Fred's Way: A Novel

By Craig Nagel

Freds Way is a coming-of-age novel about a young man torn between going off to college to become an ordained Lutheran pastor or staying home in Chicago to marry his high school sweetheart. It resonates with the agony of someone trying desperatelyand often comicallyto find his role in a society that refuses to fit his innocent expectations. The central character, Fred Hansen, is at root a mystic, alive to the wonder and glory of life. Like a latter-day Don Quixote, hes never quite in synch with what others call reality, including the scientific world view of his premed roommate, Jimbo; the commonsense practicality of his girlfriend, Patsy; the argumentative mindset of Catherine Coyle, an attractive classmate with whom he gets entangled; or the spontaneous (and somewhat improvident) habits of Corning, a red-haired art major who lives down the hall. Freds Way recaptures the torrent of changes sweeping through America at the start of the 1960s and gently explores the heartaches and triumphs we all encounter in the process of trying to find our place in the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504949774

Craig Nagel

Craig Nagel is a Minnesota author best known for two fine collections of short pieces written over many years for a weekly newspaper, the Lake Country Echo. His light touch, his compassion, and his perfect pitch evoke the joys and sorrows of daily life, and have earned him thousands of loyal readers. In this his first novel, Craig creates an imagined place—a fine liberal arts college of Lutheran persuasion—and sets within it a very bright, verbal, idealistic boy of the later 1950s. We follow Fred Hansen on his way via an interior commentary on events variously bewildering, ecstatic, shaming, hilarious, poignant. Keeping all this drama (much of it interior) going requires an authorial hand both gentle and sure; and Craig Nagel is that author. Fred’s Way is a story from the middle of the last century, when today’s grandparents were flocking to college, losing innocence, seeking faith. I had the powerful feeling on reading this manuscript that I “knew Fred Hansen when,” that I’d had those discussions with him in ’61 when it was all happening to me, that I could run into Fred at the Tip Top Cafe and call back that crazy night toward the end of our sophomore year. Fred’s Way reads like a prequel to the life of one of Craig’s newspaper column readers who pause on reading and smile, or sigh. It takes a fine novelist to do that, and this is indeed a fine novel. Douglas A. Davis, PhD. Emeritus Professor of Psychology Haverford College

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Fred's Way

A Novel

CRAIG NAGEL

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AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

© 2015 Craig Nagel. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 11/13/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4978-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-4977-4 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015914943

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Chapter One Destined for greatness

Chapter Two Off to a troubling start

Chapter Three As for man, his days are like grass

Chapter Four An unplanned development

Chapter Five No good turn goes unpunished

Chapter Six Bring on the clowns

Chapter Seven Get your white ass packin'!

Chapter Eight Welcome to Wonderland; so long sanity

Chapter Nine What did you say your name was?

Chapter Ten I try not to think about cows

Chapter Eleven You can't know a thing except in terms of its opposite

Chapter Twelve Three wise men in search of a neon star

Chapter Thirteen It's the American thing to do

Chapter Fourteen Mister irresistible

Chapter Fifteen So this is what it comes to

Chapter Sixteen There's a great big world out there

Also by the author

A Place Called Home

A Sense of Wonder

For my beloved wife, Claire

...Yet you glimpsed the hero's heaven. Once the blessing hands were laid on you, you were a chosen one, and up you had to rise, driving up out of obscurity and mediocrity, your simple mind popping and crackling with the dream of becoming a great, a hero. Ah, yes, the mystic druids of the village are always finding spiritual sons, are always placing hand-woven halos on heads of young bulls never destined to grow antlers...

from The Chokecherry Tree

by Frederick Manfred

There is, for each of us, a way.

Nestor Lathrop, class of '61,

found scribbled on the back of a

bowling score sheet.

Chapter One

Destined for greatness

S eptember 16, 1959. I sit in a coach of the Milwaukee Road train as it takes me toward college. The swaying of the train and the rhythmic clack of its iron wheels soothe the hurt of my departure, lull me into reverie. I am off to the world of higher education, destined to become a leader of men. Me, Fred Hansen. From the north side of Chicago.

