SNEAK PEEK: Chapter Excerpt — “Clear Air Turbulence”

Postcard perfect, that’s the kind of day Saturday had turned into. The brief early morning showers that had tempted me to call the rectory and cancel the meeting with Jesus had been swept away. The only blemish, if that, visible in the clear blue sky was a distant contrail the source of which had long since disappeared.

I parked in the office parking lot, donned my Cubs cap and headed for Bellino’s Delicatessen.

A family of four and their two Golden Labrador Retrievers had staked out a spot at the far end of the lawn area in front of Bellino’s deli. At the other end of the park, where Jesus and I planned to meet, the picnic table sat empty.

“Ciao,” Mario called out when I came into their deli. Angela, from the kitchen, stuck her head through the pass to say “buongiorno” then returned to the work she’d started.

 A dozen blueberry scones had been arranged in a cake stand on the counter. The moisture on the inside of the glass cover told me Angela had just pulled them out of the oven.

Before Mario rang me up he looked over his shoulder at the pass. The window into the kitchen was empty.

“Delizioso,” he whispered as he wrapped two of them in Saran Wrap and aluminum foil before easing them into a paper bag. “I had one when Angela turned her back to answer the phone.”

He placed the bag between two cups of coffee, handed me the cup carrier and  scurried out from behind the counter to hold the door for me.

“Buon appetito,” he said before closing the door behind me.

“Grazie,” I said 

Jesus, having arrived while I’d been getting our snack, stood alongside the picnic table where he and the two dogs entertained themselves in a romping game of fetch.

“May I join you?” I shouted across the lawn. “I have snacks for us, but nothing for your two friends.”

Jesus, wearing an unbuttoned Black Watch plaid flannel shirt over a grey T-shirt, fedora, no gloves or coat, gestured for me to come ahead.

“Meet Sammie and Duke,” he said pointing to the full grown but rambunctious black female and yellow male Labs. They had dropped their tennis balls and were eagerly sniffing the bag holding the scones. The owner whistled and they raced back to the family encampment where I suspected assured treats awaited their obedient response. I handed him a scone and placed the cup of coffee in front of him as we sat down at the table.

“I like the Cubs hat,” he said as he unwrapped his treat.

“Nice shirt,” I said, “you shed the coat and gloves in favor of the tartan shirt worn by the 18^th century Scottish military. Strange choice for a man known for preaching love your enemies.”

I smiled and sipped my coffee.

“Military?” he said looking down at his chest. “Father Stephen took it from the in-kind donation closet and gave it to me. He didn’t say anything about it being a military uniform.”

“I’m giving you a hard time, Jesus. Scottish clans had their own colors, wore them proudly, including into battle. I touched the bill of my cap. Like a tartan shirt this tells the world what my clan is, the Chicago Cubs.”

A stillness surrounded us, briefly interrupted by the pleasing laughter of children playing at the other end of the park. We nibbled and sipped in our shared solitude.

 Jesus moved his head, shielded his eyes from the sun and looked over my right shoulder.

“Do you want me to move?” I said.

“No, I wanted to see the children. They’re playing with Sammie and Duke.”

“You made new friends,” I said.

Jesus smiled.

“The dogs,” he said as he shifted back to face me and make eye contact, “know I’m the Son of Man.”

Back to work, I thought, be gentle but firm. He’s inviting you in.

“Jesus, they’re Labs, they have a well-deserved reputation for being friendly and affectionate.”

Add the Truman anecdote, I thought, soften what’s to come.

 “In fact, when President Truman became the target of ceaseless criticism he said that if you want a friend in Washington get a dog. He didn’t mention Labs in particular, but dogs in general will follow anyone who wants to play with them.”

“Or feed them,” Jesus said, “and I gave them both.”

I looked around the table. There were no wrappers, crumbs or signs of food for two or four-legged critters.

“What did you feed them?”

“Playing with them also nourished their souls,” he said, looking pleased with himself. “None of God’s creatures can live by bread alone.”

I shook my head, looked at the remaining morsels of blueberry scones and the cold coffee, delectables for which we’d both lost our appetite.

“Jesus, it’s a beautiful day and I’m reluctant to cast a shadow on our time together, but at times the work of psychotherapy  requires uncomfortable reality checks. This is one of those times.”

