Monument to an Unknown God
by Steven Amos

Dear Diary, today our young preacher had an interesting sermon. Seems that during his travels the apostle Paul came across some Romans who made monuments to every god they could think of, cause they wanted to have all their bases covered. Well, just to make sure they didn't miss any god and make him (or her, as I choose to believe) mad, they created a Monument to an Unknown God. (I prefer this capitalization, Diary, cause it seems prettier -- however, I did remember to use a lower case "g" in all cases because the gods described weren't the All Mighty. Anyway ....)
I'm afraid I was distracted by Mrs. Dayrample falling asleep, poor dear. To get back to the sermon, what really caught my attention was his summary. As best I can recall it went something like, "Many people, myself included, claim to 'know' God. But nearly every week -- sometimes several times in a day -- I am reminded that my plans and His don't always agree. So ... I find myself dealing with an unknown God and an unknown future, at least here on Earth. I'll leave you with the question I ask myself. What kind of monument are you -- in both your person and the world you leave behind -- building for your unknown God?"
Isn't that something? All the old women were clucking about it afterward, some even taking offense. (Note : Diary, at 52 I don't consider myself old.) After she woke up, Mrs. Dayrample said she raised five children and that was enough monument for anyone. Made me think of my own sweet Charlie and little Tom killed .... XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Sorry, Diary. I'm not gonna write about that today. Too depressing. Anyway, what I plan to do this afternoon is to look through prior notes to you -- I'll copy some of the highlights (and low lights.) Thought that might be a way to consider whether I'm building a monument.

April 12. Have worked nearly six weeks operating the dry cleaners -- longest I've done anything other than keep house since before I married Charlie. This town, Hades, Texas, continues to amaze. Seems the two biggest pieces of news are the new Wal-Mart, ready to open next month, and a vandalism -- really a prank -- that occurred last night. On the main street here in town, right across from the cleaners, there is a clothing store with a big horse mounted on the porch roof. Seems that last night someone painted bright orange the horse's genitals and member (this is a male horse, Diary.) Also, they left a wicked, leering smile on Mr. Ed (as I call him.) Really too funny -- best laugh I had since I left Indianapolis. However, all the customers today (which are mainly older women) were shocked -- not too shocked to come downtown and stare out my shop's window before handing over a small piece of dry cleaning. I've heard the paint won't be cleaned off Mr. Ed until tomorrow. My assumption is this is because everyone wants to see if the horse's privates will glow in the dark. I know I plan to be here.

