A Cup of Coffee

By Alfred Dunham

Walter is a scientist who has been tragically stripped of the most meaningful people in his life, yet he cannot allow himself to believe that the human mindthe human soulis forever lost in death, as some would have it. His mind equally buckles at the thought of eternal torment, and in his search for truth, he discovers something unexpected.
Walters almost-limitless imagination propels him far beyond mere science or religion. He argues like a scientist. He clearly understands religions deeper meanings, yet his solution to this age-old conflict is ultimately very simple and very clear.
He has learned how to forgive, trust, love, and then move on in hope. The rewards, he finds, are infinite.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468532715

Alfred Dunham

Alfred Dunham was born in Kansas City, Kansas, in 1940, but currently lives in California. He is a practicing dentist who also holds an advanced degree in molecular biology. He has taught at both the community college and university levels and has a long history of writing and editing—and sailing.

Book preview

Chapter One

S o you want to know all about Walter …

I shook my head in utter bewilderment, and a long pause ensued before I was able to respond to the tangle of questions placed before me.

That’s a reasonable enough request, I suppose, I managed to stammer, but I need to explain something to you—up front—just so you know: this is not going to be as easy a task as you might think. In fact, it’s going to be virtually impossible. To be honest, I hardly even know where to begin … but I’ll try. I’ll just have to do my best and leave you to be the judge of it.

I paused once again, thinking long and hard as I did so, and then I began …

I guess I should just start from the beginning—our beginning anyway—Walter’s and mine. That’s the best place, I suppose, but once again, before I do so, let me first say one more thing you may not understand. I certainly didn’t at first. I have seen my fair share of true believers over the years, younger men and women mostly. They’re students, sometimes older people, unstable individuals who are not quite mentally in touch with reality—all with causes to promote. They often have a zeal that drives them to escapades laced with fanaticism, but despite the fact that Walter is the truest of all the true believers I have ever met, he has absolutely nothing in common with any of the rest of them. He is the genuine article.

Dr. Walter A. Harris is, in a word, unique. Unlike most true believers, he uses no line of propaganda—no line Scripture, if you please—for the express purpose of silencing opposition. Nor does he advocate any particular political or religious agenda, parochial or otherwise. But what I find most surprising of all, in keeping with the rest of his belief system, and despite the limitless depths of what one might think of as Walter’s sense of spirituality, he still finds all religions grossly wanting. That leaves him simply believing what he believes, based on more than abundant evidence, and he is unwavering in his hope in the truth of it. When questioned, he is honest—honest enough, for example, to even admit that there is probably no viable proof for the existence of God. In spite of this, his belief that human beings are infinitely more than the sum of their parts is unshakable. Doubt this and he can take you on a journey that will rearrange your mind. I know. I’ve been there, and after all this time, I’m still reeling from the experience.

In contrast, I have been told on more than one occasion that I am a tough nut to crack. I am that; I admit to it. Ask just about anyone. I have a very well deserved reputation, as I’m sure you already know, yet as of late, its persistent reiteration from the mouths of others has become almost too painful for me to listen to anymore, let alone acknowledge. Even so, my reputation never seemed to bother Walter. In his unique way, from the very beginning, he has always accepted me just the way I am, and for this I suppose, more than for any other reason, I was immediately drawn to him. I think he is an amazing man. Nothing ever seems to get in his way or bring him down, which leads me to yet another admission I feel compelled to make. I did not understand all of this about him in the beginning, and I’m not too sure I completely understand it even now. I have seen him buried in grief yet still able to smile, as though nothing had happened, but I remain largely ignorant of how he does that. I certainly know I couldn’t.

In almost every craft there are the genuine professionals, and then there are those who are mere window dressing—pretenders to the throne, as it were. Walter is a scientist who has always been typified by that former class, and as is generally the case with most true scientists, he is never afraid of being alone—of thinking and doing things by himself. He is very much a self-starter and is driven to finish whatever he starts. In a group, he is equally at ease in the role of a faultless team player, so whether he is alone or part of a group, it makes little difference to him.

His work ethic runs as deep as his spirituality. He works very hard at everything he does and takes on responsibility without grumbling, but he also knows how to play—and even more to the point, when to play. For instance, take his primary discipline, the life sciences. I have never met a man more serious about biology than he, and he leaves no doubt about his feelings for his particular discipline.

I have often heard him say, Science is a sacred trust, and then go on to explain the scientific method and its many implications—especially its uncompromising need for honesty and truth. He feels that this level of commitment should attend all science worthy of the name, but as with any other sacred trust, as he refers to them, he is a realist. He understands that many do not play according to the rules, and he considers this to be an abomination of the highest order, especially in what he calls the truth disciplines—science and religion in particular.

