RUN FOR IT – by Tim Wintermute

Griff began running in September just after he'd started classes at a theological seminary in New York City.  After a couple of weeks he had established a route that took him from his dorm room on West 122^nd Street over to Grant’s Tomb then south along the path through Riverside Park above the West Side Highway and the Hudson River as far as the 79^th Street Yacht Basin.  By October the shin splints that plagued him at the beginning had miraculously disappeared and he was running stronger and faster as if nothing could stop him.

One day a week he adjusted his route so he could run to his field placement at Riverview Presbyterian Church on West 85^th Street, a majestic mass of red brick with a high slate roof and a soaring steeple that resembled a rocket on its launching pad about to take off on a mission to outer space. Although Griff’s weekly field placement at Riverview was part of a course in applied theology that was required for all first year seminarians, so far he hadn't experienced anything theological or otherwise that he could apply in his life.  Still, it was better to have a field placement in a church than wading through a rice field in Viet Nam, which is where he would be if it wasn’t for the draft deferment that came with his seminary enrollment.

“Sorry to disturb you Reverend Danforth,” Miss Malthus, the Church’s secretary, said from the office doorway. She insisted on calling him a reverend but since her tenure at the church was closing in on eternity who was he to correct her?  Biting her barely visible upper lip, her eyes wide open under the sweep of the rhinestone studded, gull-winged frames of her glasses she announced, “There is a Mrs. Orlan here to see you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.  I mean, Reverend Hale isn’t in, so it would have to be you.”

Reverend Hale was never in.  Where he was and what he was doing was one of the mysteries of the church.  Certainly not writing his sermons since he reused old ones that he kept in a filing cabinet.  He was careful to only use ones that he hadn’t preached for at least five years claiming that they got better with age, just like wine. He dismissed their lack of topicality by saying, “A sermon is based on the Scripture not today’s news. After all, God didn’t write the front page of the New York Times on the stone tablet he handed to Moses.”

Griff had no past sermons he could recycle and since he was required to preach one as part of his field placement that meant he had to write one.  Skeptical of divine inspiration he had put his faith in perspiration, but so far he was just running in circles.  Telling Miss Malthus that he would be happy to see Mrs. Orlan, he quickly herded into a neat stack the sheets of paper on which he’d scribbled his false starts.  When he looked up his eyes followed a pair of long, bare legs that couldn’t possibly be attached to a parishioner.  They rose above the knee before disappearing under a black dress.

“Father.”

“I’m not a Priest,” he replied, overcoming the distraction of her oval face that reminded him of a Renaissance Madonna, framed by black hair that cascaded onto her shoulders.” 

“Oh, well what are you then?”

“Protestant.”  He pointed to the brown leather chair facing his desk.  “Please sit down.” 

She sat down and crossed her legs, hiking her skirt even more.  Clasping her knees with her hands, the diamond wedding ring caught the afternoon light from the window behind Jack and flashed it back into his eyes.  As she leaned forward and looked at him several gold bracelets slipped down her wrist and collided with a chime.  “So you must be a what, a minister?”

He nodded, trying to sit back casually in his own chair, deciding not to correct her.  “But if you want a priest?”

“No, I’m not Catholic. “

“The Episcopal Church has priests, so does the Orthodox Church.”

“I’m neither of those, I’m Jewish. You see my therapist is out of town and I live near here.  Most priests and ministers do counseling, right?”

“So do Rabbis.  There’s a Reformed and a Conservative synagogue near here.” Griff couldn’t imagine that she was Orthodox.

“I can’t, because I seduced my Rabbi,” she said.  “It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? If my therapist hadn’t gone on vacation it never would have happened.”

“Why?” 

“Why?  Because I wouldn’t have gone to see the poor Rabbi with my problem.”

“There’s another problem?”

“Like I said, that’s why I went to see the Rabbi and now I’m here to see you.”

“And that problem is?”

“My husband is seeing someone else.  At least I think he is.”

