Mark Conkling—teacher, homebuilder, realtor, finance manager, Methodist pastor (ret) — recently published his first novel, Prairie Dog Blues (Sunstone Press, 2011). Mark lives in Rio Rancho, New Mexico, works with his wife Patricia at Meadowlark Family Healthcare, walks his dog in the Bosque near the Rio Grande, frequents the recovery community (AA), writes fiction, and seeks daily peace of mind. His short fiction appears in the Minnetonka Review, Diverse Voices Quarterly, and The Monarch Review. His stories and excerpts from his novel are available over at his website at www.markconkling.com. Years ago, as a University Professor (Ph.D., Philosophy, Psychology), Mark published several academic articles in existential philosophy and psychology, including "Consciousness and the Unconscious in William James' Principles of Psychology," (Human Inquiries), "Sartre's Refutation of the Freudian Unconscious," (Review of Existential Psychology and Psychiatry), and "Ryle's Mistake About Consciousness" (Philosophy Today).

Tom's Guardian Angel (August 20, 2011. Issue 30.)

Tom opened the back door of his church office and stepped outside into cold wind and blinding snow. His foot slipped on the dark ice, and he pitched forward just as someone with two strong arms caught him. He turned his face into an unbuttoned coat, a silk blouse, and two spongy breasts that smelled like fabric softener and gardenias. He rocked back, focusing on bright-green eyes and a big, cheerful smile. She licked snow from her lips.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Karen. You almost had a nasty fall."

"Yes, hello. I'm Tom Rusken, pastor here at St. Peter's of Santa Fe," he said, looking behind her. Through the snow the moon splashed light on the Sangre de Cristo Mountains high in the distance. A quick glance revealed no sign in the snow—no car, no footprints. It was as if she had appeared out of nowhere.

Karen Collins was a thick, strong, blond woman with round shoulders, a stockbroker who lived alone and wore business suits and beige silk blouses. She carried her 155 pounds with poise, and her gray-blond hair bounced when she turned her head. She managed $50 million in brokerage accounts, read the Wall Street Journal every day, and claimed a weakness for cognac and expensive lingerie. Her eyes were set wide apart, and her pink face featured an alluring smile. At age 44, she had been married once to a patent attorney in Philadelphia, but she had not heard from him since she moved to Albuquerque eight years ago. She felt relieved there were no children.

"I'm an account executive with Smith Barney in Albuquerque, and I'm here to meet with the Investment Committee. Could you direct me to the meeting?" She smiled and stepped toward him.

Tom looked at her again and studied her high cheekbones, turned-up nose, and square chin. She and Tom were the same height.

"Sure," he said. "I'll walk you to the parlor."

Tom introduced her and sat down to hear her presentation. As she spoke she often stared directly at Tom. He shifted back and forth on his chair, strangely fascinated by a shadowy memory of someone like her, perhaps a woman from his distant past.

"Treasury bonds are the safest," she said, "and they are guaranteed by the government." She smiled and looked over her small reading glasses. "Corporate bonds have a higher yield, but they are more volatile and not guaranteed."

Tom leaned forward.

"It all depends on what you want," she said. "If you want safety and predictable earnings, you choose treasury bonds. If you want higher earnings and can sacrifice a little safety, then choose a mix of corporate bonds. The question is what you are willing to risk for what you can get." She smiled again at Tom.

After a few questions Karen ended the meeting, and the others left.

"Can I show you to the front door?" Tom asked.

Karen walked with him, and they stood for a moment in the dark alcove by the door. She touched his arm and moved her face close to his.

"Pastor, I have a problem, and sometimes I can't help myself," Karen said.

"What kind of problem? Can I help?" Tom asked as he stepped back and opened his hands. He looked gently into her eyes.

"I'm sure you can, but I don't know if you will."

"Well, give me a try," he said. "I'm a good listener."

"Okay." She spoke slowly. "Tom Rusken, you are a wildly attractive man. Your eyes say you've been waiting for me for years. There's a good reason I'm here, and you know what it is." She put her hand behind his head, kissed him full on the mouth, flicked her tongue between his lips, turned, and walked out the door, leaving Tom astonished.

The Investment Committee recommended Karen's bond program, and, during the next month, Karen returned to Santa Fe several times to open accounts and to transfer funds. On the night of her last meeting, she stopped by Tom's office.

"I'm staying at the La Fonda Hotel," she said. "Why don't you come by on your way home?"

"I couldn't do that." Tom stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and looked out the window.

"Why not?" she asked. "The Church is putting two hundred thousand dollars in an endowment, and there is nothing wrong with talking about it. Come by now so you can get home early."