Breaking trust is probably the only thing left that Walter still unconditionally refers to as sin. That’s quite a word choice coming from someone who is as hard on organized religion as he is. He understands that for a person to be trusted—to be trustworthy—he or she must be unambiguously rooted in honesty, and that is probably why his mind is as sublimely at peace with itself as it is and in harmony with the world, even when things are not going quite right.

While on the one hand his involvement in science can be deadly serious, he also knows how to turn it into something that is downright playful. He can easily spend a quiet hour or two reveling in the infinite possibilities of a star-filled universe and come away from it more rested and satisfied than the individual who has just spent hundreds or even thousands of dollars on an evening of dining and entertainment.

Walter is completely transparent. How much more can one contribute to a simple cup of coffee, a bagel, and a night sky full of bright lights? Simplicity is what it is, however. It does not necessarily mean simple. Likewise, transparency is not necessarily something that is easy to understand, much less explain, and that describes Walter as well. With him there are no hidden agendas, no half-truths, no gossip or insinuations that could crush or maim a delicate psyche, and no hidden surprises that could jump out and embarrass him. This in itself makes him an enigma, and this is also, no doubt, why he has such a dim view of most religion. He sees it, in its popularized forms, as the complete antithesis of his simple yet compelling belief that it’s okay to not have all the answers.

Trying to package all the riddles of the universe is like trying to bottle fire, he might say. He can then further declare with surprising conviction, Organized religion is often very big on the idea of truth, but the real truth is that there is just as often very little of the genuine stuff to be found in it. If there were, there would not be so many hundreds of varieties of religion, mostly contradictory to each other. Religion, he would then conclude, is manmade—at least in large measure—and that makes it too ego-driven to be completely trusted.

When I first told my wife about this, she was quite taken with Walter’s skill at conceptualization. She liked what he said, even though she admitted that she didn’t fully understand what it meant, and this, she concluded, made Walter even more mysterious than me. She was right about that. She usually is about such things.

My first encounter with this gentle yet hard-hitting educator came during one of our periodic departmental meetings. Walter was new to Hamilton-Orland University, and when I arrived at the conference room, our own Michael E. Stringer, PhD and chairman of the Life Sciences Department, was introducing him. It was an interesting introduction. Michael had absolutely nothing in common with Walter, and we would all learn that soon enough.

My office was located on the far backside of the building, and that occasionally proved to be something of a disadvantage for me in regard to getting to meetings on time—and for catching the first of whatever was up for discussion. Dr. Stringer knew that, but he still looked up at me briefly as I entered the room, found a chair, and sat down. His eyebrows arched upward in disapproval, and inside, I rankled at it.

I would like for each of you to welcome the newest member of our department, Dr. Walter A. Harris, he began. He is joining us after having spent the last eighteen years at …

I’m sorry to admit that I have forgotten most of what Dr. Stringer actually said for the next several minutes following my late arrival. I was distracted both by trying to find a place to sit and by his obvious annoyance. It was something about a liberal arts college somewhere in Iowa. Dr. Harris had apparently been a biology professor there with a research interest in molecular genetics, but egoist that I am (God, I have come to hate that personality trait in myself), I did not expect too much from him. From Iowa? I thought.

The resume that followed surprised me, though, and I think that’s when I finally began to seriously listen to Dr. Stringer’s introductory remarks. By way of them, I would also learn that while this new man was hired to continue his research in molecular genetics at the university, he also had considerable familiarity with some of the other, more-unfamiliar areas of biology: parasitology, for instance, at both the macro and molecular levels, and applied paleontology—meaning an attempt at understanding contemporary organisms by way of those that have gone before that are now fossils.

For a beginning graduate student, his master’s research was surprisingly sophisticated. Simply stated, it was a metabolic study of the cercarial or infective stage of a particularly nasty little pathogen named Schistosoma mansoni—one of the human blood flukes. Schistosomiasis, I might point out, is at least as serious a world health threat as malaria, maybe even more so, so his choice of thesis was not trivial. Despite this, his discoveries ran counter to the generally accepted ideas held sacred by the scientific community—something about respiratory quotients greater than 1.0, which I still don’t understand, so he never got the credit he deserved. And get this: his entire master’s thesis was only twenty-three pages in length. Amazing. I’d have been afraid to have even submitted a thesis that short.

