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The alarm blared 7 am. Jerry rolled off his bed into a squat position and sprang up to standing, stretching his long limbs. The sun beckoned through the window. 

He stared at his few clothes, then pulled out a bright orange, seer sucker short sleeve shirt with splashy travel postcard images festooned all over. He loved that shirt. It put him in the spirit of adventure, and today would certainly be that, traveling to points unknown and exotic. Finally, he pulled on his jeans, broken in to perfection.

Racing into the kitchen, he screeched to a halt. Before him, Professor Beker, ensconced in a chair, slouched over The New York Times at a table for two. His teal blue bathrobe hung open revealing a faded white tank top and paisley boxers. He stirred Carnation evaporated milk into his coffee. The spoon rang out like a school bell.

“Good morning, Professor Beker,” Jerry said, “I’m Jerry Cradleman.”

Looking like he had just bitten into a lemon, Chris inspected his new housemate.

“Thank you so much for having me here,” Jerry said.

“Hunh,” he said. His gaze pierced Jerry’s. “Do you know what you are doing?” he said with thick Dutch accent.

“I think so,” Jerry replied, not moving a muscle.

Chris scrutinized him further. “I don’t think you do,” Chris said.

A stare-off continued, then Chris’ countenance transformed into a smile.

“You’ll find out,” he said and returned to his paper.

***

Jerry hoofed it across the quad. The fallen maple monolith had been removed. Not a chip, not a leaf remained. The lawn was its manicured self again. Jerry had the distinct feeling the surrounding buildings were judging him. “You don’t belong here,” they whispered.

Jerry climbed up Stewart Hall’s stone stairs and entered its vestibule with dark wood paneled walls. Up the staircase he proceeded, on groaning stairs rutted by the thousands of pilgrims’ feet preceding his.

A long dais anchored the front of the room, behind it, a wall of blackboards streaked with whorls of chalk dust. A podium stood center. 200 seats bolted to the floor with immovable desktops filled the lecture hall. 

Jerry observed one student squat beside a chair, pivot around the desktop then plop down for a landing. Jerry followed his example. He squatted, pivoted and plopped into a rear seat and waited. 

So, ministry was not solely the domain of nerds, he thought as he surveyed the classroom. He was surprised to see how many people were in their 40s and 50s, how many were international students, and how many were cute women. He wasn’t surprised to see the prevalence of Princeton men. The Presbyterian Church was full of them.

The Princeton man had quarterback good looks: full heads of hair shaped like they had just been to the barber, strong jaw lines, Grecian noses, clear complexions, and radiant smiles that beamed Manifest Destiny. When Princeton men wanted something, they got it and God said so. Their credo was work hard and thou shalt profit. 

Jerry wanted to punch the Princeton man in his face. He didn’t sport these classic good looks. Perched atop a lanky body, his head was overly large with an early receding hair line and a prominent nose. His lips were thin, the upper lip sometimes disappeared altogether when he was stressed. He had no innate sense of Manifest Destiny. Jerry’s credo too was work hard and thou shalt be rewarded, however it was tempered with a disclaimer: Maybe not. Some people work hard and fail. As well, some people don’t work hard and succeed. 

Professor Cullen Story took the lectern. “Welcome to Orientation to Old Testament Studies,” he said. “We will assume nothing here. This is an historical work that we will explore as if it were newly discovered. Now let’s pray before we start.”

That’s different, Jerry thought. His hands and feet grew clammy.

“Our heavenly Father, we ask that you open our hearts and minds to your word. Let us once again revisit this great story and be reminded of your everlasting love beyond all imagining. We pray in your son’s name. Amen.”

Professor Story explained that the Bible was a tapestry of voices woven together through the ages. With careful analysis, each author’s words could be tweezed apart from the others.

For example, the Bible has two Adam and Eve stories. One story, Genesis 1:1-2:4a, claims that Eve came from Adam, his rib to be exact. Scholars attribute this to the Priestly source. The second creation story, Genesis 2:4ff, claims that Adam and Eve were created together at the same time. The Yahwist source wrote this.  

Any editor over the centuries would have spotted this redundancy, as well as how they conflict, and cleaned it up. But no, both stories remain. Why?

Such tension within rendered the Bible more dynamic, more provocative. A work he had dismissed as dogmatic pablum, he now learned challenged the best and the brightest. 

New words, like exotic butterflies, flitted about the lecture hall: hermeneutics, exegesis, teleology, zeitgeist, Occam’s Razor, existentialist, eschatology.

Jerry scribbled notes furiously. He had lost track of time when the campus bell rang. 

Back at Mackay Center, Jerry passed through the lobby and into the dining room. The ceiling was high; the room was bright. Round tables lined up in neat rows. 

As he stood with a full tray of food, he had the distinct feeling of being watched, no, dissected. And perhaps that wasn’t so paranoid. After all, he was a new student in a den of returning students. 

Where to sit? Several crowded tables gushed frenzied conversation, punctuated by outbursts of laughter. Others were quiet, less populated.

He steered towards a tepid table in the corner and parked next to a woman with aquamarine eyes that emanated pastoral care. 

“Is this your first year?” Jerry asked.

“Mmm, yes.” She covered her mouth with her hand and tittered. Her shoulder length, straight mahogany hair with short cut bangs framed her lightly freckled face. After swallowing, she said, “Yes, I think, in fact, I’m in your Old Testament class.”

“Cullen Story?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, I’m in that. I didn’t see you.”

