Joy
Ode to Joy
THE STRANGEST THINGS
happen in the weirdest places.
My first job out of college was working in the communications department at the world headquarters of, at that time (and now, too, for that matter), the fastest-growing church in the world. I'd been there a couple of years.
Nice job. Nice people. I worked for one of the seven associates in the department -- all were sixty and up. All men. Except for my boss. The other two of us -- myself and a secretary to one of the associates, Joy Dressler -- were under thirty. She was quiet. She pretty much stayed to herself. Professional. Efficient. Quite stunning in her appearance with long straight, shiny black hair that went all the way down to her waist.
I produced and hosted three weekly radio programs that aired on sixty-seven commercial stations, as well as ten of the denomination's college and university FM public radio stations scattered across the country. In my spare time, I edited the in-house weekly Communique
as well as writing as an assistant editor for the bimonthly communications magazine that went to every pastor and church communications director worldwide.
Joy and I were both married -- not to each other. I'd been married a couple of years. My son was nearly a year old. She and her husband didn't, at the time, have children.
One day, out of the blue, Joy pulls me aside as I'm headed out for lunch and asks, "Could you do me a big favor?" This is more conversation than I'd had with her during the entire two years we'd been working together.
"What do you need?" I ask.
"I need to pick something up from my house, but I don't have my car. Could you drive me there? It'll only take a minute."
"When would you want to do this?"
"Right now, if it's not too much trouble."
She looks very serious. I can afford to miss a meal or two, so I say, "Sure. I'm parked downstairs."
She follows me to the elevators, then to my car in the underground parking. As we leave the garage, she points the way. For some reason I figure she lives close by. Maybe it was the way she said it'd "only take a minute." As each turn takes us closer to I-495 -- the Beltway surrounding Washington, D.C. -- I begin to wonder. We only have a half hour for lunch. I finally ask, "Where exactly do you live?"
Turns out it's more than an hour's drive from the Beltway …
I say, "I don't think we'll make it back on time."
"I'm sorry," she says, "but this is really important."
Apparently when she sees that I'm less than convinced, she adds, "It's my diary," as if this somehow clarifies anything.
When I don't say anything, she adds, "It's got stuff in it my husband wants to destroy."
Even at the tender age of twenty-four, I had learned to keep my mouth shut if I didn't have anything to say.
"It's about him," she offers.
I keep driving.
"It could ruin him -- his career -- if it ever got out."
I finally find something to say: "What does he do?"
"He's a minister," she says matter-of-factly.
I keep my eyes on the road.
"He's having an affair."
Before I can think of anything to say, she adds, "So am I."
In my peripheral vision, I can see her just staring down at her hands in her lap.
Talking to her hands, she says, "I confronted him last night. He got so angry, he threw me through the partition in the basement."
As if to substantiate that claim, she adds, "We're both black belts in Tai Kwan-do."
When I don't respond, she explains, "The reason I asked you to take me right now is I just told him on the phone that I have the proof of his affair in my diary. He's probably headed home right now to tear the place apart."
Without realizing it, my right foot stiffens against the accelerator just a bit. We get to her house. Although her husband's car is nowhere to be seen, she suggests I wait in the car while she goes inside. If he is there, she doesn't want to involve me any more than I apparently already am. Makes sense.
The next ten minutes feel like hours. Just as I'm tempted to go up to the door and ring the bell, it opens. She appears, carrying what looks like a cardboard shoe box under her arm.
We're both silent all the way back into town. I pull over a couple blocks from work. "Do you want to go back to work?"
She looks at her watch. It's nearly closing time. "He might be waiting for me," she says as she shakes her head.
"I don't suppose you want to go back home then," I offer.
She shakes her head slowly, still looking down.
We sit there listening to the engine idle for several minutes. Finally I say "There's a motel a couple blocks from here. In the morning, you could walk to work if you wanted to."
She thinks about this for a moment before nodding in the affirmative. I put the car in gear, drive the two blocks, leave her in the car, and register for one night under my name. As soon as she's settled, I ask her if she'll be all right. I give her my phone number and say, "Call me any time. Maybe I'll see you tomorrow."
She mouths the words "Thank you" before slowly closing the door.
I get in the car and drive to my house about eight blocks away. When I open the car door, it's as if my dome light is wired to my porch light -- they both come on simultaneously.
My wife opens the door holding our son in her arms. As I come up the steps, she says, "You'll never guess who's here. He pushed his way in when I answered the door. He's been her for the better part of an hour. Says you've been alone with his wife for the past five hours. You two have fun. I'm going to bed."
She goes straight to our bedroom and closes the door.
Tom -- Joy's husband -- I recognize him from the department's last Christmas party. He immediately gets up from the couch and gets in my face. "Where's my wife?"
