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Chapter 3. Joyce Lundquist, Mrs. Joyce Earle, the woman at the well. Bill Troxell called after I'd returned from New Jersey and got right to the point. He said, Coffee. Ten o'clock. Okay, I answered. We'd used a few words, and the exchange made me feel like a badass. I might be learning to be a cool guy, after all. I saw Phil getting off his motorcycle as I pulled into the lot. Cool guys arrive at the same time. Cool guys don't need to talk about where they'll sit. They find a place and deal. I bought two black coffees, walked him over, and put them down on the table along with two twenties. Still not a word spoken. He smiled and took the cash, which told me he'd found something about McCreevy. Thank you much, he said, after taking a sip of the hot coffee. Those addresses working out? Yes, I answered. You do nice work, my friend. What have you got for me today? Well, Phil began, talk about a strange dude. You know, Forica McCreevy is dead, right? He died in a bicycle accident almost 20 years ago. He's the last of the McCreevys and the Forickers, too, for that matter. The Forickers are his mother's people. Both families go back as far as the colonies. He left millions when he died. A big chunk went to a medical clinic in Buffalo, New York, and he spread the rest of it around to various groups in Jamestown, New York, where the kids and the fingerprint cards came from. That's his hometown. Some money went to renovating the family and the juvenile court there, and he even left some to his old high school. He hardly left a footprint, though. No articles in the paper, no board of directors, nada. Sometimes super rich guys keep a low profile, because otherwise people ask them for money all the time. Guys like that know how to keep their money out of sight. After high school, he picked up a B.A. from Western Reserve in Cleveland and married a girl named Karen Carlo. She died young for some reason. The obit in her hometown paper didn't say, but my guess is drugs. After that, he went to the police academy in New York City. He worked in New York as a patrolman for three years until his parents died in a car accident. That's when he moved back to Jamestown. From then on, nothing happened, no move, no advancement, no promotion. He worked for the Jamestown Police Department for the rest of his life. He lived at his family's home in Chautauqua County, New York, until he died at age 62. He had a law firm, Rider Will, but they kept it under lock and key until after he died. That's when everyone found out about the money. A firm located in Seattle liquidated the estate. The house and everything in it sold at auction in three days. Phil took a long drink of coffee and let the story soak in. He asked, why do you want to know about this guy? I'm not sure, I answered, but one of the guys, one of the Caught 30, thinks this Officer McCreevy had something to do with the cards and the mug shots. Why? asked Phil. He didn't know exactly, but he told me the more I talked to people about the records, the more I'd find out about Officer McCreevy. Phil said, I hope you don't find out about any rough stuff. I answered, judging from the guy who told me about him, it didn't seem like that. Well, be careful, Phil advised. Keep your foot near the brake. You don't have to say that twice. I agreed. Phil got up from the table and he said, that's it for now. I got to run. I saluted and said, thanks. Talk soon. He finished his coffee on the way out and tossed the cup in the trash while I sat at the table, wondering who I'd contact next. I decided I'd try one of the girls. Boy is made up most of the list, but I wondered why a young girl would get arrested. When I got home, I picked up the envelope for Joyce Lundquist. Phil noted her married name as Mrs. Joyce Earl. He'd written business by her address, a funeral home in Chicago. I updated the letter I used to contact Patrick Williams, but I added, I am also interested to know if you're familiar with a police officer named Foraker McCreevey. I wrote her address on the envelope and marked it personal correspondence. Like Patrick Williams, Mrs. Joyce Earl sent her response by e-mail, but unlike Patrick Williams, I don't think I made her angry. Maybe mentioning McCreevey's name made a difference. To Thomas Strongtree from Joyce Earl. Subject, your letter. Hello, Mr. Strongtree. Yes, I remember that. I must have been 16 at the time. Yes, I'm familiar with Officer McCreevey, the policeman in Jamestown who died and gave away all that money. I remember him personally because he supervised my community service. He treated me kindly and pointed me in the right direction. If you make it to Chicago, I'd be happy to speak with you. I work for the Kibler and Peters Funeral