An Interview with God Page 2

  Paul misses the entire scene. He’s still engrossed with Matt’s issues.

  She glances at her cell. 8:13 a.m. She needs to be in her office at her desk with her game face firmly affixed at 9:00 a.m. sharp. Working as a paralegal since graduation from college, for eight to ten hours a day, five and sometimes six days a week, her daily existence is immersed in the supposedly black-and-white world of a large law firm.

  From her childhood to the first two years of her and Paul’s marriage, from family to faith to her future, life was so clear-cut and calculable. But she can’t deny that she’s grown cynical and increasingly cold to everyone and everything around her over the past year. Sometimes the sea of gray where she now resides seems to be emotionally and spiritually drowning her.

  Even her dream of going into the practice of family law has been shelved. The thought of watching a couple battle one another and destroy their family hits way too close to home now. She’s seemingly lost every safe place in her life. Home, work, family, friends, everywhere she goes, she has to face her unresolved issues while answers are elusive.

  Sarah stares at Paul until she gets his attention. When he finally looks her way, she points at the phone and whispers, “What’s wrong?”

  He holds up his index finger, mouthing, “One minute,” then goes back to listening. Finally, he says, “Hey, Matt. I really have to go. Sarah’s waiting on me, but I’ll find you some help. Let me ask around. I have a crazy interview this morning, but then when I get back to the office, I’ll work on it . . . I was there, man. I saw what you saw. I get it. Hang in there. I’ll call you later.” Paul taps his phone screen but then gazes off to wherever or whomever he runs these days.

  Sarah wonders if she will ever feel normal again—or will the pain just linger on until she learns to live with it? Not a great way to start any day, only to have to leave once again to go act like all is well in the world.

  “I’m really sorry, Sarah.”

  “Well, you were the one who wanted to talk before work. You asked me, remember?”

  “Yeah, but it was tough. I mean, Matt broke down on the phone. He’s really been struggling since we got back and isn’t transitioning well at all.”

  Sarah considers her response. She doesn’t want to appear uncaring. “I like Matt. Is he okay?”

  “No, he’s not. It was just so bad over there.”

  As if she needed to be reminded of that. “Yeah, it was. And bad for you too, Paul.”

  “But I was only there to write. I didn’t have to shoot anyone. I didn’t have to make the split-second life-or-death calls like those guys did. They protected me, I couldn’t protect them, so this is the least I can do now. And I came home safe.”

  Surrendering to the obvious that they are once again not going to deal with their marriage this morning, Sarah puts the focus on Matt. “So he wants you to find him a therapist or . . . what?”

  “Yeah. Just get him help of some kind.”

  She clenches her jaw to hide her frustration. “But why you, Paul? And why right now? Isn’t there someone he knows who can help? Like one of his combat buddies?”

  “It’s because of his job, Sarah. He’s trying to keep quiet with what’s going on so he doesn’t appear to be unstable. The NSA is a highly secretive government agency. Not exactly a warm and fuzzy place. Matt’s not sure who he can trust there . . . ironically.”

  Still, she gives Paul a moment to turn the discussion back to them—which he doesn’t. Fine. Talk over. “Okay. I have to get to work.”

  “Yeah. Sorry, me too. I have an interview this morning.”

  “I overheard you mention that to Matt,” she says with a touch of sarcasm. “I guess you can fill me in about it some other time.”

  “Look, Sarah, I’m so sorry about not being available this morning, okay? I want this . . . I want us to work. I do.”

  “You can stop apologizing . . . Look, you left because you did what you felt you had to do, and . . . well, a lot has just changed. So we are where we are now. How many times do I have to re-live it?”

  “But I am back,” he insists. “I’m here now. I’m trying. Okay?”

  “Yeah, Paul. You may be back, but you are not here!” she exclaims, desperation having bolstered her bravery. “The distance just keeps growing. I just don’t know if I can . . . if I even want to live like this anymore.”