This is serious.

Minnesota?

I turn, startled, to find the conductor staring down at me over the top of his glasses. Yeah, sure, uh, somewhere here. I fumble with my wallet, certain my ticket is lost. Will I be thrown off the train? If I am thrown off the train, how will I get to college? How will I get educated? How will I...

Here, he says, pulling the ticket from the clip at the side of the seat into which I put it ten minutes ago. He punches the ticket and returns it to its clip. Have a pleasant trip. He moves on up the aisle.

I sink down into the seat, enormously relieved. But my relief is short-lived, for in a moment my brain returns to the topic it has been fastened on for months: Patsy.

Patsy Lutz, the brown-eyed one, the one my buddy Jerry Engelblatt says has the nicest knockers north of Navy Pier. Repulsive, the way Jerry refers to women. But he is my friend, and I owe him a lot, and part of being a true Christian is to avoid being overly sanctimonious. Besides, Patsy does have rather prominent mammary glands. But she is a very decent girl, and ours is more than a mere physical relationship.

To think that I am leaving her behind. And why?

I nestle deeper into the seat and remember.

* * * *

It is December of 1949. I am not well. Christmas is almost here, but the mumps are going around. The desks at school are barely half-filled.

The teacher, Miss Rothbein, is not amused. Each day her grey old face grows tighter. She makes no secret of the fact that she feels some of us are using this epidemic as an excuse for missing school. As one by one we grow flushed and feverish, complaining of sore throats and aching heads, she grabs our chins, yanks open our mouths, peers down our throats. It doesn't look red to me. She clamps her other hand around our necks, her bony fingers jabbing into our swollen glands. Does that hurt? We are afraid to tell the truth.

So we go on, denying our disease, dragging ourselves to school day after miserable day, dragging our mumps along with us. We have been taught to respect authority. Miss Rothbein is authority.

The day I decide it is simpler just to die than to go on enduring Miss Rothbein, my mother magically appears outside the classroom and takes me off to Mass. We are Catholics, my mother and I. My father is a fallen Lutheran, his respect for the church eroded by his experience as an infantryman in the war. He is half Danish, half Norwegian, all agnostic. To him, going to church is the moral equivalent of an Abbott and Costello movie, though not nearly as entertaining. Go on, he says, whenever the subject comes up. Ruin the poor kid, if that's what you want to do. Fill his head with papist pap. It'll only retard his development by a decade or two.

So we go off to Mass. Miss Rothbein is all smiles. This is no shirker, this kid putting on his galoshes and snowsuit and mittens and scarf. This is no common delinquent, leaving the room on the pretext of having an earache. This is a God-fearing child, going to Mass with his mother.

By the time we are halfway to church, I am bordering on delirium. My head is incandescent. We walk on through the swirling snow, hand in hand, and after a while the world itself begins swirling. Whenever a snowflake hits my skin, I sense a little hiss, like a drop of water falling on a hot frying pan. We enter the church, cross ourselves, dip our fingers in Holy Water. I am surprised that the water doesn't fizz to a boil from the heat of my finger. We move down the aisle, genuflect, scuttle sideways into a pew. I wriggle free from the top half of my snowsuit, pile my scarf and hat and mittens in the corner of the pew.

A bank of candles ahead gives forth a quavering glow. There are hundreds of these candles, each in its own little bowl of red or green glass. These are the candles the ordinary people are allowed to light. I know, because Mother and I lit several of them when Father was away in the war.

I stare at the flames and they sway from side to side, as if someone were blowing softly upon them. The priest comes out of a secret door up at the front and my mother crosses herself again. This is the Mass of Saint Thomas, she whispers. He was the one who had doubts.

The priest begins to pray and I close my eyes. I feel dizzy. When I open my eyes again, everyone else is praying. I look at the bank of candles. The flames continue to sway. Outside the winter wind whines against the stone walls of the church as if it were lonely and wanted to come in. It is almost Christmas. Just a few more days. Will I get a new sled? I remember what Grandma Hansen said, that Christmas is really Jesus's birthday and that you shouldn't just think about the presents you hope you will get. Besides, I am in church right now, in God's house. I mustn't think selfish thoughts. The Mass drones on. My head is so hot I am afraid my hair will start on fire. I lean against the corner of the pew, wishing I were home in bed.