Home, so we can meet at the Bridgeport location. Please call to make an appointment. Mrs. Earl had included a link to the website for the address. I called her and we set up an appointment for the following Wednesday afternoon. She explained she and her husband worked for a group of funeral homes, and the Bridgeport location would be the most convenient for her. Bridgeport looked to be an upscale neighborhood in Chicago. I saw a mix of newer buildings between renovated older homes, and I had no trouble finding Kibler and Peters. Fresh paint made the house look clean and bright, and the grounds had been carefully maintained. A crisp hedge surrounded the clipped lawn. A receptionist led me to a comfortable room with a mahogany meeting table and matching chairs, most likely where families met to discuss funeral arrangements. The receptionist offered coffee and left to get some. I'd been in the room for no more than a few minutes when a pleasant-looking woman opened the door and greeted me with a warm smile and a firm handshake. I knew from her card she'd be 48 years old. Hello, Mrs. Strongtree, she said. I'm Joyce Earl. Mrs. Joyce Earl possessed the perfect demeanor for a funeral home. Without saying a word, her bright eyes and reassuring smile communicated, I know you've lost someone dear to you. The pocket of her charcoal gray business suit jacket sported an embroidered Kibler and Peters corporate logo. She wore the jacket over a white blouse, a mid-length skirt, and black heels. She immediately shed the jacket and draped it over the back of one of the chairs. A pocket on her blouse carried the same embroidery. I answered, Glad to meet you, Mrs. Earl. Please call me Tom. Okay, Tom, she agreed, and you, please call me Joyce. She gestured to a chair at the table and said, Have a seat. She repositioned the chair on the same side of the table. A moment later, the receptionist reentered, carrying a tray with coffee and a carafe and two cups. Joyce Earl thanked the receptionist, and while the two women poured and arranged the coffee, I dug in my backpack and took out the envelope with the card and the photo. I assumed she would be anxious to see it. I handed it to her after the receptionist left and asked for permission to record our conversation on my phone. She nodded in agreement. Joyce Earl opened the envelope and removed the card and photo. She looked at them for a long minute. Then she said, He called it right. We don't know how beautiful we are at that age. Excuse me, I asked. She answered, You know that Officer McCreevy you wanted to know about? Well, he said we're all beautiful when we're young, and now I see what he meant. I think that's right, I agreed. Joyce looked back at the picture and the card. After another minute, I asked, Do you mind telling me what the police arrested you for, Joyce? Shoplifting, she said, stating a fact. I'd taken a small cosmetics case from Bigelow's department store downtown. For the moment, I wondered if the whole pack of records might be for kids called shoplifting. Later, I found out this was not the case. Yeah, the town had some policy that made swiping stuff a big deal, she said. The police fingerprinted me and they took a mug shot. I even had to go to court. What happened in court, I asked. Well, even before my hearing, a lawyer told me I'd only have a juvenile record. He said they would seal it when I turned 18. Which brings up a question, Tom. She held the card for me. How did you get this again? As I said in my letter, I bought it at a flea market, I answered. And that's part of what I'm trying to find out. How could some random guy like me buy police records? I'm also beginning to wonder about Officer McCreevy. Do you think he might have held out the cards and photos? Oh, I have no idea, she answered. But I remember Officer McCreevy from the community service. You got community service for shoplifting, I asked. Yes, she said. Joyce Earle took a breath. Okay, here's what happened, she said. After they arrested me, I had to go to juvenile court. The judge scolded me and the store made its point. They wanted everyone to know shoplifters will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. My father had to pay $100 in court fees. And my folks didn't have $100 to waste on me at the time. It took months to get over it, and I felt terrible the whole time. I also had to do six hours of community service, picking up trash by the river. Picking up trash, I asked. Yeah, she answered. An environmental group concerned about litter along the Chatticoin put together volunteers and people assigned to community service to help with the cleanup. What's the Chatticoin, I asked. You wrote in your letter that the records you found came from Jamestown, she said. Jamestown is near Chautauqua