“I’m not surprised. It’s such a large class. I was sitting in the front row. I got there early to make sure. It helps me concentrate better. I’m Nancy.”

“Jerry. What did you think?”

“Well, it’s not what I was expecting. I thought it would be more faith based. This is seminary after all.”

“Explain?”

“Well, his lecture secularized the Bible. I’m afraid we might lose the power of God’s word if we just treat it like another book of literature. And describing it as written by various authors. This is the word of God.”

“Written by God?”

“Yes.”

She spoke with conviction, her eyes now fierce, yet Jerry noticed tiny pearls of sweat clinging to her peach fuzz mustache. He wondered if her faith might not be developing a few cracks. Perhaps this was what Dr. Byers had been alluding to in his orientation remarks.

“I’d like to pray with you,” she said with an inviting smile. 

Jerry’s eyes widened. “Why?” He was nonplussed. Was this a seminary pick-up line?

“I sense that you are troubled.” Her guileless smile continued.

Praying in public? Oh my. Then again, this was seminary.

“OK,” he said.

She took his hands into hers. Jerry felt their coolness, then a calm moved through him. She bowed her head and closed her eyes, and he followed. 

“Our Father in heaven, we pray for your servant, Professor Story. We pray for all the Princeton faculty that they may stay true to your word and show us your way and your light. We are here to learn how to proclaim your Good News. Help us through these coming years. And shine a special light for my new friend, Jerry. You have given him a special mission. Show him the way, be by his side, especially when he is troubled and confused, that he may be your everlasting servant. In your son’s name, amen.”

Jerry opened his eyes and noticed that hers were still closed. Her hand squeezed his in earnest. He realized she was waiting for him to say something. It was his turn. He closed his eyes and panicked.

“And…uh…help Nancy enjoy her Old Testament class. Amen.”

They both opened their eyes and smiled. Her eyes probed his.

“Are you OK?” she asked.

“How do you know what to say when you pray?” 

“It’s the holy spirit speaking through me.” 

Jerry nodded, as if knowingly. Say whaaaat? he thought.

Jerry pondered as he headed home.To be honest, he didn’t pray. Never. Sure, when he was invited, he bowed his head and closed his eyes. He listened to the words, but he didn’t feel anything special. What was he supposed to feel anyway, some live connection to God now that the prayer hotline was open? What made prayer different from regular thoughts? Couldn’t God hear everything anyway? He laughed. Wow. Yes. Seminary will be a time to question everything.

***

“Well Jerry, what did you think of your first day?” asked Chris when Jerry returned. 

Chris was still sitting at the kitchen table. Instead of a bathrobe and boxers, he now wore a faded short sleeve shirt, unbuttoned, with a gray undershirt and khaki pants. From the kitchen counter, a black fan grated back and forth.

“It gave me a lot to think about,” responded Jerry.

 Chris shoved tobacco into his pipe, tamped it down, and lit up. Puffing away, his cheeks heaved in and out like bellows till the tobacco had a bed of embers.

“Like what?” asked Chris.

“Well, for one, the Bible is a brilliant opera with complex harmonies. And also, God is a raging kook.”

“Humph,” grunted Chris as he disappeared behind a cloud of smoke.

Terry came through the door with bags of groceries. She dropped them down on the kitchen counter, then scooted over and gave Chris a kiss. Chris’ eyes lit up. They rubbed noses and giggled like a couple of kids.

“Hey, let me help,” Jerry said.

“Thanks. Here, we’ll give you the bottom shelf of the fridge and the bottom shelf of this cabinet.” 

Jerry took groceries out of the bags while Terry put them away.

“So how did you two meet?” Jerry asked

Terry stopped and gazed at Chris, “You remember?”

“Of course I remember,” he said.

“I was a waitress at the Nassau Inn. Chris was a regular.”

“I was hungry.” 

“And I liked feeding him.”

“So, you two hit it off,” Jerry said.

“No one could believe it. None of my friends, and especially not my family,” said Terry.

“When I first met her father, who’s younger than me, that was an evening.”

“Yeah, but you both had something in common, so it went OK,” said Terry

“What was that?” asked Jerry

“Scotch,” said Chris with a wink.

Marie Lacy, Jerry’s mother, was born in Lynchburg, Virginia, August 21, 1930. She was the youngest of five, three brothers and an oldest sister. Her mom, quiet as a Buddha, ran the household. She seemed to float about the house, connected to nothing and no one, especially her children.

Her dad, also a man of few words and even less display of affection, owned a shoe factory. Marie loved that factory. She swooned over the smell of shoe leather.

Her dad forbid her to go there during working hours. It wasn’t a place for girls, he said. So, she spent most of her time in the living room of their home, in the comfy overstuffed chair with the doilies on the arms and the stand alone ash tray by its side. She spun its spring loaded top around, sending the ashes flying.

A pall of smoke hung continuously in her house, with an accompanying smell of stale tobacco. Both mom and dad were smokers. Viceroys for dad, Camels for mom. Her brothers followed suit as each turned 14. Marie would have none of it.

She also detested her brothers. One time Tom shot a squirrel and hid it in her bed. She never screamed so loud. Another time David tied a cherry bomb around a frog and blew it up as well as his finger.

Mornings, their housekeeper served her grits with butter and maple syrup, then, early, she marched off to high school, out of the house before her brothers had even fallen out of bed.

“You know, Marie, your academic achievement is truly remarkable,” said her history teacher toward the end of her senior year. He leaned back in his swivel chair and motioned her to a nearby student desk.