April 15. The minister from the Methodist church stopped by to visit and while he was here the police showed up. Getting ahead of myself, Diary. I'll try to put it down in our words. He (the minister, Paul something or other) stopped at the store because I foolishly made the mistake of indicating an interest in missions work -- I'd thought I might attend slide-show lectures or write letters to someone in Africa or South America.
"We're planning to add two rooms and put on a roof for an old man just west of town." His eyes had no compromise to them -- clearly mission was the right term for his approach to his task. But, he wore a crooked, small smile which spoke of a less driven side. "One to two days work. We start a week from Monday."
"It sounds wonderful," I semi-lied. "But I'm afraid I can't donate very much."
"You misunderstand," he told me before I could talk about Charlie's pension and life insurance. "We've got the money. I need workers."
"Me? ... I don't know how to ..."
"There's all sorts of jobs on a project like this. To tell the truth, we have an excellent carpenter to lead us, but we need people to do what he says."
I started to ask if he spoke of Jesus when I realized what he really meant. Thankfully, my embarrassment was hidden by the arrival of none other than the deputy chief of police for our town. A young boy, no more than fourteen, sat -- if twisting nervously and staring at us can be called sitting -- in the patrol car. But his eyes, diary. They are the same piercing green eyes as my poor ,dead Tom. In contrast to the frightened boy, Deputy Chief Gillespi looked extremely pleased with himself as he came in the cleaners.
"Hello, ma'am," he said, nodding my way and immediately turning toward Paul. The policeman's eyes kept darting toward the window and his patrol car. "Preacher, the chief told me he owed you a favor, big time. Maybe I found a way to repay ..." He stopped as Bethyl Rhodes, the owner of the clothing store adorned by Mr. Ed, marched out of his store and down the street toward us.
"Damn, that old worry wart don't give a fellow a minute's rest. Anyway, before he gets here, let me tell you what I got to say. That boy out there done started some trouble, but I reckon it's cause he's got too much time and no parents. Lives with his brother, you know.'
"Anyway, 'stead of turning him over to someone who wouldn't take such a charitable view, I reckon I got a better plan. The wife told me you needed help on that project you plan to do at Admiral Tuffy's place."
Paul leaned toward me. "That's our mission project."
"Bethyl's nearly here and he's gonna ask if I caught the kid what painted his horse's dick orange. Oops." Deputy Chief Gillespi glanced toward me, then apologized all over himself. I'd never really felt old in my life, until that moment -- being treated like a maiden aunt, who never hears more than dainty language, does something to a woman. I wanted to prove I'm still alive.
"Don't worry about Bethyl. I'll talk to him." Paul walked to the door, but stopped and looked back toward me. "How about it, Mrs. Turner? Care to join our construction gang?"
"If you call me Betty, I will." The words escaped before my brain could lock my lips together and hold them in.
"Great." Paul shut the door behind him before I could change my mind. He and Gillespi talked to Bethyl Rhodes in front of the store for nearly twenty minutes before they all shook hands and left. The boy fidgeted in the patrol car the entire time.
Diary, later I decided that taking in old ladies' dry cleaning had started to turn me old, just like them. I need something new in my life. Maybe this mission thing would work out for the best, after all. Besides, I have to know to know more about that boy. Is it just the same green eyes, or is there more of Tom in him?