Lake. It's an Indian name. The river runs right through the middle of town. Jamestown started as a trading post on the Chatticoin, and when the factories came along, they used it for water power. Anyway, I had to spend six hours one Saturday with Officer McCreevy and a group of young people picking up junk along the riverbank. McCreevy said he and his family owed something to the river, and he hated seeing people throw trash into it. The group started talking and laughing as we got to know each other, and one of the other girls asked me why I had to be there. I told her about the makeup kit, and the girl asked me why I'd ever take a makeup kit. That sounded like an odd question. Did she mean it was okay to steal stuff but not makeup kits? I didn't know what to say, so I gave her a funny answer. I said, because I wanted to look pretty. And that's when McCreevy chimed in. He said, forget the makeup. You young people don't know how beautiful you are. Everyone got quiet, and we thought about this grown man being out on the river with a bunch of kids. One of the guys in the group must have known him from before, and he said, hey, Officer McCreevy, no flirting with the prisoners. McCreevy laughed at that. He said, first of all, none of you are prisoners. If you don't like what we're doing today, you can go home, and the city will think up something even more fun for next weekend. Second, if this young lady had to wait for one of you guys to say something nice, she'd be here until the river ran dry, and everyone laughed. McCreevy turned out to be a good guy. He didn't mean anything weird about young people being beautiful. He meant it. He wore it on his sleeve, as my father used to say. Later that day, I asked him, do you think a river could ever run dry? He said it wouldn't happen anytime soon, but it could. He talked about the sun's radiation and the floods and deserts. He told me if I wanted to know about local climate and water resources, I should get to know the people at the Chautauqua County Watershed Conservation Conservancy. He said they knew more about the lake than anybody. Joyce Earl looked at me and said, you might laugh, Tom, but that's what I did. That's why I said McCreevy sent me in the right direction. Until then, no one took me seriously enough to talk to me about watershed conservation. Maybe they didn't think I'd understand conservancy, but Officer McCreevy assumed I would. He spoke to me as an adult. I didn't know anybody else who cared about the river and that kind of thing. But his enthusiasm got me interested. I wanted to learn more about the river that ran through my town. So I went to the library and looked up the Watershed Conservation Conservancy. They had an office in Celeron. That's down right where the lake meets the river. They took up the first floor of an old house and gave out information about the lake and the region around it. I went to the house and got to know some lady volunteers. They enjoyed having a high school girl around. We gave our water conservation brochures out at local town picnics, and we had a table at the county fair. They always invited me to go along, and I went with them whenever I could. It got to be my activity. I learned how other kids played sports or music. I went to meetings for local government and conservation groups. I learned about wastewater facilities around the lake and how the Water Department serviced the city. I felt like I belonged to something meaningful. As high school ended, though, I felt lost. My parents told me I should get a job, but they didn't say what I should do. My friends didn't have much of an idea either. Then one of the ladies who worked for the Water Department said they had openings for young people to help in the office. I'd work part-time for the Jamestown Board of Public Utilities while attending Jamestown Community College. I could stay on and take the civil service exam, and I'd be the first to know if a full-time job opened up. Sounds like a great plan. Well, you're not working for the Utilities Department now, I observed, so what happened? Ha, ha, ha, Joyce said. I'd been at the Utilities Office and going to school for about two years. I took business courses at the college and learned how the city did billing. Sometimes when the regular workers went out for lunch or had a day off, I'd answer phones and fill in. On one of those days, a guy walked in. He's frantic. He looked at the nameplate on my desk and said, Joyce, I have a problem. My water bill, my electric bill, and my gas bill all came on the same day. A spark caused an explosion and a flood, and now I want to know who will buy me a new mailbox. I sat at my desk, looked him square in the face, and gave him the best deadpan. I said, I've heard that joke five times already this