  Paul stares, taken aback by her raw emotion and honesty. Sarah has always been the quiet and reserved one. He’s always had to wonder what she’s thinking, but he had no idea how far down the road she had already gone in her decisions. “But I can be better. Do better. I can fix it. We can fix this . . . Can’t we? . . . Sarah?”

  She looks out the window as she slowly shakes her head. Familiar tears border the corners of her eyes again. Turning, she stares him down. “I don’t know, Paul. When there’s been an affair and trust is gone in a marriage . . . how do you fix that? And fix is such a horrible word anyway. This is not some thing that just needs new parts. This is my heart! Your heart! Something has been broken, and I don’t know where to turn anymore. I used to. We used to. But who or what can possibly change this? Change us?”

  “I don’t know either,” he says, “but I don’t want to throw away our life together over one mistake.”

  Sarah brushes tears away.

  Compassion for her suddenly overwhelms him, and he moves toward her to comfort. She raises her hands, palms out to indicate not now, and he backs up. The least he can do is respect her wishes. “Look, this morning . . . well, lately . . . is all my fault,” he says softly. “I know I’ve been in my own world and haven’t let you in. I haven’t been accessible. Pretty far down the rabbit hole. I’ll get help. Let’s get some help. We need to talk to someone.”

  Sarah hesitates, uncertain if she can trust the offer. “You go on to your interview. Don’t be late.”

  “I don’t care about the interview right now!” he exclaims.

  “Please don’t raise your voice, Paul.”

  He sighs, backing his emotion down. “Okay, sorry. Can we talk more tonight?”

  “I’m not sure I’ll be here,” Sarah whispers, almost talking to herself as much as to him. “I need to do some thinking . . . alone. I need some space.”

  Frozen by the certainty in her words, Paul looks away.

  “Go to work, Paul . . . to your interview. I have to leave now too so I won’t be late.”

  Paul walks to the front door, puts on his sport coat, grabs his helmet, and snaps it on. He then takes his prized twenty-one-speed urban road bike down from the rack on the living room wall. When he opens the apartment door and rolls it out, Sarah follows him and secures the three locks. They walk in awkward silence as he guides his bike down the stairs balanced on the back tire.

  The couple nears Bobby, the fifty-something building superintendent who can repair, replace, or repaint anything in a New York building in a New York minute. He’s busy patching a hole in the hallway sheetrock, delivered by some unknown force.

  The super smiles at them. “Just like clockwork, you two, every morning.”

  They pass him without responding, but Bobby has been around the block enough times to know the couple’s silence isn’t about him. He shrugs, watches them walk out the door, and with a big smile calls out, “Okay, well, have a great day!”

  As the door latches shut, he whispers, “Lord, I think they need some help. And by the looks of things, soon would be good.”

  The two descend the brownstone’s stairs to the sidewalk. Sarah reaches down to pick up a copy of The Herald lying in a bundle on the last step, folds it in two, and places it in her tote bag. Paul gets on his bike, throws the strap of his messenger bag over his head, and looks with intention at his wife. “I’ll call you later. Okay?”

  She takes a deep breath and exhales with a shrug of her shoulders. Paul rides off to the north and Sarah starts walking south. Something about their opposite-direction routes feels much more telling to both of them this morning.
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  Chapter Two

  God—Session One Pawns, Rooks, Knights, and Kings

  Paul weaves his bike through the thick snarls of Brooklyn traffic, navigating buses, cars, pedestrians, other riders, and the occasional street performer. As he passes the grid of buildings, sunlight streams through the thin lines of space in rhythmic flashes. The usual shouting, constant honking, and piercing sirens of the city are no match for his own racing thoughts of the morning’s drama with Sarah and Matt. But the closer he gets to the destination of his interview, the more he transitions into the role of journalist. One of the many things he learned while in Afghanistan was how to turn off the personal and switch into full-on professional.

  The locale is strikingly familiar when Paul arrives at the destination the interviewee chose as their first meeting place—historic McGolrick Park. He rides toward the closest bike rack and jumps off, quickly noticing a couple of orphaned front wheels with the chain still locked securely in place. He decides a fence closer to the meeting spot would be better to leave his prized and only mode of transportation. After picking a spot, Paul takes the bike lock from his bag and does his best defensive looping of the chain in an attempt to frustrate would-be thieves.

