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Chapter 12

Jerry answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“This is Rev. Peter McCracken, chairman of the Candidate’s Committee. Jerry Cradleman?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my goodness, I remember when you were just a little boy and your father brought you to one of our Chamber meetings. Jerry, Jerry, how are you?”

“Fine.” His hands tingled. 

“I’m going to be down in Princeton on Friday and need to visit with you. How about we set a time to meet at Speer Library. Would one o’clock be convenient to you?”

“Fine.”

“All right, sir, we’ll see you then. You have a fine day.” 

This was it. Jerry was about to be fired before he even got hired.

Meanwhile, it was like his senior year in high school all over again. Only instead of his friends hustling to find a college, it was to find a church. It wasn’t easy either. The total number of Presbyterians, as with all other protestant denominations, had been shrinking for years. Fewer and fewer churches could support a full time minister. Some churches were hiring husband and wife teams as kind of a two for one; others were pooling their funds together to share one minister. The jobs were few; the qualified candidates were many. 

***

Jerry plodded up the stairs to Speer Library. He pushed through the double doors. A musty odor assaulted his olfactory nerves. Stairs loomed ahead inviting lost souls into its myriad stacks. 

As much as Jerry cherished books, the feel of them, the turn of the page, the different fonts, the smell, and as much as he loved libraries, safe, cozy, quiet, he found this one and its books as remote as a suburban mother on valium.

Jerry entered the conference room upstairs where Rev. McCracken waited. He was the quintessential everyman, replete with round tortoise shell glasses and a loose fitting suit of indeterminate color, not gray, not brown, something that belonged in an Eastern European department store. Standing, he smiled and extended a soft handshake.

“Sit down, Jerry. Tell me how it’s going,” he said with enthusiasm.

“Very well. I mean the classes are hard, but I’m getting through them.” 

“Is the campus life going OK?”

“What do you mean?” Caution flags shot up in Jerry’s mind. Had he heard about the McCord incident?

“Well, socializing, do you have friends here? A girl friend perhaps?”

“Oh, no, I mean, yes, everything’s going fine. No, no girlfriends currently. You know of someone?”

He laughed. “No.

“Well, Jerry, you probably know why I’m here. We got the report from the career counseling agency. Let me first explain how we weigh these…”

“Sir, before you go any further, tests aren’t the end all in determining competency, see, let’s see, uh…” Where was he going? Jerry didn’t know. “Moses pulled off a miraculous negotiation yet any tests would have rejected him for that position. Doesn’t have the aptitude; stutters. That’s kind of a joke, sir. Get it? Here’s another one. David brought the Jewish tribe to its greatest glory, yet would have been rejected by tests. No military experience; just a shepherd. Even Jesus would’ve been rejected by the Multi-phasic Messiah tests. Not a military leader; not seeking conquest. So, who cares what the tests say?”

 “Nice try. It’s out of my hands, Jerry. Presbytery policy,” said Rev. McCracken.

“Policy, that’s my point. Even though I was having a hard time finding it. Not that I have a Jesus complex, but really, what tolerance did Jesus have for policy? What did he say standing in the cornfield on the Sabbath? The Sabbath was made for man, not the other way around. If I’ve learned anything here it’s that God’s way is not the corporate way. He’s not ‘This is how we do it here or ‘Presbytery policy.’ He’s about faith. Faith in the unseen; faith in the unproven. That’s me. Have a little faith in me. That’s all I’m asking.”

Rev. McCracken stood up and moved to the window. “You know, Jerry,” he said as he gazed out at the gray day, “when I was a young man I wanted to be an actor. I was just so satisfied on stage. It felt like home. There was nowhere else I’d rather be. 

“But my parents, who both were ministers, had different plans. They decreed I should get a liberal arts education and then go to seminary. That would be a meaningful life. There was no future in acting. I considered rebelling. Believe me, I was so close. But in the end, I did what they said. 

“I’ve had a great career, but I gotta tell you, there’s still a piece of me that’s sad about that. And even if I hadn’t been successful as an actor, perhaps that’s not the point.”

“So, I have your support?”

“No. And yes. As a representative of your Presbytery, I am telling you this is the end of the road for our sponsorship. However as an individual, if ministry is in your heart, is your truth, then don’t let this setback stop you. Keep going. Find another way.”

Chapter 11

Jerry perched on the edge of a leather couch. Over to the side was an office desk. Behind the desk, bay windows offered a view of the tree-filled University campus.

Raymond Taylor, a rotund figure and Jerry’s new therapist, settled into his chair at a right angle to Jerry. He picked up a grando sized cup of ice water, took a large swig, set it down and crushed the ice with his teeth. The sound was like hard hat construction work. He interlaced his equally grando hands across his belly. With home cooking comfort, he smiled at Jerry.

Jerry wondered how candid he should be, already burned once.

“Is this going to be reported to my Candidate’s Committee?” he asked.

“Not at all. This is private. Whatever is discussed here stays here. You are safe. You can talk about whatever you want, Jerry. This is for you.”

A lump rose up in Jerry’s throat. To his disbelief, he sobbed, unrestrained.

“It’s alright,” said Raymond and waited. 

Jerry sank back into the couch. The two of them sat in silence. Raymond picked up his cup, took another swig and commenced another round of construction work.

“I don’t know what to say,” said Jerry. “I’m not even sure why I’m here, well, I do know, see, I’m in this ministry program and in order to become a minister, this Candidate’s Committee has to sponsor me, they sent me to this place that did all these personality tests, and I basically flunked which is kind of funny when you think about it, I flunked me, me was deemed unsuitable for the ministry, and maybe they’re right, because inside, deep inside, well, actually, I don’t think I really know the me deep inside me, but as far inside me as I know, I don’t have a strong faith, I’ve never met Jesus, I’ve never met God, I’d like to, I mean, I believe in God, but based only on what others have told me, and what I’ve read, I mean, millions before me can’t be all wrong, right? It’s a good cause, right? I’m sorry, I’m rambling, but if you want to see what’s going on inside, this is it.” 

Jerry grabbed a deep breath. He hadn’t spoken that many words together in his life.

“There’s something missing inside me,” he continued.  “I’m running out of gas. I don’t feel like I have enough to keep going, and God is the gas station I’m seeking. I thought going to seminary would help me find it, but it’s not. Let me put it another way, continuing with this propulsion metaphor. It’s like I’m a rocket, see, and the first stage of fuel has dropped off, that’s my parents, now the second stage of fuel is supposed to kick in, but it hasn’t, and that’s supposed to be from my belief in God. He’s my second stage of fuel, get it?”