His doctoral dissertation was equally complex, building on the research skills he developed while working on his master’s degree. This time, however, he was involved in a very revolutionary in vitro DNA-DNA hybridization study. For the sake of establishing a baseline, the normal, double-stranded DNA of different species was split in two and then reassembled to see how well the parts still fitted together afterward. Finally single strands from different species were hybridized together to see how well they fitted.

The generally accepted paradigm at that time was that there would be enormous differences between species, and therefore there would be considerable mismatch. There was not, but this was not what people wanted to hear. Actually, this is only a hint at what the entire project entailed, but it will have to do for now—for brevity’s sake.

Because of this, Walter again never got the credit he deserved, but that still never bothered him. He was on his own spiritual quest, and he did not much care what anyone else thought. He was looking for his own answers. Do keep in mind that this was at least thirty years before the human genome and mouse genome mapping projects, and as it was with his master’s thesis, his doctoral research was also so far ahead of its time that no one wanted to believe those results either. They were regarded as abnormal and ignored. Now we know the truth. Species are not as different as we once expected them to be. Nature has been relentlessly conservative—as well as endlessly extravagant in its diversity.

I realize that this may not mean very much to the average person, but to someone who understands, it helps define the man by the extent of his training and his boundless imagination. It was very broad and inclusive as well as finely detailed and cutting-edge—quite a feat. For a brief period of time, Walter was probably one of only a dozen or so researchers in the entire world who knew how to replicate the other half of a single strand of DNA in a test tube, so to speak, to form a perfectly matched double helix. Using radioactive bases, he would end up with the tiniest bits of DNA hot enough to glow in the dark and be seen, as he put it, with a little chuckle. He used a scintillation fluid that would literally glow upon radioactive decay, so it was a clever technical play-on-words.

With all of his interests and accomplishments, one might conclude that this would have been more than enough science for any one person, but where Walter is concerned, one would be resoundingly wrong. He is, and has long been, infatuated with the physics of astronomy and cosmology, especially as it applies to our understanding of humanity, living as we do in relative space-time at one end of the scientific spectrum, and our relationship to the quantum flux at the other end of it. He has an exquisite telescope, and it is no stranger to even the coldest of nights behind his house. When it comes to science, Walter can never seem to get enough of it, and sooner or later, that level of infatuation always conspires to make itself known.

Dr. Stringer droned on. One might think that he and I should have been good friends. We were both atheists, after all. My parents were atheists, and that was all I had ever known. That part was true enough, but to be perfectly candid, I never particularly liked the man. There was just something about him that irked me. To my way of thinking, he always appeared to play the pompous twit, but what did I know? No doubt others thought the same of me.

Don’t misunderstand me, though. He did do a credible job of introducing Walter. It’s just the arrogant manner in which he did it, standing there meticulously over-groomed in his navy blue suit, white shirt, and patriotic tie—hair slicked back with way too much hair dressing. That day I thought he looked more like an evangelical preacher (some picture for an atheist) than a departmental administrator, and that embarrassed me. I guess I didn’t realize that my ego was as weak as it was or that my shared philosophical position with him had left me vulnerable.

Following Walter’s introduction, he presented the group with a problem he wanted taken off his hands and tidied up. I expected as much. He could always find something to dump on us. He also had a penchant for being far too quick to criticize; yet he could slow to a tortoise-pace before accepting responsibility for anything he had done, unless, of course, it had the potential of making him look better than he actually was.

As he spoke, I chaffed at his weasel words and ways. To be blunt, I found him offensive, but looking back, I suppose that had as much to do with the way I felt about myself as it did him. For Walter’s sake, if not my own, I admit, Dr. Stringer was good at what he did. If he had not been, he would never have been elevated to his position of authority. I always understood that, I suppose, and I did try to be supportive of him whenever I could, even when I did not much feel like it. Somehow he just always intimidated me. I guess I was just a little afraid of him and didn’t realize it.

It has come to my attention, he continued, that we have a serious problem student—a Mr. David Strathmore. A low hum of recognition rippled through the group. Some of you will already know firsthand to what I am referring. It seems that he has been disrupting his classes with loud, accusatory arguments relating to science and religion, especially creationism versus evolution. Apparently he has no tolerance for another person’s point of view.

Yeah, and you do, I thought to myself, even though I largely agreed with him.

It has been recommended that we forward his name to administration for possible disciplinary action or suspension. I do not think I have to remind you, however, that if we decide to do this, we need to be very careful that we don’t leave an impression of trying to get rid of him because of his religious convictions. That would only land us in even deeper distress than we’re already in. Let’s not make matters worse. We must confine our remarks to his disruptive behavior in class and his verbal assaults on our other students who are trying to learn. In other words, we must make it clear that he is abridging the rights of his fellow students to reach their academic goals.