I paused hoping for a response. He remained silent.

“Jesus, all I want is for you to be healthy. Your claim to be the Son of Man is a delusion that you, and I, need to face. If your medication regimen and our work together don’t dispel these delusional thoughts, we’ll need to address the next alternative, hospitalization. Do you understand?”

“Dr. Bob, why is it so difficult for you to believe me when I claim to be the Son of Man?”

“Jesus, I wonder why you need to pretend to be someone other than who you are.”

He removed his hat, placed it on the table, and turned his face to the empty, clear blue sky. “Why do you think I’m pretending?”

“A few days ago, you showed up as Sam Spade. Are you Sam Spade?”

“Of course not. Sam Spade is a fictional character. I am not.”

“Dashiell Hammet is the author of numerous books, compelling fiction, excellent mysteries. God has written one too, the Bible, a compelling nonfiction narrative laced with a tad of myth.

“Myth?” Jesus said tilting his head to the side.

“The truth is always enhanced,” I said, “when lightly seasoned by myth.”

Jesus’ brows furrowed and his mouth opened slightly but just enough to speak. “If you say so, Dr. Bob.”

“God inspired human authors to record God’s message,” I said, “and you’re the lead character, the carpenter from Nazareth sent to reconcile the world to God and save it from itself. I’d buy it, in fact I have four different versions on my bookshelf.”

Jesus smiled.

“Hammet’s books are entertaining, Jesus. God’s book, the Bible, is a spellbinding story and an engrossing narrative from its beginning in Genesis to its ending in Revelation. In the Old Testament God is center stage, and in the New Testament it is your story that grips the reader, a page turner for certain. However, when you show up at my office two thousand years after Jesus of Nazareth’s untimely death and claim to be that same Jesus, the Son of Man, I’m skeptical.”

“Might it be that you want me to admit that I’m psychotic because you’re uncomfortable with the fact that I actually am who I claim to be?”

“Jesus ben Joseph, if you are who you claim to be I am going to be extremely uncomfortable. I can buy God’s and your stories in the Bible, I was raised with them. I admit they stretch my rational understanding of life, but they also make me tremble when I doubt and question their authenticity.”

“Nothing is impossible with God,” he said, “including a return visit, granting me time with you to better understand my humanity.”

“It’s too farfetched, Jesus. And though I value and care for those who show up in my office and consider it a privilege to be invited into their lives, why would God choose me? There are bigger fish in the ocean of mental health professionals. I’m a small fry, pun intended. Aside from that, you two could have sat in a heavenly office, choir humming in the background and within moments the Almighty could straighten out the wrinkles in your humanity. I may be good, Jesus, but not that good!”

Focused on getting my point across and listening to his responses and silences when he didn’t speak, I’d failed to see the threatening dark clouds heading toward us.

Jesus buttoned his flannel shirt and turned the collar up. I made sure my cap was secure on my head.

A bolt of lightning lit the sky above the Marbleworks. The clap of thunder that followed scared the Labs who dashed in our direction, ran under the picnic table and lay at Jesus’ feet.

An unexpected gust of wind blew the scone wrappers off the table. I held my cap in place and got up to chase the paper across the grass. The moment I had them in my grasp the dark clouds opened up drenching me with a pelting burst of rain. I tossed the soggy paper in the nearest trash container and began sprinting to my car. When I remembered Jesus and the dogs I stopped and returned to the picnic table. He and the dogs were gone, but not out of sight, nor was his fedora which a blast of wind propelled across the lawn toward a stand of trees above Otter Creek.

I saw him walking toward the family’s SUV where all four family members must have retreated leaving their wind and rain ravaged campsite behind. He had his back to me, and though the sudden downpour made it difficult to see, he appeared to be carrying Sammie while Duke, tail between his legs, walked beside him. Upon reaching the family car, the liftgate popped open, the dogs jumped in, some hand gestures exchanged, and Jesus disappeared around the corner of the nearest building.

As soon as I reached the car the parents of the two children waved and motioned for me to join them. I lip-synced thanks and pointed to my car less than a hundred feet away. Sammie and Duke gave me no notice. Their noses and front paws were pressed against the liftgate’s windows, their eyes glued to the alley way where moments before Jesus had disappeared.

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