Raymond didn’t move. Tough crowd, thought Jerry.

“So-o-o-o, anyway, I thought I would try therapy. Actually that’s what the personality measuring place suggested I do. I feel like I don’t know me very well. Administrators and tests seem to know me better than I know me. I got people telling me I’m mad at my father, I’m not a good minister, I need a mother.”

Raymond nodded.

Huh, a reaction. What was it that made him nod, Jerry wondered.

“So, this is how it goes?” said Jerry. “I just talk?”

“Why don’t we start with your childhood.”

***

“I was 15. 

“My dad takes me camping, just me and him. We get there early and go hiking. The hike is up a mountain, and it’s pretty rigorous. I enjoy it, though. Back at camp, dad gets the fire going, and we cook up some burgers with potato chips and carrot sticks. We hang around the camp fire mostly in silence. That night, inside the tent, I’m uncomfortable. I can’t sleep. He’s sleeping fine. I panic. I’m desperate to get away. 

***

“I was 14. 

“I’m trying to go to sleep, but muffled voices from my parents’ room keep waking me up. My Mom is crying; my dad’s voice is just a low monotone. I knock on the door, and dad opens it. I see my Mom wiping away tears, and dad has a smile glued to his face. He ushers me back to my bed, telling me to go to sleep, I have school tomorrow. I tell him their voices are keeping me up, please talk more softly, but it doesn’t work. The same thing continues. I put the pillow over my head trying to block out the sound.”

***

“I must have been 12.

“I come home from school, just another day, and Cindy, our Irish Setter, well, my Irish Setter, doesn’t come. I ask mom, and she says mom and dad gave Cindy away. They decided she would be happier on a farm.

“I don’t say a thing. I go to my room and close the door. I just stand in my room not doing anything for a very long time.

“Cindy was my best friend.”

***

“I’m 7.

“My Mom is calling me. Time to come in for dinner. I’m with my friend next door having a catch. My friend asks me if I heard my mom. 

“‘No,’ I say and smirk.”

* * * 

“I dunno, 4, 5? 

“My mom is calling me. I run across the neighbor’s yard, and I trip and fall on the gravel driveway. Blood runs down my leg from my shredded knee. It hurts like heck, but I don’t cry.Mom doesn’t clean it; she doesn’t put any antiseptic on it. She doesn’t touch me. She hands me a Band-Aid. I notice her hand is shaking. I thank her for the Band-Aid.

***

“Maybe 3. 

“My Mom is shampooing my hair in the kitchen sink. Her fingers move through my hair, rub my scalp back and forth. I lean my head back for her. There’re clouds outside the window, big and fat, like giant bowls of vanilla ice cream. I love clouds.”

***

“I don’t know how old I am.

“I’m in my crib. It’s dark. The crib has smooth wood posts and bright colored wood balls that slide up and down. A black shadow comes towards me. A giant hand reaches down. There’s a giant thumb.”

“Dr. Beker, I’m just not sure.”

It was late, when stillness finally had its way, and a drunk Jerry was with Prof. Beker after banging on his door. Jerry knew he would be up.

“Really, Jerry boy?” said Chris smirking through his own alcohol haze.

Silence.

“Do you ever have doubts?” Jerry persisted leaning heavily on the kitchen counter. “How does everyone here do it? How are they all so sure?”

Chris smiled a thin conspiratorial smile. “You are either talking to the very wrong guy or the very right guy.” 

“You’re the only one I can talk to. Everyone else might rat me out that I don’t belong here. Or they’ll patronize me and say, ‘You’ll come around if it’s God’s will.’ Well, is God’s will my will? Helping kids, being close to God, this is my will. How could God not want this?”

“What are you doing here? Is it to serve you or to serve others? I knew it; I knew it. You cannot give. You are empty. You need a mother. You need to be succored.” He slobbered the last word like Sylvester the Cat.

Jerry shuffled over to the kitchen table and slumped into a chair opposite Chris. His head dropped to the table with a clunk. He felt the cool of the Formica. 

“Look at what we do,” Jerry garbled into the table, then he raised his head back up. “You especially. Look at what we do.”

Jerry detected a flash of anger in Chris’ eyes, then they grew soft. “Yes,” he said quietly. ”Yes. Look at what we do. It’s a giant ugly machine and it eats people alive, including me, yet here I am sitting in this kitchen talking with you.”

“I just see so many things wrong, so many things wrong with this seminary, and it makes me furious,” said Jerry.

“Let me show you something.”

 He left the room and, in a bit, came back with a photo. Cracked and yellowed, it was a black and white photo of a young woman with long wavy hair holding a young boy on her hip. The boy laughed into the camera. 

“Mom,” said Chris. “This picture survived. She didn’t. I gave up long ago trying to make sense of it. There is no sense. And it is with this broken heart that I continue to live.”

Jerry studied the picture. The young boy’s delight showed no fear. Emboldened by his mom, he was ready to take on the world.

“This is religion, Jerry boy. This longing for God, a god who abandoned us, as deep as longing for your mother, is the groaning of creation.

“You think you ache now? You are only just beginning.

“We live to comfort each other. That is ministry, my friend. These political issues, they come and they go, but to provide comfort amidst the darkness, amidst the terror, that is ministry. The deeper you go into your pain, the more relevant your ministry becomes.

“I don’t know what lies ahead for you. It’s not fun, ministry. This is no place to escape from life if that’s what you’re doing.”

“I just want a home where everyone’s happy.”

Dr. Beker erupted in laughter. As if baying at the moon, he laughed until tears ran down his face. 

“Ooh boy, Jerry, you’re killing me, you really are.”

Jerry suddenly understood the intensity in Prof. Beker’s eyes. It wasn’t intensity at all, it was the bottomless terror of a little boy who saw his mom dragged away from him, forever.

Two weeks later, Jerry received a letter from his Presbytery’s Candidates Committee. He was instructed to take a battery of tests from the Northeast Career and Counseling Center. It would assist their group in assessing his aptitude for the ministry. 

Jerry put the letter down. Was this connected to his activism? 

The morning of his appointment he walked over to a small office on the outskirts of campus. The receptionist smiled like she was going to get him donuts but instead took him to a cold room where a few others waited with sharpened #2 pencils poised.

