Smiling Madonna - Chapter Four

The glance
George caught from
him was usually
quite mean

As George drove up Ted Swenson appeared to be finishing his morning cleanup. He was carrying a shovel in his right hand and a few gardening tools in his left. The glance George caught from him was usually quite mean.
George saw Ted’s face change from the expression of an unusually open and contented old man, to dark and narrowed eyes and tight lips when he noticed George’s truck come into the parking lot. George knew Ted had some feelings about the religious community idea he and the other men were working on building, but never before had he seen Ted’s face change so clearly, or completely. Then he remembered the morning’s events.
Stepping out of the truck, holding briefcase and empty coffee mug, George waved good naturedly to Ted. Ted raised a lackluster hand back.
As George turned into the church office he wondered if it really did look like the wind up to the back of Ted’s hand, or if he was putting too much on it.

“Hello, Georgia.”
“Hello, Pastor George.”
It was once a punny exchange between these adults, now, today, it was especially only a ritual with little warmth.
“How is she?” Georgia asked.
“Mrs. Simpson? As good as can be expected, I suppose.” George was glancing over the mail that had come in already – a bit early today, he thought. “I mean,” looking straight at Georgia now, “She had a shock, but she’s had lots of those in her lifetime. Still… that someone was be killed on your property, while you were there. That’s creepy, to say the least.”
“I was wondering if, since it’s only Tuesday, if I might go over there this afternoon.”
“Georgia, that is a good idea. I know you have been working ahead and there’s nothing pressing today, now anyway. Yes, please go see how Sheila is doing.”
Not only was Sheila Simpson a gracious person with her pastors, she was also a wonderful friend, and had been to Georgia and her family over the twenty-some years of being part of this community. It was Sheila who had called the pastors to tell them about Georgia’s husband, when he had been diagnosed with Alzheimers.

George went down to the Green Café to work on his sermon. It was an internet café with really good espresso where George was just far enough away from the church that not many people would be coming by who might ask for his time. A sermon George felt good about preaching usually took at least six to eight hours to write. He still used a manuscript and kept the time to 10 to 12 minutes.
George was trying to settle on his brain treat, barraca or a pretty healthy looking oatmeal cookie. George looked up and saw Rosie come out from behind the espresso machine.
“George,” a wide smile lit up Rosie’s face, “What can I get for you today? Oh, it’s Thursday, so you probably want a couple of them this morning, right?”
George smiled back, Rosie was his favorite barista. She could make the best drink better than almost anyone and anywhere else. George once admitted to himself that he found her attractive too.
The people in front of him, paid and got their drinks and George paid and waited for his first espresso drink.
Rosie passed George’s very large cup over to him and he noticed how beautiful her dark hands were again. “Just let me know when you need the next one,” Rosie said smiling.


George left the Green Café after his second drink. The sermon wasn’t “done,” meaning he had something written, but didn’t yet flow very well. George had heard (and written) his share of sermons, so he judged them by his own criteria. If he were to enumerate those “standards,” they would begin with flow.
Water was a very powerful image for all aspects of community and congregational life. Ripples and disturbances could be a good thing, but flow, the direction or trajectory of the flow, that was more important than the fact some water was in motion.
Of course, the “motion” from the Simpson garage was more than that. Henry’s murder was a sad and horrible end to a wonderful life.
As George drove back to the Community House he thought about ripples and disturbances, and looked at the smiling Madonna as he walked up to, and entered the front door.

At worship on Sunday, the connections that the pastors had made in the intervening days had quelled the murmuring congregation before the service, during the offering, afterwards in during the coffee hour, and in the parking lot as people dispersed. Travis rolled his eyes to George about the group still gathered at the back end of Jill Ackerson’s SUV.
“You’d think they had no where to go,” said Travis.
“Yes, and yet they are still trying to process what happened,” responded George.
“Yeah, didn’t you have some tragedy like this happen when you were in Nebraska of something?”
“Yes, unfortunately. There was a couple who were known to fight often and finally the husband shot the wife and then himself,” said George. “Just makes me not like guns, but this… The way Henry was killed just gives me shudders.”
George shook his robe off in the hall near the pastors’ offices, before hanging it up in the closet there. The church used to use Travis’ office as the robing room, when one pastor had served this congregation and the Scandinavians had thought one man could best lead 300 Lutherans. Now the hall closet held their stoles and robes. That was easier for the altar guild to keep them clean anyway. They could take and dry clean them without going into a pastor’s office.

next week: community and clues

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Three

It was
finished...
It had to
be doneEven though...

