Since his failed date with Molly, which appeared more and more like a debacle, Ben Seiberson saw less and less of Jake.
They were still good friends, fond of each other, even loving. But their connection, vague, based on youthful amusement and the novelty of finding one another in the same place at the same time, had weakened.
They were heading in different directions. Ben was foolish, in Jake’s opinion. In the fight for riches, you grabbed the riches, however they might arrive. If Ben, dreamy, idealistic, thought he could get what he wanted on his own, well, good luck with that.
Jake wasn’t for dreaming. Or waiting. He was for grabbing. And grabbing with both hands.
This wasn’t always so.
A year earlier, at the same golf course, sitting on identical fairway mowers, Jake made a startling announcement. He pulled up beside his friend and turned off the ignition. “Maybe I should be a priest.”
“Excuse me?” This couldn’t have been more confusing to Ben. A vow of celibacy? The faces of women turned to Jake Hooker like sunflowers to the sun. From the age of thirteen he had been a man of women.
He sighed, looking at the broad-topped oaks lining the fairway. “I feel guilty.”
“Do you know anything about priests?” said Ben. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I know enough to know I’ve been a real bastard. Maybe it’s a way to make amends.”
“That’s pretty extreme, Jake.”
“Maybe. But it’s the way I feel.”
Ben recognized a crisis. He was certain it wouldn’t last. In the meantime he gave Jake a book, Siddhartha, by Herman Hesse. Siddhartha, a Nepalese prince, also seeks redemption, and embarks on a spiritual quest through renunciation of earthly pleasures. It doesn’t end well. But maybe Jake wouldn’t get that far. Or at least he would come to his senses.
“It’s the work of the devil!” Jake’s mother cried. He had foolishly left the book on their kitchen counter.
Mrs. Hooker’s eyes were wide with horror. A devout Catholic, she saw enormous risk in any unconventional inquiry. And the Hindus were anything but conventional. “Where did you get such a book?”
“From Ben.”
“Ben!” His dark, clever, possibly Jewish face appeared before her. She always knew there was something wrong with that boy. “I forbid you to read it!”
“It’s just a book.”
“There’s no such thing.” Thank God neither she, Jake, nor any of the Hookers were big readers. “Pray with me, Jacob.”
“Come on, Mom.”
She started without him, closing her eyes. “Our father, who art in heaven.” It was all she could think of.
“Will you stop? I only took it to make Ben happy.”
“Hallowed be thy name…”
Her strong, resolute, handsome face resembled his. She had been beautiful. She was still beautiful, with heavy, golden hair just beginning to fade. Her large face and hazel eyes with long-lashes, high cheekbones, and square shoulders always reminded Jake exactly where he came from, and how lucky he was.
Unlike his two older sisters. They had not been so lucky. They inherited their father’s pinched, disappointed face. All they got from their mother was a big nose.
Mrs. Hooker stopped praying. “Jake, why don’t you come to church this Sunday?”
“Oh Mom.”
“Please, honey.”
Jake gave up. He was powerless before all women. “I will.”
“You will?”
“I promise.”
“Thank you. And throw away that book.”
“I’ll give it back to Ben.” This was good enough for her. Ben’s soul was already lost. She kissed him on the forehead.
But Jake didn’t return the book. Not right away. That night he lay on his narrow cot on the porch, his bedroom since he was a small boy. The highway could be heard through s dozen single-pane windows. Trains rattled him awake. Even his friends, low as they were on the social totem pole, didn’t grow up sleeping on their porch.
Even inside his own home he was on the outside, looking in. Jake opened Siddhartha.
He didn’t get far.
Siddhartha is a Nepalese Brahmin, born to wealth. And yet he is unhappy. Renouncing his position, he becomes a poor wanderer. Going from poor to poor might make some kind of twisted sense. But rich to poor, and on purpose? This made no sense at all to Jake. It seemed actually insane.
He put Siddhartha down and turned off the lamp. A train whistle, long and lonesome, sounded in the night.
Soon the floor rumbled under his bed. Maybe Jake’s book was the work of the devil. Maybe not. There were all kinds of devils. One was that damned Burlington Northern, heading for Peoria.
Richard Donnelly lives in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Classic flyover land. Which makes us feel just a little… superior. He publishes a weekly column of essays on the writing life at richarddonnelly.substack.com