month, but I'll give you the best delivery. He acted disappointed like he couldn't believe I'd heard the joke before, and I told him he should take his best delivery prize and go home happy. He stood by my desk and gave a speech accepting best delivery like an Academy Award. Then I added, best delivery this week. He stopped the acceptance speech and looked at the floor. I thought I made him feel bad for a second, but then he got serious and said he actually did have a problem. I knew he felt better when he said he could tell just from looking at me that I might be the only person in Jamestown who could solve it. He made me smile. I couldn't help it. He told me he represented the Reverend Don Skinner's Refreshing Revival, opening at the Clearfield Grace Church on Miller Hilltop Road in Toothbase. The problem had to do with the water bill. The church said they paid it, but the water department said they hadn't and cut them off. He got excited again. He said, now, how is a revival supposed to revive people without water? How are we going to cook in the kitchen? How are we going to make coffee for all those people? Do you know what it's like when several hundred people are looking for a refreshing revival and don't get one? If we don't have water in the church, how can we even baptize the people for Christ's sake? I remember looking at him, and I'm sure my eyes opened wide. I said, wait, what did you say? You can't say, but he cut me off with a big toothy grin. He said, that's a double entendre, except this time it's different. Usually the second meaning goes to the crude, but this time it goes to the good. Bet you haven't heard another one of those this week. I asked him how long it took him to come up with that. He said he dreamed it up on the way over, and we had our first laugh together about baptism, of all things. Who would have guessed? He explained he traveled with the revival show, and they did have a problem with the water over at the church. He said he had to get it straightened out or the show wouldn't go on. After his antics, I didn't know what to believe, so I looked into the church's account. Sure enough, it said the church owed $395. I told the funny man if he paid the bill, they'd have water for all the coffee they wanted to drink and plenty left for baptisms. He said he came prepared and took out a roll of 20s. He said he always got to the scene of the Reverend Don Skinner's refreshing revival a few days early. He called it advance work. Make straight the way, he said, and looked at me to see if I picked up his Bible joke. Got it, I acknowledged. He said he didn't have time to get involved in church politics. Somebody probably goofed up, but he had a cash budget to open the show on time whenever this kind of thing happened, and something always did. He proudly proclaimed that the Reverend Don Skinner never asked the church to repay him. When the show closed and the dust settled, everyone would be down the road dealing with the next catastrophe. With a grand flourish, he took out a roll of cash out of his pocket, paid the entire amount with $20 bills, and said, Joyce, my name is Austin Earl. Turn me on, baby. I looked him straight in the eye, gave him half a smile and said, I already have, Austin. I got the best of him with that one. He gave me a slight bow and said, touche. I saw him start for the door but hesitate just before he reached it. He turned back and said, it would be great to see you at the revival, and added, there's no admission, only a freewill offering to pay the utilities. He took back a flyers out of his other pocket and gave me one. He said he'd look for me and meet me after. I'll tell you, in those days I had no shortage of company when I wanted it, but Austin made me laugh, and he came from the world outside of Jamestown. I got the water turned on at the Clearfield Church and made up my mind I'd go to the revival. The flyers said it started at 730 in the evening. That gave me enough time to get home from the water department, have something to eat, and change out of my work clothes. At first I didn't know what to wear to a revival, but I kept a plain blue dress that I'd wear now and then, nothing too short or too long. I just wanted to blend in, see the show, and have a few laughs after with Austin. I got home, made a sandwich, and changed quickly. I threw on the dress and added a pair of black shoes with heels to make me look dressed up. I thought I wouldn't need a coat that evening, but I just took along a white sweater. I brushed my hair, grabbed my shoulder bag, and shot out the door. I drove over to the church feeling excited. The parking lot had almost run out of space, and I remember thinking, Good turnout. Good for you, Rev. Don Skinner, and good for you, Austin. The revival