I had no sympathy for this Mr. Strathmore, I confess. To me he was nothing more than another troublesome Jesus freak, but Dr. Stringer’s comments only annoyed me all the more. Come to think of it, maybe the word I was really grasping for to describe Dr. Stringer was politician. Actually, both worked well: evangelical preacher turned politician—disgusting thought.

To the chagrin of many of us in the room, there followed another low rumble of, Hear, hear. But what could we do about it? It isn’t that we felt sorry for the young man. It’s just that getting rid of him in this manner seemed more like the coward’s way out. Personally, I would have much preferred to have just sat down with him and had it out, once and for all, but as Dr. Stringer reminded us, that would only have been playing the fool’s game. We would never have heard the end of it. Every two-bit crank religionist and reporter would have been shadowing us for years to come. No, I didn’t like it, but this time, Dr. Stringer was right. The guy had to go, and the sooner the better.

None of us were prepared for what happened next. Walter spoke. This new stranger actually spoke up. We didn’t even know him yet, but he had the audacity to take on Dr. Stringer by questioning his approach to the problem. He was but one lone voice among so many unfamiliar voices, but he spoke out anyway—calmly, forcefully, and self-assuredly. Even as arrogant and self-assured as I can sometimes be, I wouldn’t have done it. In that lynch mob? I would have been terrified to say anything, but Walter wasn’t. I admired that in him. I mean … I really admired that in him. Here was a titan of a man with the warmth and softness of a new puppy.

I realize, he apologized in his calm, soft-spoken voice, that I am the new kid on the block. He chuckled slightly at that—he was no kid.

I also realize that you have no reason to trust me or my judgment, but since I am now a part of this departmental governing body, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least say something. My considered advice to you is this: for now, leave the boy alone. He needs help, not punishment. He is, as they say, in panic mode. He is a boy who is deeply distressed and not at all sure of himself, despite his arrogant, troublesome exterior. Let me be clear on this. He is completely terrified, even though he would probably be the first one to argue the point. I doubt very much that he has any awareness of just how much trouble he is causing or how weak his arguments are. He obviously feels threatened, or he would not be making such a fool of himself. No doubt his entire value system is at stake. It is probably very hard for him to act like this, and that has to make the situation all the more stressful for him. I say again, help him through this, if you can—for the sake of classroom tranquility. If you can’t, then leave the boy alone—at least for now.

Ouch, I thought. I began to see myself in his argument, and I felt the deep pinch of it.

Dr. Stringer’s face turned red and then faded into livid white.

Boy? he roared. He is no boy, my good sir. He is a man, by God, and he will be treated like a man even if he can’t act like one. I realize that you are new here and still may not be completely aware of it yet, but this is a university, not a kindergarten. Who the hell are you anyway, one of them? Some sniggered; some just laughed outright. A few were appalled at Stringer’s remarks.

I was immediately brought back to my own thoughts of just moments before—from Iowa? I felt even more embarrassed as I now witnessed the sort of face that had become attached to some of my own prejudices. Stringer was bellowing like a dumb ox.

The room exploded into heated voices, each one trying to gain the ascendency over the other. In his haughty outburst, Dr. Stringer had totally lost his audience, and he could not now seem to get it back. Pandora’s Box had been rent asunder.

Order. Please. Let’s have some order here …

I almost felt sorry for him. His words went unheeded, if not completely unheard. Finally, Walter quietly stood up as slowly and dynamically as he had spoken, and as he stood, all eyes shifted back to him. The room went painfully silent. Beads of sweat had begun to form on Dr. Stringer’s brow. His face had gone from livid white to scarlet again.

Look at me, Walter coaxed with a reassuring smile. Do you see this snowcap? He pointed to the thick crop of neatly groomed white hair atop his head, soft as thistle down, not a drop of hairdressing of any kind, yet well enough trained in place to potentially be mistaken for the effects of hair spray.

I am over sixty years old, he continued. I am at an age when most men are thinking of retirement, but I tell you this: I am here, above all else, because inside, I am still a very small boy. As surely as I come to work each day and go about this business of teaching and carrying on research, I am still but a child searching out warm pollywog ponds and marveling at the pastel beauty of a robin’s egg. For me, the universe is still a place of wonder, and it will always remain so. If at sixty-something I can continue to see myself as an unlearned child, who am I to say that a confused nineteen-year-old kid can’t still be a boy? If you can’t understand this, then maybe you should send the boy to me and let me see what I can do with him. His words were not defiant, nor were they shrill. They were simple and pleading, but by virtue of the rapt attention Walter held, they were also infinitely authoritative. Dr. Stringer’s countenance could only cower in the face of it.

