‘Maybe we just need to get out more.’
‘We got out all day yesterday.’ She wasn’t listening. ‘From dawn to dusk.’
She peered at her reflection in the chrome of the toaster, and did something with her hair. ‘That was yesterday. Let’s go and be as—’
‘Don’t even say it,’ he said.
• • •
‘I HAVE GOOD NEWS!’ Puny announced as he came downstairs.
She was ‘lit up like a Christmas tree,’ as Nanny Howard used to say. His mind flew to the good news Puny had handed him twice before in recent years—twins. He couldn’t take another set of twins, he just couldn’t.
‘Joe Joe’s our new police chief, he’ll be officially installed th’ first week of November.’
‘Congratulations!’ One more frog off the bank. ‘Tell Joe Joe I’m proud as the dickens.’ He gave her a hug.
‘It’s goin’ to be in th’ paper real soon,’ she said. ‘There’ll be a reception at Town Hall, we want y’all to come.’
‘Consider it done!’ he said.
She looked abashed. ‘I guess I should have told you about Joe Joe last, an’ told you th’ bad news first.’
‘What bad news?’
‘Your cue stick’s missin’.’
‘My cue stick?’
‘I dust in there ever’ week, cue rack an’ all, an’ th’ one in your slot’s not there this mornin’.’
He walked up the hall to see for himself, fighting the anger rising like bile. Among other things, that was a pretty nice cue stick.
The empty slot was a slap in the face. He took a deep breath. If he ran this to ground, there would be consequences. He could not do that now, he could not fly off in any direction other than the one he was currently navigating. Unless something forced his hand, he would pretend not to notice.
Puny was peeling apples at the sink. ‘Don’t mention this to Cynthia,’ he said.
• • •
IT WAS YES AND THEN IT WAS NO, it was up and then it was down.
He thought of calling Stuart, his former bishop, oldest friend, and fellow seminarian, but a kind of torpor prevailed. Why?
To relieve the constriction in his chest, he prayed for Henry Talbot and Henry Winchester, two Henrys needy in matters more desperate than his own.
And why couldn’t he firmly grasp the idea of returning to Lord’s Chapel and logically examine it? The notion seemed a wisp, a snowflake disappearing on the upturned palm.
He needed the solemn confines of a monk’s cell; he needed air and open space.
• • •
‘. . . AND UNDER THE SHADOW of your wings I will rejoice,’ he prayed from the psalm. ‘My soul clings to you, / Your right hand holds me fast . . .’
Perhaps more than the decision itself, he wanted light in his darkened mind, something luminous to see by.
While shaving, he had an impulse toward the ridiculous. He scarcely ever did anything ridiculous.
Puny’s ten-month-old twin boys were in the kitchen in their bouncing chairs, each with a pacifier. He was not a fan of the pacifier but it would be politically incorrect to express that opinion in his own household.
‘Tommy,’ he said, standing near the door while Puny swept the side porch. ‘What do you think?’
Tommy burst into tears, the pacifier fell to the floor; Violet pounced and skittered it to the corner of the room.
Puny opened the door a crack. ‘What’s goin’ on in there?’
‘I asked Tommy a question and he started crying. Sorry.’
‘Could you please pick ’im up? I got to get these steps cleaned off, you wouldn’ believe th’ raccoon poop out here.’ She closed the door.
He picked up Tommy, all eighteen pounds, jiggled him as he had jiggled Puny’s first set of twins, Sissy and Sassy. Jiggling was good—Tommy stopped crying.
Puny opened the door again. ‘What did you ask ’im?’
‘Oh, nothing much. He’s fine now.’
She closed the door; he put Tommy in the chair, went after the pacifier, washed it under the hot water tap, and stuck it back where it belonged.
Timmy, his very own namesake, looked up at him with Carolina-blue eyes.
‘What do you think, Timmy?’
Timmy took the pacifier from his mouth, laughed, and handed it over.
‘Thanks for sharing,’ he said. ‘Maybe later.’
Out of the mouths of babes, so to speak. He kissed both boys on the tops of their heads.
• • •
THE WIND WAS UP, and bitter; the twelve o’clock news had called this the coldest September since 1972.
He was the Michelin man in long-sleeve knit shirt, clerical collar, crew-neck sweater, vest, wool scarf, flannel-lined jacket, long socks, corduroys, and gloves.
On his way to lunch, he peered through the window at Happy Endings. The dark interior gave him a sinking feeling. He noticed the wind hammering a sign on the door.
Open Wednesday and Thursday
Ten to six
Until further notice
Thank you for your patience
Beneath the text, someone had written in red ink: Pray for Hope!
• • •
‘WANDA’S FEEL GOOD CAFÉ’ was rendered in dark green paint on a white background; the whatchamacallit over the E in CAFÉ was a bold slash of red.
He recognized the men on the scaffolding, one without a jacket. ‘Hey, Luke, you’ll be a popsicle. What are you doing up there in this cold?’
‘Need th’ money, Father. Pizza, beer, and a month’s rent.’
‘No beer, no pizza,’ hollered Jeff, ‘but a whole bunch of baby diapers and a tank of oil. We’re just gettin’ it screwed into th’ brick and we’re out of here.’
‘You turned it around mighty fast,’ he called up.
‘Gotta do what it takes. My baby’s sick. Pray for us.’
‘Consider it done.’
Luke spit off the side of the scaffolding. ‘Don’t leave me out, Preacher.’
‘Don’t worry, you’re in. God be with you.’
And there was Hessie Mayhew with a point-and-shoot, a notebook protruding from her coat pocket.
‘Hessie! How are you?’
She leaned back, shooting skyward at the sign. ‘Whoever came up with this wacko name . . .’
‘Your boss came up with it.’
‘How was Ireland?’
‘Green,’ he said.
‘Well, stand over there under th’ sign and let me get a shot. Th’ sign’s so high up, I have to either shoot from across the street to get you both in, or stand here and get th’ sign and just your head.’
‘Get Wanda to stand out here, it’s her sign.’
‘She already stood out here for about two seconds. She was nothing but a blur, the lunch crowd was coming in.’
‘So get J.C. to stand under the sign, he likes to get his picture in the paper.’
‘He already stood under the sign. But the painters got in front of the F an’ th’ G, so I told ’em to move and they ended up in front of the W an’ th’ L.’
‘I’d keep it simple and just shoot the sign,’ he said, making for the door. ‘Tell the guys to squat down.’
• • •
WANDA’S FEEL GOOD felt plenty good. Smelled good, too. Glad to be here, he peeled off gloves, scarf, jacket.
The place was packed. He stashed his gear on top of other gear on the coat rack and headed for their table.
‘Mule?’
Mule grinned. ‘Th’ Miami look.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m tryin’ to help Shirlene and Fancy get a little action goin’.’
He pulled out his chair, dumbfounded. Though Mule looked ridiculous in a short-sleeve Hawaiian shirt, he also looked ten years younger, albeit a funny color.
J.C. took a swig of coffee. ‘Real estate’s so slow he’s gone to freezin’ his ass as a sandwich board for a beauty shop.’
‘Y’all are pasty,’ said Mule, giving them the eye. ‘Why be pasty when you could look like you’ve been somewhere and seen a little sunshine?’
‘I have been somewhere,’ he said, though he hadn’t seen much sunshine.
J.C. ripped a paper napkin from the metal holder. ‘Wait’ll you hear what it costs to get yourself sprayed.’
‘It’s not about money,’ said Mule, ‘it’s about lookin’ good. When you look good, you feel good, and when you feel good, you, ah, look good.’