A Touch of Infinity Read Online Free Page B

say.
    â€œI’m better. Can I come in?”
    â€œPlease do. Please come in and sit down. I’ll have Mrs. Harris make some tea.”
    â€œI’ll have some bourbon whiskey, neat.”
    Pastor Harris explained unhappily that bourbon whiskey was not part of his household but that he had some sherry that was a gift from one of his parishioners.
    â€œI’ll have the tea,” said Frank Blunt.
    The pastor led Blunt into his study, and a very nervous and excited Mrs. Harris brought tea and cookies. Blunt sat silently in the shabby little study, staring at the shelves of old books, until Mrs. Harris had withdrawn, and then he said bluntly, as befitting his name and nature:
    â€œAbout God.”
    â€œYes, Mr. Blunt?”
    â€œUnderstand me, I’m a businessman. I want facts, not fancies. Do you believe in God?”
    â€œThat’s a strange question to ask me.”
    â€œYes or no, sir. I don’t make small talk.”
    â€œYes,” the pastor replied weakly.
    â€œCompletely?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNo doubts?”
    â€œNo, Mr. Blunt. I have no doubts.”
    â€œHave you ever seen Him?”
    â€œSeen who?” the pastor asked with some bewilderment.
    â€œGod.”
    â€œThat’s a very strange question, sir.”
    â€œAll my questions are strange questions. My being here is a damn strange thing. If you can’t answer a question, say so.”
    â€œThen let me ask you, sir,” said Pastor Harris, his indignation overcoming his awe, “do you believe in God?”
    â€œI have no choice. I’ll repeat my question. Have you ever seen Him?”
    â€œAs I see you?”
    â€œNaturally. How else?”
    â€œIn my heart, Mr. Blunt,” Harris said quietly, with curious dignity. “Only in my heart, sir.”
    â€œIn your heart?”
    â€œIn my heart, sir.”
    â€œThen, damn it, you don’t see Him at all. You believe something exists—and where is it? In your heart. That’s no answer. That’s no answer at all. When I look into my heart, I see two damn coronaries, and that’s all.”
    â€œThe more’s the pity for that,” Pastor Harris thought, and waited for Frank Blunt to come to the point of his visit.
    â€œJoe Jerico sees Him,” Blunt said, almost to himself.
    Harris stared at him.
    â€œJoe Jerico!” Blunt snapped.
    â€œThe revivalist?”
    â€œExactly. Is he a man of God or isn’t he?”
    â€œThat’s not for me to say,” Harris replied mildly. “He does his work, I do mine. He talks to thousands. I talk to a handful.”
    â€œHe talks to God, doesn’t he?”
    â€œYes, he talks to God.”
    Frank Blunt rose and thrust out his hand at the old man. “Thank you for your time, Parson. I’ll send you a check in the morning.”
    â€œThat’s not necessary.”
    â€œBy my lights it is. I consulted you in a field where you’re knowledgeable. My doctor gets a thousand dollars for a half hour of his time. You’re worth at least as much.”
    The following afternoon, flying from Dallas, Texas, to Nashville, Tennessee, in his private twin-engine Cessna, Frank Blunt asked his pilot the same question he had asked Harris the day before.
    â€œI’m a Methodist,” replied Alf Jones, the pilot.
    â€œYou could be a goddamn Muslim. I asked you something else.”
    â€œThe wife takes care of that,” said Alf Jones. “My goodness, Mr. Blunt, if that was on my mind, flying around from city to city the way I do, I’d sure as hell turn into a mother-loving monk, wouldn’t I?”
    A chauffeur-driven limousine was waiting at the airport—not a hired car; Blunt kept chauffeur-driven custom-built jobs at every major airport—and the chauffeur, after a warm but respectful greeting, sped the car around the city toward that great, open, two-hundred-acre pasture that had been named “Repentance