  He scans the park, taking in the iconic open-air neoclassical structure. Chess tables are set up underneath the narrow roofline supported by stone pillars. Most already have two players at them, transfixed on their games, focused only on the next move. He sees no sign of the man he’s meeting.

  Paul glances down at his feet and notices the words This Way neatly drawn in sidewalk chalk, complete with a right-facing arrow. Not even considering the message might be intended for him, he instinctively looks where the arrow is pointing. A stately, well-dressed, and handsome gentleman with a pleasant smile waves and motions him to the chess table where he sits alone. Paul is momentarily impressed that the chalked directions were indeed for him.

  The young reporter walks over to find a chessboard set up, ready for a match to be played. Paul is taken with how striking the man’s eyes are, framed by a kind and gentle countenance. He has the appearance in every manner of a tenured university professor. Not the stodgy, know-it-all kind but the strangely cool grandfather type who exudes wisdom even with no words spoken and all the students clamor to get into his classes year in and year out.

  The gentleman smiles warmly, inviting him to have a seat across the table. “Good morning, Paul.”

  At the genuine greeting, Paul senses a strange momentary burst of refuge, but then returns to feeling the frazzled state of the early morning conversations. He sets his belongings and helmet on the ground beside the seat. “So sorry I’m late. I had a . . .” He stops himself to avoid appearing non-professional. “Well, I apologize for being late.”

  Smiling again, the interviewee says, “Only five minutes, Paul. That still gives us twenty-five left, just as we agreed.”

  Paul sits down, opens his messenger bag and takes out a water bottle, a pen, and a notepad. He then sets his phone out to use the recording app. “Right. Yeah, thirty minutes. Today, tomorrow, and Friday. Because everyone is so, uh . . .”

  “Busy?” the man interjects to describe the permanent state of the culture.

  Paul realizes he had trailed off. All right, shake off this morning and pull it together. This is work. “Yeah, exactly. Everyone’s crazy busy these days. Thanks for your patience and understanding.”

  Watching Paul intently, the gentleman takes on a concerned look. “Are you okay? Rough morning?”

  “Oh yeah. . . . No, I’m good. Sorry if I seem distracted . . . I’m Paul Asher with The Herald.”

  The man beams. “Ha! I know who you are, Paul, and I’m quite familiar with your work. I’m actually a fan of yours.”

  The young writer either misses the compliment or for some reason brushes it off, responding, “Thanks. You, uh, mind if I record this session on my phone? Legally, I have to ask your permission.”

  Assuming that was why the phone was out with the screen up, already filled with multiple text messages and social media alerts on display, the man answers, “Of course, go right ahead. I expected so.”

  Paul swipes the screen, taps the app, and hits the small button. When the light turns red, he begins, “Okay, we are both aware I am recording these conversations for accuracy to transcribe later. We have agreed to three sessions—today, which is Wednesday . . . tomorrow, Thursday, and then Friday. Thirty minutes each. When I have completed the piece, I will let you take a look at what I’ve written, but I will maintain editorial control and have final say . . . Do you agree with those terms?”

  The man’s warm smile returns. “Agreed. And I expect great things, Paul.”

  Catching the encouragement this time, Paul leans back, appearing to finally settle down a bit. “Well, thanks, but don’t get your hopes up. After all, I’m a religion reporter for a mainstream news organization. So pretty much everything I write ends up buried within the Lifestyle section.”

  “Oh, I’m certain you’re just being modest.”

  Paul gets an are-you-kidding-me look on his face. “No, even the horoscope gets better placement than I do.”

  “Well, the reporting you did from Afghanistan was very impressive. Solid writing on such a difficult and all-too-often controversial subject.”

  Paul is thrown by the man’s comment. “You followed that series? Really?”