put a psalm on a banner by the church door so that everybody could see it from the parking lot. I still say it all the time. Would you like to hear it? Yes, I answered, please. Joyce recited, Honor his name with hallelujahs, you who seek God. Live a happy life. Keep your eyes on God, and watch for his works. Be alert for signs of his presence. Remember the world, wonders he made, miracles and verdicts he's rendered. Joyce paused after she finished. She said, Austin told me he put that banner up before every show. She continued, as I walked up to the church, I could hear a band playing inside. I went in and sat off with a sigh. I started looking around for Austin, and I laughed when I saw him playing bass in the band. It didn't sound like church music either, more like a rock group. They wore these crazy costumes, too, matching high-waisted blue and yellow striped suits with white collars and puffy pants. Red piping trimmed the sleeves of their jackets, and they wore black berets. I found out later they were supposed to be Swiss guards, like at the Vatican, and they looked great. You could tell the guys wanted to be there. They had smiles on their faces and got everyone in the church smiling, too. You couldn't help it. The band stopped, and a deep voice came over the speakers. The voice asked us to please rise for prayer, and we all stood up. The voice asked God to bless our meeting and announce the entrance of the Reverend Don Skinner. The band started playing again, and Reverend Don came in from the back of the church dressed in a dark suit. He took long strides and walked up to the altar. The band quieted down, and the Reverend directed us to sit again. He put his hands on the sides of the pulpit and lifted his voice over the people. He said, Ladies and gentlemen, there's been a mix-up in our program for this evening. We should have made this clear in our advertisement. Tonight's revival is for sinners only. If any of you haven't sinned, you're supposed to come to the meeting tomorrow night. I heard some nervous laughter around the church, and real laughter broke out when a man in front started to get up, and the woman sitting next to him pulled him down by the sleeve. Then the Reverend Don Skinner did something else I don't think anyone expected. I heard him do it many times in the years that followed, and it always choked me up. He said, I've asked the band to play a song I think you'll like. It's one of my favorites. Listen to this song and ask yourself, who's talking? Is it a man talking to a woman or a woman talking to a man? Is it a parent talking to a child or a child talking to a parent? Is it someone talking to God, or is it God talking to that someone? If you listen carefully, you'll hear it's all of us talking to each other and to God, and God talking to all of us. It's all happening at the same time, and each of us understands every word. That's the mystery. That's grace. That's the glory of soul and spirit. The guitar player stepped forward to sing, and the Reverend Don Skinner sat in a chair. The band played a version of Psalm 139, and as often as I've heard it, I never get tired of it. I walked down the aisle to that song when we got married. Once again, Joyce recited from memory. You've searched me, and you know me. When I sit and when I stand, you know me from far away. Know the way I find my way. I know you stand behind me. Your hand is on my shoulder. Where did all of this come from? It's more than I'll ever know. Joyce sat quietly for a moment and took a sip of her coffee. When the music stopped, she said, no one made a sound, and the Reverend Don Skinner retook his position at the pulpit. He said, something happened this week that doesn't usually happen when preparing for our refreshing revival. We found out the water department turned off the water here at the church. That made me nervous, she said. I didn't know what he had in mind. The Reverend Don Skinner assured us the situation had been resolved, but he said that got him to thinking about water. He said, water is all around us. It's in every cell of our bodies, even in the air we breathe. It's on rooftops when it rains and in wash buckets when we mop the kitchen floor. Even if we say we don't want it, we can't live without it. The Reverend Don Skinner asked us to imagine what a person would look like if they hadn't had water for a few days. He said, grace is the living water that brings glory to God and meaning to our lives, even when we think we don't need it or don't want it or think we've done something wrong and don't deserve it. The Reverend asked us to remember a time when we stood by the kitchen sink on a hot summer afternoon and filled a tall glass with cold, clear water. He asked us to remember how good we felt when we drank that