RUST ON MY SOUL (7th in Series of Novel)

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RUST ON MY SOUL (A Novel) (Published by Bridge Press in 1985 & Distributed Internationally) ******************************************************************************

INTRODUCTION (Repeated for those new to the series)

In an old loose leaf notebook, Thomas Kettering wrote when there was a cry from his heart. He wrote when his inner longing spilled over into the reality of his days. He did not write every day, only when he felt he must. How often he wrote or when is not important. The journey is what counts, for it is a diary about all of us, to all of us. “A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step,” and even a stumble is a step.
Morning

Nancy must have seen the ad. She says our house lacks affluency. What she means is she wants me to take out a home improvement loan. When you start improving a house that cost as much as ours you’ve either got to be in the chips or out of your mind. For us, living just short of financial collapse has become a way of life.

I parked down the street from my childhood home last week and sat for a long while as memories marched through my head like a parade. It doesn’t look like it once did.

The picket fence is gone now and the screened-in-porch is enclosed behind red brick walls. I wonder if the living room walls are still beige and the floors shiny and clean enough to eat on. Both mother and dad were meticulous to a fault. Everything in its place and a place for everything. And if cleanliness was next to godliness then our house was certainly a sanctuary.

What fills the space where our old player piano once stood? Do the new owners have a green sofa or an overstuffed easy chair? A dark stained, soft pine magazine rack made by a young boy’s inexperienced hands as a gift for his mother?

I remember the outside usually needed a coat of paint. I wonder: did mom nag dad, too, to take out a home improvement loan?


Evening

We join the church tomorrow. It’s been a long time since we belong to any congregation. A little coffin lowered into the ground is never forgotten, nor the terrible anger sent heavenward. Hyaline membrane disease. Such a fancy name. It took our baby twenty-five years ago as it did President Kennedy’s infant son in 1963. Was Nancy’s grief greater than mine? I don’t know, but her reaction was the same. A total rejection of God.

Yet here we are pretending it all means something to us now. Well, in an absurd way it does. My boss goes to this church and I’d do anything to stay in his good graces. Once a long time ago, this wouldn’t have been my reason for joining.

Once, a long time ago, twelve years old with a bright and shining soul, I affirmed a faith alive and well. Once, a long time ago, I was tender young and had no soul wounds to bleed my believing until it died. Once was a long time ago.

Afternoon

To hear the preacher talk you’d think Christ never thought about anything but love. Just try being a business man in today’s market and he’d soon know that there’s darnn little room for love. Check the ladders of success and you’ll find blood all the way up – and all the way down.

I admit I don’t love people. I dominate them, demand respect. Getting the job done and my getting the credit is what counts.

Joe’s gone now and his job is mine. It was simple enough. His car kept breaking down and constantly making him late. His wife was in the hospital for the third time in a year and his managerial skills had become minimal at best. So all I had to do was spread a word and expand a rumor till one day I was called in and told Joe was no longer with the company and they wanted to see if I could handle his job.

It isn’t just that nice guys finish last; sometimes they don’t finish at all. Not many would call me a nice guy but then I’m not trying to win a popularity contest. I’m only trying to make my way to the top.


Evening

We sat around the conference table this morning and planned how to increase business. We finally agreed on what is referred to as a “pseudo-even.” Our public relations man sold us the idea with charts and statistics.

So now we are going to celebrate, with all the trimmings, our thirtieth anniversary. By afternoon a special committee had been formed; it consisted of a prominent lawyer, a wealthy matron, the president of the local bank and Dr. Hodges, one of the more influential ministers of the area. There will be a banquet with self-laudatory speeches about our contributions to the community.

The company will be presented with a plaque – designed, printed and presented to ourselves by ourselves. It’s not dishonest. We have shown community concerns. It’s just that somehow I wish it had been spontaneous reactions of the citizenry. Maybe I still have some vestiges of old-fashioned honesty left in my bones.

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TO BE CONTINUED

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