An Evening of Eternity
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Slicing up cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, and some romaine lettuce for a light dinner, I eased into my evening routine: preparing a meal, greeting my wife with an almost perfunctory kiss, engaging in a little conversation about the somewhat banal details of the workday routine, the same-old, same-old. Mary, my life partner (we used to say spouse or even wife, but times have changed) scoured the mail for the bills that came with the end of the month. She called it the end-times. To alleviate the tedium, I clicked up the volume of the TV news. I never really watched much of the news, just listened to detached voices droning on about the same-old, same-old with occasional loud rants by politicians. After a while, it all blends into background music—a repetitive droning interrupted by the jarring clash of political cymbals. But listening isn’t quite as annoying as watching would be. I don’t mind missing the pasted on smiles of the anchors anyway. While I listened to the litany of murders, robberies, rising prices, and predictions about the weather and the next football game, I continued with my repetitive chop-chops. But then a scream roared out of the TV, “Lord Jesus, help us.” This distressed cry could have referred to the latest random drive-by shooting, the sky high increase in rents that would certainly throw more people out onto the streets, the corrupt politicians who had taken yet another bribe, or sundry other calamities—so many, in fact, that most of us had grown numb to the seemingly endless river of violence greed, and corruption that threatened to drown us all—even people like me who had taken refuge in the safety of our homes, an illusion like a thin veneer of ice coating an isolated pool of deadly waters, at once so serene and so malevolent. “Lord Jesus, help us,” indeed. We’re all skating on thin ice. Mary took a few bites from the plate that lay in front of her. “Looks as if we’ll have to cut back even more on our grocery bill—either that or dip into our modest savings. Still, we have something to eat. There’s a lot of people worse off.” “I don’t know, Mary, some people must be raking in the big bucks. They’re building more and more of those half a million or more dollar homes. I don’t think we could even afford to pay the real estate taxes on some of the McMansions.” “Yeah, Pete, at the same time those tent cities are springing up in the parks where the kids used to play soccer. And I don’t think that one port-a-pottie can service eighty or more campers. The invisible poor aren’t as invisible as they used to be.” We cleaned up the dishes. As I silently placed the dishes into the dishwasher, I entertained a quite unoriginal digression. “Why do we say cleaned up or listen up or, in my case screw up? U P—do I pee up or down or all around?” Neither original nor profound, my thoughts drifted her and there as if I were vainly trying to keep myself from doing anything worthwhile or thinking anything of substance. I suppose I was growing meaninglessly monotonous like the voices on the TV. I had degenerated into the very insipid, sophomoric thoughts that I claimed to abhor. “A penny for your thoughts, Pete.” “They’re not worth that much.” “So, you’re basically telling me to mind my own business.” “I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t know. My mind’s a foggy mess right now. I feel lost and rudderless on some river that’s drifting to no place in particular.” “Now that the kids are grown and on their own, I know what you mean. When we were younger and had no time to think, we yearned for the freedom for our minds to wander. Now, we wander but don’t know where we’re going. “Well, in the short term, I know where I’m going. I’m headed to bed even if it’s only eight o’clock.” “So, to paraphrase you, you’re essentially telling me that I should mind my own business.” “No, Mary, I’m just tired in mind and body and soul, just worn out. I’ll probably feel better in the morning. “Well, pleasant dreams, Pete. I’ll join you in a little while after I finish cleaning the floor. With that, I trudged upstairs to bed. Drunk. Blottoed. Wasted. I hadn’t even had a drink, but I kept bumping into things—like the bathroom door I just banged into. Wandering aimlessly in the miasma of my mind. I must be just some kind of self-centered , sixty something adolescent. Eight o’clock. What did Poor Richard say, “Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise”? Early to bed means I’ll wake up at four am, eyes wide open and stomach growling, and mind still wandering around aimlessly. I heard that old Ben himself never followed the advice of Poor Richard; he just frolicked about in the luxury of the French court, a natural man in a most unnatural place. With that, my mind transported me back over two centuries ago to the bewigged world of the powdered and perfumed aristocrats, hermetically sealed off from the maddening crowd outside. Soon they would be dragged off from the palace to the guillotine with matted hair lying in a pool of blood. “Snap out of it, old Pete. You’re making me sick, and it takes a lot to make my stomach churn.” “What!? Who’s there?” I shouted but only in my mind. My body lay motionless on the bed. Not even my lips parted. Still I spoke but no sounds came from my mouth. “Pete, you’re taking yourself way too seriously. Look around, there’s a gorilla in theAn updated and slightly quirky tale loosely based on
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About the Book
Pete and Mary find their humdrum life interrupted dramatically by a spirit from the past. All on the surface appears banal and excruciatingly normal, but this ordinary couple must grapple with questions that otherwise they would have conveniently and blithely ignored. The title suggests one of the key questions that Mary and Pete explore. How can an evening—a measure of time—co-exist with eternity? How does time—a measure of past, present and future co-exist with an everlasting now, an eternity? Other questions abound once their comfortable but banal routine explodes with the arrival of these uninvited guests. Do animals possess a spirit? What happens when animals school humans? Is there a hell, and, if so, what is like? What of purgatory and heaven? These and other questions perplex the couple as they spend a most unusual evening of eternity.
About the Author
Patrick Conley has spent his entire life immersed in fiction. He grew up in a family that treasured books. Both his father and his brother taught English for over thirty years. His mother and grandmother devoted what little spare time they had to reading. So, it’s no surprise that Patrick taught English for forty-five years after earning his Ph. D. From The Ohio State University. He enjoys time with his family and in his spare time enjoys writing fiction. Some of his more recent books include two works that act as sequels to Conversations with the Living and the Dead—A Convocation of Five and Dialogues Among the Species. His more recent works include Two Quests in an Age of Uncertain Spirits and Broken Families, Dreams and Hopes. These and other of his works are available on Amazon.