water. He told us we could have that feeling forever by accepting the living water of grace. He brought up the idea that water could take all forms, hard ice, steam jets, clouds in the sky, heavy humidity, lakes, rivers or glaciers 10,000 feet deep and 10,000 years old. George smiled at me and said, Tom, the Reverend had moved into my neighborhood and I couldn't get enough of it. Her eyes opened wide at the memory of the evening and she continued, the Reverend then said, now I actually do have two different messages for you folks tonight. The first is for all of you who don't believe in God. I'm not going to argue with you. I'm not a man who claims to have all kinds of fancy reasons and proofs for God. I found the more I argue, the more people pull away. No, I'm a man of God and I'm telling you, God exists. It's that simple. God created us and when he did, he gave us all a piece of himself. We call that our soul. He also gave us a spirit and that's what we call our will to do whatever we want. When those pieces come together and line up, there's a spark and we call that spark the Holy Spirit. Now listen, friends, it's the Holy Spirit that guides us. Let's not make it so darn complicated. Any more than that is beyond us. Yes, there is a God. And now I'm also going to tell you how to talk to him. Talk to him. Yes, talk to him. That's what us preachers with the big floppy Bibles and all them every week church goers call prayer. Say this. Say, God, I'm not sure about you, but my wife or my husband or my friend brought me to the Reverend Don Skinner's Refreshing Revival and the Reverend Don Skinner says, you've been trying to talk to me for a while now. Please give it another try. Then sit down, shut up, and listen. God will find a way to talk to you and only you. It will be in a way or a language only you can understand. He will say something to you that no one else has ever said 99 times out of 100. It'll have something to do with the people you live with or work with, but you'll know it when you hear it. Now, when that happens, and I say when because I know it will happen, ask God, what do you want me to do today? He'll tell you and the two of you take it from there. The Reverend Don Skinner paused and looked over the people looking back at him in rapt silence. Now, I have a message for all of you who tell me you're believers. Harsh judgment is what separates us. Watch your contempt and CYA, that stands for challenge your assumptions. He told us the big mistake comes when people think they're doing God a favor or lending God a helping hand. The Reverend had a great line and he tossed it out over the crowd. He said, don't tell God what he has to do. You just do what he told you to do. Then he landed it. He said, come hell or high water. He finished by asking us to stand and pray. The Reverend told us prayer is simple. He said all we had to do was think about God and God himself would help us come up with something to say. He said God gave us a glorious gift, the gift of life and grace. All we have to do is drink it in. The Reverend Don Skinner said, Lord, thank you for bringing us together tonight to share the evening with you and with each other. Help us find our way and deliver us from our loneliness. Joyce said some of the people from the revival went up and down the aisles giving away prayer cards. Reverend Don said, reach out and take a card, put it in your silverware drawer or someplace where you'll see it again every day. Joyce said the card had the same Psalm 105 from the parking lot, Joyce Earl recited again. Honor his name with hallelujahs, you who seek God. Live a happy life. Keep your eyes on God. Watch for his works. Be alert for signs of his presence. Remember the world, wonders he made, miracles and verdicts he's rendered. She said while they gave out the prayer cards, the band picked up their instruments. The Reverend ended his message by shouting, glory be to God and glory be to the Holy Spirit that lives between us. The band broke into an old Beatles song and had us up on our feet singing to everyone around us. The Reverend Don Skinner put on a great show. I took a place at the altar call and promised to search my heart and live the life God wanted. I put a 20 in the collection and thought about how Austin would probably give it away next week so the revival could open in another church. I thought that wouldn't be so bad. The refreshing revival ended and I sat waiting for him as the crowd cleared out. When I saw him, I jumped up and hugged him. Wow, I said. You didn't tell me you were in the band. What a great show. He said he had a great time playing the music. They got paid for carrying the amplifiers. We took my car and went out for ice cream. We sat in the booth and Austin regaled me with stories from the