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  Both times Wilhelmina had talked to Mike Dolan he’d been smiling. He seemed to be at peace with the world as he calmly plotted to do what he thought was best for his family. If he was pretending to be undisturbed, he was a very convincing actor.

  “No, he didn’t appear to be upset,” she said. “In fact, he seemed quite calm about it all.” Wilhelmina opened her purse and rummaged through it. “I have his card here, somewhere. Couldn’t you talk to him, Pastor?”

  Reverend Stockman shook his head. “I can’t drop by his home uninvited. This is a very delicate situation, Miss Brewster.”

  “Oh, dear. Then there’s nothing we can do?”

  “Well, I think someone should talk with him again. And since you’ve established the initial contact with him, I think it should be you.”

  Wilhelmina’s eyes grew wide. “Me? I’m not a minister or a trained counselor!” The thought of returning to Mr. Dolan’s shabby little house repulsed her.

  “I understand your fears, Miss Brewster. But you are a fine Christian woman, and I’m sure that God can help you find a way to share the gospel with this man. If he accepts Christ, you see, he may decide not to kill himself after all.”

  Wilhelmina shuddered. She couldn’t possibly do it. She had felt rebuffed when Mr. Dolan rejected the offer of hospice services. The thought of offering him the gospel of Jesus Christ to reject was unthinkable.

  “Did he leave an opening for you to visit him again?” the pastor prodded. “I know it’s difficult to go where you’re unwelcome, but can you think of a valid reason to talk to him?”

  The out-of-tune piano. Mr. Dolan couldn’t stop fussing about it. It would be a reasonable excuse to see him again. Wilhelmina knew it was her Christian duty to help Mr. Dolan find Christ. But she simply did not want to do it. She had come to the church hoping to dump Mike Dolan in the pastor’s lap and forget about him. Now she found herself in the uncomfortable position of explaining to her evangelical pastor that she wanted no part in winning Mr. Dolan’s eternal soul. She had never witnessed to anyone in her life. She was a musician. Her ministry to the Body of Christ was music, not evangelism.

  “I’ll have to give it some thought,” she said, as she rose to leave. “I might run into him again at the Cancer Center. Thank you for your time, Pastor. I know you’re busy.”

  “You’re very welcome. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help to you. But please, let me know how this works out, alright?”

  Wilhelmina felt worse than before. She hurried back to her car and stormed out of the parking lot, the gravel spitting beneath her tires. As she roared past the front of the church the words on the message board struck her like a rebuke:

  I am the resurrection and the life.

  He who believes in me will live, even though he dies.

  (John 11:25)

  Wilhelmina knew she could never witness to Mike Dolan. She had no idea what to say to someone like him or how to say it. But someday soon she would undoubtedly read a story in the newspaper about his death in an airplane crash. She wondered how she would she live with her guilt when she did.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, September 15, 1987

  Wilhelmina stared out of the parsonage window, watching golden maple leaves drift to the ground one by one. She ached with restlessness, longing for something useful to do and somewhere else to go besides this sleepy women’s Bible study led by Pastor Stockman’s wife, Ellen. Wilhelmina would have considered it a waste of time if she hadn’t had so much time to waste.

  She’d only attended afternoon Bible study classes since the beginning of September, but already she found them dull. Her faith and her relationship with Christ were deeply personal, and she disliked sharing details of them with anyone else. She also hated trying to fill in the correct responses in the study booklet, as if the answers to all the questions of life could be stuffed into those tiny blank spaces. Real life seldom came with simple answers.

  These classes were designed for lonely old ladies with nothing better to do, not for Wilhelmina Brewster. At least not until this year. How she missed the youthful energy of her college students, their enthusiasm and zest for life. She had often caught them gazing out of the window on beautiful days like today, paying little attention to her lectures on baroque and renaissance music, and probably wishing they were outside on the college lawn with their friends. For the first time in her life, Wilhelmina understood how they’d felt.