May 4. Diary, the boy's name is Tommy! He reminds me so much of my dead son of the same name. I nearly cried for the first half of our van ride but, fortunately, the others had more than enough good will among them to change my attitude. Besides Tommy and myself, our van had the minister, Paul, and Julie Hades (Paul's girlfriend according to Mrs. Dayrample), "Big" Sam McDonald, his son, little Sam, and a young couple that never mentioned their name. The carpenter and electrician would meet us there.
When we arrived, I hardly knew what to say -- the existing house, little more than a tar-paper shack, was no larger than the dry cleaning shop. In fact, as we got out of the church van and walked toward the tiny dwelling, the stack of lumber and other supplies completely blocked our view of the little house. Perhaps the size of that stack was what caused the problem.
"Don't even get out. Just turn around and get on." The voice didn't match the man who stood next to a weathered rocking chair. His words rumbled like the thunder of a large and growing storm. But the man, a stick-figure scarecrow in cast off clothes, looked comic, even clownish. I could have laughed, except it was so obvious that some health problem had wasted him to this slender memory of a man. Later that day I learned my mistake -- the clothes were his, from the days before health problems robbed him of all but the last spark of life.
"Now, Admiral Tuffy ..." Paul walked forward after whispering a quiet "stay here" to us.
"The old man used to be in the navy," Big Sam McDonald told us. "Later, a train conductor. Somebody combined the navy experience along with his incorrigible nature and gave him that nickname. Not sure anyone knows his real name."
"Don't want to argue." Admiral Tuffy boomed his protest so loud that I feared the church van might lose a window. "Ain't got no argument with God or nobody. Just don't want no charity." He pointed toward the stack of lumber.
Paul slid his arm over Admiral Tuffy's shoulder and they began to talk quietly. My dear, dead Charlie often said I have the ears of a canine. It seemed that no one else could hear Paul, but I picked up most of what he said to the old man.
"Tuffy, sometimes people do God's work by accepting the gifts of others. You are doing us a favor. In that group I've got a man and his son who hardly know each other -- each pulled into a shell to ignore an alcoholic wife and mother. Then there's a young couple just beginning to cope with a miscarriage. Finally, there's a good woman six months out of a sanitarium, really not sure what to make of her life, just now accepting the deaths of ..."
I couldn't believe that he knew about me, what they all must know about me even though no one seemed to have heard. I wanted to crawl into the Prince Albert tobacco can I saw laying in the yard, I felt that small. After that, I lost focus on Paul and Tuffy's conversation. Finally, though, I saw the old man laugh and say, "Okay, preacher. You win." At that point I decided that if his pride wouldn't stop us, then neither should mine. Paul waved us forward to meet the old man and then we began, with me in the middle of everything.
I was surprised how organized these Methodist are. And, I was just as surprised at how well I did once they showed me what to do -- I'm now really quite handy with a hammer and table saw. It made me realize that Charlie had done too many things for me -- in many ways, I guess, he kept me from growing.
The one disappointment was Tommy. He had brought a transistor radio and several other doo-dads. These toys seemed of more interest than our work. Anyway, his radio barely worked (much like its owner, I might add) and by ten it had stopped. Well, Tommy was grousing about the place when Paul came over to where we were nailing studs into place.
"Tommy, would you get my water bottle? It's inside Tuffy's refrigerator."
The boy agreed, tossing his dead radio to the ground, where it popped open, expelling several pieces. At that point, Admiral Tuffy stood from the rocking chair where he had supervised and, in general, fidgeted over every nail hammered incorrectly and each cut not made exact. By now, I had realized that the old man's health might be in greater danger for not doing work than the opposite.
"So ... boy ... is your music box gone kerplunk?"
"Yeah. Cheap batteries, I guess. I'll get another." Tommy, even though in his early teens, could almost look eye to eye with the stooped older man.
"Maybe, we can make some other music."
They disappeared, or at least they wandered into the little house and didn't come back for quite a while. When they did, I noticed Tommy wore a shocked expression. Tuffy carried a fiddle back to his rocking chair and began to tune it.
"Reverend Paul," Tommy whispered. Again, my canine hearing helped. "He ain't got nothing more than a watermelon to eat in the whole house. He ain't got much of nothing." The obvious compassion in the boy made me cry. It was the same type of thing my own dead Tom would have said.
I didn't hear Paul's response because Admiral Tuffy had started in on the fiddle. He began rocking slightly, as the sounds of the Wabash Cannonball wafted over us. My first response was to think it silly, until I saw Big Sam McDonald singing along. Then Paul. Then others.
Admiral Tuffy played off and on the whole day for us. All sorts of songs. He even stopped to give Tommy a lesson, which ended in an almost recognizable version of Twinkle Twinkle. Almost.
Well, Diary, we did it. In a day, too. There were odds and ends to be finished, but the carpenter and electrician said it was stuff they better do without us. We had started cleaning up when Tuffy slipped away and came back carrying a watermelon and a big knife.
"Here you go, folks. Not much of a treat, but it will cool you off."
"Hey, man." Tommy had that startled look again. "We can't take your melon. That's ...." He looked at Paul, who also seemed at a loss for words.
"Young man." Tuffy handed me the knife and put the melon on a sawhorse. "I'm an old man, but I learned something today. Sometimes you can do the most for a person by putting away your pride and accepting his gift. Now do me a favor. Hush up and eat."
I didn't even look at the others, who were as quiet as me. I just cut the melon and passed out the pieces. Diary, I must say. It was the sweetest melon I ever tasted.

June 10. Dear Diary, several surprises today. Tommy, the young boy I previously mentioned in the entry on the mission trip, showed up at the cleaners. He told me that he had been riding his bike out to Admiral Tuffy's for fiddle lessons. But it has been getting hotter lately and he had a problem. He thought that Tuffy didn't have much food, but he couldn't carry very much on his bike.
Tommy's plan was that I would drive him out to Admiral Tuffy's house as a sort of a picnic and just leave the extra food behind. He also told me that Tuffy had told him that I was quite attractive. I confess now that I felt so embarrassed and my face so hot that I hardly knew what to do. So, Diary, I just did it.
I fried a chicken, using my beer batter Charlie so loved. Also made baked beans and a potato salad. Cried over the chocolate cookies. They brought back so many memories of Charlie, Tom and our little picnics. After a good cry, though, I was ready to go. When we got there, I found Tuffy combed and brushed and wearing clean clothes. I wonder if I was one of the trickers, or the trickee. All considered, almost a perfect day. The one bad spot occurred when Tommy mentioned his brother might get a new job and have to move to Dallas. Since his parents are dead, Diary, Tommy's brother is all the family he has. Unless you count Tuffy and me. I do.
The prospect of Tommy leaving town dampened our party for several minutes and seemed to bother Admiral Tuffy quite a bit. By the way, his real name is Bart Elmworth. I told him I preferred to call him Tuffy. He said okay.