road with a refreshing revival. He hadn't changed from his band costume and I kept thinking he could be the modern day boy who ran away with the circus. We must have looked like a crazy couple trying to make each other laugh. Around 11, I told Austin I had to get home. The revival crew had an RV parked near the church and I told him I'd drop him off there. We got in my car and I started. I had my foot on the brake and shifted into reverse to back out of the parking spot. I put my hand on the seat behind his head and looked over my shoulder. I saw him looking at me. And the next thing I knew, he kissed me. I didn't want the car to start moving, so I kept my foot jammed on the brake. But I also didn't want to stop kissing him long enough to shift into park. So I managed the lever with my left hand. Ridiculous. Joy spoke from her story. She said, Tom, I'm glad Austin isn't here now. Whenever we tell our story, he takes over and gets everybody laughing. I admit he's better at it than I am, but the problem is that I don't get to tell my side of it. Joy leaned away from the table slightly. She crossed her legs and took a sip of her coffee. She smiled at me and said, it's my turn this time, and I'll tell you how I saw it. Okay, I said. So I got the car in park, she said, and I finally broke away from him. I asked him if he wanted to come to my apartment, and he said yes. We drove to my place where I lived in the upper half of a two-story house on McKinley Street. I took him by the hand, led him up the stairs. I took my hand back to turn the key in the lock, letting him into the kitchen. He looked around, took off the blazer from his costume and hung it on the back of one of those chairs in my kitchen. I don't know why, but he left the beret on. He took off my sweater and hung it on another chair. He reached for me and kissed me again. We both started working on the blue dress. I stepped out of it with my shoes and tossed it on my sweater. When I changed earlier, I didn't think I'd need to wear showy underwear to go to a revival, so my everyday things hopefully didn't matter to Austin. The thirsty man drank me in. He kissed me hard. He had his left hand on my bottom while his right arm held me to him. At other times when I found myself in a situation like this, I had a thing I did. I reached around his back and embraced him. I held my breasts to his chest and pressed all of myself against all of him. I leaned in and whispered in his ear. I said, there's something I want to ask you, and it's important to me. Okay, he answered back. With as pleasant a voice as I could manage, I asked, would you please wear a condom? He froze. He hit the pause button and backed away. I said, I'm sorry, but I don't know you and you don't know me. Please, let's be safe. If you don't have one, I do. They're in a drawer in the bathroom. Austin released me and slowly sat on the chair where he'd left his blazer. He looked at me and said, please, sit down, Joyce. I took the other chair, and Austin said he couldn't go through with it. He said it wasn't about the condom. He said when I told him I wanted to ask him something important, it came to him in a flash. He said he'd been spending his life maintaining separation. It thrilled him when I told him I wanted to ask him something important. He thought it would be something about some place I wanted to go or something I wanted to do. He thought important meant an idea. He wanted to hear about something we could do together, not something that would keep us apart. He said he wanted to imagine me sitting at my desk in the water department. He said it's like in the 63rd Psalm when the guy says, see your face before me as I lay in my bed. I knew what he meant. I could have said the same thing, but it scared me. So I deflected. Great, I said. Now that we've put away the condom, let's everybody take out our Bibles. Austin didn't say anything, no snappy comeback this time. He said he wanted me to be important to him, and he wanted to be important to me. George chuckled. He said, well, God got the laugh that time. He put us together at my kitchen table, me in a big white bra and granny panties and him in a clown suit. He looked like an overgrown organ grinder monkey with a beret, and we're talking about the meaning of important. I offered sex, and he told me he'd rather care about me. I started laughing uncontrollably. I threw up my arms, and I opened my hands and shouted, OK, I'll marry you. We both looked at each other. Neither of us could believe what I said. It just came out, and we sat looking at each other, stunned. Austin said, really? You mean it? That's how it started, Tom, and we've been married for almost 20 years now. Joyce and I smiled at each other. I raised my coffee cup to salute. Joyce said, I