"I'll try to stop for a few minutes," Tom said.

He drove around downtown for a while, and then he parked in a dark space in the La Fonda parking garage and sat for a moment. He chewed his thumbnail. This is not good, he thought.

She opened the door just as he knocked.

"I'm having cognac," she said. "It's been a long week."

"I shouldn't have come," Tom said.

"Let me show you why you're here," she said, pulling him in the door.

Karen turned off the lights, pushed him onto the bed, and began undressing him.

"Wait, Karen, I can't do this."

"Who's to know?" she asked. She unbuttoned his shirt. Tom's eyes followed her fingers down the buttons; he felt drawn and bewildered, as if in a trance. Karen unbuckled his belt and pushed him onto the bed. Tom flushed, put his arms over his head, and watched as she pulled off his shoes and socks and jerked down his pants.

"Don't move," Karen said, stripping off her clothes.

"Now lie back; hunch up," she said, pushing two pillows under his hips and straddling his thighs. She rubbed him frantically until he stood straight up, moistened herself with her saliva, and squatted slowly down over him, staring into his eyes with a smile, white teeth flashing in the muted light, blond hair tumbling and bouncing as she pushed on his chest with both hands.

"Move faster," she said as she bit her lower lip.

Tom moved as fast as he could, feeling pinned to the bed by her weight, as though she had captured him. She covered him with her body, gripping him with her passion, pulling at his flesh with eager hands and thighs, gasping in his ear. He opened his eyes, clutched her shoulders, and just then, for a moment, he thought he saw white wings on her back. She smelled musty, like old books. He closed his eyes and felt something warm flowing over him.

As Karen put on her makeup in the bathroom, Tom stood behind her in his white boxer shorts. He combed his hair and watched her line her eyes with a dark-green pencil. She looked at him in the mirror and said, "You're quite a man, Pastor Tom. I guess you found out how you can help." She flashed a bright smile.

"Karen, I'm happy I can please you."

"Love is like food," she said. "Tomorrow, I'll be hungry again." She patted him.

"You sure have a tight little butt," she said. "I like it."

After that night he met Karen often.

"I love you," Karen said the next week. "Know why? I love you because I need you, that's why. You fill me up and make me feel full and whole."

"I'm amazed at the passion you bring me," Tom said. "I didn't know I could laugh and cry at the same time." He thought of the Song of Solomon, Your two breasts are like two fawns, twins of a gazelle, which feed among the lilies. Your lips, O my spouse, drip as the honeycomb; honey and milk are under your tongue.

Five months later, in June, a stout, redheaded woman volunteer was cleaning Tom's office. As she dusted the name plate on the desk that said "Tom Rusken, Pastor," the words "smooth flesh" jumped out at her from a piece of light-blue stationery tucked under some Upper Room magazines. She tugged at a corner of the letter, smelled a whiff of gardenias, and followed the blue, flowing script to "your earlobes taste like honey." She flushed, took a quick breath, and bustled down the hall waving the letter. By Sunday, the Church hummed with the news.

Monday evening, Tom sat across the dining room table from his wife, Martha. He wore a navy-blue blazer, a red-and-blue rep tie, and a fresh, white shirt that Martha had ironed that morning. He folded his hands and stared at the dingy, flowered wallpaper. He smelled Martha's lavender hand lotion and heard her teeth grind in the silence. He felt odd, as though his soul strained to leave his body. Martha stared at him with cold eyes, hands on her hips.

"You bastard, you promised this would never happen again."

"Something is different," Tom murmured. He took off his wire-rim glasses and put his hand on his forehead. Martha stood up and paced.

"Are you still going to your meetings?" she asked.

"No, I'm finished with all that," Tom said. He bit his lower lip.

"I can't live with you like this," Martha said. "You're still living a lie."

"I feel guided by something powerful, Martha, and I need to follow it."

"I have to take the girls and leave. You know that," she said. "Don't be surprised if they never talk to you again." She made fists and squeezed her nails into her palms. "I've invested twenty-two years being a minister's wife, at your side. All I'm fit to do is sing and play the damn piano!"

Tom looked at the family portrait taken last year: husband, wife, two blond, teenage daughters, all with bright smiles. The photo blurred, and he felt a deep pull within his soul; an idea formed, bringing with it a sense of mission, a calling from God, a strong leading to teach acceptance and forgiveness; a sense of relief flowed over him.

"Let's pray," Tom said, bowing his head.

"Pray with you? I could have an infection." Martha grabbed a glass and threw it at the wall. Turning, she swept the dishes off the table and crossed her arms.