“I work hard, Mr. Baxter.”

“Yes, you do. I think you have a gift, and I wouldn’t want to see you waste it. I’d like to write you a letter of recommendation for college.”

“Oh, I’m not going.”

Mr. Baxter took off his glasses and leaned forward. In a confidential tone of voice, he said, “Marie, you need to get out of here.”

“Where would I go?”

“What would you like to do?”

“Well, I’m supposed to get married and make fried chicken.”

He burst out laughing.

Marie said, “It is funny. I’m a terrible cook. I hate to cook. I admire my father’s shoe business.”

“Then that’s what you should do. Go to business school. Start a business. Get rich. This is America, land of opportunity.”

“You really think I could?”

“It’s a new world, Marie There’s no limit to our economic expansion, and why not get in on it.”

“I don’t know what my mother would think.”

“We’re talking about you.”

“Well…”

“You just tell me the school.”

“I would like that, Mr. Baxter,” she burst out. “Oh, I really would. I want to run my own business. I want to be a success.”

“Well, you know what Napoleon Hill says: ‘Whatever the mind can think and believe, it can achieve.’”

She graduated summa cum laude from Lynchburg College. Her guidance counselor encouraged her to apply to Columbia Business School for her masters.

So, while Tom, with a high school diploma, bought a gas station with the help of their dad, and David joined the Navy, and while her pregnant sister stole away to Texas with her boyfriend, Marie migrated to New York City, enrolled as one of the few women students, and earned an MBA.

***

Chapter 7 

Hurrying to freshman orientation in a steady rain, Jerry stopped; it was not for the giant fallen tree which lay in the quad, but a baby sparrow. He stooped over to get a closer look. The bird lay on its side, chest heaving, eyes unmoving. He ripped off some nearby branches, crafted four sticks each a foot long and placed them around the bird to form a square. Hopefully, others would take note and avoid stepping on it. He wondered what else he could do. 

A peal of thunder snapped him out of his diversion. He was late. Soaked, he leaped across a puddle, failed, lost his flip flop, retrieved it, wished he had an umbrella and finally arrived: Mackay Center. Barefoot, he dashed down into the basement.

“Is Jerry Cradleman here?” inquired Art Byers, Director of Student Relations, from the podium. 

Jerry raised his glistening hand. “That’s me.”

“Your father asked me to make sure I introduce myself to you. Come up and say hello after this.”

In the back of the room, Jerry hunkered down onto the floor and leaned against the wall. His sunshine yellow shirt clung to his now freezing skin — The air conditioning was way too on. – as did his frayed shorts. In contrast, his sun bleached hair frizzed out like a fright wig.

A wispy woman with coiffed gray hair marched over and handed him a packet that included a “Hi, My Name is” sticker. He wrote down his name which promptly smeared from the water dropping off his hair. He crumpled the sticker into a ball.

“You need to put your name label on,” the woman hissed, yet with a smile. 

.

Jerry smoothed out the illegible label and pressed it onto his shirt. It wouldn’t stick, so he tucked it halfway into his breast pocket. Rules, Jerry thought with a sigh. Here we go.

“These are going to be some of the most meaningful years of your lives,” said Dr. Byers. “While you are here you will question everything, your calling, your faith, your future, who you are and who you are to become. We encourage that introspection. For when all is done, and when you are handed your diploma, we expect each of you to be beacons of light set upon a hill for all the world to see.”

Jerry liked the part about questioning everything and working on faith. However, standing all alone atop a hill for all the world to see? Uhhhhhh…he was definitely not yet ready for prime time.

Thunder grumbled in the distance as people headed out. Jerry remained behind to introduce himself to Dr. Byers.

“Because of your acceptance on such short notice,” said Dr. Byers, “there are no more rooms available in the dormitories. So we have made special arrangements for you to be housed in the home of Professor Beker.

“My door is always open to you,” he said. With furrowed brow, he eyed Jerry up and down. “I’m sure your father is proud.”

It sounded like a question.

*** 

Dr. Christian Beker was the distinguished Richard J. Dearborn Professor of New Testament Theology and author of many highly regarded books on Romans and Pauline theology. Born in Holland, during the Nazi occupation, his Jewish family hid but were caught and sent to Auschwitz. While other boys played soccer, Chris sidestepped dead bodies. While other boys hugged their moms, Chris never saw his again.

After the war, he emigrated to America, converted to Christianity and matriculated at Princeton University. He earned a chain of degrees including two Ph.D.’s along with a bounty of academic distinctions.

 Rarely did he leave the university campus. He was the equivalent of a gym rat. Despite having all the usual trappings of a professor, all were slightly off. He wore a tie and jacket, yet the tie was perpetually crooked, the shirt wrinkled, and the jacket spotted. His goatee was smartly trimmed, yet the rest of his face went unshaven for days at a time. He was married, yet his wife was 40 years his junior. He associated with the students, yet he crashed their parties. And his dance style looked like a seizure. 

Yet he was brilliant. His was the class not to be missed. His specialty was Romans, and his passion for the subject was infectious. His eyes burned with the fire of academic polemics. His lectures were half exposition, half rant. Known by students as the Joe Cocker of lecturers, his hands flailed through the air as he exhorted in a too loud voice. All the while, he prowled the aisles. At any given moment he might pounce onto a terrified student, shove his face up close, and demand an opinion. And it had better be original. A rote response was spat out like rancid meat. 