With shaking hands he put the shovel back in the back of the truck at the foot of the driveway. It was finished. He needed to drive the truck back to the church parking lot and leave it there.
It had to be done. Even though two wrongs don’t make a right. It was not fair what had been done to him. He had sacrificed too. For too long he had given up his interests for the needs of the parish. Too long he had spent in hospitals with the dying, sick, or recovering old and young people. Now he could look himself in the mirror and see someone who was doing something for his desires.
It had taken weeks to figure out what to do. And then it had been several days before it “hit” him who and how it had to be done.
Now as he drove the few blocks to the parking lot next to the church, he said to himself, “Please let the lot be empty, like I timed it before.” He realized he was praying and directed his prayer to God.

An hour or so later, Travis came back from a visit to Swedish Medical Center. He had been to see John Anderson, who was going in for his first chemotherapy. Travis knew it was a scary thing – even though the cancer wing and its staff were some of the best and had the reputation of being really helpful to the beginner cancer patients.
Travis marveled at their patience sometimes. He knew some of them by name, having completed the prostate cancer treatment with his own father a year before. The staff was really great.

George saw Travis come in to the church office.
“How’s John doing?”
“Fine. You know how well they treat new cancer patients at Swedish.”
“Yeah…. Hey, do you want to get a cup of coffee in a few minutes, before we plan the education opportunities for the Wednesdays before Christmas? Maybe we could even be inspired with some ideas for Sundays in the new year.”
“Sure, give me 15 minutes to get a couple of things settled and grab some papers.”
“Great. I thought we could go to the Green Café?”
“Sure – do you want to just meet me there in 20 minutes? If we go longer than an hour and a half, I’ll need to leave to drive home, so I have little time off before the class tonight.”
Travis lived in Lake City. You wouldn’t think that made for a long commute, but in a city where all the roads are designed to move traffic North-South, getting “across town” was quite a feat. George felt for him. He had done the commuting pastor gig for 12 years. In his last two calls, George couldn’t afford to live in the communities of which he was a pastor – or at least - where the church was located; in San Jose, then in this synod, over in Bellevue. Thankfully he had enough experience to be paid well enough, well for a single man with no dependents. He had been able to buy a condominium on the outskirts of Bellevue after three years serving that congregation.

George got to enjoy that short commute for only a couple years before the long idea of community life, almost suddenly, became a reality right in his back yard – just two lakes over.
George returned home himself, after the education planning meeting with Travis. He needed a little space to work on his sermon for Sunday and organize his notes from the meeting. He parked his truck, out front of Simpson house. It was the “community” truck now, a little burned red Toyota that had served him well for eight years. He had bought it used to drive up from San Jose, California to his new parish in Bellevue, Washington. He had been able to fill it with all but a few boxes, well, a couple filing cabinets of stuff from work. Those waited for someone from the congregation to bring up a month later on their vacation, swinging by Mount Carmel Lutheran in their RV on their way up to the Seattle area.
It was cloudy today. One of the days that fits strangely into the northern hemisphere, when the clouds darken the southern sky, so the light filters mostly through from the North. Never having been to the Southern hemisphere, George always felt a little wrong on days like this.

Maybe that is why when he walked up to the house, he paused to look at the gift from the Episcopal church and the community that served them. The smiling Madonna and child somehow seemed to glow with light from within, on this day of strange light. Maybe it was the reflection off the white door, or something in the brick. She was pretty big, nearly three feet tall; always reminding George of Orthodox icons depicting holy people with extra large bodies and hands, and smallish heads. The Madonna looked at everyone who came to this door as if to say, “Who are you really?” It wasn’t a threatening question, except on a day when you felt uncertain about the answer. Which is not to say the statue appeared scary or anything like it. With a wide lap big enough for the baby and everyone else, a face unmarred by creases of worry, and wide looking eyes, the Madonna was “grace-full.” The child too, whose hands encircled the mother’s neck while the face turned to follow her gaze, imparted a sense of awareness.

