Do you believe?
A short story • 3 min | A man sits alone on the edge of a bench, looking inside a wooden box in his hands
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A man sits alone on the edge of a bench, looking inside a wooden box in his hands. In front of him, people flow on the boardwalk. A woman strolls by with a bicycle. She taps the man on the shoulder.
“English?” the woman says.
“Excuse me?” the man says, closing the box.
“Eh, sorry,” the woman says. She presses her knuckles to her lip. “I try, but not my best.”
The man pulls out his phone. The woman sits in the middle of the bench, holding the bicycle in front of them.
“To people, I like to ask questions,” the woman says.
The man looks around. Beyond the boardwalk, the river drifts by without boats. The man stares at the woman, pulling the box closer.
“Do you believe in higher power?” the woman says.
“I’m sorry,” the man says.
“God. Are you a believer?”
“Not right now, thank you.” He crosses his legs. In his lap, the man fingers the carvings of the box.
The woman doesn’t blink.
“There are many things I don’t know.” The man peeks at his phone. “Sorry, I’m a little busy.” He holds his thumb above the screen.
“Have you looked for him?” the woman says.
“I looked.”
“You are non-believer.”
“I have faith.” the man says.
The woman rolls her bicycle back and forth. “I believe,” she says. “This is only choice.”
The man’s phone dings. He grips the handle of the box, stands up, closes his coat, and shuffles between the bench and bicycle. “Good day,” he says, walking away from the bench.
“Do you read it?” the woman says.
The man pauses. He squints his eyes and mouths something inaudible.
“The Bible,” the woman says. “Do you read the Bible?”
“Not lately.” The man walks down the broken brick of the boardwalk.
The woman follows, bicycle clicking beside her. “You believe.”
The man swaps the box into the other hand, away from her. He thumbs more letters on his phone.
“Do you pray at night?” the woman says.
“My prayers are not for you.” The man lengthens his stride. He looks backwards. Mothers push strollers beneath trees glittering in the breeze.
“When did you accept him?” the woman says. She keeps pace. “How did you know?”
“I never know,” the man says. He looks up from his phone. “I’m always searching.”
“Sorry, searching, what do you mean? My English.”
The man snorts and dials a phone number.
The woman looks at the grass on the other side of the brick path.
The man puts the phone to his ear. “I’m always looking, discovering, on a journey, trying to find, eh, searching. There are things I do not know.” The box clanks against his chest as he rubs his nose.
“Seems important, secret,” the woman says.
“Almost,” the man says.
The woman purses her lips and looks up at the man. “Oh, you are on a call?”
Still holding the phone up, the man looks across the grass and the water. Movie posters and street lights border the walkway. He looks down the boardwalk. On the path ahead, older women smoke cigarettes outside of a metal gate. The man types into his phone again.
“Your family,” the woman says.
“It’s just me here,” the man says. He blows air out his nose. He tightens his grip on the box.
“How did you grow up? What are they?”
The man brings the box under his shoulder. Light flickers off the golden trim of the wood. The man slows down. “What about my family?”
“Did you decide faith for yourself?” the woman says.
The man’s steps stutter. “I make my own decisions.”
“Your family are non-believers.”
“They practice,” the man says.
“Sorry, practice what?” the woman says.
“Church. Bible. Pray.” The man glances at his phone.
The woman’s leg knicks her bike. She stops to rub it.
“Ugh, are you okay?” the man says.
“You are Christian,” the woman says.
“Was raised one.”
“What kind?”
“Christian, Christian.” The man says.
“Catholic? Protestant?” The woman says.
They arrive at the metal gate, lined with manicured hedges and cut grass.
“I have to go now,” the man says.
The woman pulls her hat below her eyes. She stands still, waiting.
The man pockets his phone. “I cannot prove my faith. But, it is mine.” He cradles the box in both hands. “Thank you for the conversation.” He walks through the gate.
The woman watches him drift, head down, along a concrete path toward unmarked graves.
With her bicycle in tow, she walks the opposite direction. She spots someone listening to headphones, taps them on the shoulder, and says, “English?”
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This story took me back a couple decades to a similar conversation with my then mother-in-law. I remember feeling like I was enduring an exchange that had no chance of satisfying either of us. I felt that again here, finding myself empathizing more with the man trying to get away with his mysterious box. Then, this line gave me a crisp sentence I wish I had all those years ago: “I cannot prove my faith. But, it is mine.”
This is beautiful. The courage of both characters is inspiring. Faith is so fundamental a part of who we are, yet so intimate. We’ve forgotten how to have dialogue around it. This was refreshing!