***

That evening Jerry was shown upstairs to his room by Chris’ wife Terry. It was more like a nice-sized closet. Professional journals, books and papers lay strewn about his twin bed. He hung his clothes in a narrow closet, the hardwood floor complaining about every step he took. Into a desk drawer, he tossed his socks and underwear.

When he finished, he sat on the edge of the bed, gripping the sides and looked out the one window. Across the street, through a bedroom window, he could see two young boys in their pajamas roughhousing. Their mom came in, quieted them down, gathered them beside her on a bed and read to them from a large picture book. 

Jerry sighed. 

Chapter 6

Jerry’s office was down the hall from his father’s, small, sterile, with one small window. He pulled up the blinds. Whitecaps danced atop the Hudson River. In the park, a man threw a ball for his dog to fetch.

His job was to call former accounts and see if they could be revived. He studied the list. He picked up the phone.

“Deodorex sucks. My customers are throwing those hockey pucks at each other. It’s for losers who don’t clean their bathrooms. Fuck you!” said the first person Jerry called.

Jerry took a breath. OK, that didn’t go so well. So, then it can only get better. And it did. To his surprise, he enjoyed talking with the people. Something about the phone made it easier. They talked about everything, from their health to what they were eating. If a sale came about, that was a bonus. He was a good listener, and people had much to say.

Jerry brought out his peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the break room. Another man was seated opposite him with a salad. 

“You’re the new kid,” he said. Jerry noticed a plain, platinum wedding band around his finger. 

“Yes.” 

“And your the boss’s son.”

“Right again.”

“Well, I guess we have to stop talking now.”

“No, that’s OK. I never talk to my dad.”

The man laughed. “OK then. Did you hear about that kid who died eating one of the urinal cakes?” 

“Oh, my God.”

“Apparently, one of the ingredients is poisonous, even smelling it is harmful.”

“I like the smell. Reminds me of moth balls.”

“Funny you should mention. Well, it’s really not. That same ingredient is in moth balls. So don’t go around smelling them either. It’ll kill you.”

“Good to know.”

“Tod.”

“Jerry.”

Jerry stood up. “I better make some calls.”

“Good to meet you.”

The next morning Jerry strolled into the men’s room and his dad and Tod were standing together. His dad abruptly backed away, washed his hands and left.

 “Jerry,” said his dad, averting his eyes as he passed by.

“Dad,” said Jerry.

“Jerry,” said Tod as he too passed by.

“Tod,” said Jerry.

That was weird. Jerry wondered if they had been talking about him.

By the end of summer, Jerry gazed at his white board filled with revived accounts. Not bad, he thought. And with the commission plus hourly pay structure, he was taking home significant money. Maybe he could get his own place in the city, save some money. Go to seminary later. 

But then he would be working for his dad and seeing him every day.

Chapter 5

“Dad, I’m thinking about applying to seminary.”

His dad lowered his New York Times at the breakfast table. “I have one word for you: Deodorex.”

Marvin Cradleman, president and CEO of Deodorex, maker of urinal cakes, conceived the idea when he was much younger while serving as the private secretary for multi-millionaire Herbert Van Clief. He had made a prosperous career out of it.

“I’m thinking about the Pacific School of Religion in Berkeley,” said Jerry.

His dad sighed, “Do you even listen to me?” He brought the paper back covering his face, then he put the paper down again and leaned forward. “Look, I’ll make you a deal. Give me one summer working at Deodorex. At the end of the summer, if you still want to go to seminary, I’ll pay for it. And by the way, don’t ever say I never did anything for you.”

“Thank you.”

“How about Princeton?”

“Princeton Theological Seminary? How do you know anything about that? That’s conservative, isn’t it?”

“We supply it. You could at least fill out an application. What do you have to lose? It’s got more prestige than that other school, whatever it is, you suggested.”

“Well, OK,” Jerry said with little enthusiasm. How had this suddenly become dad’s project? 

Princeton accepted him despite its incoming class for that year already being filled.

“You can’t say no, can you?” Dad said back at the breakfast table.

“Well, I suppose.”

And it was done.

Chapter 4

A recent college grad, Jerry slouched in his chair at the dining room table beside his dad. With degree in hand – He did get into Oberlin, courtesy of his dad. Jerry didn’t ask. – he had no idea what to do with the rest of his life.

“Say, isn’t this your friend, Adam?” His dad slid the newspaper across the breakfast table.

Man Dies After Tanglewood Concert

LENOX A man was found dead near Tanglewood shortly after the conclusion of The Fillmore at Tanglewood Concert. The young man, identified as Adam Goldberg, was found in a farm field off a single lane road. Police determined there was no foul play. “He fell or jumped off the back of a fast-moving pick-up truck. Allegedly, drugs were involved. If anyone can provide us with additional information, we’d appreciate a call. We’re sorry to see a young man lose his life so early,” said Lenox police chief Dan White.  A recent graduate of Bard College, Mr. Goldberg was currently a student at New York University pursuing a master’s degree in film directing. He is survived by his parents, Sydney and Harriet Goldberg, his sister, Katherine and brother, Thomas.

“I’m sorry,” said his dad.

“I’m taking a walk.”

Jerry sped past familiar homes without seeing a thing. He headed over to Hudson Avenue, a street in the neighboring town of Englewood and walked into a childhood favorite store, Ed’s Candy Pit. Ed with his protuberant belly was still there. Jerry always wondered how he got behind the narrow counter. He asked for a pack of cigarettes.