In front of him was the Myers-Briggs Personality Test, rows and rows of statements with empty circles underneath denoting “strongly agree” at one end to “strongly disagree” at the other. He had to choose which circle to fill in on the spectrum regarding each statement. And there were 93 statements.

“Work fast. Don’t dwell on your answer. Just put down your first response. There are no right or wrong answers,” the didn’t-give-him-a-donut said.

Jerry believed that for about two seconds. Of course they’re going to judge me according to how I answer.

Being around people exhausts me.

Well, certain people exhaust me, he thought. Certain people don’t. I loved being around the people at Rog and Barb’s house. I’m constantly exhausted by the people at Princeton Seminary. But then if I’m going to be a minister, I better be able to get along with all kinds of people. Oh, Jesus, I’m in trouble.

I prefer not to plan out my day. 

On the weekends I do. Not during the week. How do I answer that?

I enjoy meeting new people.

I should enjoy meeting new people. That’s how they want me to be. Hmmm.

I am an overly sensitive person. 

Hey, what’s up with the word “overly?” Sounds like a negative judgment to me.

The next day the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory lay before him, a series of 567 true-false questions.

I wake up fresh and rested most mornings.

Give me a break.

My hands and feet are usually warm enough. 

No, my hands and feet are usually cold. 

I loved my father.

Why is that in past tense? Are we no longer supposed to love him? 

At times I feel like smashing things.

Doesn’t everyone? 

People have it in for me.

Just at seminary. 

Sometimes my soul leaves my body.

What soul? 

I am possessed by evil spirits.

Yessir. 

I am an important person.

They’ll think I’m crazy if I mark this true.

Then the next day, Jerry worked through the Millon Clinical Mutiaxial Inventory, more statements to answer true or false. 

People would be surprised if I yelled at someone.

At times I wish I were dead.

My relationships have been stormy.

Check, check and check.

It is dangerous to help a stranger in need.

Well, of course, this is New Jersey.

Finally, on the last day, the Rorschach inkblot test. He was asked to interpret ten abstract pictures. 

“Bug.”

“Monster.” 

“Vagina.”

“Bat.”

“Vagina.”

“Vampire.”

“Vagina.”

“Vagina.”

Whoa. Disturbing. 

***

A few weeks later the receptionist called him to make a second appointment, this time to discuss his results with the director.

It was a crisp morning. Cumulus clouds, Jerry’s favorite, glided across a sparkling sky. Buds swelled on the denuded trees. Jerry walked up the now familiar three cement stairs and entered through the double doors. The receptionist, this time with a pert smile, escorted him into an office. 

The door clicked shut. Behind the desk, a tall bookcase was jammed. On the opposite wall hung numerous diplomas. A tall fichus fended for itself in the corner.

Jerry flipped through a Princeton Seminary alumni magazine while he waited. His heart palpitated.

“Hello, Jerry,” said Thomas Barton as he whisked into the office and hung his jacket up on the hat stand. He settled into his swivel chair and studied the file in front of him.

He looked up, “Well, Jerry, you’re quite a dynamic person.” He smiled.

Jerry wiped his palms down the sides of his pants.

“You scored very high in intelligence and creativity. You are extremely independent, a self-starter. You’re somewhat of a loner. You have some moral ambiguities. And a bit troubling, you score low in empathy. Also, you have trouble with authority, tending not to trust authority figures.

“Do you have any questions so far?” He looked up, this time without the smile.

Jerry shook his head no.

“As you know, the purpose of these tests is to help you know yourself better and assess what you are best cut out for, and then finally to advise your Candidate’s Committee regarding your aptitude for the ministry.”

All right, all right, just cut to the chase, Jerry thought.

“I’m afraid we are not going to endorse your candidacy. Your test results are telling us that you would quickly get frustrated with the life and even perhaps act out in a negative fashion at certain personality types within the church. Now, please don’t take this as some kind of failure or a statement that you are lacking in anything. Quite the contrary. You are loaded with gifts. We are trying to point you in a direction that will fully realize them and away from perhaps a false start that would waste years and end up in futility and frustration.”

Jerry dropped his head. He should have answered those questions with what they wanted to hear. Maybe he could take the test over again.

“How can this be?” Jerry asked.

“Again, I know this is hard to hear, but please see this as help and support. Oh, and we strongly recommend that you start therapy.”

“Therapy?” 

“The university offers 12 weeks for free. We encourage you to take advantage of that. Here, let me write out the name and number of the therapist for you to call. Are there any questions?”

“I flunked.” 

“Thoreau said most men lead lives of quiet desperation and die with their song still inside them. Ministry may not be your song, Jerry.”

Jerry suddenly flashed back to when he was dropped from the basketball team. That sounded exactly like what Coach Strohmeyer had said. 

“I didn’t know I was singing,” said Jerry.

Thomas’ brow furrowed.

“I’m merely saying that our discouraging you from joining the ministry may be opening you up to a truer direction for you.”

“Then why don’t I feel relieved? This should be good news. I’m free to go be me. And it’s not. I feel like I’ve failed.”

“I’m sorry.” Thomas stood up. “Don’t forget that therapy.”

“Yeah, right.”

Jerry stood up, shook Thomas’ hand, registered Thomas’ discomfort with his clammy hand, turned and left. 

He shuffled over to the center of the quad, plopped down and laid flat on his back with his arms spread out. Those puffy, white clouds seemed so close. If he could only climb into one. He sat up, pulled his knees up to his chest and clasped his hands behind them.

And stayed there a long time.

Late that night there was a knock at Jerry’s door. On the other side – cue the celestial music – stood graduate student Christine Holmgren, all Minnesota-Swedish-knock-out-good-looks of her. Straw-colored hair framed her porcelain face with arctic blue eyes. From her pouting lips to her manna from heaven breasts to her Grand Prix curves, she presented an impossible distraction from the spiritual pursuit.

“Hello, famous writer,” she said with a delicious smile. “Can you let a small town girl into your room?”

He opened wide the door, brushed aside some stray album jackets and offered his bed.

Christine hopped on and leaned against the wall.

“I’m going to let you in on a secret,” she said. “But I’m not kidding, it’s a secret and you can’t tell anybody. Do you swear?”

He nodded.

“I’m part of a group of students here called Voices in the Wilderness,” she continued. “We’re going after McCord. He exudes first world entitlement. Hitting him is where we can make our strongest statement.”