"They're going to fire me, but it'll be all right," Tom said.

"Well, I'm done. We're going back to Tulsa, where I can be close to Mother. I can't bear to look at these people."

"I need to stay here, Martha. My real work may have just begun."

"You are incurable, Tom Rusken, and full of denial. Why can't you face it? You're a sex addict, pure and simple. I've been through treatment with you, gone to meetings with you, prayed with you, and now I am finished. Good-bye." She slammed the door.

Tom closed his eyes, and Matthew 19 came to mind: And everyone who has left houses or brothers or sisters or father or mother or wife or children or lands, for my name's sake, shall receive a hundredfold, and inherit everlasting life. Again, he felt the insistent pull, knowing his duty was here, right in the middle of the conflict he'd fallen into.

Tom wondered if God's call first appeared the year his father had died, on his 13th birthday. That night Tom had hidden in the darkness by the lilacs, peeped into the bedroom window, and watched his mother make love for a long time with her new boyfriend. Afterward, his heart pounding and bursting with shame, he lay on his back, crying in the bushes, surrounded by purple-laden branches and a heavy, lilac smell. He looked up at the stars and thought he saw an angel, a golden form swooping down, hovering above the lilacs, spreading her warm glow and gentle smile over him, bringing comfort with her green eyes. "Listen to me, Little Tom," she whispered. "God needs you, and someday you will do great things."

Monday the trustees and the Pastor Parish Relations Committee called a special meeting, and both Bishop Harper and the district superintendent attended. Charles Morgan, chairman of the trustees, called the meeting to order and turned to Tom.

"Be advised, Tom. We are taping this meeting." He continued, "Our vote is unanimous, and both the bishop and the district superintendent agree. We are terminating your contract."

"I don't want to leave," Tom said. "I've built the congregation, pledges are up, and our fair-share giving is paid. St. Peter's leads the community in donations and volunteer work at the family shelter. I've done a good job."

The bishop looked up and said, "You have done a great job, Tom. Unfortunately, you're too weak to master your problem. Your affair has destroyed everyone's confidence in you. We cannot let you be a moral leader."

"I can rebuild their confidence," Tom said. "It's important I stay here. You see, my job is about forgiveness." Tom looked up at the painting of Mary, Joseph, and the Christ child.

"We want you out of the parsonage by the end of the week," Charles said. "Your wife's moving truck is coming tomorrow."

The bishop looked up and said, "For your own good, Tom, I recommend you get help. This problem has destroyed your career. The Church cannot relocate you again."

The treasurer read from a prepared statement. "We will give you a housing allowance for the year and pay your full salary, including your family's health benefits."

The attorney for the trustees said, "Perhaps you need to be represented by legal counsel, Tom. As a friend I think you should take the offer. It's generous."

Bishop Harper said, "Do the right thing, Tom. Take the money and leave gracefully. When you add up the housing allowance, salary, and benefits, it comes to over seventy-four thousand." Tom looked around at all the eyes flashing anger, looked back at Bishop Harper, and bowed his head.

"Okay," he said quietly. His mind drifted to Ecclesiastes: a time to gain, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to throw away; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

"The bishop will be conducting both services this Sunday," Charles said, "and then John Henderson will be moving from El Paso to take over as interim pastor for the next six months. We want you out of your office today."

On Sunday, Tom came to church and sat in the back, smiling, as Bishop Harper delivered a sermon on community and forgiveness. The bishop, reading from Matthew, stammered and lost his place as his eyes met Tom's: "Then Peter came to Him and said, 'Lord, how often shall my brother sin against me, and I forgive him? Up to seven times?' Jesus said to him, 'I do not say to you, up to seven times, but up to seventy times seven.'" Later Tom stood a few steps behind Bishop Harper in the back of the sanctuary and greeted people.

"Hello, Larry, Evelyn. It's nice to see you.

"Hi Timmy, how's your sister?"

Murmurs spread around the room as most people avoided him and others slipped by with a quick handshake. The bishop clenched his teeth and smiled.

"Wasn't that a wonderful sermon?" Tom asked Mrs. Beecher.

"Tom Rusken, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You should get out of here."

The next Sunday, the bishop introduced Reverend Henderson as the interim pastor. He delivered a sermon on the healing power of God in the world. Tom sat in the same seat, but this time the entire pew was empty. Later he mingled in the lobby, looking very much alone. Charles Morgan took Tom's arm and pulled him aside.

"Are you nuts?" asked Charles. "What are you doing here? You're tearing the Church apart. The bishop wants me to call the police."