Ed handed them over. Jerry paid and left.

He unwrapped the cellophane off the packet, tore off the tab of the aluminum foil cover, and tapped out a cigarette. Tearing a match out of the matchbook, his hand trembled as it failed to light the match. He tore out another one, then another, then another, then dropped to the curb and wept. 

Not even lighting a damn cigarette had been easy. Why hadn’t he seen that?

Guiding a lit match to the end of the cigarette, he finally achieved success. He pulled on it and marched on. The smoke burned his lungs. His throat felt sore.

Nope, nothing was easy. Not even for Adam. And why indeed try so hard? We’re all going to die anyway, Jerry thought. Maybe Adam was onto something. Why bother? 

Maybe Adam might have done Jerry a favor when he faked pushed him over the rooftop. If Adam couldn’t find a reason to keep going, why would Jerry ever. Adam was always five steps ahead of him. 

Jerry stopped his march and looked up. He stood in front of Rog and Barb’s old house. A tingly feeling spread over him. He craved what had been inside that house. Life was easier then, not because the tasks were easier, they weren’t, and not because there weren’t setbacks, there were, but something was in there that made it all easier. 

He stubbed out his cigarette. 

So long, Adam. I’m not going your way.

Chapter 3 

Jerry visited Adam at Bard College. He had graduated in his junior year.

Saturday night, they trolled the local bar. Beers in hand – a new experience for Jerry – they wandered about as a rock band spun out covers, danced with co-eds, found a table, went through a pitcher – mostly Adam – and yakked it up. Jerry noticed Adam’s gestures with his cigarette become increasingly flamboyant.

On their way back to the dorm, Jerry careened his parents’ Chevrolet Caprice around the trees that lined the college driveway entrance. They gasped for air laughing as the tires tore up the grass. Back at the dorm, they pulled themselves up the emergency fire exit ladder and jumped onto the roof. 

“Do it,” commanded Adam.

“Do what?” 

“Jump.” 

The wind wrapped tendrils of temptation around Jerry’s neck as he leaned over the edge. “Say what?” He peered down past the dormitory’s four stories to the frozen ground below. 

Adam pushed him from behind then pulled him back. 

“What the fuck, Adam! That’s not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be funny.”

“You’re scaring me.”

Adam seized the back of Jerry’s coat, pushing him again towards the edge.

“Let go of me,” said Jerry.

Adam’s grip tightened.

“Adam, let go of me,” Jerry repeated slowly. His heart drummed in his ears.

Adam erupted in laughter. “Psych!!! I so had you,” he said as he released Jerry.

Adam flopped down on the edge of the building, his legs dangled recklessly over the side. He put his arms behind him and leaned back.

“Do you know what grace notes are?” asked Adam.

“Uh, no…yes, they’re those little notes on sheet music that you play real quick.”

“A grace note is a music notation used to denote several kinds of musical ornaments. It is usually printed smaller to indicate that it is melodically and harmonically nonessential.”

He took a long drag on his cigarette and audibly exhaled.

“Most people are grace notes, you know, me, you,” Adam said. He flicked his cigarette down to the ground below. A faint hiss drifted back up. “Do you remember when we were at that basketball camp and you asked me why everyone was trying so hard to get a ball into a hoop?”

“No, but ok.”

“Well, I finally get your question. I mean really, what is the point?”

“You never looked like you had to try too hard.”

“I try fucking hard. And I’m running out of gas. This college is hard, Jerry. I never knew. This is no high school. And for what? Why am I trying so hard?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who’s duping me into this?”

“God?”

“You think there’s a God?”

“Yes,” he said, surprising himself.

“You’re an idiot.” 

“Look, I believe there’s something worth trying hard for. All these millions of people that have come before us can’t all be wrong. Look at all the art, the music, the cathedrals. They did it because they believed in God. That’s what I want, Adam. Yes, I think there’s a God. I just don’t believe in Him, yet.”

“Good luck.”

“It’s better than the alternative,” Jerry said as he glanced down below. 

Adam sprinted to the nearby chimney. He bellowed down its throat, “Attention all students: Step away from your typewriters and no one will get hurt.” He leaned back against the chimney and slid down. Jerry joined him.

Adam handed him a cherry flavored Tiparillo then lit it for him. He gagged and sputtered.

“Don’t inhale!” Adam said laughing.

They both took drags. Jerry’s tongue stung as he blew out the smoke. The future seemed so bleak. Maybe he wouldn’t even go to college.

“Hey,” Adam said with a clear-eyed smile. “Thanks for coming up here.” 

“You bet.”

“No. I mean it. That means something to me. We’re friends for life. Wherever you go, wherever I go, we’ll stay together. OK?”

“OK.”

They sat still, listening to the expansive quiet.

“Hey,” Adam said turning to Jerry.

“Hey,” Jerry returned and locked eyes with Adam’s.

They tapped their Tiparillos together, and a spray of sparks flew into the air like fireworks.

All three stared straight ahead. The headlights lit up the home now bathed in Christmas lights. Jerry’s dad was especially proud of his welcome mat. Step on it and Joy to the World blared in scratchy over-amplification. Jerry was careful not to ever step on it.

“What are you doing tomorrow night?” Rog asked.

“Nothing.”

“Why don’t you come over?”

“Riiiight,” Jerry said with a smirk.

Never, ever had he been invited over to an adult’s home. He was flattered and excited.

“Just come over after dinner,” Barbara said.

