Chapter 16

I had very nearly forgotten Tyrone's warning about Frank when the collapse came. It was the first Saturday in August, a hot day, with the sun glaring down at 10 in the morning as though it were 3 PM. I was glad, walking out to the car, that I'd worn a sleeveless blouse and a pair of shorts; I had no desire to flaunt myself in public, but I needed the air. I had a sweater in my hand for the air conditioning in Tyrone's office, but until we got there I would swelter. During the short drive there was no point in turning on the car's air conditioner, for it wouldn't have time to get cool before we pulled into the parking lot.

Frank must have been burning up. He had on a pair of dark slacks, and though his shirt was a light tan and short sleeved, he surely couldn't have gotten the air circulation that I did in my looser, more open clothing. Sometimes our culture prevents men from wearing clothes that would be comfortable – either they cover up, or they strip down. There's really very little for respectable men to wear in the space between shirt and pants, and swimming trunks. We women are more fortunate in that regard.

We pulled into the parking lot of the church, and hurried to the door. My skin especially wanted inside; I can tan, but I have to do so in judicious sessions, or else I burn ferociously. My skin isn't pale, but neither does it tan well, and I have to be careful of it. And both of us craved cool air. It was going to be a day for lounging indoors, or spending time in the water. Perhaps after the session, and some lunch, Frank and I could go to the pool...

Frank and I settled into our chairs, and Tyrone settled into his. We'd been talking about not much in particular the last few sessions. I had gotten the feeling we might be nearing the end, for Frank and I were talking with great naturalness, discussing all sorts of things without anger and without hurt. Tyrone had almost become background, only stepping in when he saw a need to cover something in more depth, or when one of us would bristle at a perceived slight.

This time, though, he took us back a month. "Genesis," he said, "are you praying now?"

"I am!" I said, and my excitement must have been palpable, for Tyrone smiled. "I didn't realize how wonderful it was until I came back to it."

"And you're praying for Frank?"

"Yes." I described to him how often and how much I was doing so. "But," I said, "I think a lot of the benefit of my praying has been within myself. I've become so much closer to God than I was."

"Closer than you were before you resumed praying?"

"Yes ... but, I think, closer than I was before my adultery too. I prayed then, but I don't think I ever prayed as intensely then as I do now."

"It's not exactly to the point," said Tyrone, "but there's a verse that I like. It says, 'Weeping may last for the night, /But a shout of joy comes in the morning.' Before you sinned, you were a Christian, but a contented one. Then you went into a very deep valley, and now that you're mostly out of that valley the joy is greater than you can express."

"That's exactly it!" I said. I was very happy that morning. "It's as though I didn't realize what I had in God until I went without Him for so long."

"Often we human beings are like that. There was a song back in the 60s, or maybe the 70s, that said 'You don't know what you've got till it's gone.' You didn't know how glorious God is till you left Him, and now that you're back that glory is overwhelming you."

"You know it like you're living with me."

He chuckled. "No, it's just that I've seen it before. And in my own way, I've been through it before. We preachers aren't any more perfect than you are."

Tyrone made circles on the arm of his chair for a moment. "How's your prayer life going, Frank?"

"The same."

"No worse?"

"No, but no better. And hearing Genesis' excitement ... well, I wonder what it is in me that prevents me from enjoying God as she's doing."

"The cause is within you – you're right there."

"But what it is?" The pain in Frank's voice startled me, and I covered his hand with mine.

"Are your prayers still rituals?"

"That's how they feel to me."

"Perhaps you're too much in control, Frank," Tyrone said, as still as I'd ever seen him.

"And perhaps you're too nosy," Frank replied, the ice again in his voice and face.

And Tyrone did something I'd never seen him do before. He sat up in his chair and leaned his arms on his desk, and stared Frank in the face. "I'm getting tired of you telling me that I'm interfering. You asked me to help you, and that's what I'm trying to do. Now if you think you can bully me, Frank Carter, have at it."

