Norman's Comfort

NORMAN’S

COMFORT

NICHOLAS D. BROWN

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: 1-800-839-8640

NORMAN’S COMFORT is a novel, an original work of fiction by the author. All characters, activities, and dialogue are fictitious. All events, except obvious newsworthy events of the period, are likewise fictitious. Authorhouse and the author accept no legal liability due to these deliberate creations.

© 2011 Nicholas D. Brown. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 5/11/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4939-2 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4940-8 (dj)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-4941-5 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011904558

Printed in the United States of America

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

The author thanks:

Mark Schultz for his patience and skill in crafting the jacket.

Patty Howell for careful editing and much helpful advice.

In memory of my dear aunt, Sister Anthony Mary Fox, IHM,

whose prayers saved me then and sustain me still

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.

Reinhold Niebuhr

From his cradle to his grave a man never does a single thing which has any first and foremost object but one—to secure peace of mind, spiritual comfort, for himself.

Mark Twain

You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you discover will be wonderful. What you’ll discover is yourself.

Alan Alda

Contents

1. Playing House

2. The Breakup

3. A Woman Scorned

4. Norman’s Statement

5. Drummond Island

6. Banks Tilts

7. Wedding Bells

8. Norm’s Arrest

9. Norm’s Trial — Day 1

10. Norm’s Trial — Day 2

11. Norm’s Trial — Day 3

12. Norm’s Trial — Day 4

13. D-Day Remembered

14. Banks’ Failure

15. Norman’s Comfort

16. Doing Time

17. House Work

18. Housewarming

19. Goodbye, Stan

20. Time Off

21. Trenton

22. Home Again

23. Something Happened

24. Goodbye, Kay

25. The Last Layoff

26. FOR SALE

27. Shootout at the Point

28. Florida Bound

1. Playing House

Norman sat despondent, memories of wonderful Christmases-past serving only to deepen his depression. His attention was jarred back to the present by the resonant sound of the ship’s bell clock chiming the hour—two bells, five o’clock—the cocktail hour. He looked up for confirmation at the tarnished old timepiece stationed on the fireplace mantle. Feeling entitled, he quickly rose from the chair and headed for the bar-cart in the dining room. After pouring himself a Scotch on the rocks, he returned to his easy chair. Drinking eagerly, he considered his options: I’ll never be able to stay awake for the midnight Mass; the morning Masses are out; it looks like tonight’s seven o’clock vigil service is going to have to be it. After finishing off the drink he went upstairs to shave and shower.

Before lathering up, he stripped and checked his weight on the bathroom scale, the dial settling at 198 pounds. While twelve pounds more than his draft registration weight recorded thirty years earlier, his large-boned six-foot-two frame easily supported the poundage. Always vain about his appearance, he checked himself out in the bathroom mirror. As he inspected the gray hair around his temples, he noticed an incipient bald spot at the crown; he got out a hand-mirror to check out the area more closely. His attention then shifted to his face. The dime-sized, crater-shaped scar on his left cheek looked deeper and more sharply defined than he remembered. Maybe I ought to have a dermatologist look at it?

St. Luke’s Church was festively decorated with pine garlands gracing the walls, poinsettias on the altar, and the impressive Nativity diorama off to the side. Norm slipped into the last row just as the choir began to sing Silent Night. A trio of altar boys began their march down the aisle toward the altar, followed by a deacon and the pastor, Father Tom Reade. His mind preoccupied with thoughts of his next drink, Norm had trouble following the Mass. As the Communion service started, he slid out of the pew and headed for the parking lot.

When he got back home, he poured a whiskey and took a gulp before shedding his overcoat. He set the glass on the side table next to the gaily-wrapped presents from his siblings. He hefted Stu’s present, trying to guess what his brother had gotten him. No rattling inside—it must be clothes. Too heavy for a shirt—it has to be a sweater. He was proud of his detective work when he opened the box and found a navy-blue Izod sweater. He then felt a pang of guilt as he tried to recall whether he’d given Stu and fiancée Gail anything before their departure for the West Coast. Jane, a Boston resident, had always been more difficult to read. The card read: To Norm, From Jane & Richard. The box was heavy—too heavy for clothes. Shaking failed to produce any clues. It must have been memories of his last layoff—emptying the shelves of the engineering texts and reports—that gave him the inkling that it was books. He then recalled his sister phoning him weeks ago, fishing for information. He opened the package to find an assortment of books by his favorite authors: the latest novels from Updike and le Carré, along with a Graham Greene collection.

