Infinite Sadness(Barry) Tap. Tap. Tap. Michael Levin awoke to the sound of knocking ever so lightly on the garage door. Turgid as blackstrap molasses, his brain refused to cooperate. Should he get up and see who was there or roll over and drift back into the dreary dreamscape that in recent weeks passed for sleep?

It certainly wasn’t his boss calling to see where he was at ten-thirty in the morning. He fired Michael six months earlier in the middle of June. “Collect your belongings and get the hell out of here. We’ll pay a full week’s pay just to be rid of you.”

His fiancée, Bernice, certainly wouldn’t be dropping by unannounced. She called the wedding off the week before Christmas. The function manager at the country club refused to return the thousand dollar retainer but she didn’t care. Just like his job, their marriage went up in an opaque cloud of sooty smoke. The bridal shower and honeymoon in Cancun were nothing more than bittersweet memories.

Family? Michael last saw his parents when they dropped him off in the emergency room of Brandenburg Hospital. Once admitted to the psychiatric unit, Dr. Melvin assured Michael that he would have plenty of time to spend with family and friends once the medication kicked in and his ‘condition’ was properly stabilized.

No, he wouldn’t answer the door. Nothing needed his attention. Humanity wasn’t worth the bother; he would much rather go back to sleep.

Tap. Tap. Tap. There it was again, a feathery-soft thumping that was barely audible, not the least bit insistent. Crawling off the mattress, Michael went and cracked the door. A middle-aged woman dressed in an eggshell white nun’s habit and wimple was standing on the threshold. “Michael Levin?”

“Yes?”

A willowy, sallow-faced woman in her early sixties, the woman was painfully near-sighted. Wearing wire-rimmed glasses fitted with Coke bottle lenses, she reminded him of the comical cartoon character, Mr. Magoo, who wherever he went, caused unintended calamities. “I’m Sister Angelique from Saint Anthony’s Hospital and I’ve come to see how you’re doing.”

“Today’s not a good day.” Bleary-eyed and haggard, his lips twitched as he spoke.

Stepping out of the bright sunshine into the darkened, musty room, the nun replied, “All the more reason for me to spend time with you.”

Since his nervous breakdown, Michael had been living in a small garage converted into a living space; from a disability check he paid a modest rent to the elderly widow who lived in the adjoining house. The room was a mess with clothes strewn on the floor and empty food containers peppering a moss green card table.

Sister Angelique glanced obliquely at the man. “If we’re going to have a pleasant visit, it would nice if you put some pants on.”

Michael glanced down at his paisley boxer shorts. “Yes, of course.” Grabbing a pair of dungarees dangling on the back of a metal chair, he disappeared into the bathroom. When he reemerged, she noted that, if nothing else, at least his brown hair had been combed. “I’m Jewish, if that makes a difference.”

Sister Angelique waved her hand dismissively. “Not in the least.” She leaned up against the door jamb. “Following your most recent depression, Mr. Melvin recommended a course of ECT, electroconvulsive shock therapy.”

“I was in a bad way,” Michael confirmed, “completely non-functional.” He cracked a bittersweet smile. “My last name, what day of the week it was… I couldn’t remember much of anything for a week or two after the final session.” The young man chuckled self-consciously and flashed a sheepish grin. “An insidious sickness snuck up from behind, bushwhacked me; I lost my peace of mind and, in large part, my sanity.” Michael sat down on the edge of the unmade bed. “Would you like some coffee?”

Sister Angelique fingered a gold cross hanging from her neck. “A cup of coffee would be nice.”

Michael had a small hot plate and single-serve electric coffee maker set up on the flimsy card table. At the bathroom sink he filled the tin coffee pot and plugged the cord into an outlet. “A bit primitive, but it’s the best I can manage under the circumstances.”