"Dominus vobiscum," says the priest.

"Et cum spiritu tuo."

Suddenly I realize what's happening to the candles. I clench the top of the pew in front and pull myself forward, staring at the bank of trembling lights. The little flame points sway from side to side. Of course! Jesus is trying to blow out His birthday candles! Hundreds of them, one for each year since He was born!

I stare at the swaying flames until the lights all run together and my eyes flood with tears. I sink back against the pile of clothing in the corner, into the gentle hand of Almighty God. My ears hum with a great murmuring peace.

* * * *

A few years later I've outgrown such childish notions, but I still have the feeling that something important is hidden in everyday events, especially the ones that occur in Wrigley Field.

By the time I'm eleven, I've fallen giddily in love with the Chicago Cubs. My father, playing Cupid, has pierced my heart with a scorecard pencil. Instead of drawing hearts, I draw baseball gloves. In place of flowers there is ivy, walls of ivy, growing against the bricks of the outfield wall.

Because my funds are limited, I sit in the bleachers. The crackle of flags, the wind off Lake Michigan, the tantalizing odor of hot dogs and mustard and cigar smoke and beer all conspire to put me in a summer-long trance. No matter that the Cubs are battling for a second-division finish. It's not whether you win or lose that counts; it's that vaulting sense of the fitness of things that comes from being a sunburned bleacher bum.

Sitting where I do, in left-center field next to the section they roped off so the batters can see better, it's only natural that I should become enamored of outfielders. Outfielders, I discover, occupy a peculiar niche in the cosmic order. They are calmer, less skittery, than their compatriots in the infield. They are like stallions, allowed to graze about between sessions at the plate. It is impossible to imagine a shortstop stroking his belly for five straight minutes, or a first baseman standing around for an entire half inning with his gloved hand on his hip, fidgeting with his sunglasses. But such activities are common among outfielders, for theirs is a more meditative calling. To be successful, they must cultivate the longer view.

I become especially fond of Frankie Baumholtz.

Frankly, Frankie is no demolisher of fences, no slugger like his fellow fielders Sauer and Kiner. For one thing, he lacks the size. Instead he is compact, solid, tough. And dependable. There is something about his presence here, twelve feet down and forty feet ahead, that I find reassuring. Just watching him stand there makes the world seem more complete. And when he races toward a sinking line drive or charges back to snag a ball before it hits the ivy, my blood pounds in sympathetic exertion.

I cheer him on. Attaboy, Frankie! I yell when he drops to one knee to field a bouncing single and rifles it in to second base. And when on those wonderful rare times that the ball comes arrowing in directly at me and high enough to maybe clear the wall and he comes back, back, back! and makes a leaping one-handed stab right down there at my feet, for cripessake, I go insane with joy, screaming and stamping my feet and balling up in maniacal spasms that leave me breathing heavy for minutes afterward.

The pinnacle is reached one August day when my man makes a stupendous rally-killing shoestring catch in the top of the ninth and then comes to bat in the bottom of the inning and smacks a game-winning double against the right-field wall.

Frenzied with love, I race halfway around the ballpark to where the catwalk from the dugout passes right next to the spectators' ramp. I position myself against the restraining fence, clinging like a monkey to the wire, along with dozens of other jabbering kids. The players file past like a pantheon of gods: Hank Sauer, the old slugger, his face incised with deep furrows like the face of the Indian chief in our social studies book, hawk-nosed, proud; big Bob Rush, the fastball pitcher, raw-boned and red; Randy Jackson, the stalwart third baseman, his eyes snapping with bright good humor.