Council Meeting of Green Lake Lutheran Church

Present: Ted Anderson, Pamela Needham, Andrew Parker, Sonja Bogle, Theresa Simms, Andrea Hogle, Kay Petersen, Petra Voycek, Tony Lewis, Pr. Travis, Pr. George

1. Call the meeting to order at 9:05 Saturday morning.
2. Opening Prayer followed by approval of the Agenda
3. Minutes read silently and approved, 9:10.
4. Treasurer’s report
5. Pastors’ reports
6. There was discussion about the events of the past weekend at the Simpson home.
7. Pr. Travis is going out of town in February to visit his relatives in Eugene, OR.
8. Old Business
9. New Business - Security seems to be an issue in the summer, but not in the winter, although Pr. George has asked several times for people to move away from the doors in the back of the church, where they had been sleeping.
10. Closing Prayer
    

“Security got a new meaning this past week,” said Petra.
“Yes, and we have much to give thanks for in the care our pastors have given us through this time,” offered Sonja.
“It’s a shame that Mrs. Simpson will not be present to witness the completion of the building she helped fund.”
“Oh, who’s the say she won’t?”
“I heard from Theresa that she was going to go on a long trip to regain some of the peace that this event has stripped from her. I mean she has been long planning on a trip to the east. Now would be just the time to take some time.”
“May I ask where you would- how did you come by the news of these plans?” asked George mildly.
“Well, we thought in retrospect, thinking about the things she has said at coffee hour and before, around the Rally Day celebration.” Theresa was looking at Petra for agreement.
Petra offered, “It seemed like a natural decision.”
“But you haven’t actually heard her say it this week, since the horrible event on Tuesday morning?” asked George.
To their credit, the two did not look at each other, but paused before trying to cover up the blatant lie.
“Well, no, but it seems like a better story for her sake, to offer that she will be taking care of herself, maybe going away to heal and forget, settle or something,” said Theresa.
“My God! What were these women thinking?! “ raged George in his head. “How could they make something up around this terrible tragedy?!”

next week: unfriendly and friendly

Smiling Madonna - Chapter Two

"Right.
It’s…
the man is dead."

The community dinner they had agreed to keep on Wednesday evenings did not include the congregation. Green Lake Lutheran could have been tempted to get more clergy working for them without paying anything. That was one drawback to having the congregation issue the calls – is it possible for people to resist an ever present temptation like that? Hopefully there wouldn’t have to be a test case situation.

George, Stephen and Timothy were all at Simpson House, when Jack arrived. Jack worked the furthest from home. He had a 45 minute commute to a shelter in South Seattle, Harbor Island actually, near the old Lockheed shipbuilding plant. Today, Jack had the monthly administrative meeting, so he had an evening off, having finished the reporting for the board and staff and had given them out. Tomorrow was another day, but tonight he could rest.
Stephen had made meatloaf for dinner. You might think that wasn’t something to look forward to, but Stephen’s meatloaf could be served in a lot of family restaurants to improve their menus. He always used fresh herbs and mixed the meatloaf in an upper and lower section. Each part had some vegetable mixed in, zucchini, carrot, celery, summer squash or garden tomato. Tonight was not a good night to miss dinner.
That was the reason George hurried over to Sheila Simpson’s house. Not that she wasn’t a good friend who asked him to come over quickly, but also he hoped it would be a brief meeting, so he could have some of the meatloaf. When he arrived, he saw why it wasn’t going to be a quick meeting.
There were three police cars parked outside the original Simpson house. Two cars had the normal SPD logo, and one said, “Scene Investigator/Medical Examiner.” George’s blood ran cold for a moment as he registered what that meant.
Without thinking he crossed the street and walked up the narrow walled driveway that led both to the steps to the garden entrance of the house and the partly underground garage. George had walked that way a thousand times, including earlier today, to walk Sheila’s dog and check on her. He didn’t do that everyday, she had other people checking on her and walking her dog. Wednesday was his day to do it, it was the least he could do considering all she had done for the new ministry they were trying to begin. It was also something they had worked out together that would be appropriate, not taking advantage of his or her time, or other resources.
George had walked this way to get the dog this morning. Getting the leash from the garage and then climbing the steps to get the yard and the dog-run. It was just before climbing the steps that he saw the legs of someone laying on the garage floor, police officers taking pictures, and standing around looking at the contents of the old cement wall garage.