* * * * *

Six years earlier in high school Michael Levin was the varsity, star athlete. He could toss a dozen basketballs from the free throw line – swoosh, all net - without missing a single shot. Of course when a shot went awry, Michael Levin became unreasonably upset, cursing and stamping his feet like a lunatic. People thought the behavior odd, a tad bit eccentric, but his physical prowess was undeniable.

On the baseball field his fast ball had been clocked at a sizzling ninety miles an hour. From pitcher’s mound to batter’s box a sneaky curveball veered hard left and proved unhittable. Michael also was a superb infielder. Shortstop, third base – it made no difference. He sucked up lightning-fast grounders like a human vacuum cleaner. All that ended when the doctors put him on lithium carbonate. The medication leveled out his mood swings but left him nauseous with a metallic taste in his mouth. His pitching hand developed tremors, and, even following a decent night’s sleep, he felt lethargic.

On the plus side, the medication grounded him. No more mood swings or volatile, emotional upheavals. Unfortunately, it also put the kibosh to his athletic prowess, and potential scholarships – several colleges were scouting the talented youth – dried up.

Sharing these tattered bits of historical minutiae with Sister Angelique, Michael spoke without bitterness or animosity. Rather, the wreckage tumbled out, helter-skelter, like a modern-day Greek tragedy.

* * * * *

After leaving the converted garage, Sister Angelique wandered downtown to Saint Anthony’s, a small church across from the town library. She said her prayers, kissed her rosary beads and sat quietly in a darkened back row, trying, with little luck, to make sense of her meeting with Michael Levin.

“Sister Angelique,” a strident voice jolted the older woman from her reveries. Father Carlson was standing alongside her pew. “What brings you here today?”

Cringing, she managed a tepid smile. Each Sunday Father Carlson gave bombastic sermons on nothing of any great substance. When reciting Hail Marys, his voice thundered above those of the parishioners, as though he would deny them the right to petition God in their own, humble fashion. Toward the end of each sermon his voice ascended to a shrill falsetto that rendered his spiritual blather even less appealing.

“I visited a young man recovering from a nervous breakdown,” Sister Angelique confided.

“I see.” Father Carlson slid down on the cherrywood bench. When she finished describing her visit, Father Carlson shook his balding head. “You didn’t, by any chance, mention the suffering of Job?”

“Under the circumstances, it didn’t seem appropriate,” Sister Angelique replied brusquely.

“The problem of human suffering and God’s involvement in the pain of the world is always with us. Efforts to find the cause often lead people like Job to put the blame somewhere –on others, God, or the Devil.”

“Yes, I understand,” the nun replied. “The Book of Job addresses the suffering of the innocent.”

“One must look beyond blame,” the priest continued, “in order to come to terms with ambiguity and uncertainty. We must trust God for what lies beyond our understanding or control.” “We live in a world longing for comfort and hope, and such hope can only found in the sovereign God. We are not victims of random fate or uncontrolled circumstances.”

When the priest finished speaking, the church was once again immersed in a brooding silence. The sweet fragrance of incense - frankincense blended with myrrh drifted through the domed chapel. “Compared to Michael Levin, Job had an easy time of it,” the nun finally replied.” She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Groundhog Day, the Bill Murray movie from the early nineteen-nineties… did you see the movie?”

“I don’t follow you.” Father Carlson was momentarily flustered. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“The main character wakes up each morning to a new day which is the old day. Nothing ever changes. It’s the same unmitigated misery and torment. That’s what Michael Levin lives with, waking up to endless, disheartening gloom.” “He sees his fate as a cosmic joke perpetrated by a thoughtless and uncaring God.”

Father Carlson gawked at the nun with undisguised fury and loathing. It wasn’t that the priest looked down his nose at the fairer sex; he wasn’t a misogynist per se. Father Carlson simply preferred female clerics and parishioners who were mindless ninnies who never questioned his erudition and divine inspiration.

“I have no idea how to help Michael Levin, but an Old Testament prophet is not the answer.” She rose to her feet without further elaboration and fled the church.