Norm went to the pantry and got a presto-log, setting it on the grate in the fireplace. After opening the damper, he crumpled up some papers and lit the log’s wrapper. As the log began to catch, he went over to the bar-cart to refresh his drink. It had been almost three months since his mother had passed away, leaving him alone in her house. There was no tree, no garlands, no cards or stockings on the mantle, but the little flaming log represented hope—saving him from getting completely lost in self-pity and despair.

He awoke at ten the next morning—two fingers of watered-down whiskey remained in the glass on the bedside table. All things considered, he didn’t feel too bad. He skipped the shave and shower, slipping into sweat pants and a jersey; he wasn’t going anywhere. After breakfast, he called his sister.

Trying to sound cheerful, he said, Merry Christmas from Maryland. I love the books—they’re all my favorites. It’s more than I deserve.

"I’m glad. We opened our loot last night. Thanks much. I… Jane paused before continuing. I’m concerned about you being alone."

I’m fine. Really, I’m fine.

Any developments on the job search?

He hesitated, trying to recall what he’d told her the last time they’d talked. Nothing definite but I’m working on it. As a matter of fact, I’m jazzing up my résumé on the computer as we speak. I better sign off now and get back to work. Give Richard my best—Merry Christmas.

Norm was upset after putting down the phone. Why did she have to put a damper on things by asking about the job? He calmed down a bit when he realized she wasn’t being unreasonable—after all, he had been out of work for over eight months. When he started to think about all that had happened during those months—about how he’d lost everything—the desire to have a morning drink became almost irresistible. He had to get out of the house; he slipped on his overcoat, hat, and gloves before leaving for a walk. An hour later, breathing hard, he stopped by the main entranceway to the University of Maryland. I’ll be pooped by the time I get back home. Stu should be up by then—I’ll call him and then take a nap.

Two days passed with Norm moping around the house, gradually working his way through his whiskey inventory. Monday night, he’d had a few drinks when cabin fever started to overpower him. At nine o’clock, he left the house and walked down a block-and-a-half to Route 1, heading into Riverdale. He crossed the highway at mid-block and turned left when he got to Riverdale Road. The temperature was forecast to drop into the teens and, despite his heavy clothing, the cold was starting to bother him by the time he got to the Pit Stop. About twenty motorcycles were lined up in front of the bar. What kinds of idiots ride bikes on a night like this? Norm entered, claimed a stool at the bar, and ordered a double-Dewar’s on the rocks.

The bartender, a hulking tattooed giant with a long pony tail, placed the drink in front of him and leaned over, asking in a low friendly voice, You sure you’re in the right place, partner?

Norm chuckled. Just as long as the Dewar’s holds out.

Memories of the bitter cold outside faded, as the soothing warmth of the whiskey raised Norm’s spirits. He swiveled around on the stool to survey the clientele—lots of jeans and leather—most of them under thirty with gals outnumbered two-to-one. He spotted a gaggle of good looking girls at the pool table over in the corner and headed their way, drink in hand. Putting a quarter on the rail next to two others, he backed away to observe the action. A short, blond chick ran the table on her scruffy-looking male opponent and called out, Next. Her next two victims fared no better.

Norm retrieved his quarter from the rail and deposited it in the slot for a fresh rack of balls. The blonde, Tiffany stitched on her denim jacket, pocketed two stripes on the break but carelessly missed her next shot. Norm, a notoriously bad shot, pocketed a duck but left himself lousy—a low percentage bank shot over the length of the table was his only hope. Against all odds, he made the shot and proceeded to make six more balls in succession—four of which were, due to his lack of cue-ball control, very-low-percentage shots. After pocketing the eight-ball, Norm rejected Tiffany’s plea for a rematch and returned to his stool at the bar. Even in his tipsy condition he was aware that it would have been foolish to push his luck.

He was sipping his drink when he heard the raucous, drunken drawl behind him, Hey citizen, you think you’re hot shit?