“Hey! What are you doing?!” an officer called out at George. He had inadvertently frozen at the bottom of the steps to the garden…
“I, uh… What happened? Who is it?”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to step back,” said the man. He stood up and George noticed his flashlight and gloves he was wearing.
“I was just going to see Mrs. Simpson. She called…” said George.
“And who are you?” said the other officer, who had moved between George and the entrance to the garage. The officer was a tall and wide Chinese man, perhaps from Taiwan.
“I’m her pastor. One of ‘em,” George responded, always catching his shared pastoral role a moment late.
“Give me your name?” said the asian officer.
“Sure, George Anderson. I’m one of the pastors at Green Lake Lutheran Church down the street. Mrs. Simpson has been a member of that congregation for a long time.”
“And how long have you been there?” The officer, George realized, must have some knowledge of how a church worked. He’s probably a Protestant, thought George.
“I’ve been there for almost eight years.”
“Right. And Mrs. Simpson called you?” George noticed the name on the uniform, Chang.
“Right. It’s… the man is dead.” George asked for confirmation of his statement.
“It looks that way… You had better go inside. We may want to ask you questions later. Make sure you give your information to the detective inside.”
“Thank you, officer Chang.”
The officer gave George another inspection as he turned and climbed the steps. The driveway walls never impeded the officer’s gaze, starting at the sidewalk at three feet and rising only two more feet when they met the cement of the garage.
George had the feeling he was being measured all the way to the garden door.

“Excuse me, can I speak with Mrs. Simpson?” George asked another police officer who stood outside the sitting room.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Mrs. Simpson’s pastor, George Anderson.”
“She is expecting you, but you’ll have to wait over here until the detective is finished with his initial interview.”
George took a seat at the shaker style table and chairs that filled half of the dining room across the entry from the sitting room. Both room led further back into the house to another sitting room on one side and through a pantry to a large kitchen on the other. George had helped in the kitchen, played cards in the front sitting room, and once help celebrate a birthday with Shelia’s great-grandson in the cozy back room.

“How are you doing, Sheila?”
“Oh Pastor, how could this happen? I’m just sick. Henry was always such a great help with Kenya and George, this is horrible and terrifying! … How could this happen?”
“Sheila, I’m so sorry. What happened? Or what do you think happened?”
“I don’t know. I got back from a lunch with Stein and Judy, and lay down for a while in the back room with the local symphony recording from last year. The next thing I know I was sitting up, Kenya was barking, and I felt a bit strange. It was probably being disturbed from a deep sleep.”
“Right.” George was again thinking about ‘witness tampering’ and the problem of stories by ‘eye-witnesses’ when Kenya began barking again from outside. The barking reminded him that he was here as Sheila Simpson’s pastor most of all.
“Sheila, have you had any water, or juice, since you awoke?”
“What? No, I suppose not.”
“One of the things people forget in times like this is to take care of themselves. You need to keep yourself together, partly by trying to stay hydrated. It works better with your medicines too.”
“Can I get you some water from the kitchen?”
“Yes, please. Thank you Pastor George.”
George moved into the cream and black tiled old kitchen. The officers had receded into the front of the house and the garage. George caught a glimpse of the uniformed people still walking in and out of the driveway. Filling a glass from the faucet, he carried a tall glass of water into the back den.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you.”
“Is there anything I can do for you today, to help with the rest of the day?” George found that this question was usually responded to in the negative. If not, only one in three requests required any amount of his time – and Ms. Simpson was not one to put undue requirements on her pastor – one of them. Speaking of which…
Travis rang the doorbell and entered the house – the officers had apparently left the door open.
“Hello!”
Immediately surrounded by two detectives in front of him and one uniformed officer from behind, Travis shrank somewhat.
“Hello,” said Travis, re-shouldering his role as pastor to the distressed widow. “My name is Travis Stephenson. I am one of the lady of the house’s pastors.”
“Did she call you too?” one police officer asked.
“Too? Uh, no she actually, I came on my own accord to ask after her.”
“There is already a pastor back in the den with her.”
“Great! What a relief. May I see Ms. Simpson as well?”
“Yeah, sure, sure. Go on ahead. We’ll get your information before you leave.”
“Hello,” Travis said as his head, then the rest of his body popped in and then entered the den a moment later.
“How are you, Sheila? George.” The last recognition was a nod and look of recognition and question, meant to say – How are things going, really?
“Pretty okay,” said Sheila.
“Good,“ said George, “as well as can be expected under the circumstances.”


