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“I’m sorry.”
“I’m probably better off,” he said, laughing. “I mean, look how great I’ve turned out.”
“I don’t know you well, but I can tell you’re smart and—” He stopped himself from saying “beautiful.” “You have a lot going for you.”
Ian smiled wistfully.
“Do you have a church?” Paul asked. “You could come on Sunday. I’d like it if you did.”
Ian turned again and looked back out the window. “Church and I, we’re kind of divorced,” he said. “Turn left here.”
Ian lived on an alley off the town’s main street in a run-down apartment building with large stone steps. It looked like a cold concrete block. Nothing about it said “home.” It was a dwelling.
Paul took the car’s service manual out of the pocket in the door and tore out a blank page. He took a pen out of the cup holder and wrote down his cell phone number and the name “Paul.”
“This is my number,” he said, handing the paper to Ian. “Call me tomorrow when you’re ready to go get your car. Okay?”
“Yeah,” Ian said. He took the paper, folded it, and stuffed it into his front jeans pocket. Then he opened the door and stumbled out of the car.
“Do you need me to help you get in?” Paul asked.
“No. I still know how to turn door knobs,” he said.
Paul sat at the curb and watched Ian weave his way up the steps, fumble with his keys in the lock, and then disappear through the door.
On the drive home, Paul reviewed every word of their conversation. He cataloged the information—Ian was twenty-four. He had never known his alcoholic father. He must have felt some connection to Paul to reveal something that personal, right?
“Church and I, we’re kind of divorced….”
Paul wondered if he’d made a mistake pushing church. He didn’t want Ian to think he was only interested in drumming up attendance at his services. But if Ian didn’t come to the church, when would he ever see him again? At least he knew he would have one more opportunity to talk to him when he picked him up. What could he say?
Desecration
The English theologian Thomas Burnet, in spite of a complete lack of training in science and geography, published a book in the seventeenth century called Sacred Theory of the Earth, which sought to explain how the Earth came to be the way it is today. He speculated that up until Noah’s flood, the world had been a hollow sphere with the water inside. When man’s sinfulness became too much for God to bear, he unleashed the water to wash the wickedness away. Mountains remain as scars on the earth, reminders of a great punishment for our weakness.
It seemed quite possible that Paul would not have a sermon at all that Sunday. He sat at his desk, unable to concentrate on anything but the cell phone, which he had placed in the center of his desk. He had no intention of missing Ian’s call when it came. His right leg bounced as he checked his e-mail and pretended not to be waiting for the phone to ring.
It was one thirty before the generic ringtone started to play. Paul was so startled he nearly jumped out of his chair.
“Hello.”
“Hi, um, is this… Paul?”
“Yes. This is Paul.”
“Hi, um, this is Ian. I… I think you might have brought me home? I had your number in my pocket.”
“Yes. Are you ready for me to take you back to your car?”
“Yes, please. Thank you.”
“I’ll be right there.”
Ian was sitting out on the front step of his apartment, smoking a cigarette, when Paul drove up. When he saw the car, he dropped the cigarette and crushed it out with his foot as he stood up. (Great, his angel was a smoker too.) Paul had expected to find Ian looking hungover, sick and pale, but there was no evidence at all of the night before on his face. His hair was pulled back neatly with a black hair band. This accentuated his cheekbones and made his eyes seem even brighter and more alert. He wore plaid slacks, a matching jacket, and a T-shirt with the name of a rock band Paul had never heard of. He looked fashionable, fit and young. When Ian spotted Paul, he was taken aback.
“Wait, you’re that minister,” he said. “With the pamphlets.”
“You seem surprised.”
