41: Searching for Jim Thorpe Avenue

Alex Moore had always felt himself to be a rational man, yes, just an average British-American: husband, booklover, business man, patron of the arts, etcetera, etcetera—yes, as rational and sane as the next bloke. But now, for the first time, he questioned that view of himself. Here he was in a strange city, driving a rental car that smelled too strong of vanilla, lurching about in stop and go fashion, squinting at street signs for an elusive Jim Thorpe Avenue, and trying to ferret out people he had never met . . . complete strangers who would not welcome their visit in the least. Well, it boggled the mind. Was this rash behavior the beginning of some brain dysfunction due to the aging process?

He glanced furtively over at his companion—accomplice, perhaps?—the Rev. Darcy McDermott, whom he had practically dragged with him, hoping for . . . for what? Stamp of divine approval?

He also felt vaguely irritated at Madeline for having brought up the whole idea of the “happiness experiment.” She had suggested at a Fat Soul Friday meeting that they test what George had called the “boomerang” effect of helping other people. Did an act of goodness, kindness—even a sacrificial act—then boomerang back to create more happiness in oneself, thus creating more overall happiness in the world? Or was happiness more like a pie that, with each piece you give away, you have less for yourself? Everyone was supposed to do something novel, out of their ordinary routine, to help someone else and report back. If it weren’t for that meeting, Alex thought with regret, he wouldn’t have come up with the daft idea of trying to unite George with his estranged parents and would not be in this bloody awkward situation. At the moment, he was feeling quite unhappy, quite ridiculous really. The pie theory was bearing down on him. His old cynicism was fighting against his better self.

In the passenger’s seat of the white Camry, the young minister, Darcy McDermott, dressed in kakis and Hawaiian shirt under a scruffy jacket did not look much like the vicars of old, the stereotypical dark dress and white starched collar of the Anglican church of Alex’s youth. But times were different, and Darcy was his own man. Alex liked him for it; he just hoped the George’s parents would see him as equal in authority to their own Pastor Dwayne—he apparently had no last name as George only called him Pastor Dwayne—the fundamentalist minister who apparently swayed the Saunders into removing themselves from their gay son. Alex and Darcy’s goal, their mission (if Alex dared to call it that) was to somehow undo that damage.

The enormity of the task ahead simply defeated him. Beads of sweat trickled down his face. Silly, this, he thought, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. Utterly naïve. Wasn’t he supposed to be wise at his age? He seemed wise enough last night in the café, talking about overcoming fear. Ha! He felt ashamed that, within less than 24 hours, he had reverted to a coward.

Sighing heavily and shaking his head, he simply couldn’t go on. Darcy noticed his distress.

“What?” asked Darcy, wide-eyed, nervous, and on high alert as they searched for a street sign Jim Thorpe Avenue. “Something wrong?”

Alex pulled the car over to the curb, turned off the ignition, and said to Darcy—without making direct eye contact—“Look. I really have to tell you, Darcy, that I’m having some second thoughts about the whole thing.”

“Second thoughts? You have second thoughts?” Darcy’s eyes were wide and disbelieving. And, if Alex could read faces, slightly perturbed.

“Of sorts, yes. I . . . well, I wonder if I’ve brought you here for . . . well, for nothing. Nothing except a silly, naïve idea of mine that should best be abandoned. You, yourself, were not hopeful from the beginning, and I know you only came to humor me, an old man with silly ideas.”

As Alex spoke, his eyes scanned the neighborhood. A dog, a terrier of some sort, tethered to a young woman, caught his eye. The fussy little animal on a red leash pranced past them without so much as a pause, as if so sure of where he was going, who he was tethered to, and what he was about, that it seemed even a dog was more confident than Alex Moore, human being.

The dog looked happy; dogs always looked happy. He looked well-fed, too. Alex thought: I could have given a large bag of Puppy Chow to the animal shelter and be done with the so-called Happiness Experiment. The dogs would have been utterly thrilled. He also pictured the nice woman at the shelter beaming with gratitude. That would have been enough to satisfy his friends on Fat Soul Fridays . . .

“We could,” Alex said in a tentative tone, “just drive round and find out where they hide their independent bookstores, take in film, maybe a stroll downtown . . . you know, just make a nice weekend of it. Tulsa is a great city, after all. So much we haven’t seen . . . Indian museums and such . . .”

Darcy sat staring at Alex with gaping mouth. Finally, he said with exaggerated consternation, “Are you kidding me?” He fidgeted in his seat and then shook his head. “You’re the one who convinced me—quoting RFK, no less—and now you’re what? Chickening out?”

“Well—”

“No. No!” said Darcy, now unmistakably perturbed. “If Madeline were here, she would kick your royal butt.”

Alex flinched and then smiled. He’d never heard Darcy talk like this.

“You can’t do this to me,” said Darcy. “Or to George.”

“But George doesn’t know we’re here.”

“But Felipe does.”

“What?” Alex felt a stab of alarm. George’s partner would surely tell him.

“He won’t tell George, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“You sure?”

“As sure as I can be. I swore him to secrecy, since we all know that if this goes South, George would never forgive our intervention. But I had to tell Felipe in order to get the information about the Saunders.”