She reminded Jerry of Barbara back in Tenafly. Maybe Barbara was Swedish too.

“Monday morning during McCord’s usual chapel homily, we’re going to hijack the service. We’re going to remove him from the pulpit and call a moratorium. Then we’ll hold forums to draft a student bill of rights and create a student union. No cooperation, no tuition money. Hit them where it hurts. We figure classes will be stopped for about a month.”

“Wow,” Jerry said. The prospect was at once thrilling and frightening.

“The disenfranchised of the world must know they have a voice on our seminary campus. That’s where you come in, Jerry. You will be our media relations person. Get them to cover this. Will you do that?” she asked with an insouciant smile as if offering a slice of apple pie.

Jerry recalled Dr. Byers’ warning. This could mean expulsion. And what would his father think of that? On the other hand, if not now, when?

“Yes.”

“We are going to fuck them good,” she said as she jumped off the bed.

“Uhhhh, sure,” Jerry joined in. 

“See you in the morning,” she said with a wink.

***

Monday morning arrived raw and misting. Jerry poked his head into the chapel and released his held breath. In the last pew was a man wearing a trench coat, small pad in hand. His phone call to The New York Times worked. 

The student congregation launched into “A Mighty Fortress is Our God” like a football pep squad singing their team song. President McCord assumed the pulpit and began to speak. “Let us worship God. Our help is in the name of the Lord who made heaven and earth…” 

“Stop!” shouted doctoral student Gary Halstrom as he marched up the center aisle. He ascended the chancel stairs and huddled with McCord, his hands chopping the air. McCord glared down the aisle as ten more students marched forward. 

“We have a special event this morning,” said President McCord not missing a beat, as if this had been the plan all along. He exited off the side. 

A pregnant silence hung heavy in the air. Those in the pews collectively held their breath, anticipating police sirens any second, which would be their cue to cheese it.

Gary occupied the pulpit. “Relax. I’m unarmed,” he joked, and no one laughed. “Professor Shaull, please come forward.”

OK, now we’re in for it, Jerry thought, perched in the front row balcony. Dr. Shaull was the token radical on campus. This place is gonna burn. 

Professor Shaull did not ascend the pulpit; he did not step up to the chancel; instead he stayed level with the congregation.

Hands at his side, he started conversationally. “Not long ago I stood before a congregation in Nicaragua. It was my last sermon. I had been detained, questioned and ordered to leave the country within the week or I would be imprisoned. 

“Why was I deported? Because I spoke truth to the people; because I incited the people to fight for what was right. We forget how Jesus was a zealot sowing seeds of revolution, reminding the disenfranchised they had a right to be heard, overthrowing the money collectors’ tables in the temple and lambasting the rich.

“My friends we have become much too comfortable. Living in this privileged town makes it hard to hear the cries from Newark.

His voice rose. “Princeton Theological Seminary, is this a bastions of free thinking? I think not.”

Jerry surveyed the group below. Nobody moved, as if a grizzly had entered and if they played dead, he would just lumber on.

 “This institution, and you by association, is a minion of the military industrial complex.

“Nation states have neutered Christianity. Jesus’ message is political; it does not support military industrial complex. We must not placate the CEOs that line our pews with their Armani suits. Forgiveness of sin on Sunday does not rectify board room decisions on Monday. Serve Mammon or God; you cannot serve both.

“What does it mean to be a Christian institution? It is time for all of us to reflect on this question so that Princeton seminary walks its talk.” 

Ok, Jerry noticed a few nods there.

“Will you walk with me so this institution truly shines as a light on a hill?” 

Silence.

“I said, will you walk with me so this institution truly shines as a light on a hill?”

The students were in uncharted waters. The orientation handbook did not cover insurrection.

Jerry clapped, and that’s all it took to light the fire. Applause filled the chapel as they all rose to their feet. Not just polite applause, no, this was downright thunderous. The excitement was palpable. 

Jerry welcomed this upheaval with open arms. It validated his own inner turmoil. He was not alone! Truly there was a disconnect between message and practice.

That night, he helped deliver the first edition of an underground newspaper, Voices in the Wilderness. He along with others slid copies under students’ doors.

Although classes were not cancelled, workshops convened; panels debated; committees formed. Resolutions were drafted and petitions circulated.

Chapter 10

For his final year, Jerry took up residence on the top floor of Alexander Hall dormitory. Situated on the west side of the quad, catty-corner from the chapel, this austere colonial building stood four floors tall, made of red brick and topped with a gleaming white steeple. The steeple housed the campus bells that announced the beginning and end of all classes. He no longer would have the excuse of not hearing the bell. 

Jerry’s door sprung open after a no-wait knock. 

“Far out.” said Sam. “My room’s right across from yours.”

Jerry’s creature comfort voice demanded payback for the summer confinement and Sam’s proximity made that all too easy to oblige. They created The Golden Calf Club, a reference to Exodus 32.4 when the Jewish tribe, tired of waiting for Moses to come down from Mt. Sinai, threw a helluva bacchanal, kind of an original Burning Man festival. Dedicated to not waiting to party, Club members’ names were engraved on a golden plaque which hung proudly on the hallway wall. 

The “par-tay” commenced with an invented game called Hallway Frisbee, the object being to throw the Frisbee from one end of the hallway all the way – and it was long – to the other end without it smashing into someone’s door, a someone who might actually be studying. 

It progressed to a morning disco fest blared out Sam’s window to serenade students below trudging off to class, followed by afternoon croquet on the quad dressed up in their Nantucket best, Bermuda shorts, Lacoste polo shirts and blazers and a pitcher of bloody mary’s, then finished with happy hour at the nearby Rusty Scupper, rolling loudly into the seminary cafeteria just before closing to grab dinner.  Trays of food plopped onto the table, bodies flopped down and crazed laughter ensued. 

On the table this night, there was a flyer. It stated that the seminary was a major stockholder in Union Carbide, maker of deadly nerve gas, and General Motors, operating in apartheid South Africa and not signing on to the Sullivan Principles which guaranteed equal pay regardless of race. It called on all students to pack the annual Board of Directors meeting and demand that the seminary divest itself of these stockholdings.

Jerry seethed: What kind of a Christian institution is this?

As Jerry headed to class the next morning, President McCord’s Cadillac swished by him and pulled into its reserved parking space. McCord emerged, a rotund figure with heavy jowls, smoking a cigar, like the proverbial corporate fat cat.