* * * * *

A week later, Sister Angelique called Michael on his cell phone. “The church funds a petty cash reserve for clerical staff visiting patients in the community. I want to take you to lunch today.”

“A nun squandering money on a mentally disturbed Jew,” Michael quipped, “sounds like an ecclesiastical conflict of interests.”

“I’ll pick you up shortly after noon.” She hung up the phone.

Three hours later Michael Levin was shaved and was neatly dressed, when Sister Angelique arrived.

“At times I’m not quite sure who I am,” Michael confided in a hushed voice. They were sitting at a booth in the local Paneras. “Am I the sports superstar from my high school years or the fractured fool who can just barely tie his shoelaces?”

Spearing a forkful of Fuji apple salad, she raised it to her lips. “Maybe you should wait a few weeks, while the healing process unfolds before asking such questions.”

“Do I seem any better since the first visited?”

The nun stirred her autumn squash soup and watched as the pumpkin seeds sunk beneath the creamy gold surface. “Not that I can see.”

“That’s not terribly encouraging.”

“I’m just being honest,” she returned. “You were in an awful state. Healing takes time.”

After that rather sobering response, Michael settled in with the food. He devoured a Black Forest ham and Gouda melt sandwich on a toasted baguette and filled his coffee cup to the brim a second d time.

“Where do you live?” Michael asked.

“There’s a convent not far from Saint Anthony’s Church.

“You have a private room?”

Sister Angelique laughed self-consciously. The nun’s living space contained a small table, straight-backed chair and rather narrow, single bed. A portrait of Padre Pio and cherrywood cross hung on the wall with a tiny closet next to the window. “More like a cubicle than a private room.” “Compared to my austere living space,” she added, “your converted garage is a mini-mansion.”

Michael grinned and shook his head from side to side. “You don’t feel claustrophobic?”

Sister Angelique considered the question but only briefly. “I live an eremitic existence. The room fulfills my basic needs. No, I don’t feel hemmed in… like I’m living in a jail cell.” “Many people mistake solitude for loneliness,” she continued in a soft-spoken, determined manner. “They seldom perceive a holy presence in quietude, the mundane sanctuary of silence.”

Shortly before they left the restaurant, Michael said, “My grandmother came to this country from Lithuania.”

“That’s nice.”

“When I was about eight years old in third grade, she warned me never to set foot in a Catholic Church.”

Sister Angelique, who had just polished off the last of her Fuji apple salad, dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Why not?”

“She said churches were full of statues, graven images, and Jews worship only one deity.”

“Yes,” she countered, “idol worship is most certainly a sin, but we pray through not to the statues. We humbly ask God to intercede and grant our prayers.”

“And do you remember me in your prayers?”

“On a daily basis.”

“You don’t seem to be getting any results.”

Sister Angelique rose and, collecting her empty platter, headed for the rubbish container. “Perhaps it’s still a bit too soon to know.”

* * * * *

Back at the convent Sister Angelique got out a set of rosary beads and began her devotional prayers followed by a handful of Hail Marys and then sat in silence. A fleeting image of Father Carlson drifted through her consciousness. In his rambling sermons the priest prattled endlessly about Christ healing lepers, casting out demons and restoring sight to the blind. Seldom if ever did he discuss the commonplace. A young man wallowing in infinite sadness never quite made it onto his theological docket. Father Carlson, who at times seemed the religious poster child for sacramental hubris, could only offer the Book of Job as a convenient rational for Michael Levin’s ghastly suffering. To Sister Angelique’s mind, any sense of common decency was utterly lacking in such brittle minded certitudes.

* * * * *

“Such a heavenly aroma!” Sister Agnes, the mother superior, had just wandered into the convent kitchen, where Sister Angelique was hunched over the stove stirring a pot of mixed vegetables and broth.

The nun stepped away from the stove. “Portuguese kale soup. I’m making a meal for one of my former hospital patients.”

“From the mental ward?”

Sister Angelique cringed. “Yes, the mental ward.”

