Lucy by the Sea (31)

“I’m nervous myself now,” Bob said.

Then I told him how Chrissy had lost her baby, and—I am not kidding you—Bob stopped walking and his eyes above his mask became wet. “Oh Lucy,” he said quietly. I told him it was the second miscarriage she had had, and he just repeated “Oh Lucy.” And I said, Thank you, Bob. And then we kept walking. The sun was high in the blue sky, white clouds were puffy near it, and then, in a single moment, the sun went behind one of the clouds and it changed the way the world looked; I mean the road we walked on, the trees, became softer.

I said to him, “My sister found God.”

And here’s what was so interesting to me. He looked at me, really looked at me, and then he nodded just slightly and said, “I get it.” And I said, “Thanks. Because I do too.” The sun came back out and then we reached the cove.

Sitting on the bench, Bob said, “So, Lucy, do you believe in God?”

I was amazed. Nobody I knew had ever asked me such a thing. So I told him the truth. I said, “Well, I don’t not believe in God.” I squinted out over the cove, the water had a splash of white light on it from the sun, and there were a few seagulls at one of the wharfs. And I said, “I mean I don’t believe in a father-type God—like my sister does—” And Bob said, “You don’t know if your sister believes in a father-type God,” and I looked at him and said, “No, you’re right, I didn’t ask her.” Bob said, “Go on, though, I’m curious to know your thoughts.” So I said, “Well, my feelings about God have shifted over the years, and all I can say is: There’s more than meets the eye.” I added, “I’m just pretty sure there’s more than meets the eye.”

Bob was watching me. He had lit a cigarette and was just holding it in front of him. “What I think,” he said, “is what was written on a huge sheet of paper that was tacked onto the bulletin board in the Congregational church we sometimes went to when I was a kid. GOD IS LOVE. That was written in block letters on this bulletin board in the downstairs reception room. And it’s so funny that I would remember it, but I guess I always have.” He inhaled, squinting against the smoke.

“Well, that’s a good thing to remember,” I said. “It’s true.” After a moment I said, “You know, I read a book a few years ago, and some character in it said something like, It’s our duty to bear the burden of the mystery with as much grace as we can.”

Bob nodded. “That’s pretty good.”

I said, “Yeah, I thought so too.”

It seemed we had nothing more to say about this, and so we sat in companionable silence for quite a while as he smoked and the sun shone down. Then Bob asked, “Remember when we used to read newspapers? Real ones?” And I said, “Yes, the Sunday Times was kind of given the whole morning.” Then I said, “Why did you ask that?” And he shrugged and said, “I miss it, that’s all. I miss the everyday part of it, the reading of all sorts of things I didn’t know about. I mean every so often I do buy the paper, but it’s so much easier to just get the news on my computer.”

I sat forward and told Bob about a lecture I had heard maybe ten years ago at Columbia University about the internet and all the changes it was bringing. I told him how this lecturing man said that there had been three major revolutions in the history of man’s world: the first, the agricultural revolution; the second, the industrial revolution; and the third was this social revolution—meaning the way the internet was changing the world. I said, “And what I most remember was that this guy told us that—because we are in the middle of it—we will not live long enough to see how it plays out in this world.” I told Bob that it made me think of my sister and how she got her news probably on the internet in places I would never think to go to.

And Bob, who was squishing out his cigarette on the side of the bench, said, “Yeah, you make a good point. I think how the internet has made so many things—good and bad—possible.” He stuck the cigarette butt back in the cigarette pack, which is what he always did.

As we stood up to start our walk back, I said, “William told me about his prostate, and I want to thank you for getting him to your doctor for his blood tests. That was so good of you.”

“Well, sure” is all Bob said.

I almost said, Talk about God being love! But I did not say that.

When we got back to the house before he got into his car, he opened his arms and said “Big hug to you, Lucy,” and I opened my arms and said “And to you too, Bob.”





It was seven o’clock by the time William pulled into the driveway.



—

He came—almost—bounding into the house, he had taken his mask off on the way to the house, and he said, “Lucy! She’s wonderful! Lucy, she loves me!” This is what he said, with his big brown eyes positively shining, and oh dear God I was so glad.



—

I said I would cook that night so that he could tell me everything. And so he sat at the table and spoke more rapidly than I could ever remember him speaking. “I have a sister!” He kept saying this, and shaking his head. “Lucy, I have a sister.” He told me they had met on the steps of the library, that they recognized each other immediately “not only because we were the only two old people on the steps” but because they recognized each other. Even with their masks on. “The minute I saw her, I thought, It’s you!” And he told me that she had said the exact same thing. And so they took their lawn chairs and sat on the large area of grass in front of the library, and they talked and talked and talked.