Norm slowly swiveled around to face a wispy-goateed, pink-faced boy with a barbed-wire tattoo strung around his neck; the kid stared at him with blood in his eye. Saying nothing, Norm merely laughed at the boy and turned back to the bar. A second later he saw something out of the corner of his right eye. The bartender’s arm shot across the counter and grabbed the kid’s arm, a split second before the beer mug in his hand reached Norm’s temple. The bartender jumped over the counter, his massive paw still clamped on the boy’s arm. Grabbing the troublemaker by his belt and collar, he marched him out of the saloon. Despite being drenched by twelve ounces of draft beer, Norm considered himself fortunate to have survived the attempted assault. Returning to his station, the barkeep apologized to Norm and offered him a bar-rag to mop up.

An attractive, leggy, thirtyish redhead slipped onto the stool next to him as he was drying off. I liked the way you handled that, killer. My name’s Pam. What’s yours?

Feigning fear, Norm cringed. You’re not going to hit me, are you?

She laughed. Not if you obey orders.

He felt no pain by the time they got to Pam’s apartment. After tearing off their clothing, she raced for the bedroom with Norm in hot pursuit. He stood admiring her naked body, sprawled out on the king-sized bed. Despite his semi-intoxicated condition, the titillating sight produced a rapidly growing heaviness between his legs. She looked up at him and barked, Come to attention, soldier. As if in response to the command, his cock began to rise to the present-arms position. He slipped into bed next to her, eagerly awaiting her next order.

He awoke at five and looked over to see Pam sleeping soundly. After retrieving his clothes from the living room, he dressed and was preparing to leave when a touch of guilt overcame him. He jotted down her number off the phone and left; pausing at the mailboxes, under 2-B he noted: Pam King.

Norm called her that evening. Seemingly glad to hear from him, she suggested they meet at the Calvert House, a quiet little restaurant right across the road from Riverdale Liquors.

He was sitting at the bar when she entered. Shedding her coat, she asked, How’d you beat me here? I left only five minutes ago.

My house is only three blocks away, about the same as your place. You’ve got lovely, long legs but, as you may have noticed, mine—while not as attractive—are longer.

After getting their drinks, they were escorted to a corner booth. Norm, always uncomfortable talking to someone at his side, sat across from her. He raised his glass saying, Here’s to the beautiful, young mystery-lady. Tonight, I’m giving the orders; tell me all about Pam.

She took a sip of her Jack Daniel’s and soda before answering. I’m thirty years old, divorced with no kids. I work in D.C. as a secretary with a large law firm. Born and raised in Iowa, I came here after college—I guess it’s a pretty common story, nothing special.

Norm signaled the waitress for another round before asking, A college-educated law-secretary socializing in the Pit Stop—what’s wrong with this picture?

She started to answer but decided to turn the tables on him. You don’t seem like typical Hells Angels’ material yourself. Suppose you let me know who I’m sitting across from.

Norm Beech was born on D-Day—that was June 6, 1944, a bit before your time, young lady. Raised in the nation’s capital, I was the oldest; I’ve got a younger sister and brother. Armed with a master’s degree in mechanical engineering, I relocated to Connecticut with my bride. I was going to set the world on fire but demon rum got in the way. I lost everything and returned here to be with my widowed mother.

Pam looked over at him saying nothing.

Norm took a drink and went on. It wasn’t easy but, with the help of my mom and her pastor, I was able to put the pieces back together. Father Bob Hopkins—also a recovering alcoholic—and I became very close friends. I got a great job and married a beautiful girl…

As he pondered how to continue, a waitress appeared to take their order. Pam ordered the shrimp scampi. After receiving their server’s endorsement, Norm ordered the same.

Pam asked, What happened next?

Kay got pregnant, but we lost the baby. She became depressed and then she left. I tried everything to locate her with no success. I thought my life was over, but my misery was just getting started.

He took a swallow of whiskey before continuing. Father Bob was murdered, and shortly afterward I was laid off from my job—that was eight months ago. Three months ago, my mom died from cancer; a month later, Bob’s murderer, Warren Ward, was let off by an idiotic jury. After eight years of sobriety, I couldn’t take it anymore and started drinking again.

I read something about the priest’s killer. Wasn’t he the one who committed suicide a couple of weeks ago?

Yeah. Ward hanged himself.

What happened to Kay?