I was amazed as I sat there looking across the room at this new man, listening to him. I did not even know him, yet I was proud of him. That surprised me. That was not in keeping with my character.

I have to admit, he looked as distinguished as he sounded. In contrast to Dr. Stringer, the presence he projected no doubt had as much to do with the way he dressed as it did with his manner of behavior. He was completely professional without being pretentious. His hair was indeed very white, but its concomitant thickness conspired to make him look much younger than his actual chronological age. It was hard to believe that he was a man in his sixties. He still had the spryness of a much younger person, and that only added to the overall effect.

He wore kaki wash pants—common enough among the male students in the classroom—but he also wore a long-sleeved white shirt, partially hidden behind an expensive-looking four-in-hand tie that some might have considered ludicrous. I thought it looked elegant, but then, I have a wife who had educated me on such matters. She refers to this as capricious elegance, something that not everyone can pull off, as she puts it. It was bold, covered in large, brightly colored flowers in a multitude of hues.

A conservative hand-tailored navy blue blazer with genuine antique gold-filled buttons, in turn, covered the tie. One could tell by the weight of them that they were the genuine articles. They were heavy—heavy enough to just sway with each movement. They did not bounce about. After all, they are not just stamped bits of thin sheet metal that had been crimped together and then gold-plated. They were, like Walter, himself, classic to the core.

To finish off, he wore stylish black wingtips that were polished to a deep, reflective shine. Despite the eclectic nature of his attire, he was still well dressed and in every way the consummate image of an intellectual and a professional. Stated in yet another way, he presented himself as a man who was fully in control of himself and his environment, or at least much as chance and nature would allow.

Is that a serious offer then, Dr. Harris, or are you just toying with us? One could hear the sarcasm in Stringer’s voice, even though he was trying his best to hide it.

I never say anything I do not mean, Doctor. Yes. It is a serious offer, and I will be more than happy to report back to the group on the results of our little conference.

Nobody dared say a word. The silence continued to be overwhelming, and a befuddled Dr. Stringer twitched and grimaced his meeting to a quick and uneasy conclusion. He was obviously relieved that someone had solved his problem for him, but he had also taken on the look of a man who was seriously miffed at his having been upstaged by the unexpected boldness of this newcomer.

Good, then. That’s settled. Dr. Harris will be our mediator until next time. Meeting over.

Dr. Stringer toyed around for a moment or two in the inside pocket of his suit coat, produced a new cigar, which he stuffed into his mouth (even though university rules forbade him from ever lighting it), slammed his notes back into the folder he had used to transport them to the meeting, and left the room with his eyes straight ahead, never uttering another word. I knew at that moment that this new academician was someone to reckon with, and I simply had to meet him. The reaction of his fellow faculty members was mixed. Some approached him with a desire to shake his hand and welcome him into the department while others were content to ignore him and follow Dr. Stringer out of the room in a manner that was not at all dissimilar to his. I waited until everyone else had gone and then stood up, walked over to Walter, and introduced myself. I wanted my time with him to be alone.

Hello, Dr. Harris. Welcome to Hamilton-Orland. I’m Philip Dubois. I stuck out my hand, and we shook while I continued to introduce myself. It would appear that we have a lot in common. I’m the local virologist.

Walter smiled broadly, amused. His response was even quicker than I expected.

Yes, he pondered. Yes. I get it: virology, parasitology, and even genetics. Yes, I suppose we do have a lot in common. His laugh was open, friendly, and—dare I make a complete fool of myself by saying it?—infectious.

You really are outspoken, aren’t you? I commented, laughing along with him, trying to create a wedge of friendship.

No. Not really, he replied with yet another friendly chuckle. I’m sorry some took it wrong. I just thought that there had to be a better way of handling that situation and I decided to offer a suggestion. Why be confrontational if one doesn’t have to be?

There it was. There was nothing complicated about it. No ulterior motives; just good common sense. I thought about it briefly and agreed, Yes, I suppose you’re right. Life is tough enough. Why make it harder?

What followed was one of those awkward moments of silence, and it was Dr. Harris, I’m ashamed to say, who filled in the void, not me. I should have invited him down to my office. He was the stranger, but once again I was reminded, in a short period of time, just how poised and proactive Walter was.

Care to come down to my office and share a cup of coffee with me? He had not even had time to unpack; yet he was inviting me down to his office.

