voice.”
A tentative earnestness spread through Bernie now. He felt as though he had been called upon to give something of himself that was far outside his purview as a lawyer, and it was something he had never given to anyone, except his wife, vaguely, years ago. “Okay,” he said. “The ‘but’ is this: But do I have faith? I do. The problem is, I can’t describe it. But it’s a faith of sorts. It is a faith.”
“Can you tell me? Oh, please tell me, Bernie.”
Bernie put his hand to the back of his neck. “I can’t, Suzanne. Because I don’t have words to describe it. It’s more an understanding—I’ve had it most of my life—that there is something much larger than we are.” He felt a sense of failure; he had failed in telling this.
Suzanne said, “I used to feel that. For years I would have sensations of just what you described. But I can’t really describe it either.” Bernie did not answer, and Suzanne continued. “When I was a kid, and alone—I spent a lot of time alone, you know, when I wasn’t at school—I would take these walks and I would get this feeling, this very deep sensation, and I understood—only the way a kid could understand these things—that it had something to do with God. But I don’t mean God like some father figure, I don’t even know what I mean—”
“I know what you mean,” Bernie said.
“And I kept having that feeling every so often right into my adult life, I never told anybody, because what was there to tell?”
“I understand that completely,” Bernie said.
“But I haven’t had it for a few years, and so I wonder: Did I make it up? But I know I didn’t, Bernie. I never told my husband, I never told anybody. But whenever someone says they’re an atheist, I always privately have this bad reaction, and they give all the obvious reasons, you know, kids get cancer, earthquakes kill people, all that kind of stuff. But when I hear them, I think: But you are barking up the wrong tree.” She added, “But I couldn’t say what the right tree is—or how to bark up it.”
Sitting at his desk, Bernie felt a vague sense of disbelief; everything she was saying was entirely understandable to him.
Then Suzanne added, “I don’t know why I don’t get that feeling—that sensation—anymore.”
Bernie looked out at the river; it had changed, as it always did, it was now a greener color, as the cloud covering went higher up into the sky. “You will,” he said.
Suzanne said, “You know what, Bernie? I’ve thought about this a lot. A lot. And here is the—well, the phrase I’ve come up with, I mean just for myself, but this is the phrase that goes through my head. I think our job—maybe even our duty—is to—” Her voice became calm, adultlike. “To bear the burden of the mystery with as much grace as we can.”
Bernie was silent for a long time. He said finally, “Thank you, Suzanne.”
After another moment Suzanne said, “The only other person I told about those feelings of—well, of God, or something so much bigger—well, I told that creepy therapist, after, you know, after we began— Anyway, you know what he said? He said, Don’t be ridiculous, Suzanne. You were a child mystified by life, and you now think it was God you felt. You were just mystified by life, that’s all. Isn’t that creepy, Bernie?”
Bernie glanced at the ceiling. “Creepy? Yes. He was a very limited man, Suzanne.”
“I know it,” Suzanne said. Then she said, “Do you really think I shouldn’t tell my husband about him? Do you think I can really live with it on my own?”
“People live with things,” Bernie said. “They do. I am always amazed at what people live with.” He added, “And, Suzanne, you just told me your husband doesn’t know about your experience with…with whatever it is we’ve been talking about.”
“You’re right,” Suzanne said. “Bernie, you’re so smart. I love you.”
Bernie said, “And, Suzanne, I love you.” He wished terribly to tell her that he felt better now, that having talked to her in this way his uneasiness had been alleviated somewhat. Instead he said, “One more thing. Now listen to me.”
“I’m listening,” Suzanne said.
He said, “You hang up and have yourself a good cry. Have a cry like you’ve never had in your life. And when you’re done, get yourself something to eat. I bet you haven’t eaten a