  She took a sip of lukewarm coffee and leaned back on the sofa. Mrs. Stockman had decorated the cozy living room of the parsonage with Bible verse plaques and olive wood souvenirs from the Holy Land and furnished it comfortably with plump sofas and chairs. It was a haven of calm, with everything neatly organized, carefully dusted, and smelling of potpourri. Except for the slightly worn rugs, no one would ever guess that the Stockmans had raised three sons in this house.

  Seated beside Wilhelmina, Carol Nugent had her Bible open to Exodus, Chapters 3 and 4. Wilhelmina found the same place in her own Bible, then opened her study booklet to today’s lesson. The answer blanks were all empty! She had forgotten to do her homework or read the lesson ahead of time. All her life she’d prided herself on her efficiency. Why had she suddenly become so careless and unorganized? She detested those attributes in others.

  She stole a peek at Mrs. Stockman to see if she’d noticed the barren pages, but Ellen was chatting happily about the lesson and paying no attention to Wilhelmina. The pastor’s wife was a pretty, plumpish woman with graying blond hair and a warm, welcoming smile. She seemed to have been born with a sweet disposition and Wilhelmina couldn’t imagine Ellen losing her temper or kicking the family dog. A dozen markers stuck out of Ellen’s Bible, and her graceful writing spilled out of the answer blanks into the margins of her booklet. She clearly enjoyed her role as teacher, but Wilhelmina felt uncomfortably out of place as a student.

  Wilhelmina tilted her study guide upright to conceal her crime and glanced at today’s lesson title: “Saying Yes to God.” She made a face. She didn’t care to say anything to God and recognized, with a start, that she was mad at Him. Mad at God! She’d served Him faithfully for 41 years at the college, giving up everything else to make teaching her whole life, but God had snuffed out that life as quickly and thoroughly as candles on a birthday cake. All He’d offered her in place of teaching was this sleepy Bible study and charitable volunteer work, poor substitutes indeed for her life as a college professor. Yes, she was angry at God.

  She swallowed the remainder of her tepid coffee and leaned forward to place the cup on a coaster, determined to concentrate on the lesson in spite of her lingering bitterness.

  “God may not always take ‘no’ for an answer,” Mrs. Stockman was saying. “We’ll see in this passage how many times Moses tried to avoid God’s calling on his life. Let’s go around the circle, shall we, ladies? And each take a turn reading?” She nodded toward the woman on her right, who began to read:

  “Moses said to God, ‘Who am I, that I should go to Pharaoh and bring the Israelites out of Egypt?’”

  For some bizarre reason the verse reminded Wilhelmina of Mike Dolan. Moses’ words seemed to echo her defiant protest to Pastor Stockman; “I’m not a minister or a trained counselor!” She blushed at the memory, then glanced at her watch. Forty-five minutes until freedom.

  Time dragged ponderously by. Mrs. Stockman seemed to teach in slow motion. Wilhelmina’s attention wandered as the ladies talked on and on. Her jaw ached from stifling yawns.

  “. . . Even after all these promises,” Mrs. Stockman said, “how did Moses answer God?”

  One of the women in the circle read: “What if they do not believe me or listen to me?”

  Wilhelmina shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. Once again she had the uncanny feeling that Moses’ attitude toward Pharaoh resembled her attitude toward Mike Dolan. Their reactions had been too similar; “I couldn’t possibly do it!” The room felt hot and stuffy. She stared out of the window.

  Caro
l Nugent read next: “And Moses said, ‘O Lord, I have never been eloquent. ... I am slow of speech and tongue.’”

  “And my ministry is in music, not evangelism!” Wilhelmina wanted to shout.

  Mrs. Stockman smiled sweetly at Wilhelmina. “But God assured Moses that He would help him, didn’t He?” she said.

  Wilhelmina’s heart pounded. Why were her hands shaking? She stared at her lap, afraid that her guilty conscience was evident, like the blackened tongue of a naughty child who had pilfered her grandmother’s licorice. Wilhelmina heard the animated discussion, but the words were unintelligible to her. She wished she could go home. Suddenly the room grew still. She looked up.

  “Professor Brewster, it’s your turn,” Ellen Stockman said. “Read verses 12 and 13, please.” Wilhelmina gripped her Bible tightly and cleared her throat.