***

Jerry hesitated, then pushed the doorbell. Foot thuds crescendoed, the door swung open, and there was Barbara. She wore sweat pants and a thick knitted sweater. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Jerry. She collapsed like a rag doll, dropped her head and snorted several ah-HANGH’s.

“Come in, come in!” She took his forearm and pulled him in. There was a loud “thunk.”  He turned toward the sound’s direction and spotted a tarnished red Coke machine in the living room.

“You’ll get used to it,” Barbara said. 

She turned to a group of kids. “Hey everybody, this is our neighbor, Jerry!” Several cheerful “Hey, Jerry’s” greeted him. The faces were familiar. He passed by them everyday at school. He just never considered talking with them. 

Barbara bounced onto the sofa. “I’m just finishing up grading some papers.”

Jerry found a spot on the floor.

Crosby, Stills & Nash’s Suite: Judy Blue Eyes played on the stereo. Everybody sang along with abandon. Jerry joined in, albeit softly. 

He stood up and ambled down the hallway into the kitchen. They both spotted each other at the same moment, both froze, then Adam smiled. 

“Cradleman entereth, stage left,” Adam said to the others standing there.

“My liege,” Jerry answered, recovering quickly, and bowed with exaggerated flair.

 The others laughed. Jerry rose back up and smiled back at Adam, so relieved. “It is so good to see you,” Jerry said.

“And you, sir. Come join our provocative discourse. We’re discussing the film Women in Love.”

“Haven’t seen it. However, I highly recommend A Boy Named Charlie Brown.” 

“That’s funny,” Adam said.

“I’m not kidding,” Jerry said with a straight face.

Adam considered him, then burst out laughing. They still got each other.

“So maybe you can ditch b-ball practice sometime and sneak into the city with me to grab a movie,” Adam said. 

“Sure.”

“I mean if you can spare yourself from all those fascinating contributions to society.” 

Jerry laughed. “I’m not hanging with them anymore.” 

“Ahhh, you saw the light. Cretins aren’t your type?” 

“I was kicked off the team.”

“Fuck ‘em. Congratulations.”

Jerry noticed how different this kitchen was from his, more like Adam’s. Dishes teetered in the sink; empty Coke bottles, Kraft mac and cheese boxes and Bumble Bee tuna cans spilled out of the garbage can; and dried ketchup streaked the formica counter. 

He headed down into the basement. The stench of mildew hung heavy. Cinder block walls displayed swirls of DayGlo colors a la Peter Max. A cluster of kids hovered around a pinball machine alive with ringing bells. A torn sofa and several tired stuffed chairs finished off the decor. Jerry relaxed into one of the chairs.

He had found a new home, and the door was open. 

***

Both Jerry and Rog relaxed on pillows in the living room. It was late, real late, in early spring. All the kids were gone, and Barbara was in bed. Rog leaned up against the wall next to the window. A candle on the coffee table flickered.  The red-orange glow of his cigarette intensified as he took a drag. His eyes squinted through the smoke.

“I heard you’re on the baseball team,” said Rog in a lowered voice.

“Yeah. Captain.”

“Captain. Wow.”

“I pitch.”

“I was a catcher.”

“Really?”

“I played in college. Loved it.”

“So do I.”

“So what do you throw?”

“Fastball. Curveball. It’s really more of a slider.”

“Change up?”

“Wild. I once threw a change up over the backstop.”

Rog did a spit-take with his cigarette. Smoke spewed everywhere.

“When’s your next game?”

“Next Tuesday. It’s a home game. 3 o’clock.”

That Tuesday, 3 pm, Jerry spotted Rog’s goldenrod MGB-GT parked under a maple tree beside the field. Jerry felt something he wasn’t used to: a warmth emanated from his mid-section and spread throughout his entire body.

He pitched the best game of his life. A three-hitter which earned him a headline in the local paper.

***

Jerry pressed the doorbell. Barbara answered, ah-HANGHed and invited him in. No one else was there.

They settled onto the living room sofa. Chaucer, the dog, a beagle mix, circled around, then flopped himself onto the floor with a contented groan. Jerry pulled out a letter from his pocket. It was a rejection letter from Oberlin College, the only school he applied to. He hadn’t even bothered with safety schools.

Barbara let out a weary sigh. She slid over, enfolded him into her chest and rocked. Jerry’s eyes tightened, his throat constricted and there was that warmth again coming from his mid-section, only this time it was pushing up, through his throat, into his eyes. A tear forged a trail down his cheek. 

Such a bundle of complexity opened with this enfolding, one body around another, opened a chasm out of which poured a yearning so blinding, so all-consuming…and yet, happiness, excitement…reintroducing to Jerry a world of comfort and adventure, one to look forward to each daybreak.

He could not remember ever feeling so safe.

***

Like a thief, Jerry turned the doorknob to his own front door. With his coat, he muffled the snap of the deadbolt, locking the door behind him. Stretching his leg as far as it would go, he pulled himself up by the banister, skipping over four stairs, staying close to the wall where there would be the least amount of give in the wood. The soft glow from the night-light in the hallway bathroom lit the final distance to his bedroom. Just one problem: he had to pass by his parents’ bedroom.

He was just about there when his Dad’s voice shot out, “Do you know what time it is?” 

“No.”

“It’s 1:37. You were supposed to be home at 11:30.”

“Sorry.”

“Why didn’t you call?”

“I wasn’t near a phone.”

“We have church in the morning.”