With every step McCord took, Jerry’s bile rose.

Was this seminary just a tool of the military industrial complex? Church history had taught him how papal Rome kept silent over political immorality, indeed instigated the very action. Their money was tainted. So, was this how it worked, bolstered by the ethos that financial success signaled God’s chosen.

That was not the church Jerry signed up for.

That night when his digital clock glowed 1 a.m., Jerry arose from his bed. The air was cushioned with the sounds of slumber. He slipped a piece of paper into his Smith Corona. “I HATE PRINCETON SEMINARY,” he typed.  A chill ran through him, yet freed by the hour of confession, in the spirit of Martin Luther’s 95 Theses, which he was currently studying, he wrote:

15 Theses

1. Princeton Theological Seminary does not bestow goodness unto the rich.
2. PTS does not bestow goodness unto Union Carbide.
3. PTS does not bestow goodness unto General Motors.
4. Princeton must demand that Union Carbide cease to produce weapons of mass destruction and General Motors sign the Sullivan Principles or divest itself of its stockholdings with them.
5. PTS must stand by the poor.
6. PTS students must have a voice.
7. Students must have a voice at the Board of Directors’ table.
8. Students must have a voice in the selection of faculty.
9. The Presbyterian church has lost touch with its congregation.
10. PTS must recognize this crisis and respond to it. This must not be a case of Nero fiddling while Rome burns.
11. Money is not God’s reward.
12. America is not God’s chosen country.
13. Seminary education must be relevant to a secular world.
14. Students must have a voice in their own education.
15. Pope McCord must be de-poped.

His heart raced. He hesitated. Would they expel him? 

Before he could change his mind, he bolted outside and nailed it to the chapel door.

***

Dean Byers summoned Jerry to his office. Smaller than Jerry’s dorm room, there was no window, no pictures on the walls, just a single desk with a single framed family photo. Dr. Byers pulled in a chair and positioned it sideways beside the desk. Jerry squeezed in and twisted himself towards Dr. Byers.

“Let’s see, Jerry. I understand you posted a document on the chapel door this morning. It does seem to be quite the talk of the campus. Let’s address some of these issues, shall we?” His smile cleared his cheeks over to the sides of his face like snow off a driveway. 

Jerry returned the smile. Now we’re getting somewhere, he thought.

“You know, Jerry, it’s common for students to have all sorts of idealistic views, and I support that. It keeps us old codgers on our toes. But change, like evolution, is not a sudden thing. It takes time. I mean, where is that Second Coming? Am I right?”

“Well, actually sir, within evolution, change does come suddenly. It’s not a smooth curve. It’s more like steps: no change, no change, no change, then suddenly a huge leap in development, a step up to the next level. That’s where we are now. PTS needs to take that leap.”

Dr. Byers cheek piles reappeared. 

“Jerry, Jerry Jerry.” He shook his head. “I’ve known your father now for, well, let’s see, at least 25 years, since before you were born. I’ve seen pictures of you growing up, and now, here you are, this fine young man sitting in front of me, well, beside me, ready to take on the world.

“But you strike me as an angry man. I wonder why? Perhaps you hold a lot of anger towards your father.” 

Jerry flushed. “I’m not angry at my dad. I’m very grateful for my dad. I wouldn’t be here without him. I am angry at this institution. I would like to see it practice what it preaches.”

“Well Jerry, we do things here decently and in order. What you did is punishable. I’m not going to take any action this time. I am issuing you a warning. Another action like that and there will be serious consequences. 

“Thank you for coming in, and do say hello to your father for me.” 

That summer Jerry signed up for intensive Greek, a requirement for the Presbyterian ministry. The operative word was “intensive.” What was normally accomplished over nine months of an academic year would be done in six weeks. Instead of one hour classes three times a week there would be six hours of classes Monday through Friday. He had no choice. There wasn’t any room to schedule the class during his senior year.

On his first day, Jerry squatted, pivoted and plopped into a chair in a non-air conditioned, muggy classroom. Professor Story droned on while Jerry sweated. His stomach wrenched into a knot.

Something wrong calling…again, but he couldn’t just get up and take a long walk. 

Internally, an apocalyptic battle was underway. On one side, his church voice, all wool suit and required attendance; on the other side , his creature comfort voice, all live in the moment and do what feels good.  Creature comfort was telling him to get the hell out of here, now. Church voice was saying if you want to be ordained you have to fulfill all requirements and this is one of them .

Again, shades of basketball camp and Bard College, why does it have to be so hard, he thought. God can’t possibly want his people to suffer so much.  And in this case, for what? One summer wouldn’t make him a Greek scholar, so it would be foolish to trust his own translations. Better to trust scholars who have made careers out of it. Rebellion lurked. Quitting beckoned. But he liked working with kids he didn’t want to jeopardize that. And he still hoped seminary would bring him closer to God. What to do; what to do.

***

Jerry trundled into Speer Library and parked himself in a study carol. He flashed through his vocabulary work cards. If only. Rather, he worked through his vocabulary flash cards. His hands dripped. His first exam was tomorrow.

He looked up. Outside the window, a young mom leaned against a tree trunk. Her barefoot child scampered around like a puppy, arms spread wide, feet churning, laughter spilling.

Jerry sighed. Oh, to be that child; to have that kind of joie de vivre. That had to be what God wanted of his children, that kind of celebration, that kind of exuberance about this magic called life. It had to be. 

How could this drudgery be required in order to minister to others? What inspiration deemed it so? Whenever he asked an ordained minister why Greek was a Presbyterian requirement for ordination he would only get a shrug of the shoulders, a nod of compassion and an encouragement to just do it. Methinks something is rotten in Denmark. 

He bowed his head as if in prayer and continued. Sweat pooled under his hands.

***

Jerry joined Nancy at breakfast. 

“I’d like to pray with you,” Jerry said over eggs. 

“Oh?”

“I’m having a hard time with Greek, a hard time staying focused. It’s not sticking in my brain. I just don’t like it. Well, actually I hate it.”

Nancy laughed, covering her mouth. 

“Oh, Jerry, I hate it too. It’s like castor oil.”

“Exactly.”

She smiled. “Let’s pray.

“Lord Jesus,” she started, “our constant companion, friend and champion, we reach out to you for strength. Help Jerry get through his class. It’s all Greek to him….” She paused, tittered, stopped herself, a bolder laugh escaped, stopped herself again, then the brakes fell off. She choked on her laughter. Tears streamed down her face. Egg came out of her nose. 