Over the past few weeks she had managed to get Michael out to the local park, the town zoo and a high school girls’ volleyball match, where the home team lost nine to one in a brutal drubbing.

Sister Agnes raised a spoonful of the savory soup and sniffed the steamy concoction. “The orangey meat’s quite spicy.”

“Polish kielbasa… that’s what the recipe called for along with onion, potatoes, carrots, kale, elbow macaroni and grated Parmesan cheese.” Sister Angelique lowered the heat to simmer and began putting the herbs and spices away. “Last month I made chili con carne.”

“And how did that go over?”

“He ate two heaping bowls plus a chunk of sourdough bread that I got from a local bakery.”

Sister Agnes, a squat woman with wire-rimmed bifocals, noted, “Then the poor unfortunate must be feeling better.”

“Not that I can see.” She placed a metal lid on the soup. “I’m doing a novena into the middle of next week and hopefully that will make a difference.”

“What’s the poor unfortunate’s name,” the mother superior asked, “so I can remember him in my prayers as well.”

“There’s always strength in numbers.”

* * * * *

In late November Sister Agnes stopped by Sister Angelique’s room. “There’s a young woman here asking to speak with you.”

“A young woman?” Sister Angelique queried. To the mother superior, who was eighty-three years old, any woman under the age of sixty was young, vibrant and capable of bearing offspring. “Did she mention a name or reason for the visit?”

The mother superior shook her head. “The poor unfortunate’s mother… that’s my uneducated guess.”

When Sister Agnes was gone, she pulled the straight-backed chair away from the desk and positioned it in the middle of the room, then went and sat on the side of the bed. Five minutes later a dark-haired woman in her later forties entered the room.

“It was rather frigid this morning,” the woman said, while staring into the far corner of the room where the two walls converged. “Now you don’t even need a jacket.”

“But the air has warmed up nicely since the sun came out,” Sister Angelique confirmed.

Another minute passed in total silence. “You took my son to the movies.”

“Last Thursday,” the nun confirmed. “Cinema Paradiso… an Italian foreign film with subtitles from the nineteen-eighties.”

“It’s one of the few times Michael’s been out in public since the illness.”

“He didn’t seem to mind,” she countered. “It was a nice diversion.”

Mrs. Levin brushed a stand of hair from her eyes. “At his worse, my son collected endless faults and injustices. He blamed everyone for his unhappiness. Now when I come to visit, rather than a stream of vitriol and bitter recriminations, he seems to have laid his demons to rest. The infinite sadness seems to have run its course.” Only now did the woman look Sister Angelique full in the face. “I hope you’ll continue your visits.”

“Yes, of course,” the nun reassured the woman.

Mrs. Levin lowered her head and fell silent again. When she finally raised her eyes, her expression was tinge with a sardonic smile. “Even as a young child, I never felt terribly comfortable with Biblical teachings.” “Moses on Mount Sinai smashing the Ten Commandments in a fit of rage… I could never grasp the notion of an elderly, gray-haired deity shaking his fist in the air at an unruly tribe of backsliding believers.” Mrs. Levin forcefully blew the air from her lungs and shook her head disagreeably. “And the Book of Job with its fairy-tale ending made my skin crawl.”

“Funny you should mention that,” Sister Angelique interjected. For a second time that week, an image of Father Carlson flickered across her brain.

“The implacable God of Israel was far too preoccupied with original sin to answer my son’s needs so he sent me a Catholic nun, a saintly second mother with a penchant for foreign flicks and Spanish cuisine.”

“My religious order,” Sister Angelique said, “believes in caritas, which is another word for kindheartedness.” Rising from the bed she waved a hand in the direction of the window. “It’s been warming up nicely and feels more like balmy spring than early fall.” The near-sighted nun moved to the door. “We can just as easily continue our conversation in the back garden. All the flowers are gone but the grounds are still quite lovely. I’ll brew a pot of herbal tea and we can take our cups outdoors, where we can sit under the arbor and…

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