“I’m not going.”

***

May 7, 1971

I push the doorbell.

Did they hear it?

Anybody home?

Do I exist?

Maybe they’re mad.

The door whooshes open

and there’s Barbara.

Her lightning blue eyes

zap mine.

Delighted to see me,

they say.

Anytime at all,

they say.

Laughter, broad grin,

Sparkling teeth, limp body.

She washes over me

like a baptism.

I stand before the gates of heaven

“Come in,” she says.

And I do.

This is my church.

I can’t wait to enter,

am sorry when I leave,

and wonder when I can return.

This is religious conversion,

born again salvation,

once I was dead and now I am found.

This is my real confirmation Sunday.

And I say, “I do.”

Chapter 2

“Who is your Lord and Savior?” droned Jerry’s minister.

“Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior,” Jerry croaked with his newly descending voice, along with the other adolescent boys and girls.

“Do you trust in him?”

“I do.”

“Do you intend to be his disciple, to obey his word and to show his love?”

“I do.”

“Will you be a faithful member of this congregation, giving of yourself in every way, and will you seek the fellowship of the church wherever you may be?”

“I will.”

Jerry’s gray, wool suit itched mercilessly in the humidity. His front teeth throbbed from yesterday’s visit to the orthodontist. If the minister asked him to follow Satan, he would agree, anything to speed this thing up.

“Why do I have to go?” he complained earlier. 

“I’m the Clerk of Session,” his mother replied, “I’m not going to have my son not showing up on Communicant’s Sunday. There’s no discussion.”

One of the first women to graduate from Columbia Business School, Jerry’s mom channeled her pent up energy into volunteer leadership responsibilities. 

Jerry trudged out of her room. The presence of God, a personal relationship with Jesus, the forgiveness of sins, salvation by grace: what the hell was any of that?

“I am so proud of you,” enthused his mother from a cordial distance after the service. 

“Let’s go to the Clinton Inn to celebrate. Would you like that Jerry?” asked his father.

“Not really. I just want to go home.”

“Well, I didn’t get dressed up just to go to church,” said mom.

At the Clinton Inn, his mom spilled the latest church gossip while Jerry stared at his half eaten burger.

***

“Let’s play king on the mountain!” said Tom, the quintessential sports moron in Jerry’s opinion. Jerry’s sports crowd was all gathered in the schoolyard after school.

“That’s so plebeian,” said Adam.

“You’re plebeian,” said Tom.

“You don’t even know what that word means.”

“Do too, and it’s you.” He zoomed up and shoved Adam. “I know you’re plebeian and your clothes are plebeian and your hair is plebeian.” 

The kids gathered around. 

‘I’m going home,” said Adam.

“Why don’t you make me?”

“What are you even talking about?” And he turned around and started to walk away.

“C’mon make me,” Tom yelled louder and pushed Adam harder. “Cause you’re chicken. Lar-ry’s a chick-en, Lar-ry’s a chick-en, Lar-ry’s a chick-en…”

The other kids joined in with the chant. Adam locked eyes with Jerry. Jerry opened his mouth, but said nothing.

Adam turned and headed home. Jerry didn’t catch up.

Instead, he played king on the mountain and hated it. When he got home, sweaty and dirty, he plodded up to his room, pulled the shades and sat in the dark.

That night at the dinner table, Jerry announced, “I quit basketball.”

His dad raised an eyebrow and continued eating in silence.

“Jerry, what do you want to do?” his mother asked.

“Nothing. Watch the clouds go by.”

“OK,” said his dad, “I’ll get you a weather station,” and sniggered.

Jerry stopped hanging out with the sports kids. He stopped seeing Adam; or rather, Adam ignored him. 

His dad presented him with a Lionel’s Weather Station. It seemed on the young side to Jerry, but he set it up outside his window anyway. After school, he sat in his room and watched clouds. He monitored the temperature, humidity and barometric pressure.

***

Untethered: that was the best way to describe it. Jerry was an untethered soul, at large in the galaxy. The day he got dropped from basketball, some invisible cord snapped, silently, unnoticed. Its strain started in infancy, increased through childhood, then finally, unable to endure the stress, snapped.

For what reason: neglect, lack of acknowledgment at being, just being. For being special would have been nice, but for just being was a minimum requirement. And mom didn’t come through. There were no hands to hoist him into a warm bosom in the morning, no answers to his cries at night. Jerry curled up into himself, scoliosis on the way. His cries stopped. He became a baby without needs. 

When he reached grade school, mom was never home, as she pursued a second masters’ degree in library science. Then in junior high, in addition to her full time librarian job, she became the clerk of session at their church, and ran for the Board of Education and won.

He grew into adolescence with a permanent smirk on his face. Teachers complained about an attitude problem which required many a parent-teacher conference.

Jerry couldn’t wrap his brain around that word: attitude. Just what did that mean? It wasn’t measurable. But apparently, it pissed teachers off.

With a vengeance, he directed his attitude toward his mom. Every folded shirt placed into his dresser, every pair of shoes lined up inside his closet, every water cup set on his bedside table was with the subtext, See? I did this myself. I don’t need you. I never needed you. I will never call out your name again, never run into your arms again, never. 

Yet inside was a bottomless sadness.

***

Around Christmas, Jerry stuck out his thumb beside the town’s main road. An olive green, Chevrolet Caprice pulled over.

“You live down the street from us,” said the blond with a cheerleader face.

“OK,” Jerry answered.