band name: inci-pid

Smiling Madonna - Chapter One

a mystery with church, and monks, and all
in Seattle
weeklyupdates

CHAPTER ONE
It was an unusual statue to find outside a Lutheran pastor’s house. But it wasn’t exactly outside a Lutheran pastor’s house – it was outside the house of four pastors, all ordained in the Lutheran tradition. Whether or not you expected the black porcelain statue of a smiling Madonna and child on the porch, it did indicate something about the brothers – that is what they called themselves – who lived there.
“Brother” is one of the few acceptable titles a male protestant pastor could stomach being called. Father, friar, monk, these and others all meant too many things. This was a group of people who were only of late officially talking to the Roman Catholic church. Rumor was that there were actually quite a number of people who were Lutheran, or other Protestant flavors, living in Roman Catholic communities. This fact made the existence of this house of Lutheran brothers (or monks) all the more tenuous and surprising.

George was to meet the bishop of the Western Washington Synod at his office. The church that housed the synod offices was near the bus tunnel, so it was easiest to walk to and from the bus. George carried his black leather briefcase which his last congregation had given him. It thumped against his hip, slung low across his shoulder and chest as he stepped up onto the metro bus, and took a seat looking east in the bright afternoon sun. As the bus started again and merged into traffic on highway 99, Green Lake, then Woodland Park passed by. The park was one of the largest areas of the city that turned colors in the fall. Most of the Evergreen State, or even the Emerald City didn’t change color much. Today was unusually sunny, George thought, clear blue skies offset the fiery yellow and orange leaves, that turned to deep reds as the Stone Way exit passed by. The bus moved out across the Aurora bridge to Queen Anne Hill, past old and new apartments and the few remaining businesses fronting the highway.

George’s thoughts turned to his meeting with the bishop. It ought not be difficult. It ought to be a time for the bishop to express any concerns he had about a Lutheran monastery being part of the synod. In fact, he could do little to influence the ministry of a congregation within ‘his’ synod. George was one of two Lutheran clergy already in place, serving Green Lake Lutheran church. In fact, most congregations did not ever see a need for the synod until they had trouble of some kind, or needed another pastor. George knew that a bishop spent most of their time when those two criteria coincided, usually with abuse, or other inappropriate relationships by a pastor. George imagined that was from where the bishop’s concerns would come in today’s meeting.

As the bus drew nearer the metro station, George gathered his coat and briefcase together and stepped around the floor to ceiling hand-rails for one size fits all steadying. He moved to the rear of the articulated bus and out the back door, behind a girl and young boy wearing a red superhero backpack. George followed them up the steps to 6th Avenue and back over to the synod offices at the church whose sign read, “Emanuel Lutheran at Denny Park”.

George skipped the odd steps to the synod office entrance, catching a glimpse of himself in the glass door before entering. He saw his pressed khaki pants, ¾ length tan overcoat knotted at the waist, over a white button down and black sweater. George had wondered about a tie, but decided on just keeping the top button buttoned. Bishop Robert and he had known each other for several years from synod committees and from being in the same church. That Robert had been elected bishop was not a complete surprise. Now in his third year of six, George believed he would be able to have this meeting and it could be what it needed to be. The only question George was coming in to talk about was whether the synod would sign off on this new ministry of Green Lake Lutheran Church – a religious house of study and spiritual formation – by another name a monastery. That status would allow the other pastors to keep their rostered status as pastors within this synod without a vote of the congregation.

George took off his jacket and hung it on a hanger in the entryway closet space. As he turned around to the first desk, that of the receptionist, he heard a familiar voice. It was the dean of the Aurora conference, the group of about 15 churches in George’s part of the synod. With all the Scandinavians who settled in North Seattle, this conference was one of the largest number in so small a geographic area. Which is not to say that the dean’s job was anything desireable. It was considered a chore by most people, and to be passed around in turn unless a pastor could escape it – perhaps by having shouldered other synod work already. George had done his share already in two conferences, but not yet in this one. His dean was in the last year of her three year term. This meant she was concluding her role, unless the other clergy could convince her to serve again.

“Jodi, how are you?” George inquired when Jodi Lindquist stepped out of the assistant to the bishop’s office on the other side of the room. Jodi looked toward the voice, Her face, full of concentration changed at seeing George.