Sure. Why not? I was embarrassed, but I leaped at the invitation anyway. My curiosity had already gotten the better of me, and I was dying to learn more. I would enjoy that, I said, and I proceeded to follow him down the hall and around the corner to his new office and laboratory space, still strewn with boxes of books and who knows what all else.

He pushed a few things aside, found a chair for me, and proceeded to brew a fresh pot of coffee. I liked his office. I liked his laboratory. Both had windows that looked out over the campus and the lake below. I walked over to the large window in front of his laboratory sink and stood there, taking in the scenery. It was a beautiful lake—still is—and from his second-floor window, the view of it was unspeakably lovely. It was very early autumn, but some of the trees surrounding the lake were already beginning to turn. I was beginning to feel a little jealous.

What a beautiful view of the lake.

What do they call it … the lake, that is? he asked.

I don’t think it has a name, I replied. It’s just referred to as the lake.

Pity, he responded, but you’re right. It is very lovely.

I stood there for several minutes as Walter ground the coffee beans, loaded the basket, and started the brewing cycle. Few people take the time to freshly grind their own beans, but Walter, I continued to discover, was not like most. He was very different, and I was beginning to notice that right away. More to the point he was nothing at all like me.

In one of the boxes, he managed to find the extra cups he kept on hand for occasions like this, and he took some of them over to the sink in the laboratory and meticulously washed each one of them as I stood aside and watched. Each cup, after he had washed it, was then set out to drain. He invited me to choose one. I chose the one sporting a double helix, fired into the glaze.

Where did you get this one? I queried.

Walter laughed. He had a good-sounding laugh—it was not at all self-conscious. I liked that. I can’t remember.

Soon a wonderful aroma was filling the space inside the laboratory, but even before the brew cycle was complete, he had begun rummaging around in his refrigerator, removing a small carton of light cream in the process.

Cream? Sugar? He held out the carton of cream toward me.

A little sugar; no cream, I replied automatically. From atop the refrigerator, he reached for and handed me a plain white porcelain sugar bowl that had a matching spoon protruding through a small hole on one side of the lid.

Funny how we do this, isn’t it? he joked. I take a little cream, no sugar. You take a little sugar, no cream.

I had never thought of it in that way, but there were a lot of things that Walter thought about that I didn’t. Every moment I spent with him proved to be more interesting than the moment before.

Funnier, yet, he continued, I don’t even know why I started putting cream in my coffee. On his face appeared a somber, reflective smile. I don’t know. I think I started doing that after … Rebecca—

He stopped short—dead short—and tried to change the subject. Enough, I suppose. You don’t want to hear about that.

Rebecca?

Yes, Rebecca.

Who is Rebecca?

Who was Rebecca? He blinked.

For the first time I saw what I thought just might be a small chink in his otherwise armored exterior.

Rebecca was my daughter, he said. There was a very long pause, as though he was trying to find the nerve to finish what he had begun. She died in an automobile accident, he finally stated, matter-of-fact. See? I told you it wasn’t something you wanted to hear about. He looked away, out the window, across the lake, and off into space.

I felt horrible.

Oh God, Dr. Harris, I didn’t mean to pry.

I know you didn’t, he replied, still just as matter-of-fact as before. There was another pause—a short one. Dr. Harris sounds too formal, he said. Call me Walter. He smiled peacefully as he spoke—some might have described his smile as angelic, but that was not a word in my vocabulary that I used much. I continued to be amazed. No chinks; no cracks. His armor was intact.

But I am so sorry that—

Why? It wasn’t your fault, Philip. You don’t mind if I call you Philip, do you?

No, I don’t—not at all. I prefer it.

Good. So do I. You look like a Philip. I don’t know what a Dubois is supposed to look like, he said, and with that he laughed yet again—a playful, teasing sort of laugh. I’ll tell you about Rebecca someday, perhaps, but not today. This is not the time or the place. I can tell you this, however. She was a magnificent person, and I loved her very much. I like talking about her, so no doubt you will hear her name again—just not today. And there is nothing to feel sorry for. She had become a fully formed human being. She was. She thought, she existed, she left me memories, and that has to be good enough. Whether I liked it or not, I had to move on after her death. There weren’t too many other options, were there? Not then; not now.

I understand, I said. That was a lame response. Actually, I didn’t. I didn’t understand a thing. How could he be so calm and cheerful in the face of something like that—something that excruciatingly awful?

Do you have children? he asked.

No, we don’t.

Another pity. I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you won’t take offense, but since you don’t have children, I would have to comment. No. You do not understand, but I appreciate the gesture, anyway. Thank you.