After not hearing from her for a year, I started divorce proceedings. My lawyer was close to finalizing things when I got a call from her suggesting a meeting. I called off the lawyer, but Kay failed to show up for the meeting, and I never heard from her again. I got wrapped up in other things and never did go through with the divorce. It’s been over five years since I heard from her. I don’t think I’ll ever see her again but—

Norm was glad for the interruption when their salads arrived; he’d not meant to ramble on to such a degree. Being cooped up alone in that house has turned me into a motor-mouthed idiot!

After dinner, they walked back to her apartment. Their lovemaking was not as frantic as the previous match. They took turns initiating the kissing and fondling. He rolled over on top of her carefully supporting his weight on his elbows and knees, kissing her deeply as he caressed her face, her arms, her breasts. She reversed their positions, grinding her pubic mound up against his aroused member. Back and forth they went, both anxious to prolong the play.

Afterward, Pam eased out of bed and headed for the bathroom. A minute later she emerged, still enticingly naked, and went into the living room. Returning with the liquor-cart, she prepared drinks for them and slipped back into bed next to him.

Norm was alone in the bed when he awoke the next morning at nine-thirty. A note lay on her pillow: Gone to work. Love you, xxx

He was greeted by a cold blast of Arctic air when he exited the Oglethorpe Gardens. The sky was heavily overcast and the streetlights were still on. He hated the winters—not much better than Connecticut. He stopped at the liquor store, glad to get out of the cold; emerging with a quart of Dewar’s, he hastened home.

Norm spent the day watching TV—not really watching it—the set was on, but his mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Ward’s hanging. He glanced over at the clock, eagerly awaiting the cocktail hour. At four-thirty he could wait no longer and poured himself a drink. The whiskey failed to soothe his troubled mind—maybe the next one will do the trick. One drink led to another and by eight o’clock he’d drained half of the bottle.

Pam arrived at the house shortly after nine. Failing to get any response to the doorbell, she tried the door and found it unlocked. Entering the living room, she gasped when she saw him passed-out, sprawled in the easy chair. Unable to rouse him, she took off his shoes and covered him with a blanket. After pouring herself a bourbon, she sat on the sofa to begin her vigil.

At midnight, she was awakened by Norm’s drunken ravings. Lil’ bastard killed Bob—he’ll pay for it—I’ll get him. She got up and tried to rouse him, but he dropped off again. About thirty minutes later, she was once again awakened. Go to the park—string him up.

Norm awoke at five, disoriented—shocked to find Pam asleep on the sofa. Nauseous, he dragged himself upstairs to the bathroom and vomited in the toilet. After rinsing his mouth and splashing water on his face, he went downstairs to put coffee on. He was sitting at the dining room table, finishing up the paper, when Pam awakened at seven-fifteen.

She asked, Are you okay? You had a rough night.

Feeling sheepish, he replied, I’m fine.

I’ve got to get home and then to work. Promise me you’ll come over tonight for dinner. It’s New Year’s Eve, amateurs’ night—we’ll stay in.

Norm spent the day doing laundry and cleaning up around the house. His mother, despite holding a full-time job, had always kept the place spotless. He was not domestic—he wasn’t very good at anything he didn’t like doing. At five, he poured himself a whiskey, after which he shaved, showered, and dressed for his date with Pam. When he arrived at her apartment, he was greeted with the smell of meat sauce and spaghetti. Norm gave the meal a rave review—almost as good as Mom used to make.

After dinner, as they relaxed with drinks in the living room, Pam said, You talked a lot last night—about Father Bob’s murder, about Ward’s hanging. What happened? What’s bothering you?

He took a long drink before answering. After Ward was acquitted, I wanted to kill him; I even bought a gun. I confronted him one night in the park—he’d been drinking—then something happened; I started to feel sorry for him. Can you imagine—feeling sorry for the person who murdered your best friend? I couldn’t kill him, so I unleashed a verbal barrage of guilt on the kid and left him bawling like a baby. I went home and started drinking. The more I drank, the worse I felt about failing to avenge Bob’s murder—I even got to the point where I contemplated suicide. I was staggering drunk when I went back to the park to confront him. That’s all I can remember. I may have strung the kid up. He may have hanged himself, after I put that guilt trip on him. I just can’t remember—I blacked out. The next thing I can recall was being awakened the next morning by my neighbor’s phone call. She told me of a killing in the park. I went down and saw Ward hanging from a tree.