Frank's face grew disdainful. "Do you really think you can take me?"

"I know I can't. But I won't try. If you want to use your fists on me, feel free – I won't resist. I'll pray for you. But I won't lift a hand against you."

I was aghast. It seemed to me as though Tyrone was trying to provoke my husband. I wanted to speak out, to protest, to protect Tyrone or my husband or both, but my mouth wouldn't open. When I had needed the words to give Frank, God had provided them, and now that I needed to be silent God had sealed my tongue. But it was hard, very hard, to watch two men I cared about glaring at each other and threatening a fight ... no, not a fight. If Tyrone didn't resist, it would be a massacre, for Frank was younger and in better shape, and furiously angry.

Tyrone smiled. "You're fighting mad, aren't you?" he asked, and suddenly I saw it. He was provoking Frank – not because he wanted a fight, but because he needed to get through Frank's emotional repression. "Why don't you get out of that chair and act like you're mad?"

"I will not trade blows with you," Frank said in a tight voice.

"Then hit the walls, kick my trash can, bellow at me, smash a chair – do something to let out your anger!"

And Frank was suddenly on his feet. For a moment I thought he was going to hit Tyrone after all. But instead he did kick the trash can, which bonged and flew into the wall, and rebounded with a dent in its side. I could hear his breathing, harsh in his nostrils. I thought I had made Frank angry when I'd provoked him – it was nearly a year ago, I realized – but he was fighting mad now, so mad that I knew he wasn't really seeing anything. His fists were closing and opening, and I could see the muscles in his jaw standing out as he gritted his teeth together.

And then he turned to me. "Genesis," he said, his voice grating out, "you did this to me. You broke my heart and tore up my life and destroyed everything I ever cared about. You killed me!"

God's hand was still on my lips, and I didn't say any of the things I wanted to say. I wanted to scream in protest, to assert my innocence, but God knew better than I did what was happening. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, Tyrone leaning back again, a satisfied look on his face. I stood, and walked the couple of steps it took to put me within reach of my husband. I simply stood there, and saw Frank shaking with anger and with the effort of control.

And then his face crumpled. "Oh, Genesis," he said, and it was almost a sob. I put out my hands and took his arms, and then came the collapse. It was a literal collapse. Frank reached for me, and then crumpled to the floor. There was no way I could support his weight, so I went down with him, able only to keep him from falling into a chair or the desk. We wound up with me sitting on the floor, Frank's head in my lap, while he wept as I had never in all our years together seen or heard him weep. His arms were around my waist, and I truly thought he would hurt himself, his sobs were so powerful.

I felt Tyrone's hand on my shoulder, and then his voice was in my ear. "You don't need to say or do anything, Genesis. Just let him cry. Let him release it. He'll be okay, once the poison's out of his system."

Getting the poison out of Frank's system was no quick or easy thing. He cried in my lap for a very long time, and when he finally was able to first sit up, and then stand and sit down in his chair again, he wouldn't look at me. Tyrone picked up on that, of course; I knew by then that he could see more with his eyes shut than most people can when they're looking right at a thing.

"Frank," Tyrone said, "why do you refuse to look at your wife?"

"I'm ashamed of myself."

"Why?"

"I'm a man. I'm supposed to be strong, and there I was on the floor bawling like a baby. What kind of a man am I, what kind of a husband am I, when I have to cling to my wife that way?"

Tyrone waited for me, though I didn't wait for him to pause. "You're the kind of husband I want," I told Frank. "You're a man who feels. That means you're normal, Frank. You're a human being, not some sort of unfeeling monster."

"But where was my strength?"

"Frank, you're strong in all the ways I need you to be strong. But I also need you to be vulnerable. I need you to be open to me. And one thing I've learned during this," and I waved my hand to include our counseling sessions, and the year of pain, "is that if you open your heart to someone, you're vulnerable. That person to whom you've opened your heart has the ability to hurt you. And he will, Frank, or she will. It's not because the one you open up to wants to hurt you. It's just how things are."