Recognition dawning, gears shifting, thought George, as Jodi’s eyes focused on him, and she smiled, “Hi, George!” she said warmly. “How are things going?”

Jodi knew that; 1) George and Travis led one of the most healthy congregations in the conference, 2) George and three other men were already living together in community, and 3) George was at the synod office to meet with the bishop about recognizing this ministry of community. In fact, Jodi had experienced a bit of the community’s life together and knew some of what it meant to the vitality of the congregation they served.

“Good,” Said George evenly. Jodi thought she saw the gritted teeth of someone trying a new thing in an old institution, even though technically, their branch of the Lutheran tree of Protestant Christianity was not even 15 years old.

“Greetings Bishop!” said George.
“Hello, how are you George?”
“Good! Very well.”
They shook hands and George sat opposite the bishop’s desk in a fairly comfortable brown leather chair that put his on the same level as the bishop’s eyes.
“What’s news at Green Lake Lutheran?”
“Not much really new – or at least unexpected. That’s good.”
“Yes…” said the bishop.
“So this is our meeting about the official recognition of the ministry that four of us are living out over at Green Lake Lutheran and in the community in the neighborhood.”
“Right. I guess the point to which I want to get is recognizing the whole mission you four are living out there..”
“at this point however, the four of us are looking for the synod just to sign off on the three other calls. We want to get full recognition and some place in the understanding of committed religious life, but that is down the road. We realize that.”
The hard part for me,” the bishop paused, “The difficulty is solely from that end. I don’t sign off on calls that do not come from a congregation – not unless they are in some recognizeable specialized ministry.”
“You mean like chaplaincy in a hospital or prison.”
“Yes.”
“That is of course, where we want our roles or ministries to be included.”
“You’re clear I don’t have authority to make decisions like this on my own,” said the bishop.
“Right. The synod council needs to be involved.”
“Yes, but its even larger than that, “ Bishop Robert said. “The conference of bishops has been tightening the range of specialized ministries which don’t include word and sacrament. That’s for pastors – of course there are many more opportunities for rostered leaders who are Associates in Ministry…”
“But we’re talking about pastors – ministers set apart for the ministry of word and sacrament – who do function in that role pretty regularly. The goal is for them to develop this practice for the future.”
“You have probably already asked the congregation about extending calls to the other three men?”
“Of course, living in Simpson House helped us have that discussion long ago. It was decided that – without going into the details – the pastors could be tentmakers part-time and pay the required health care and retirement costs, passing funds through the congregation. It seems more honest and helpful to invite the synod to ratify this ministry instead of just filling out the proper forms and passing money around.”
The two sat in silence for a moment, then the bishop leaned forward and made his suggestion – his position clear.
“George, I want to say again that it’s my goal you are recognized for the whole mission you are living out there. And right now… How soon is one of your number’s status as rostered clergy coming up for review? I assume he’s on leave from call now.”
“Yes. Stephen’s the first. I understand that what happens is that his name would just drop off the official list – in 18 months. The date is actually right after the synod assembly the year after next. That means if there needs to be action we have either two chances beginning in two months, or 14 months and no second chance, if the proposal were defeated.”
“Clearly you’ve spoken with Sarah.”
“Yes, since she coordinates the timelines for the synod assemblies.”
“George are there any other groups – men or women - doing this thing in the church?
“No one with more than four people living in one house. There are families living in apartments and near one another, but no other Lutherans, in this Lutheran church, in the United States or Canada doing the monasticism thing.”
“I am afraid the best I can offer you, is to keep working on possibilities.”
“One option I wanted to mention has to do with declaring our mission as a co-synodical ministry, like Lutheran Social Workplace, or even the Political Advocacy Group. Not quite a congregation, but empowered to minister within the synod’s borders.”
“I’ll take that under consideration. It has some possibilities.”
“Good.”
“Thank you for coming in, George,” said the bishop standing up.
George held his feelings. Stood up, thanked the bishop for his time and walked to the outer office space. The bishop’s office had been sort of stuffy, so it was good to breathe more easily. George thanked the receptionist and picked up his coat, putting it on before leaving to walk back to the bus station.
The ride home was uneventful. The colors of the leaves were fading from their afternoon brilliance, now that the sun was behind some clouds on the horizon and sinking towards the Olympic mountains. Much more of the ride looked like the color of pavement, but perhaps that was George’s head facing more downward.