Pam seemed to mull the story over before asking, But you were drunk—how could you have done it?

The rope was already there—a child’s tire swing. Undo the tire and fashion a noose—not much to it.

I don’t think you did it.

Norm paused for a second to reflect. I don’t either, but it brings me little comfort. If I did kill him, maybe there was a chance for his repentance. On the other hand, I’m probably guilty of goading a drunken, remorse-stricken kid into taking his own life—condemning his soul for all eternity.

She reached over to clasp his hands. I don’t want you brooding about this all alone—it’s not healthy. How about moving-in with me for a while?

Thanks, but I don’t know if I’d be good company.

She gave him a provocative look. I can make it interesting for you.

Norm brought a suitcase over to Pam’s two days later. She’d already made room in the bedroom closet, emptied two drawers in the dresser, and cleaned off a shelf in the bathroom. He thought: This is great, like checking into a hotel. To celebrate the new living arrangement, they drove over to Ledo’s on University Boulevard for pizza and beer.

Norm awoke early and shuffled into Pam’s kitchen to get some coffee and read the paper. He was doing the crossword puzzle when she came in before leaving for work. He couldn’t believe his eyes. Her stylish black business-suit perfectly accentuated her tall, slender body. Her hair and makeup were flawless; she looked like a fashion model. She took a sip of his coffee before giving him a peck on the cheek and heading out the door.

That night, lying in bed, Pam said, Norm, I love you.

You don’t mean that; you don’t even know me. Don’t get serious on me. Let’s just take it a day at a time.

She looked over at him. I do love you.

The next two weeks grew increasingly difficult for Norm. Pam continued to commute to D.C. each day. He lounged around the apartment, occasionally getting out the vacuum or shopping at the Safeway. At night, they pulled the liquor-cart into the bedroom and partied. Pam was drinking more and more, desperately seeking Norm’s profession of love. His drinking also ramped up, as he sought to ease his troubled mind—What am I doing with my life, sponging off of Pam?—When am I going to go back to work?— The booze is killing me; when am I going to get back on the wagon?

Wednesday afternoon, it was almost two when Norm’s craving for alcohol began to kick into high gear. He knew he couldn’t wait for Pam to get home at six. He started pacing back and forth trying to get his mind off booze. Nothing seemed to work—he realized that he needed help. He looked up AA in the phone book and dialed the number. Despite his raspy voice, the man sounded pleasant, Intergroup, may I help you?

Suddenly feeling embarrassed and unsure of himself, Norm started having second thoughts. Painful memories from his past then checked the impulse to hang up. I’m an alcoholic. I need help. Can I come in to see you?

I’m just getting ready to knock off, but you’re welcome to come over to my place. I live in College Park—2335 Connor Street—just off Route 1, before you get to the Maryland Book Exchange. See you in about a half-hour. My name is Boyd.

2. The Breakup

Norm parked the Bronco in front of the neat-looking little Cape Cod. A ruddy-faced little man beckoned him from the front porch. Come on up. I’m Boyd Cutler and I’ll bet you’re the guy that called.

Taking the offered hand, he said, I’m Norm Beech; I appreciate you seeing me. I felt the old craving coming over me and didn’t know anyone else to turn to. I don’t know anything about AA—I’ve never been to a meeting.

Taking Norm’s coat, Cutler motioned for him to sit on the sofa, as he slipped into his easy chair. After firing up a Pall Mall, he asked, Like a smoke?

Norm held up his palm to decline. Thanks, but I gave ’em up eight years ago—a year after I thought I was over booze.

You thought you were finished with booze? I don’t understand.

A lot of bad things have happened to me recently. About a month ago it got to be too much. I started drinking again and it’s gotten worse and worse. I want to stop drinking and go back to work—to regain some control over my life.

After exhaling a cloud of smoke, Cutler said, I can help you. How about joining me in a cup of coffee?

