a little warmth in their bones.

There was no hellfire, though. Just a message on the peace of God dressed up in some lame pastoral pun. Steve hadn't put much thought into this one. Something like “Get a Piece of God's Peace,” which was extraordinarily lamer than usual. He closed with prayer, and the ushers were called forward to begin the offering. Pauline Kaas, an old lady in a wig that fooled no one, played a song on the organ as the plates were passed and the offering taken. (It was the church's largest of the year.) Each loud bellow from the pipes reverberated in the frozen air and gave Steve a shudder in his chair atop the platform. Directly behind him, in the front row of the choir, stood his wife, Carla. She leaned forward and whispered, “Good job, honey.”

He nodded but didn't believe her one bit. It was probably the worst of his sermons in recent history. He knew that. Every freezing church member knew that. His wife knew that too. He had gone through the motions. It was a rehearsed event and had been for a long while. The hymns full of words and phrases hardly anybody understood were sung over and over until they were just habit, and those who did understand them no longer cared what they said. The songs had become rituals to them; they were on the liturgical autopilot to which he and his seminary colleagues had sworn they would never fall sway.

Hymns were just the tip of the iceberg of things Steve had grown callous about. Sunday school was social time. Prayer meetings were gossip sessions. The lukewarmness of his parishioners had spread to him. Or … had it begun in him?
After all
, he had been taught,
ninety-nine percent of church problems are based in leadership issues
. He had learned that at some leadership seminar conducted by one of the nation's megachurches. He couldn't remember which one. He had been to so many. Conference attendance was just one of those things that came with being a religious professional. Like an executive's business trips. He had finally begun to reason within himself that there was nothing inherently wrong with cryptic hymns or painfully dull organ music or obligatory lunches with church elders who routinely (though not overtly) threatened his job. It was all part of the deal. A deal he had accepted many years ago. One thing could be said for sure, though. Disillusionment, the child of passionless routine, set in.

Steve stood at the exit in the church lobby right next to a potted ficus and shook the hand of each person who waited in a long line to have some face time with the pastor. The line stretched all the way into the sanctuary, and Steve could not see the end. He answered what seemed to be a hundred “thank you's” to a hundred people's “Wonderful sermon, Pastor” and then headed to his study to pray. This was one custom he had not come to abhor. Every Sunday, after every service, he would meet in his study with one of his only friends. He was a man he trusted and valued and appreciated as a confidante and a leader in the church. This man was what old pastors would call a “prayer warrior,” before the term became passé. Prayer seemed to be the man's natural instinct, his way of being. If any man had come to be so heavenly minded the ways of earth had grown wearisome to him, it was Steve's friend Graham Lattimer.