The Mose Allison Effect

We are all connected.

At least that is what the gurus say.

Some force beyond us—call it God, the Absolute, whatever—links everything together into one beautiful, harmonious symphony.

At least that’s what I think.

If you’re paying attention, you can find evidence of the Oneness. The signs are everywhere, like Friday’s footprints on Robinson Crusoe’s island. I have a name for the mystery of these icebergs rising out of the ocean of everything, pointing to more. I call it “The Mose Allison Effect.”

The name comes from something that happened while I was reading an article about Tom Waits in my office and listening to an Internet jazz radio station. Waits was talking about how he wasn’t influenced by the typical rock ‘n’ roll heroes who were popular during his childhood. He listened to jazz and blues artists from his dad’s record collection, guys like Mose Allison. I had never heard of Mose Allison, but at the exact moment my eyes fell upon his name in the Waits interview, I heard the DJ on the radio say it in unison with the voice in my head. How could this have been a coincidence? What are the odds that I would read the name of some forgotten jazz pianist at the exact moment some random DJ speaks it into his microphone in New York City? It seems to me that the odds of this happening by chance are beyond the realm of possibility. In that moment, the Oneness of everything popped its head out from the din of distraction and anxiety to remind me that Someone greater than all of us is holding everything together so that we can pick up the dry cleaning, get the kids to school, cook dinner, and sit on our comfortable couches in front of the TV while worrying about whether we are “significant.”

The connections frequently presented themselves between my wife and me, back when we were in sync with one another. We’d pass an old house on the road, and just as I was thinking that it reminded me of the little 900 square-foot bungalow we lived in after we got married, she’d say, “I know it’s a different color, but for some reason that reminds me of our house in Archdale.” Or I’d be thinking about her, and she’d call me on the phone. Or she’d hum a song that had been playing in my head. Whenever something like this happened, I’d say, “The Mose Allison Effect, Cam! We’re connected!” And she’d say, “That’s right, baby, you and me.”

Back then we were two souls joined as one, thinking each other’s thoughts.

Some people will argue that there’s a perfectly natural explanation for the Effect. Maybe it is coincidence, or maybe Cam and I had been together so long that we learned how to subconsciously pick up each other’s nonverbal cues. I must admit that I have studied that woman’s face so long I can read it like a book. I could look at her mouth forever. She seems to have more muscles in her face than the average human being, making her capable of thousands of expressions, every one of them a work of art. Her smiles are so nuanced, they make the Mona Lisa look like a caricature.

Sure, we knew each other well, better than most, at least when we were in sync, but there was more to it than nonverbal cues. We had a spiritual connection, one that I’ve never felt with any other human being.

We used to take walks around the lake at the park near our house after dark. We’d stroll along the banks and look at the stars while sharing the news from our day. We’d talk about the future, how many kids we would have, trips we would take to places like Paris and New York, when we would retire. We were young, and the world was full of possibilities.

At some point, I don’t know when exactly, we quit going for walks. Maybe it was when the first of our four children came along. We have three boys and a spoiled little girl, ranging from ages sixteen to seven. When you have a baby, you can no longer afford to take late night walks around the lake. Bedtime’s 7:30 for the little one, and if you don’t turn in soon afterwards, you’ll be exhausted the next day from being startled out of your sleep by a newborn who hasn’t yet learned day from night.

Eventually, we withdrew into our own individual lives. It wasn’t the kids’ fault. We had changed.

When you meet somebody and fall in love, you think everything’s going to stay the same. The two of you stand before God and a church full of witnesses and say you will stand by each other in sickness and in health, in poverty and prosperity, as long as you both shall live, “till death do us part.” But nobody really knows what they are getting into when they say those things. Nobody realizes that in five years they will be waking up next to a complete stranger. Because everybody changes. Nobody stays the same. Cam and I aren’t the same people who fell in love and got married twenty-three years ago. Over the years, we both have changed slowly, without our noticing. It’s like our bodies are a house that was sold under some strange arrangement in which the buyer and seller agreed to move one item at a time over a period of many years until they finally took ownership without anybody having noticed the transition. How does it happen? I guess we’re all in a constant state of flux. But you never expect it to happen to you.

It all came to a head when this friend from work named Jerry invited us over to his house for dinner. “Just getting a few friends together,” he said. Cam didn’t want to go.

“Who all will be there?” she wanted to know.

“How should I know?” I said. “It’s Jerry. He’s one of those extroverts who likes to be around people. Don’t worry about it.”

“Let’s just stay in,” she said.

“Cam, he’s my friend, and I’ve already told him we’d be there.”

She grew sullen. “You could have asked me first. I would have told you that I don’t like being around your work friends. I don’t know them.” She hardly said anything else the rest of the day. When I asked, she told me she was fine, but I knew she wasn’t.