The two men sat across from each other drinking their coffee and getting to know one another. Norm learned that the seventy-five year old gentleman had been dry for thirty-five years. The former fire-chief from Brockton, Massachusetts had moved to Maryland with his wife fifteen years earlier to be close to their only offspring, a son teaching at the university. Ten years ago, his wife had died, and shortly afterward, the son had moved to the West Coast. When Norm mentioned that he had lived in New England for thirteen years and his dad had been from Worcester, Cutler’s eyes lit up. They talked about Cape Cod, Rocky Marciano, Ted Williams, and the Red Sox…

Boyd—in those few minutes they had been together he was no longer Mr. Cutler—lit a fresh cigarette from the glowing stub of the old one. Every few minutes, he’d give in to a coughing spasm. The old man said, I like you Norm. You’re my kind of guy. He reached across the coffee table and handed Norm a piece of paper with his phone number on it. I’ll be your sponsor. If you ever need help—and I mean any time, night or day—call me. Tonight you’ll attend your first AA session. There’s a meeting at the Hyattsville Club at seven; you can pick me up at six-thirty.

After getting back to the apartment, Norm stretched out on the sofa for a nap. Awakened by the alarm at six, he found that Pam hadn’t arrived home from work. Before leaving, he scribbled a note: Meeting at 7.

Cutler was waiting on his front porch when he drove up at six-twenty-five. Norm watched the old man gingerly make his way down the stairs with the aid of a cane. Before getting in the car he stomped his feet on the curb explaining, Legs are nearly useless—probably the damn cigarettes.

As they drove back to Hyattsville, Cutler explained that there were two types of open meetings in AA. "Some meetings are devoted to a discussion of the principles of AA as contained in our bible, the so-called Big Book. Tonight’s meeting is the other type; a speaker will address the group. Bill Parker, an old pal of mine, is the headliner tonight."

Norm pulled up in front of the building to let Cutler out of the car. The old man grabbed his cane and headed toward a group of smokers clustered by the doorway as Norm hunted for a parking space. Cigarettes were being extinguished and the crowd was filing in by the time Norm got there. As he entered the large meeting room, he spotted Cutler motioning toward a table with a large urn. After helping himself to a coffee, Norm looked around the room. About fifty people were seated at tables, arranged like a horseshoe around the periphery of the room. Most of the attendees were well dressed, and women appeared to be in the majority.

As Norm was taking his seat, a young man walked to the front of the room and said, Welcome. This is an open meeting of the Hyattsville Club. Let us begin with a moment of silence.

All heads were cast downward for thirty seconds of private reflection. The leader broke the silence saying, And now, the serenity prayer.

Norm listened as the audience recited in unison, God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.

The young man then said, Hi, everybody. I’m Ned and I’m an alcoholic.

The audience roared back, Hi, Ned.

A woman on the other side of the room spoke up, Hi, everyone. I’m Rose and I’m an alcoholic.

The audience responded in unison, Hi, Rose.

The man next to her then rose to his feet, I’m Bob and I’m an alcoholic.

The group shouted out, Hi, Bob.

On and on it went around the room, the audience’s greetings seeming to get more enthusiastic with each declaration. As Boyd sat down, following his announcement, Norm rose. With a lump in his throat, he managed to get out, I’m Norm and I’m an alcoholic. When he heard the group sing out, Hi, Norm, all of his nervousness seemed to melt away—he was now one of them.

After introductions were complete, a tall, distinguished-looking, silver-haired gentleman walked to the head of the room and announced, Hi, everybody. I’m Bill. Waiting a fraction of a second, he added with a chuckle, And, believe it or not, I too am an alcoholic.

The audience roared, Hi, Bill.

When things quieted down, Bill began. As you can see by the grey hair, I’ve been around for a few years. I’ve played the game for eighty-one years. You know the game—we all play it—the game of life. I’ve had my share of successes and failures. Some days, I’d go four-for-four at the plate and other days, I can’t seem to get the bat off my shoulder.

Norm sat transfixed by the speaker’s easy, friendly, and yet forceful delivery. A transparency was projected on the front wall showing a three-legged stool. The legs were marked: Mind, Body, and Spirit.

Bill began, We’re all built like this stool. Now some of you may be thinking, This guy’s nuts. I’m no stool; I’ve got two legs. He paused before adding, We can’t see our third leg, the Spirit or, if you prefer, the Soul—but believe me, without it we would topple as surely as a two-legged stool."

The speaker took his time, looking around the room, trying to establish contact with each listener. "A high quality stool, supported by three strong legs, can carry a heavy load. Notice that if any one of the legs is