“I’m so sorry, Jerry. I don’t know what’s come over me.” She grabbed hold of the table with one hand for support. “Really,” she raised a finger, “Hold on.” She took a big breath. “OK.”

Jerry bowed his head.

“Jesus…,” she sputtered, howled, slapping the table. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

***

Nancy never came back to class. 

Jerry wondered what finally broke her. Was it during their church history class when they were taught that certain quotes attributed to Jesus were actually authored by the newly forming Christian church? The founding fathers bolstered their shaky authority by putting words in the dead Jesus’ mouth, quotes about apostolic succession or the elements of communion. 

Determining what within the Gospels were actual statements by the historical Jesus and what were later insertions by the early church was an academic pursuit unto itself. One method of determination utilized the synoptic Gospels which placed the Gospel stories in parallel columns so that one could observe what texts appeared in all the Gospels and what only in one or two. If a statement appeared in all four that was a pretty good sign that it was authentic. So much for the word of God. Is that what broke her? 

Or maybe it was during New Testament Hermeneutics when they delved into the Second Coming. In Matthew 16:28, Jesus says, “Truly I say to you, there are some of those who are standing here who will not taste death until they see the Son of Man coming in His kingdom.” This is repeated more or less in Mark and Luke, a good sign that this was an authentic quote. Two thousand years later, where’s the Second Coming? Was it a bogus prediction?

Yet in Mark 1:15, Jesus says, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand; repent and believe in the gospel.” So the Kingdom is already here? It was pointed out that “at hand” is the Greek verb “coming” and it’s in the perfect present tense, that is, the Kingdom has come and is in the process of coming at the same time. Perhaps for those who accept Christ as the Son of God, the Kingdom is here; perhaps the Apocalypse isn’t a one time cataclysmic event but a one by one, personal event. 

Nancy probably didn’t like that either. 

Maybe to this masculine ethos – suffering is good for you; no pain, no gain; make it hurt to prove you’re a man – she stood up and said, nunh unh, I don’t have to go this route for my faith. I believe in the Bible. I don’t need all these smarty pants scholars ripping it apart, dissecting it, exposing all these authors and their agendas, don’t bother me with that. It’s my Bible, and it’s the voice of God, and there is one road to the Kingdom and that is through Jesus. I’m good, and I don’t have to take your exams, and I don’t have to take your Blue Books.

Yeah, maybe that’s why she quit. Well, God bless her, Jerry thought. I hope I run into her on the other side

***

After class, Jerry spotted Professor Story dashing to his car. Dr. Story was straight out of central casting for a 50s movie replete with horn rimmed glasses, slicked down hair tightly parted, short sleeve shirt wilted by the humidity and polyester trousers with the permanent crease. 

“Dr. Story, a word?” 

Professor Story stopped in his tracks and turned.They were at the front door of his car and fortunately in the shade of a tall maple. Its leaves waved lazily from a desultory breeze. 

“Oh?” His sagging jowls shored up a drooping smile.

“I’ve got a problem. This is just not my thing. I’m really struggling with it.” Jerry didn’t quite know how to put it. “I just don’t think learning Greek, and superficially learning it, is going to bring me any closer to God. I think it’s just some kind of requirement cooked up by the fraternity of Presbyterian ministers, and now I’m being hazed into doing it. Ya know? 

“That’s quite an indictment, Mr. Kradleman.” His voice was kind yet with a slight gravelly sound like he needed to clear something out.

“It’s taking joy out of my life. And I don’t think that’s what God wants. I really don’t understand why we have to do this.” 

Dr. Story’s smile lost out to his encroaching jowls. “I don’t either, frankly. I doubt any graduates use this in preparing their sermons. However I do think it gives you a richer knowledge of the Word.” 

“All the pressure and remembering and testing. It hurts, like I’m actually harming myself. And yet if I don’t finish, I won’t be ordained.” 

Dr. Story set his jaw and started to speak. Then he stopped himself. He turned and looked away across the campus quad. A couple of students flicked a frisbee back and forth. Dr. Story sighed and turned back to Jerry, “Just show up, I’ll make sure you pass.”

Jerry stared at him. Was this a joke?

“Between you and me. Got it?” continued Dr. Story. “The grace of God, Mr. Kradleman. Study that.”

Dr. Story climbed into his Chevrolet Caprice.

“Thank you,” Jerry yelled to the car as it moseyed away.

***

 Each day Jerry shuffled to class; each night he struggled through new vocabulary, new syntaxes and new verb tenses. All the while he resisted the siren song of disco from across the way: Jerry knew full well Sam was in there smoking a joint (or two), drinking a beer (or three), playing a backgammon game (or four) and eating messy, yummy gyros (lost count). 

***

Jerry aced the class.

 Sundays were brutal. He had to wonder, why was the day God designated for rest the most gut busting day of the week for men and women of the cloth? His field education assignment at Matawan Presbyterian Church required that he participate in the Sunday morning worship services and lead the senior high fellowship group.

Regardless of what party might have brought him home at what wee hour of the morning, he arose at 6:30 a.m., showered, dressed, staggered over to Mackay Center for breakfast, forced down eggs and bacon despite his stomach threatening to send it right back up, drove for an hour to the church in time for the 9 a.m. service, then another at 11 a.m., visited a member’s home for lunch which usually entailed conversing with the wife while the husband and children sat awkwardly silent as if waiting for some bell that would release them, grabbed an hour for a nap, prepared for the evening’s Senior High Fellowship Group and then led them starting at six. He enjoyed these kids. He was way more comfortable spending time with them than with the adults. The program started with dinner prepared by one of the moms, then was half play and half discussion. They played softball and kickball, went bowling, ice skating, and to the movies. They sat crosslegged on the floor in a circle and carried on animated discussions about everything from school dress code to why is church so boring. Jerry allowed it to go wherever, no matter how off topic. He was more interested in keeping them involved. Fellowship ended between nine and ten, then he drove home and collapsed into bed around 11:30 p.m. 

***

Jerry glued himself to his desk chair committed to completing an essay on Fear and Trembling by Soren Kierkegaard.

Sam barged into Jerry’s room choking on smoke and carrying a bong. 

“Oh, man, you gotta listen to this guy. He is hysterical. Steve Martin. Listen to this guy.”