A few nights later, we went over to Jerry’s. His driveway was lined with gigantic live oaks planted ages ago in perfect symmetry. He had a two-story, five-bedroom house on five acres, and the yard was immaculate.

We walked up the steps to the front door. A big, handcrafted wooden sign hung from it that read, WELCOME, Y’ALL! in big cursive letters. Jerry’s wife apparently painted these signs as a hobby. It was in the shape of a mason jar holding a sunflower. Jerry’s wife opened the door, and a bouquet of aromas greeted us when we walked in, warm smells of cinnamon and vanilla emitting from candles and plug-ins for melting scented wax.

Jerry had invited two other couples from work. Everything seemed fine at first. Cam was quiet, but she smiled when she was supposed to and made chit chat with the other ladies. We had dinner and retired to the living room for dessert. Jerry’s wife had made this blackberry cobbler. I hadn’t had anything like that in a long time. Cam never made cobblers. It reminded me of my childhood when we picked blackberries in the woods next to my house and brought them home for my mother. She made the most amazing blackberry cobblers, hot as lava and sweeter than honey. The seeds stuck in your molars, but you didn’t care. So I was really looking forward to my cobbler. I sat down with my portion on the couch next Cam, and she asked if she could have a bite.

“Get your own,” I said. “There’s plenty.”

“But I want to share,” she said.

“Can’t I just have my own piece?” I begged.

Something clicked inside of her and a fury rose up in her eyes I had not seen before. She took my plate and turned it upside down on the coffee table, splattering the cobbler and ice cream all over Jerry’s furniture. Then she stormed out of the room. A minute later I heard our car crank and pull out of the driveway.

The room was silent. Most of the guests looked at their shoes. Jerry stared at me with a look of genuine concern. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

I sat there for a minute, then finally said, “Could you give me a lift?”

“Of course,” he said. “Anything.”

“Also, I’ll take another piece of that blackberry cobbler.”

Jerry shot me a perplexed look, but he went into the kitchen anyway and returned with the hot cobbler.

When we pulled up in the driveway behind the car I should have come home in, he put the car in park and stretched his arm across the headrest of my seat so that he could turn to look at me. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t want to pry, but if you need some place to crash for a few days while you and Cam work this out, my sofa is always available.”

“Jerry, it’s fine,” I said unconvincingly. I got out of the car and thanked him for the ride.

“My offer always stands,” he said and drove away.

I found her in the living room, sitting on the couch in the dark. Thankfully the kids were in bed. I couldn’t tell at first if she had fallen asleep or not. I sat down next to her and could see that she was awake. She had been crying, and the moonlight turned her tears into streams of silver. Thousands of facial muscles were working of their own accord, contorting her tender mouth into a pouting frown that tore my heart into pieces. They say it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. I think she was using every sinew to make that face.

I set the cobbler I brought from Jerry’s on the couch between us. She noticed it but looked back up and wiped a tear from her cheek.

“I thought we might share it,” I said. “I didn’t get to finish mine.” I tried a smile.

She didn’t return my smile. Instead she turned to me and said, “Paul, what happened to us?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Life.”

“We used to be so in sync. We thought one another’s thoughts. Now I’m not sure who you are anymore. I’m not even sure if I know who I am.”

“I know,” I said. “Me too.”

“So we still have one thing in common. Neither of us knows who we are.”

We sat on the couch and thought about this for a minute.

“Say, I have an idea,” I said. “Do you want to go for a walk? Around the lake, like we used to?”

The muscles in her face softened, her mouth relaxed, those beautiful lips parted. She started to say something but nodded instead.

I don’t have all the answers, but I know there is more to life than what appears on the surface. We are all connected to Something or Someone bigger than all of us. I’ve seen too much evidence to deny it.

If you’re lucky enough to get on the same wavelength with someone, even just for a while, it’s like your joy is doubled. No, more than that, because with souls the sum is greater than the parts. And if that soul you are harmonizing with is someone as beautiful as Cam, there is nothing better. But harmony is fragile because it’s held in casing that is constantly shifting and morphing into frames that cannot hold onto the beauty.

So I’m reaching out beyond myself straight into that which holds everything together, praying that God will save my marriage and help me find my way back into the flow of this other soul I cherish more than my own. I’m holding her hand again as we walk around the lake where we first connected. We’re not talking, but I feel a fresh communion beginning to bud. I don’t want to lose her. I’m thinking that there’s still hope, that if we can snap out of it, wake up, and realize what we’re losing, we can snatch it up before it’s gone forever. I’m thinking it just might be possible to find my way back to her in the spaces between the seeing and unseeing, where Mose Allison is singing, Stop this world, let me off; there’s just too many pigs in the same trough, where invisible strands are making incalculable, unnoticed connections, and I’m hoping God is thinking the same thing.