Good game, Randy, somebody says. You were really great. Little by little the crowd thins out and the sound of scuffing feet dies away and I am alone, still waiting for my hero. He must have passed. I must have missed him. Then I hear the sound of spikes clacking against concrete, faint at first but growing louder, and a moment later he turns the corner and starts up the long incline to the clubhouse, the click of his steps filling the otherwise empty stadium, filling the universe, filling my heart; and on he comes, walking slowly, tiredly, his eyes fixed upon the floor of the catwalk, his blue warm-up jacket hooked on his forefinger and trailing back over his shoulder, his cap pushed back on his head. Closer now and I can see the deep reddish tan of his face and the matting of hair on his forearms and the way his sweat-soaked hair lays lank upon his forehead.

Hi, Mr. Baumholtz. Nice game. I want to say more but I can't think of anything.

He turns, nods his head just a little, smiles at me with tired eyes. Yeah. Thanks, kid. He reaches up, pulls his cap down lower over his sweaty hair, continues on his way. I cling to the wire fence as though electrocuted. I have looked upon the face of God. Then the clack of his spikes grows softer and a door creaks open and a faraway babble of voices spills out and the door slams shut and he is gone.

That night I sit out on the back steps and tell younger brother Eddie all about it.

So I stood there waiting and waiting and finally he came. You shoulda seen him. He looked like...like a bronze god, for cripessake.

What does a bronze god look like? asks Eddie. That's the trouble with trying to talk to him. He doesn't know much yet. I explain about the bronze god and then tell him again how Frankie Baumholtz made his fantastic shoestring catch and how he clobbered a double against the wall and how I actually talked to him.

What did you say? asks Eddie, clutching the remains of his old blue blanket against the side of his face.

I said 'Hi, Mr. Baumholtz. Nice game.'

Eddie smiles broadly, then starts sucking his thumb. That's the nice thing about talking to Eddie. He doesn't second-guess you.

C'mon, I say, taking his hand. I'll help you get ready for bed.

We go into the bathroom and pee and brush our teeth and I wipe up the splotches of urine on the floor where Eddie missed and wash my hands and we go into the bedroom, to our bunk bed, Eddie on the bottom and me on top. I hear Mother coming down the hallway to kiss us good night but Eddie is already sleeping and I'm sinking fast.

Good night, she says, softly, kissing my cheek.

Night.

I close my eyes and watch him walking past, his warm-up jacket trailing behind him in the golden afternoon air.

Nice game, I whisper, falling toward unconsciousness.

Yeah. Thanks, kid.

It is the end of the best day of my life.

* * * *

That winter, longing for spring and the chance to resume playing catch, something important is revealed.

I sit in our old school looking out over the playground. The snow is scuffed a dirty brown from the snowball fights during recess. At the edge of the playground the ash pits smoke grey in the pale winter sun. A feeling of desolation creeps into my stomach. Is this all there is? That I should sit for hours at this scarred old desk listening to Miss Melchior drone on about fractions while my leg muscles turn to porridge and my throwing arm withers?

Now, class, I want you to do the worksheets I'm handing out. Take your time. Do a neat job. When you're finished, bring your worksheets up to my desk and I'll check your answers. If you get them all right, you may go to the library for the rest of the day. Any questions? You may begin.

The library! I take the quivering sheet from Miss Melchior's hand and set to work. A few minutes later I walk past the desks of my laboring fellows, hand her my passport to freedom. She frowns.

You're done already?

I nod. She bends to the paper, ticks the answers off against her answer key. All correct. She blinks, marks 100% at the top of the paper, coughs, stands up, walks me to the door.

Once we're out in the hallway, her blue eyes fasten on my own. You may not realize this, Frederick, but you're a bright young man. Very bright. God has blessed you with a high intelligence. You are marked for something special. Do you understand?

I nod, dropping my gaze to the floor. I'm lying. All I understand is that I want to get to the library as soon as possible.

Miss Melchior clears her throat, hiding the sound behind a dainty fist. You are not a large person, Frederick. That is to say, your body isn't large. You are of ordinary size, and yet I believe you are destined for something far out of the ordinary. I believe you were put on this earth to be a leader of men.