didn't believe it at first, and no, we didn't do anything that night. I put my dress and shoes on and drove into the church. I thought Austin might wake up in the morning and regret the whole night, or maybe I would, but we didn't. The revival had another show the following night, and I went to see it again. By the time I got there, the band and the whole crew knew about it. They couldn't stop congratulating us, but the refreshing revival packed up and left the next day. Austin promised it would all work out. He called from outside of Boston, where the revival had its next show, then from Philadelphia. Two weeks later, a letter showed up in my mailbox. It went like that for two years. He got to see the country. I finished school. Now and then we'd meet up, and we'd both put money aside. He wrote fabulous letters. I still have them. They're in a box, and I hope the kids save them after we're gone. You have kids, I asked. Yes, she said, a girl and a boy. Our daughter is looking at colleges now, and our son is starting high school. How did you get to Chicago? I asked her. Well, Joyce said the day came when the Reverend Don Skinner decided to retire. He'd been on the road for most of his life and found a farmhouse in North Carolina where he and his wife decided to set up their last tent. Over the years, people often asked the Reverend to preach at funerals, and Austin saw the funeral business as an opportunity. He said we could both find life in death. He connected with Kibler and Peters at the right time. It's a national group, and they were expanding into Chicago. They sent him to a school for embalming and mortuary science, as long as he promised to work for the company for five years. He signed the agreement two days before the revival put on its last show. Austin moved his suitcase to a small apartment in Chicago and began to see funeral work as a calling. The skill in the funeral business is showing respect while arranging details during hard times. It's about looking for the joy in remembering a person's life, and that's Austin through and through. I moved into his crazy old apartment, and we finally got to be together all the time. We had a small wedding where we walked from our apartment to the church, and the Reverend Don Skinner married us. And then we walked to a restaurant where we had a reception. Some of his old friends from the revival came. His mother came from Minnesota, and my parents and friends from Jamestown came. A few people at Austin's new jobs, and they wouldn't miss it. And just like that, we started our new life. Kibler and Peters also needed someone with the business and computer skills I'd learned at the water department, so they hired me as well. I worked at the main office, keeping track of six different funeral homes in the Chicago area. That's about it, Tom, she said. Pretty boring after that, but it's great here. We found a safe place to raise our kids, but anything you want is here in Chicago. Austin's happy, and after all these years, he now has an encyclopedic knowledge of hundreds of deaths and funeral jokes. I tell him he's got a knock-them-dead delivery, and after he's had a few beers at a barbecue, he kills. I've got to say, Tom, there's no one better at nailing a coffin joke. Joyce got me going. She kept up the rapid fire, and I started laughing. I could imagine how much fun Austin and Joyce would be at a backyard barbecue. Joyce lit up and tipped her coffee cup to finish the last of it. She said, Austin can get everyone laughing so hard they stop eating and talking to each other. Everyone stands around the grill laughing, and whoever's hosting the party won't know what to do. They asked me to get him to slow down. It's embarrassing, and I have to tell him to let everyone catch their breath. I never heard Austin complain about leaving the road. It ran its course. He does good work here. He understands and truly helps people say goodbye. When the service is over, everyone feels like getting on with life, and that's how it should be. A young man in a gray suit like hers knocked on the door to the meeting room. He stuck his head in, and Joyce said, duty calls, Tom. I'm going to have to break off for now. Joyce, I said, I can't tell you how enjoyable meeting you has been. What a fabulous story. Joyce Lundquist, now Mrs. Joyce Earle, waves the fingerprint card and photo toward me and laughed. She said, now that I look back on it, I suppose I'm glad I got caught taking that makeup kit. I can't wait to show this to Austin tonight. I had an idea as I got back to my car. I searched on my phone for the song she told me about. The music began, and I turned onto the street to drive home. I thought about young people and how beautiful they are.
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