I had not said a thing about what I was thinking, but the man could already read my thoughts as surely as if I had spoken the words aloud. Despite my curiosity, Walter was beginning to unnerve me. How could he know?

You’re right, of course, I muttered in bewilderment. I don’t. Would you mind, then, if I ask you one more question? Does this have anything to do with your attitude toward David Strathmore?

Walter chuckled. It was, again, a low, rumbling chuckle, and he shook his head.

Yes and no, he finally admitted. When I see a boy like this, in so very much turmoil, I think of my own child and those who were kind enough and ethical enough to look out for her. How could I do any less? Would you like to sit in on our little conversation? I could use a witness.

I wasn’t convinced about this, but my curiosity was still getting the better of me.

Yes, I would, I admitted. Maybe I could learn a thing or three. I was trying to be cute. It backfired.

Maybe you won’t want to ‘learn a thing or three.’ Maybe you’ll be sorry if you do. He laughed again, that same toying, tantalizing sort of laugh. I didn’t get it. That unnerved me even more.

A million questions flooded my mind. The first one I chose to act upon was the question of why he was here at Hamilton-Orland, or perhaps more to the point, why he hadn’t been here years before. I assumed he had applied and been accepted in the usual manner, but that wasn’t the correct assumption, either.

So what brought you here? I asked. Curriculum, perks, location? I guess I still hadn’t learned.

I was invited, he answered, bland as rice cakes, and I accepted.

I understood the magnitude of that sort of honor well enough.

And who recommended you? I asked. I was as curious as I was surprised.

I don’t know.

You don’t know? Someone recommended you be invited to join our staff here, and you have no idea who that might have been?

That’s right, he said. I’m thoroughly clueless.

Did you ask anyone about it?

As a matter of fact, I did, but I was told that that information was confidential and had been placed in a sealed file. For a moment he reflected on what he had just said and then continued. I’m terribly grateful that someone would have done that for me—had that much confidence in me. I feel very honored, but I suppose I’ll just have to leave it at that and do the best job of teaching I can. He became a bit pensive at that point and added, almost as an afterthought, Someone must really like me … doing something like that. I can’t imagine who. The thought seemed confusing to him.

I was shocked at both the mysterious nature of his invitation and the calmness with which he had accepted it. I’d had to work incredibly hard for my position. Still, I could already tell that his worst teaching was going to be better than most teachers’ best, and that his best was, well …

So that’s your game plan, then, for repaying your indebtedness to your benefactor?

Yes, I suppose it is, in part. I would never want whomever it was to look silly for recommending me, of course, but I’m also very proud of what I do, Philip—just not in the usual, prideful sort of way, if you take my meaning.

Yes, I do. This was one of the first things he said that did make perfect sense—something I actually understood. Pride in one’s performance leads to improved performance, I repeated from memory—one of my own favorite, oft-repeated mantras. I understand that principle very well. I just wish I could get rid of the other part that wants to accompany it—the prideful part, as you put it.

Walter laughed. Give it time. If you really want to get rid of it, you eventually will. It doesn’t happen overnight, though. Ego is a tough combatant. I understand that part of the equation myself.

So Walter was human after all. He once had an obnoxious ego too. More questions came to mind, but as I neared the bottom of my coffee cup, I was beginning to feel that maybe I had overstayed my welcome.

About David Strathmore—

Oh, yes. I need to have … can’t think of her name …

Sarah? Sarah O’Conner, our departmental secretary?

Yes, Sarah. I must remember that. I need to have her contact Mr. Strathmore and get him here to my office.

Walter had previously written Sarah’s number on a Post-It note. He reached for it.

When are you going to see him? I asked.

The sooner the better. I don’t like to leave things dangling. They soon become too hard to remember, and I begin fumbling the ball. He gave a short laugh. In my lexicon of expressions, that’s an Iowa-inspired one—the Hawks? You know? The Iowa Hawkeyes—the football team?

Yes, I get it. I laughed, but Iowa again? is what I thought.

So when are you free, Philip?

Let’s see: how about tomorrow … or day after tomorrow. Actually, tomorrow would be better.

How about 3:00 p.m.?

That would be perfect.

Walter turned, reached for the telephone, and dialed Sarah’s number. As we waited, he scribbled her name onto the Post-It as well and affixed it to his telephone.