He grabbed Jerry by the upper arm, pulled him up off his chair and into Sam’s room. Then he pulled a record out from a jacket on which was a photograph of a man with a serious expression wearing a balloon hat and a fake arrow through his head.

“Well exxccuuuuuuuuuuusse me!” finished one bit, which sent Jerry into a fit of laughter. Maybe he was getting a contact high. This guy was funny.

“C’mon, some backgammon. You gotta take a break,” said Sam.

“Well, OK.”

“Hey, I’m starving. Let’s grab some gyros first.” 

Jerry climbed into Sam’s beat up BMW and they raced down to Nassau Street where there was a corner dive that sold Greek food. For a couple of bucks, Jerry obtained the juiciest, messiest, but oh-so-tastiest pocket bread stuffed with roast lamb, onions, tomatoes and a garlic yogurt sauce. 

Then they returned for some backgammon.

He collapsed into bed around 1 a.m. Back to the chair tomorrow, he promised himself.

***

Sam burst into Jerry’s room. The Beegees’ “You Should Be Dancin’” spilled in with him, blaring from Alex’s room. Alex’s eyes were blood red. A more urban close cut beard had replaced his country mustache.  

“Jerry, you gotta do this, man. There’s this disco class at the Y. Sarah and Deborah signed up.”

“Let me think about it.” 

Jerry launched out of his chair into a long walk leaving an exegesis of 1 Thessalonians 5:11-14 behind. 

***

Jerry attended a kegger Halloween dance dressed as a Franciscan priest replete with robe and rope sash. Sam went as John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Sarah and Deborah dressed up as witches with tight unitards, capes and kohled eyes. Jerry gaped at their serpentine dancing. He lurched into their circle while Stevie Wonder’s “I Wish” from Songs in the Key of Life pulsed. And then it was a slow song. Jerry caught the spark in Sarah’s eye. He took her hand and placed his other around her waist. They swayed as one. He felt her breasts against his chest. His cheek settled into her warm hair. 

The song ended. Sarah didn’t move. 

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey.”

Pause.

“Thanks,” said Jerry and backed away. 

He zoomed out into another long walk through the streets of Princeton.

Chapter 9

Jerry answered the knock at his dormitory door. Jennifer, with a bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label, threw herself into his arms. They kissed long and sloppy.

And yet, and yet, this was after all a seminary men’s dormitory, a three story, red brick building with sharp angles and long hallways, single rooms door after door after door, single rooms with IKEA desks and book shelves, twin beds and single windows. Out Jerry’s loomed the colorless concrete wall of the building next door, as if the world outside had been deleted. 

His across the hall neighbor Alex would have greatly approved of this surprise visit.  A salt of the earth Idahoan, with a handlebar mustache, his penchant for pot and beer, pizza and gyros, Steve Martin and Cheech and Chong, made him Jerry’s kind of guy. They bonded instantly and fell into chummy competitions in tennis by day and backgammon by  night.

So when Jennifer came a knockin’,  Alex’s door zipped open. He quickly assessed the situation, gave Jerry a thumbs-up and a wink and retreated back into his room. 

Unfortunately, rockin’, Jerry and Jennifer did not. 

Jennifer didn’t get it, didn’t understand, why not let’s put a significant dent into this Black Label and fuck our brains out. 

For Jerry, he felt like everyone else was listening, some creak of the bed, some stifled moan, some telltale giveaway that would alert everyone about what they were doing. This was worse than being home with his parents listening outside his door. He just couldn’t, wouldn’t let go. Needless to say, his performance level suffered. Once again maintaining an erection took effort with a quick ejaculation before either of them could really settle in and enjoy.

When the weekend ended, Jerry was relieved.

It was the first Dear Jane letter he had ever written. It pained him to say goodbye. He truly liked Jennifer, her sense of fun, her athleticism, her enjoyment of sex. But, without hearing a word, without seeing a sign, he felt such moral condemnation, and that he could not suffer. He didn’t want to walk around with a scarlet letter on his chest.  

Yet more than regretting losing such a catch, something at a deeper, more primal level was disturbed. Its voice, though faint, carried great power. It was concerned, no, panicked that he was cutting off a critical food source without which he would die. This seminary was taking him into the desert. There was this promise of manna, the pure joy of Christ, but so far he had none. This was crazy; he’s gonna die. Get the fuck outta here. He consoled himself with psalm 61, “For God alone, O my soul, wait in silence, for my hope is from him.”

Chapter 8

That summer, Jerry took a field education job directing a youth center for The First Presbyterian Church in Joppa, Maryland, a suburb of Baltimore. The center consisted of a large room with a couple of sofas and chairs, a ping pong table, knock hockey board and boxed games. There was a basketball hoop outside in the parking lot. Jerry worried that it lacked the comfy quality of Rog and Barb’s home. 

High school kids with all their turbulent energy, could he keep them under control? What if there was an uprising, and they ran him out of the youth center?

Jerry launched a film festival after he discovered films were free at the local library. He scheduled speakers including an entertaining hypnotist who got the tough kid to sing “Tiptoe Through the Tulips.” And he held a ping pong tournament.

At the tournament, one girl stood out above all the others. True, Jennifer was older, being a college sophomore, but she also was intensely competitive. She mentioned she pitched on a local softball team. 

On a free evening, Jerry attended one of her games. Her dark eyes zeroed in on the hapless batter. Her arm windmilled around, slapped the side of her body and hurled the ball. No one could touch her. As she walked off the pitcher’s mound she caught sight of Jerry. Her eyes drilled his as if he were another batter. Jerry’s hands sweated.

August arrived, the senior pastor’s vacation month. Jerry agreed to house sit his place while he took his family to their vacation home in Maine. The first weekend, Jerry threw a party and invited some of the older kids from the youth center over, including Jennifer.

Around 1 a.m., after everyone else had left, Jennifer remained with Jerry on the living room floor.

 Conversation stopped; Jennifer’s gaze held. 

Jerry had a proposition before him, as if a thigh slapping pitch was headed his way. Hey, batter, batter. 

Swing? He had to decide. Part of him just wanted to bolt. His hands perspired; his heart pounded. 

He leaned in and kissed her forcefully, as if to prove something. She responded with equal intensity, then it all became a mad blur, lips, tongues, fingers, different conversations between different body parts, a cacophony of story lines, pressing, rubbing, sliding, building into a crescendo of pleasure.