July 6. Disaster! It comes in threes, I'm told, Diary. Today the first two came, so I'm waiting for the third. The biggest problem was Tuffy's heart attack. Thank God, Tommy and I were there, as is now our custom three to four nights a week.
Tuffy and I were sitting in the new rooms, listening to Tommy's latest accomplishment on the fiddle, when it came. Tuffy grabbed his chest and mouthed my name, "Betty," before collapsing. I knew enough to get one of those pills under his tongue, but after that, I panicked. Tommy carried Tuffy to the car with little help from me and somehow I got us to the hospital. The only part of the blur which sticks with me is a few sentences I heard from the back seat.
"We're going over a hundred." Tommy's shout cut through the sound of the road, the wind and the knocking of my car's motor. "Cool!"
A faint noise -- barely discernible to my canine ears -- gave me comfort. I recognized it as Tuffy's chuckle. Then I heard a rattling cough and I tried to coax more speed out of my old car.
"Don't you die on me, you old fart." Tommy's voice softened. "I need you."
While we waited at the hospital, the second item of bad news came up, almost in passing. Tommy said his brother had taken the job in Dallas. Our gloom faded when the doctor told us that Tuffy would make it. For now.
"I don't want to go into all the details at this time," he said, taking me to the side. "However, once he's released later this week, I want him to have minimal exertion. Nothing, not even sex, for the next two weeks."
"I'm not his wife," I said, stammering.
"Nonetheless, two weeks."
I can look back on it now, Diary, and laugh. Never really thought about a man of seventy capable of doing what the doctor said (S-E-X, Diary.) Upon consideration, I don't think that it is impossible. I just never thought much about it at all.

July 14. I found out the third item of bad luck -- It's only a job I've lost, not anything important. It is, I'm sure, because I moved in with Tuffy and Tommy. There was nothing else to do. The hospital didn't want to send Tuffy home alone to recuperate. And, Tommy's brother left for his new job in Dallas. I'm really quite proud of myself. Ever since Charlie and my first Tommy died in the car wreck, I've been more shell than person. I won't let these two men slip out of my life without a fight.
Back to the job, or loss thereof. I've just been too busy taking care of Tuffy and they needed someone who could be at the store every day. Also, I hear from Mrs. Dayrample that some of the older generation of women are calling me a scarlet woman and other names because of my lodgings. Really quite flattering, I think.

August 2. Three weeks since Tuffy got out of hospital. A month since his attack. Have been too embarrassed to write, Diary. Also, too happy. The doctor was right. Also the old women were right. Tommy was in town, working at his job at Bethyl Rhodes' clothing store. I had started Tuffy's sponge bath when suddenly he took a turn for the nurse (me.) Hee. Hee.

Back to today, the end of summer. We take each day as it comes, Diary. Tuffy had one more bad spell, but I am hopeful that he's past it. Tommy is unsure of his job at the clothing store -- the new Wal-Mart has taken away enough business Mr. Rhodes may have no choice but to close. Only Mrs. Dayrample will sit by me at church, and that's because I don't poke her when she falls asleep.
I looked into getting married to Tuffy, but when we found out that I would lose my Social Security benefits as Charlie's widow, well ... It just came down to money. I could marry Tuffy and have to get a job. Or, I could live here and watch over him all day. In the end, love won out over morality -- that's what I told Paul when he came to visit Tuffy.
"No," Paul answered. "It's the rest of us who've lost. We make a great noise asking for justice, justice, justice. But what we really need is mercy, sometimes described as love. In the end, love wins, all right. But only because all else crumbles under its own weight."

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