In the absence of introductions, I say, "You must be Pastor Dressler." I try not to emphasize the word "pastor" too much.
"Where's my wife?" he growls again, ignoring the chance for pleasantries.
"She's in a safe place," I reply, trying to sound calm. "Why?"
He starts to answer but I put my hand up in a wait-just-a-second gesture. "Why don't we have a seat. This might take a while."
Apparently he thinks this a reasonable request. As soon as he's seated, he says, "I went to her office. They said she left with you right around noon. You're gonna take me to her right now."
"That's a problem," I say, still trying to maintain the semblance of calm. "I don't think that's what she
wants."
With this, he jumps up and towers over me. "I could kill you right now, right here, with my bare hands!"
"I suppose you could," I reply as nonchalantly as I can muster. "I understand you're quite adept at throwing ninety-eight-pound women through basement partitions."
That catches him off guard. Before he has a chance to recover, I say, "Then there's the matter of locating your wife. Apparently I'm the only one who knows where she's at. Killing me might not be your smartest move just now."
"Well, you're gonna take me to her or I'll … I'll …"
"I'll tell you what," I say, still seated. "Why don't we do this: I'll call her and see if she wants to meet with you. If she says no, then that's the end of it. If she says it's OK, then I'll take you there. That's the deal. Take it or leave it."
He thinks about it. Salvaging what little control he thinks he still has, he simply says, "Call her."
My hand is shaking as I pick up the receiver. I block his view so he won't see the number or my tremors. The phone rings three times before Joy answers.
"You'll never guess who's sitting in my living room right now."
"Oh no," she groans.
"He wants to come visit you."
"And you agreed?!" she asks, panic apparent in her voice.
"No, actually I told him I would call you. If you said no, that would be the end of it."
After a brief pause, she says, "You better put him on."
"If that's what you want," I say.
Pointing the receiver at him, I say, "She wants to talk to you."
For his part, he speaks quietly -- urgently, but quietly. She apparently has things to say because he's quiet for several minutes. Then he hands me the phone, mimicking my she-wants-to-talk-to-you line.
"Yes?"
"You better bring him over. I told him the only way I would see him is if you were in the room."
Great . . .
I muse. This just keeps getting better and better. OK, we'll see you in a few."
"Let's go," I say. "You drive."
I give him directions. It's only eight blocks. We both get out of the car and walk to the door. I knock, saying, "It's me."
She opens the door just a crack to visually verify. As she does, he pushes me out of the way, barging in, slamming the door and locking it.
I calmly (at least I thought I was calm) walk twenty steps to a pay phone outside the motel office and dial 911. One ring later, I'm reporting a possible domestic dispute, giving the address of the motel, the room number, and the fact that I'll be waiting outside.
I've never seen a faster response. I'm not kidding. In less than thirty seconds two squad cars, lights flashing, come screeching to a halt in the motel parking lot. Four officers jump out of the cars. I point to the door. One officer doesn't knock -- BANG! would be more descriptive.
"Open up! It's the police!"
Ten seconds later, Tom opens the door halfway. Joy is standing against the far wall.
"We've had a report of a possible domestic dispute," the officer says.
"I'm here," Tom says. "This is my wife, Joy. We're just having a pleasant conversation."
The officer looks at Joy, then at me as if to ask, "What are we supposed to do with that?"
I say, "Officer, ask her if she wants him to be here." Before he gets a word out, she's vigorously shaking her head No!
That's all he apparently needs. "Sir. You'll have to leave -- now."
Her husband, Tom, steps out and closes the door.
I say, "Officer, one more thing: If you could escort us to my house, it's only a few blocks. We came in his car."
"Certainly," he says.
Tom pulls out his keys and reaches for the driver-side door.
"Not a chance," I say as I hold out my hand for his keys.
He looks at the officer who nods in the direction of my hand. Reluctantly, Tom drops the keys in my hand and heads to the other side of the car.
I drive the eight blocks and park in front of my house. The patrol car pulls in behind us.
"Tom," I say, "I can understand why you might be upset. I would be too. But you're a pastor for Christ's sake. Don't take matters into your own hands."
"You won't tell the people at work?" he asks.
I understand his question. I work in the building that his boss's boss's boss works at.
"It's none of my concern. This is between you, Joy and your Maker."
I open the door and get out. The officers wait until he slides behind the wheel and drives away, then nod as they drive past me.
* * *
The next day, Joy comes to work. Our coworkers have the good sense not to ask anyone anything. I don't know how long Joy stays in the department. I leave after another year and a half.
I hear she and her husband have their own church now somewhere in Wisconsin.
I wish them all the best.