  The man leans toward the table and looks into Paul’s eyes. “Every word . . . ‘Christians in Combat.’ That must have been a really tough assignment. And I’m sure it was hard on you and your wife. Being away that long and all? The risk you took being on the front lines? Out of touch for days at a time when she couldn’t know for certain you were okay? The whole experience must have been very hard. Quite stressful.”

  How does he have so much insight—and how does know I’m married? Paul isn’t sure whether to be impressed with the man’s knowledge of his career or offended by the personal intrusion. With what’s happening at home, he doesn’t want to go there with anyone, but most especially with a perfect stranger he’s just trying to interview. He answers with his usual deflecting humility, “Way tougher for others. I was just there to write. Not to fight. But I did meet some amazing people.”

  A slight knowing smile creeps up on the gentleman’s face. “Well, I’d love to hear more about your personal experiences over there sometime . . . anytime you’d like to share.”

  That comment reels Paul back into the moment. “Yeah, uh, maybe some other time. So since we aren’t here to talk about me and my resume, or actually play chess, let’s jump in about you.”

  The man points at the board pieces aligned in front of them. “So do you play?”

  “Me? Oh no.” Paul hopes to avoid another verbal diversion.

  The gentleman presses, “Never?”

  “Well, when I was a kid. Anyway, let’s—”

  “But not anymore?”

  Suddenly recalling why the area seemed so familiar and dropping his guard a bit, Paul answers, “Well, funny that you chose this place . . . and even this very table. My dad used to bring me here to this park . . . as a kid. I played a little back then . . . with him, but . . . Okay, enough of that, let’s get started.” He clears his throat, deepening his voice a bit. “Interview number one. Today is Wednesday, June first. Please state your name and spell it.”

  Seeing the reporter is ending the back-and-forth and ready to officially begin the interview, the man leans toward the phone while looking at Paul. “God. G . . . O . . . D.”

  Paul can’t help but start to grin, but he catches himself to maintain professional courtesy. He’s respectful, of course, but indeed a journalist, so curiosity mixed with skepticism and a hint of cynical is just part of his DNA—natural and learned. He continues, “Great. Thanks for agreeing to my interview.”

  The gentleman . . . well, God . . . responds, “Actually you’re the one who agreed to this, but you’re welcome.”

  Paul remembers hi
s to-do list. “Oh, sorry. Mind if I take a quick picture of You?”

  “Sure, go right ahead.” He smiles warmly.

  Paul grabs his phone and selects the camera app, making sure to leave the recorder running, and tongue-in-cheek but maybe a little serious, he asks, “So there won’t be a problem with You showing up in the shot, will there?”

  “Well, I’m not a vampire,” God says, laughing. “Plus you’re confusing cameras with mirrors.”

  Paul checks the shot and then carefully places the phone back on the table to continue recording. “No offense, but I just gotta say . . . you look, well, so human. Human enough to me, at least.”

  “And you look very God-like to Me, Mr. Asher.”

  “Ah, I get it. That’s funny.” Paul smiles. “A Genesis reference. ‘In the image of God he created them.’ Clever.”

  “Thank you. But it is true. ”

  Setting aside his journalism, Paul can no longer contain his personal curiosity. “So why did You agree to this interview? Wait . . . yes, I know I agreed with You to do this, but why did You? Why are You actually here . . . in the flesh, so to speak?”

  God leans back in the chair, crossing his arms. “I talk to My children all the time. Constantly.”

  Paul connects the subtle personal inference. “So you’re saying that I’m one of Your children?”

  “Well, of course, son.”

  “Thanks for that vote of confidence, but there’s a name for the people who You usually talk to like this.”

  God fires back, “You mean blessed?”

  Paul smirks. “Well, no. I meant prophets.”

  “Ah yes. Well, that’s what many are called after I speak to them . . . and then, of course, if they also actually listen to what I say and answer. Being a prophet requires a response and action as well, not just hearing My words.”

  “Right. I guess that’s why not many people have prophet on their resume. At least not before You talk to them.”

  God seems to be enjoying the flow and depth of the honest conversation. “Exactly, but many of them were not at all happy to see Me when I first appeared or spoke to them. Certainly not at first.”