Hello, this is Dr. Harris. The new guy? After a second or two, Walter laughed. Apparently Sarah was laughing on the other end of the line at his intro. I was wondering, Sarah, if you could do me a favor and see if David Strathmore is free at 3:00 p.m. tomorrow. A long pause followed. Good. Could you notify him today that he is to be in my office tomorrow at that time, no excuses? Another, shorter pause followed. Ah, so you’ve already heard. Walter smiled. Yes, it’s about that. Thank you very much, Sarah. He placed the receiver back down on its cradle, pushed the telephone back, and turned toward me again. We’re on.

Thanks. I’ll be here in your office—on time, Walter. I won’t disappoint you. I suppose I was still wondering if he had noticed my late arrival for the departmental meeting.

At that, I thanked Walter for the coffee, for the company, and for inviting me to join him in meeting with this exceptionally confrontational student. I could not help but wonder at what his approach might be. After all, how can anyone seriously talk to a creationist and actually get through to him? was my thought. But if anyone could, it would have to be Walter. He certainly seemed to think he could.

Where would you like for me to put this cup? I asked as I finished the last delicious drop.

I’m sorry. I almost forgot. Walter smiled in amusement, and I immediately knew that he was up to something again. Everyone gets his or her own cup here, he explained. I have a cup rack, he said, and he pointed to a large panel of heavy, white plastic affixed to the wall. It was populated with numerous white plastic pegs sticking out of it. Since you’re the first, after me, of course, you get to pick your own peg. Mine is the one on the far upper left corner. This is the rule: come anytime, enjoy the coffee, it’s free, but you must wash your own cup and hang it up before you leave. That’s it.

Wow. How clever, I emoted. I’ve never seen anything quite like this before. I think I might even want do something like this in my office.

Walter rummaged around in the drying cups for a moment and produced a cup with a picture of an apple on it.

When we get around to it, here’s David’s cup. He pointed to the apple and laughed. Get it? I knew he wasn’t being disrespectful of David, just in the way he said it. In the course of our conversation, he had discovered that I was an atheist. I can’t remember just how he found that out, but I’m not surprised. I was proud of who and what I was, and I was not the least bit bashful about letting people know. The comment was skillfully aimed at me. I think it was his way of testing me—to see if I could handle the subject of creationism. In typical Walter fashion, he was teasing again, and I understood.

I started laughing. I laughed so hard it brought tears to my eyes. Oh, yes indeed, Walter. I do get it: the apple, the creation story, our first encounter with a creationist, tomorrow … Oh, yes, I do get it. And trust me, I’ll do just fine. And then I laughed some more. Geez, Walter, you’re as silly as you are intense.

I was still laughing when I left his office, waving to him on the way out. By that time he was laughing again too. I think he was relieved.

That evening, as usual, Roxanne inquired about my day. I couldn’t help myself. I began laughing softly. It was noticeable enough to bring a smile to her face too.

There’s a new teacher in our department, Roxie, and you have simply got to meet this guy.

Why? she sounded skeptical but interested.

I only wish I knew how to answer that one, I said, and I proceeded to walk her though my first day with Walter. Now she looked interested.

Maybe we can invite him over for dinner some time, she began. The wheels were spinning. I could almost see them. Is he married … does he have children?

Come to think of it, I’m not sure. I don’t think he’s married. He never mentioned a wife, but he did mention his daughter.

Oh. Okay then. Maybe we can have the two of them over, or—

I don’t think so, sweetheart.

Why not?

His daughter is dead, Roxie. She died in a tragic auto accident.

A look of horror swept over Roxanne’s beautiful face, and her eyes filled with sadness.

Oh, how awful, she said soulfully. I can’t imagine such a thing—losing a child.

I am supposed to be a reasonably intelligent man. I should have sensed that her sadness involved considerably more than just Walter, but I didn’t.

Can you imagine losing a child—especially like that? God. My mind can’t even go there, she said, still horrified. We really must invite him over then. He must be the saddest, loneliest man in town.

That’s just the thing of it though, sweetheart. He isn’t. I can’t figure him out. Yes, he’s sad and lonely, but … I don’t quite know how to describe it. It just doesn’t seem to get him down.

Roxanne looked perplexed—at least as perplexed as I was.

Is he religious? Maybe he fantasizes that she’s in heaven or something.

Once again, I don’t know, but I got the impression that he isn’t—just the things he said. Besides, being religious certainly doesn’t stop most believers from going to pieces when they lose someone close to them. We both well know the truth of that, but Walter—Dr. Harris—is not like that.

A look of serious adventure replaced her sadness.

You’re right, of course, she replied, but all the more, then, I’d like to know a little of his secret. We could use a little of whatever it is that drives him.

I thought I understood her reference and agreed with her. Yes, I