“Where’re you going?”

“To the Presbyterian Church.”

She dropped her head in slow motion onto the steering wheel while letting out a guttural “Ah-HANGH,” followed by a juicy snort. Her porcelain white hands hung onto the steering wheel as she pulled her head back up. “That’s where I’m going. To the Advent service, right?”

“I guess.” He had decided to go after his parents admonished him about it, but more to avoid spending the afternoon masturbating. The guilt was killing him.

She did the “Ah-HANGH” with the snort again.

“I’m Barbara.”

“I’m Jerry.”

“Jerry who lives down the street from us,” said Barbara. “You might know my husband, Rog. He works at the church.”

“I don’t really go to church. I just like the music,” Jerry said. 

“Riiiiight,” she said.

They pulled into the parking lot and strolled into the church. He was entering the sanctuary with this blond, and he was sitting next to her. This was cool.

The carols transported him back to his pre-teen years, a time of Santa Claus, presents and snow, when things were simple and every day was fun.

After it was over, they headed to Fellowship Hall to find Barbara’s husband. Jerry knew the routine: Eat donuts, stand, fidget, watch adults talk, fidget. It was a ritual he would have rather skipped.

Barbara made a beeline to her husband who was holding court in a corner, surrounded by high school kids, mostly girls, some of whom Jerry recognized. 

“Rog, look who I picked up: our neighbor. His name is Jerry.”

Rog, who had a basketball frame, met Jerry’s skittish eyes and smiled. “Hello, Jerry.” He extended his hand. Jerry obliged. Rog’s grip was firm and sustained.

“Let’s go,” Barbara said. Rog nodded. They headed back to the Caprice.

After they arrived at Jerry’s driveway, Rog and Barbara continued the conversation, in no hurry to leave. 

Jerry wasn’t used to adults being interested in talking with him. What’s more, they were listening. A smile appeared on his face.

Jerry watched Rog pull on his Camel cigarette. He had a prominent nose, close set dark eyes and medium cut black hair that lay flat on his scalp. His restrained demeanor was a perfect complement to Barbara’s ebullience. 

“Do you believe in God?” Rog asked.

“No. I don’t see how you can,” Jerry said.

“Well, I don’t see how you can’t,” Barbara said.

In tenth grade, Adam tried smoking. He sat on the cement curb beside the town basketball court, hunched over a pack of matches, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. After a few failed scrapings of the match across the scratch board where the once stiff match became a bent, frayed mess, a match lit. He stabbed it to the tip of his cigarette, which was hard to see at such close range, and it extinguished on impact. So, back to lighting matches. Another one lit, and this time he was able to light the cigarette, but just one side. He puffed like The Little Engine That Could to keep it lit creating a lopsided ash. 

Jerry shook his head. What did Adam think he was doing? Athletes don’t smoke.

The next day Jerry spotted Adam in the school hallway wearing a black, wool felt beret. It was set at a jaunty angle. Jerry screwed up his face. Again, what the hell was Adam doing? Yet he couldn’t help feel jealous, because secretly, he wished he lived like that.

“Hey, sport,” said Adam.

“Hey. What’s on your head?”

“A beret. You like it?”

“Uhhh, no.”

“I do. I love it. I look sophisticated.”

“You look stupid.”

“Fuck you very much. So anyway, what’s say we lose this place and go into the city, catch a movie.”

“Say what? We got practice, dweeb.”

“Screw practice. There’ll always be practice.”

“Can’t do that.” 

“Your loss. I’m going. Apocalypse Now is supposed to be outstanding.”

***

In eleventh grade, Adam quit the basketball team. He decided he wanted to be a film director. Jerry felt betrayed. How could Adam abandon basketball, abandon sports, abandon him?

Now everyday while heading off to practice, Jerry asked himself why he was doing this. He didn’t really fit in. He didn’t exist in the Varsity coach’s mind, and he hated the junior varsity coach. He didn’t connect with the other boys, and maybe he never had. The adolescent hi-jinks in the locker room, snapping towels, teasing penis size, chanting about Janet Morgan’s big boobs didn’t do it for him.

***

“Cradleman, come with me,” said Coach Strohmeyer.

The entire class gawked at Jerry, Mr. Ajalak, the history teacher and JV coach, included. Coach stood at the door and motioned for Jerry to follow him.

Out in the hallway, muffled voices padded the air. Endless lockers resembled a perspective exercise in art class. Coach strode quickly. His crisp footsteps reverberated. Jerry scampered to keep up. 

He felt like he had been pulled into the doctor’s office for a private consultation. Maybe his parents should be here, or a lawyer.

“Cradleman, you’re not going to see any playing time on Varsity, and I’ve talked to Coach Ajalak. The two of you don’t see eye to eye, so junior varsity is out too.”

He stopped, faced Jerry and said, “I’m sorry, but you’re off the team.” 

Jerry clenched his jaw. He nodded his head. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

Coach put his arm around Jerry’s shoulders. “Basketball’s not your thing, Cradleman. Now go find out what it is.” And he walked off.

Jerry’s chest pressed down. He squatted, put his arms around his knees and lowered his head. 

The bell rang. Kids jostled him as they forged by. 

Far down the hall someone yelled, “Hey, Cradleman! You got cut!”

Jerry lifted his middle finger in the voice’s direction. He stood up. Wobbly, he headed back to his books.

Why did he feel so crushed? He should rejoice.

Because it was the one shred of meaning in his life. Now he had nothing.