“And how did Felipe take it? This cracked idea of ours?”

“To tell you the truth, Felipe was elated. Surprised—yeah, oh yeah. He couldn’t believe we would go to this kind of trouble for George. But he was so happy, Alex. If you think about it, he’s the one who is suffering the most from the estrangement. Felipe told me that if they are ever to have a solid relationship, then George has to somehow make peace with his family. Or make peace with not having a family. Either way, George’s suffering is—”

“Contagious,” said Alex, in an almost mumble to himself, remembering the long-ago conversation he and Madeline had had after RFK was assassinated. Violence in the world was contagious, she had said; but so was hope, he had rejoined. So was hope. And now they were working on the theory—testing it, really—that happiness was also contagious, that is multiplied rather than diminished when someone sacrificed something on behalf of another.

“Not only that,” said Darcy, “but how do you think I got the information on the Saunders? I had to talk to Felipe. Aside from looking them up in the White Pages for the address, I felt we needed more to go on. He told me what he knew about George’s family, confirmed where they lived, told me a little about them—”

“And you’re just now telling me?” asked Alex, turning fully to meet Darcy’s eyes.

“Well, it’s nothing that much. Really. Felipe only knows that Mr. Saunders, that’s George, Sr., owns a car company here in town—Saunders’ Used Cars, something like that. And that his mother is the book keeper for the same company. That’s it.”

“So now we have to go through with it,” said Alex, with more resignation and irritation than he actually felt.

“I’m going through with it, with or without you,” said Darcy with resolution in his voice. “Look,” he said more gently, “it’s not such a . . . cracked idea, as you say. You’re just trying to be part of a healing process, that’s all. I like to think that we’re”—he held out both hands looked at them as if they were new to him—“that we are God’s hands and feet in this world. You know, like when you used to help build houses for Habitat for Humanity. Same thing. Or like an athlete trying for a goal. We have to put in the sweat, Alex, if we really feel it’s important.”

“Breaking a sweat,” said Alex with a sigh. “Well, I’m breaking one right now.”

“I know you’re nervous. So am I. But, hey, think of athletes. They have to break out in a sweat to accomplish their goal.”

Alex thought about that. He said, “Jim Thorpe—the name on the street we can’t find. He was that great athlete of Oklahoma, wasn’t he?”

“Of Oklahoma?” Darcy nearly shouted. “Try the world. He was the greatest athlete of his day, maybe of all time.” He paused and said more calmly, “You know what his Indian name means, Alex?”

“You know these details?”

“I’m not that smart. I just read up on him in the hotel magazine. Thorpe’s life was so full of triumph and tragedy, stuff we all learned in school. But what I never knew is the meaning of his name. Not Jim Thorpe, but his Indian name. He was raised as a Sac and Fox, and his native name was Wa-Tho-Huk, which literally means, ‘path lighted by great flash of lightning.’ Or, simply, ‘Bright Path.’”

“Bright Path,” repeated Alex. “Sounds like there’s a sermon in there somewhere.”

“No sermon, just kind of a nice image, don’t you think? Light is often used as a metaphor for the divine in Scripture. So I like that: bright path. Like a path lined with the thoughts of God. Compassion, healing, suffering, too. But always lit up with flashes of divine urgings for the well-being in the world.”

“Divine urgings? Like the ‘lure of God’ Madeline always talks about in her process philosophy?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Like a divine urging in every moment, just a quick flash of light in our path, directing us to actualize that particular brightness in the world.”

“Well, when you put it that way . . .” said Alex, now feeling ashamed for his cold feet and sweating brow.

Darcy, ever the preacher, continued, “And you, Alex, had an idea, that—I admit—I was slow to come around to. But I’ve prayed and meditated on it, and I’ve come to see your so-called ‘cracked’ idea as one of those flashes of light. You shared it with me, and now I’ve got the same flash of light in my own path. And I think we need to follow it.”

“But can’t it happen without us? I mean surely there are others better suited to intervene—”

Darcy cut him off with a shake of his head. “If we don’t follow up on these sudden flashes of what-might-be, what-could-be, then nothing will ever happen. God needs us. That’s how God works. That’s how goodness works. . ."

“What-might-be, what-could-be,” repeated Alex.

“Which means," said Darcy, "we take risks, especially when it comes to people you love.” He paused, and added, “Someone you think of as . . . a son?”

Slightly embarrassed, Alex glanced away toward the trees and houses–backlit by the waning sun. What time was it? 3:00? 3:30? Time was slipping away. Darcy knew how to hit the mark, he thought. Of course George was like a son to him. So was Darcy, for that matter. That was the occupational hazard of having no children of one's own.  And he had a point. What lengths does one go to for a loved one?

Darcy’s passion for his subject touched Alex, reminding him of Madeline in her youth, when they had first met. In the same way, he felt buoyed by Darcy’s youthful idealism; in fact, he felt back to his old—or rather young—self. Squinting into the bright afternoon sun, he pointed to the street sign only a few feet in front of them.

“There,” he said. “Jim Thorpe Avenue. Right in front of us. By George, I think we’ve got it.”