  “‘Now go; I will help you speak and will teach you what to say.’ But Moses said, ‘O Lord, please send someone else to do it.’”

  She nearly choked on the words.

  These verses were more than a 4,000-year-old dialogue between Moses and God. Wilhelmina felt the overwhelming conviction that God was speaking to her. He was commanding her to go to Mike Dolan just as He’d commanded Moses to go to Pharaoh. And, like Moses, she was responding to God with excuses, telling Him to send someone else.

  If only she had someone to talk to about all of this. She didn’t dare go back to Pastor Stockman and confess her failures and misgivings, much less admit to him that she was angry at God. She was the church organist, for goodness sake. What would he think of her? And Mrs. Stockman seemed sweetly oblivious to the harsh realities of suicide and terminal illness. Wilhelmina had the urge to confide in Carol Nugent, just to get everything off her chest, but Carol’s biggest weakness was her prying curiosity. Wilhelmina knew her friend would never be content until she had extracted the whole story from her, including Mr. Dolan’s terrible plan to end his own life. No, she couldn’t talk to Carol.

  Wilhelmina looked down at her Bible, curious to see what God’s response had been when Moses refused his assignment. The next verse read: “Then the lord’s anger burned against Moses.”

  Wilhelmina had learned this familiar story ages ago, in Sunday school. She knew that in the end Moses went to Pharaoh. It was one thing to be mad at God and quite another to have Him mad at you. She could feel the heat of God’s anger now, as real as any burning bush. The fire would probably blaze hotter and hotter until she finally agreed to go to Egypt and talk to Pharaoh—or in her case, Mike Dolan.

  All around Wilhelmina, ladies were closing their Bibles and zipping them shut, stuffing them in purses and tote bags. The Bible study was over at last.

  “As we close in silent prayer today,” Mrs. Stockman said, “let’s examine our hearts for any area of our lives where we may be saying ‘no’ to God.”

  Wilhelmina bowed her head. For several long minutes she wrestled with her lingering bitterness, unable to pray. OK, Lord, she finally managed. I suppose I can think of some way to talk to Mr. Dolan again. But You’ll have to help me. I am certainly not very good at this.

  “Amen,” Mrs. Stockman said. “Thank you for coming, ladies. And remember, if you say ‘yes’ to God, He’ll help you accomplish the task.”

  After she dropped off Carol, Wilhelmina began formulating a plan that would rid her conscience of Mr. Dolan with a minimum of effort. First she stopped at the Christian bookstore and purchased two tracts. The Plan of Salvation had a picture on the cover of Jesus knocking on a door. The other pamphlet was ominously titled Where Will You Spend Eternity? and showed a golden city in the clouds, high above a burning lake of fire and brimstone. The two tracts would spell out the whole story for Mr. Dolan. The choice to accept or reject Jesus would be his alone.

  When she reached home she pulled out the phone book, anxious to complete her plan. First she called Anthony Amato, her piano tuner, and arranged to meet him at the Cancer Center tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. Next she called the center to schedule the appointment with them. Finally, with a deep breath and a firm resolution, she took out Mr. Dolan’s business card and dialed his number.

  “Hello, Dolan Aviation.” The sound of an engine droned in the background.

  “Good afternoon. May I speak with Mr. Dolan, please?”

  “Sure. Which one do you want?”

  Wilhelmina looked down at the card. “Michael G. Dolan, please.”

  “Sure thing. Hang on . . . Hey, Dad! It’s for you.” The engine shut off, and a few moments later Wilhelmina heard Mike’s cheerful voice.

  “This is Mike. How can I help you?”

  “Hello, Mr. Dolan, this is Wilhelmina Brewster. I—”

  “Well, hey there, Professor. How are you?”

  “Very well, thank you. I’m calling about the piano at the Cancer Center and—”

  “Hey, that’s great! Did you get it all fixed up?”

  She wished he would stop interrupting and allow her to finish, but she held her tongue. “My piano tuner is scheduled to go to the center tomorrow at 2 p.m. If you’d like to come and—”

  “That would be great! I’ve never watched anyone tune up a piano before. Will you be there?”

  “Yes, I plan to be there.”