I fidget with a shirt button, still staring at the floor. A radiator hisses. Miss Melchior shifts her weight, then reaches out a thin white arm and draws my chin slowly upward. Will you promise me something, Frederick?

I nod, staring at a dot of pigmentation on her arm.

Promise me you will always try to make the best use of your gifts.

I promise. My voice is hoarse and very small.

Good. Her hand lingers for a moment under my chin, then drops silently back to her side. You may go now.

A few minutes later I am settled in a corner of the library with a new book by John Tunis called Rookie of the Year and thoughts of winter and school and Miss Melchior are forgotten.

* * * *

Six years later I'm on the train to Excelsis, Minnesota, remembering.

It's like Pastor Ramsey says. The world groans in travail. It needs guidance. Mankind will never find peace until it turns to God.

He's a neat guy, Pastor Ramsey. The whole neighborhood has perked up since he came to Saint Luke's a few years ago. It was Jerry Engelblatt who first invited me to Saint Luke's Lutheran Church, but it was Pastor Ramsey who helped me see the light. There's something about him, the way his eyes sparkle when he talks to you, the way he zips around in his green MG, even the way he occasionally swears. He's not afraid of the world. He keeps his eye on God and goes forward through life without worrying about the nickel-and-dime stuff. Like last week, when I went to his office to talk to him and found him sitting with his feet up on his desk smoking a cigar.

For the past several months Mother has been taking instruction two nights a week to learn about being a Lutheran, and Eddie's been going to Sunday school. Even Father has changed his tune. Now that he's attending church again, his scorn for religious instruction has evaporated, though he still cautions against excessive zeal and reminds me that people find fanatics distasteful. But we've grown closer as a family since Pastor Ramsey came to town, and for that I'm profoundly grateful.

Best of all, the man is broad-minded, which I feel is of inestimable importance. Like when I invited Patsy to come to Luther League the first time, for the tobogganing party at Lincoln Park. She's Catholic, but that's no reason she shouldn't come to Luther League. Shoot, Mom and I used to be Catholics. As far as I'm concerned, the church spends too much time stressing denominational differences and not enough emphasizing the fact that we're all in this business together. And Pastor Ramsey agrees. You are absolutely right about the pettiness of denominational differences, he says. We are all God's children, regardless of race, nationality, sex, or creed. The more Catholics we welcome into the fold, the better. It's just too bad so many people are so narrow-minded.

* * * *

The train rumbles northward through Milwaukee and the sun begins to lower westward. We swing toward the sun and begin our long journey across Wisconsin, toward the Mississippi River and Minnesota, during which I plan to sleep. I must gather my energies for the morrow, when the great adventure will begin. And I'm pooped. It's been a long and tiring day. Saying goodbye to Patsy wasn't easy. Patsy occupies a large part of my heart. Ever since that day at Lincoln Park, tobogganing.

There we are, everybody having a great time, and all of a sudden Patsy says, Let's go for a little walk.

It's late in the afternoon and the slanting rays of the sun are falling pink and beautiful on the sides of the hills and there's something in the air that makes us both know we've outgrown tobogganing.

They just seem so childish, says Patsy, nodding toward the others as we walk away.

We find a thick grove of bushes out of sight of the others, away from the wind.

Not that it's not fun, says Patsy. It's just that when you think---a few more months and we'll be graduating. She stares thoughtfully down at the snow, her face pink like the sunlight on the snow, her red windbreaker tight around the fullness of her woman's body.

A bead of sweat crawls down my side below my armpit. I loosen the buttons on my overcoat. I'm all heated up from climbing those hills, I explain.

I know what you mean. She takes off her mittens, stuffs them in her pockets, unzips her windbreaker and flaps the sides back and forth like a large bellows. My skin is crawling, as though tickled by the feet of a thousand ants. Another drop of sweat slides down my side. I don't know what to do next.

Boy, did I ever bang my side on that last trip down! she says, rescuing me. I was sitting in front of a little red-haired kid and when the toboggan rolled over I smashed my side against his knee. I bet I'm going to be black-and-blue for a month. Here, feel it. Right there.

She takes my hand and puts it against the side of her