Yes, it felt good, yet underlying this frenzy, fear persisted. A certain part of him just wanted it to be over, wasn’t even there, gone into hiding, only to come out after it was all over. This part viewed this banquet of flesh as an act of violence.

Jerry climaxed, and in the aftermath, he felt relieved. He had accomplished some kind of man test. He successfully hid that other part he didn’t want to acknowledge, much less have anything to do with.

Come morning, in the bedroom, Jerry disentangled himself from Jennifer and the covers. In silence, they exchanged sheepish smiles.

“Coffee?” he asked. 

“Sure.”

“Ping pong?”

“You’re on!”

With coffees in hand, they padded over to the youth center and whacked the ball back and forth. 

“Game?” she said with insouciance.

“Sure,” said Jerry.

It didn’t take long for the competition to turn fierce. Jennifer fired slam after slam. Jerry returned with an arsenal of spins. 

An alarm sounded in Jerry’s head. 

“Shit! I gotta go, ” he said.

“I’ll be right here,” she said sweetly.

He sprinted home, got dressed and made it to church with seconds to spare for the worship processional.

***

On the final weekend, Jennifer invited Jerry to her family’s cabin. He agreed to meet her there after he closed the youth center Saturday night. 

“Are you listening to me?” asked a young girl at the youth center who had been talking to Jerry about the fight she just had with her boyfriend.

“I’m sorry,” Jerry confessed. He had been imagining Jennifer’s tanned face, the dusting of freckles along the top ridge of her nose that drifted down to the top of her cheeks, her full lips, her straight brown hair that refused to be tucked behind her ears.  

He glanced at his watch. 

At the stroke of ten, he locked everything up, bid a hasty farewell to the kids and tore out of the parking lot in his beat up Pontiac LeMans.

He followed the lengthy directions to the Susquehanna River. The highway regressed into a narrow macadam road, then into a dirt road which dead ended. He pulled next to the one other car there. Through the trees, he made out the silhouette of a small cabin.

He turned off the engine. The wind gusted, rustling the leaves. A shiver shot through him. Rain coming, he thought. He rolled up the windows and got out.

 A half-moon played peek-a-boo through fast moving clouds. Making his way to the cabin, he climbed up a couple of stairs. Through white, gauzy window curtains, the soft glow of a single candle greeted him. He turned the doorknob, opened the creaking door and tiptoed in. With a solid click, the door shut and left the blustery wind behind.

He slipped by two leather stuffed chairs, used and worn in like old baseball gloves. They were positioned before a river rock fireplace darkened around the edges from years of use. At the window, Jerry extinguished the candle.

The crisp ticking of a clock amplified the quiet. He retraced his steps back to the entryway. Feeling forward with his hand down a hallway, he reached a doorknob and turned it. Inside came the sound of measured breathing.

He removed his clothes and slipped under the cool sheet next to Jennifer’s naked, warm body. She stirred. He pulled her into a spooning position. He felt her bottom press into him. He nudged back with a growing erection. She laced her top leg over his thigh. He slid his penis into her. They moved in unison.

Jennifer turned around and climbed on top of Jerry. Inchoate fear tasered Jerry. That certain part of him scrambled into hiding again. He lost his erection. He kept going, praying it would come back, but it was no use.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She tried to resuscitate him with her mouth, but that didn’t work. He could feel her mouth going up and down his penis, but that was it, nothing building, nothing pleasurable even.

“Let’s just go to sleep,” Jerry said. “We can continue this in the morning.”

“Did I do something wrong?” Jennifer said.

“Of course not, no, nothing, you’re wonderful. I don’t know, believe me, I don’t get it. I’m really embarrassed.”

“Shhhhh, it’s OK, like you said, new game tomorrow.” 

And they returned to spooning.

In the grayness of dawn, the rain beat hard on the roof. Jerry climbed out of bed and made coffee. The church service was at 9 a.m. Jerry wanted to leave himself some time to prepare so he would get going by 7:30; it was about a 45-minute drive back to the church.

He made breakfast and as he was popping up the toast, Jennifer shuffled in wearing a white t-shirt and boxers.

“Good morning,” she said.

“And to you, kind lady.” He handed her a plate of toast and scrambled eggs. “Coffee?”

“Absolutely.” She flopped down on one of the chairs around the eating table.

They ate in silence, side by side, always something touching, a finger, a foot, a calf.

They kissed and parted. Jerry started the car and ascended the steep hill, however his tires spun out. The dirt road was a sea of mud. Currents of water raced down the carved out tire ruts. He backed the car down and tried to climb the hill with some extra momentum, but again halfway up, he spun out, wheels spitting gravel, digging deeper into the mud.

“Shit.”

Self-condemnation beat down on him like the rain on the roof. He would miss the service, and there was no phone for miles to alert them. They’ll fire him. This’ll get back to seminary. He’ll be thrown out of seminary. He was a bad, bad person.

He pictured all the parishioners sitting in their pews, the organist playing Bach, the choir processing in, followed by…no one. 

Would they do the service themselves? They all knew it by heart. The worship bulletin was a step by step instruction manual. Or would they just leave, relishing the extra time.

“Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!” He smashed his fists against the steering wheel with each invective.

He got out of the car. Rain buffeted. Lightning flashed with an instant crack of thunder. He lifted his face to the sky. “I am sorry, God! I am so sorry! I fucked up! Please forgive me!” 

Jerry suddenly wondered, Did I just pray?

He dropped his arms and sloshed back inside. Jennifer was in the sun room rolling a joint. She offered it to Jerry who waved it off. It was everything he could do to keep his thoughts under control.

When he drove home later that afternoon he reflected on the afternoon. Was he closer to God after one year of seminary?

In a word, no. With the Bible study, he learned about other people’s experience of God. They heard God in their dreams; they had visions. They frequently acted against popular opinion based solely on their communication with God. Yet all this brought Jerry no closer to God. 

People like Nancy, and there were plenty of them on campus, were comfortable referring to Jesus as their constant companion. Jerry was uncomfortable just saying His name unless it was in a cursing context. 

***

“Chris, have you ever talked with God?” asked Jerry.

It was way past midnight, now home from his summer field work, this was Jerry’s last night at the Bekers’ before he moved onto campus. Chris, ensconced at the kitchen table, lifted his head up from his book. His bloodshot eyes struggled to focus on Jerry.

“Are you fffffucking kidding me?” he said, saliva spitting out from between his pursed lips.