  “Well, OK then. It’s a date. See you at two tomorrow. Bye now.”

  Wilhelmina’s hand shook as she replaced the receiver. The fact that he’d called their appointment a “date” made her uneasy, but it couldn’t be helped. She placed the two tracts in her purse, along with a brochure about her church, and snapped it shut. Her plan was in motion. She would meet him at 2:00, give him the pamphlets, and be free at last from any guilt concerning Michael G. Dolan’s eternal soul.

  *****

  By 1:30 the following afternoon Wilhelmina’s nerves felt as tightly stretched as piano wire. She had spent all morning dreading this appointment and, at the same time, anxiously waiting to get it over with—like going to the dentist to have an aching tooth pulled, she decided. Her palms were damp with sweat, and she had trouble pulling on the short gray gloves that matched her gray wool suit. She locked the front door, made sure the tracts were still in her purse, and was about to leave through the kitchen door when the phone rang. She let out a startled cry. This whole messy business had made her much too jittery. She snatched up the receiver.

  “Oh, Professor Brewster, I’m glad I caught you. This is Angela Amato.” She sounded breathless. “Tony won’t be able to tune that piano for you today after all. He hurt his back this morning tuning a spinet.”

  “Oh, no!” Wilhelmina closed her eyes. Now what was she supposed to do?

  “He’s at the chiropractor’s right now, but he’ll call you when he’s ready to go back to work, maybe in a couple days. Those little spinets are so hard to tune, you know? Real back-breakers! I told him he should charge more, but he—”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Amato. Have him call me when he’s well again.” After she’d slammed the receiver down, Wilhelmina realized she hadn’t offered any sympathy for the poor man. But there hadn’t been time for it. She had to intercept Mr. Dolan before he made a trip to the Cancer Center for nothing. She dug in her purse for his card, then dialed the number.

  “Dolan Aviation. Good afternoon.” Again, Wilhelmina heard the whine of engines in the background.

  “May I speak with Mr. Michael Dolan, please.”

  “Sorry, Ma’am, he’s not here. Left about 10 minutes ago. Said he’d be back around five.”

  Wilhelmina hung up the phone without even saying good-bye. Why were all her carefully laid plans going awry? It would be very awkward talking to Mr. Dolan now, without chatty Mr. Amato and the diversion of the piano being tuned. She’d have to confront him alone, and the memory of her last conversation with him filled her with dread. They came from two completely different worlds. They had absolutely nothing in common except the out-of-tune piano. Now they didn’t even have that.

  “Oh, confound it all!” she said aloud. She could
postpone this meeting, but then she would have to go through a long morning of worry and stress all over again. No. She wanted to give him the tracts and get it over with. But what on earth could they talk about?

  Without warning, the words of Moses echoed through her mind, “O Lord, I’m not eloquent. . . ,” and her anger at God leaped to life like a brushfire. Of all the Christians in this city, why did God have to choose her to witness to Mr. Dolan? And how could a loving God wrench her career away from her? Wilhelmina could no longer control her tears, and that made her angrier still. She slammed the back door on her way out, stalked to her car, and drove blindly to the Cancer Center.

  When Wilhelmina entered the lobby, Mike Dolan stood with his back to her, baseball cap in hand, chatting with the receptionist. He wore dark green work coveralls with the Dolan Aviation logo on the back. When he turned around to greet her she saw “Mike” embroidered in red above his front pocket.

  “Hi, Professor, good to see you again.” He smiled warmly and extended his hand. His clothes were neat, his hands clean, but a residual odor of engine oil seemed to trail in his wake.

  “I tried to reach you earlier, Mr. Dolan, but you’d already left. Mr. Amato can’t tune the piano today. He hurt his back this morning.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Is he going to be all right?”

  “I expect so. Back problems are an occupational hazard for piano tuners.”

  “Is that right? I never knew that. Guess you learn something new every day.”

  “I’m sorry you had to waste a trip.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem, Professor. My son’s probably glad to have me out of his hair for a while.”

  Wilhelmina had no idea how to respond. There was an awkward silence. She wished she could simply shove the tracts in his hand and say good-bye, but that would be much too rude. Mike broke the silence first.