“You don’t know?”

She rose from the chair without answering and walked over to the window behind his desk.  Griff had to swivel in his chair to track her movement.  She turned and looked down at him.  “A spouse knows.  Wouldn’t you know?”

“I’m not married,” he stammered, then added, “But not because I’m celibate like a Catholic priest.”

She wasn’t listening.  “Do you think I’m to blame?" she asked.

“Well...” Griff replied, trying to think of an answer.

“You do?”

“No, you’re...”

“Ugly?”

“You’re beautiful,” Griff blurted and immediately felt his face redden, from the shock of his answer.  What came over him to tell her she was beautiful.  He should have added ‘like all of God’s creatures are beautiful’.

“That’s what my Rabbi told me.”

“Before you...”

“We didn’t, actually.  I just said that because I tried to seduce him.  Doesn’t the Bible say that wanting it is as bad as doing it?”

“But you didn’t do it.”

“He wouldn’t.  He said it was unethical but that he thought I was beautiful.  I was so embarrassed.  I felt like a slut. Do you think he meant it-that I’m beautiful?  I mean Rabbis are supposed to tell the truth aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And a reverend as well?”

“Yes.”

She sat down on the desk.  Griff reached out with his right hand and she leaned toward him.

“I’m not a reverend,” he replied as he gently pulled the legal pad with the doodled false starts for his sermon on it from under her bare thigh.

“You’re not?”

“I’m a seminary student.”

“Can I smoke?” 

“Sure.”

She got up from the desk and returned to the chair where she reached down to her purse that she’d dropped on the floor next to it and pulled out a pack of cigarettes.  “Do you want one?”

“No.  I can’t.”

She nodded her head. “Because it’s a sin.”

“It's because I’m a runner.”

“A runner,” she repeated what Griff said, then lit a cigarette with a gold lighter, crossed her arms, exhaled and looked right through him.  “You’re not a reverend, you’re a runner, is that what you’re saying?”

Griff shifted, uncomfortably in his chair. “Sort of…I mean…”

Mercifully, she cut him off, saving him from some asinine reply. “A reverend is supposed to be godly, which means they shouldn’t lie, but if you’re not a reverend then what you said about me being beautiful doesn’t have to be true, does it?”

Griff didn’t really see the logic in what she said, but this wasn’t exactly the time for a philosophic discussion.  “A person doesn’t have to be an ordained minister to tell the truth.”

“But why should I believe you?”

Griff sighed, “Look, the Rabbi was ordained and he told you the same thing.”

“Do you have an ashtray,” she asked.

“No,” Griff replied then looked around and pushed a silver plate across the desk toward her.  “You can use this.”

“What’s this?”

“A plate for collecting the Sunday offering.”

“Will I go to hell if I use it for my cigarette ashes?”

Griff wasn’t sure if she was teasing and didn’t want to take a chance, so he said. “Of course not.”

“How do you know if you aren’t a real reverend?”

If you’re concerned about your soul, you can give me your cigarette and I’ll do it.”

“No, it wouldn’t be fair for you to be damned for something I did.”  She replied and flicked the ashes into the plate then settled back in her chair, crossed her legs. They both sat looking at each other without saying a word.  Finally, she said, “Thank you, this has been very helpful.”

“Really?”

“I know I’m not ugly,” She uncrossed her legs and squashed her cigarette in the collection plate.  “So I know it’s something else.”

“It’s probably nothing,” Griff tossed out like a ‘Hail Mary’ pass.

“No, it’s some…thing,” she replied with certainty, then rose from the chair and picked up her purse. “And now I know what to do next.”

“Right,” Griff blurted, although he didn’t have a clue as to what the something was much less what she was going to do next. Then he jumped out of his chair, strode to the door and opened it for her.

As he held the door open with his left arm she looked up at him.  He stammered, “If I can be of any help in the future you know where to find me.”

“How can anyone find you if you’re a runner," she said, with a Mona Lisa smile then turned and slowly walked away.