Tom gritted his teeth. "Go ahead, call them. This is the house of God, and everyone is welcome," he said. "I'm here to teach forgiveness, and we'll all just have to live through it."

"Go away, Tom. Come back when everyone has forgotten. Some people here care about you, but you're making it too hard. We made a deal, now go away."

"I accepted a year's salary, but I didn't say anything about leaving." Charles threw up his hands and walked away.

Tom took a deep breath, feeling a shadow of doubt growing around his resolve to teach forgiveness, reminding him of what Jesus said at Nazareth: I tell you the truth, no prophet is accepted in his hometown. If he were to leave, he wondered where he might go. Perhaps he could find another church.

Tom showed up every Sunday for three months, and the congregation dwindled by half. Pledges dropped, plate offerings went down, and the Church had to dip into its endowment. Tom felt some remorse watching the Church he'd built fall on such hard times; the lesson of forgiveness seemed to fall on deaf ears. He continued to see Karen whenever she could come up from Albuquerque. One night in November, after helping at the rescue mission, Tom came home and found a note from Karen. "I got tired of waiting. I went out for dinner. I'm at La Tertulia."

Tom felt uncomfortable going to the restaurant, since their affair had never been public. He waited at home for the rest of the evening, but Karen didn't come over. On Friday she called and said, "Why don't you meet me at the La Posada bar? We'll have drinks and dinner."

"We shouldn't be seen in public," Tom said.

"Why, you bastard. You sure don't mind seeing my ass in private."

"I picked up some chicken," he said. "I thought we could have dinner here."

Later that night they showered together, and, as they were drying off, Karen slapped Tom hard on his bottom.

"Ouch, what was that for?"

Karen traced the raised, red handprint on his bottom with her fingernail, smiled, and then slapped him hard on his other cheek. "Don't you like spanking?"

"No, Karen, I don't like spanking."

As Tom lit candles on the dresser, he saw Karen pulling up her pantyhose. A strange feeling crawled slowly up his back as she finished dressing.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm leaving, Tom. You don't fill me up anymore."

"Just like that?"

"You don't excite me anymore, and I'm feeling used. I need to move on."

"I could come to Albuquerque, and we could go out somewhere there."

"No, I think you're ashamed to be seen with me anywhere." She looked straight ahead and walked out the door.

In the morning, Tom called Karen at work.

"Please don't leave me, Karen. I need to be with you."

"Forget it. I don't need you, Tom. I can have whatever men I want."

The next day Tom drove to Albuquerque and went to Karen's office. He walked up to the receptionist for the firm.

"Please tell Karen Collins that Tom Rusken is here," he said.

"One moment." She spoke into her headset.

"Ms. Collins said she is busy making trades and can't be bothered. Can another broker help you?"

"Please tell her I'll wait," Tom said.

"She said she'd be busy all morning, and you shouldn't wait."

Tom turned, with his shoulders slumped, and walked toward the door.

The receptionist called after him, "I'm sorry, Mr. Rusken, but you're probably better off without her. She's a heartbreaker."

Tom turned and said, "A heartbreaker?"

"Mean as they come," she said. "She's run through a dozen men in the last two years, including my husband. She broke up my family; I can never, never forgive her for that."

Tom put his head down, walked to his car, and drove back to Santa Fe. He prayed often, exercised every day, and, within two weeks, he felt lighter, as if the sharp edge of his suffering had passed under his feet. Still, his soul felt tattered, raw to the world, and in need of soothing by something strong; a passage from Paul continued to haunt him: when I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.

Four weeks after Karen dumped him, Tom stood in front of the church on Sunday, waiting to greet people as they came in for the second service. Today marked the first Sunday of Advent, and he felt excited by a sense of promise. It was a bright, sunny day, so he found a place in a shadow cast by a huge, old pine tree where he could greet people.

"Good morning, it's a beautiful day."

"Hi, kids, bless you and come on in."

Out of nowhere, a tall, young woman with a bright-pink face and a white hat walked right up to him.

"Hello," she said. "I'm Amy, and I'm new in Santa Fe." She shook his hand firmly, eyes gazing into his, her tongue moistening her puffy lips.

Tom watched a halo of sunlight gather over her gray-streaked blond hair and then slowly burst like a bubble of golden glass, making shards of glitter on her face.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Oh, I was just wondering about the services you provide." Amy released her hand and smiled. "Are you the minister here?"

"I used to be." Tom looked up to the snow-covered mountains.

"Was there a problem?"

"No problem, really, just a little misunderstanding about forgiveness. Amy, it was nice to meet you, but I have to go now." Tom turned, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and walked quickly to his car, thinking, but when I became a man, I put away childish things.