‘He’s free to go, then. But I’m givin’ him a citation.’

‘That’s th’ ticket!’ said Harley.

‘You’ll need to keep an eye on ’im, Father. That goes for you, too, Harley. I believe he lives with you.’

‘He does. Yessir.’

‘Y’all can walk out with me,’ said Joe Joe. ‘As for th’ wrecker service, we work on rotation or you can give me a name to call.’

‘Lew,’ he said, taking an umbrella from the stand. ‘Call Lew. Will you file a report?’

‘We will, but we’ll try to keep it quiet.’

They processed to the curb, soaked. Joe Joe opened the car door. Sammy climbed out, eyes down, a smeared gash on his forehead.

‘I don’t want to see you out here again doin’ anything you shouldn’t be doin’,’ said the chief. ‘Not even once. You got that?’

Sammy gave a curt nod without looking at Joe Joe.

An old liquor-runner eager to please authorities, Harley shook Joe Joe’s hand. ‘An’ congratulations on bein’ chief!’

Rain hammered the umbrella; he watched Sammy and Kenny and Harley make a run for it as the patrol car pulled away.

Curious that a boy who didn’t care if he lived or died had buckled up.

Chapter Sixteen

He turned the sign around to OPEN and posted a quote.

No two persons ever read the same book.—Edmund Wilson

‘Nor does any one person ever reread the same book!’ he said to his dog.

He was grinding coffee beans when his backpack whooped with laughter. Would he ever remember to ask somebody to change the blasted ringtone?

‘Hey, buddy.’

‘Hey, Dad. Just talked to Kenny. What are you going to do about last night?’

‘Nothing,’ he said.

‘Nothing? How can you do nothing?’

‘He’s expecting something, but I’m going to do nothing.’

‘No disrespect, Dad, but that doesn’t make sense.’

‘Agreed.’

‘Man. I don’t know what to say.’

‘Me, either. I’ll appreciate your prayers.’

‘Okay, so I don’t know where you’re going with this, but you know. Right?’

Dooley sounded hopeful, even confident that his dad, the priest, was on top of things.

‘Actually, I don’t know.’

‘I hate that he did this, this is nuts, he knows better. I’m sorry.’

They each had their own kind of astonishment to deal with. ‘I’ll ask Sammy to come with me to Lew’s tomorrow morning. It’ll be good for him to see the car. Besides, I need to get my hog-ring kit out of the glove compartment.’

‘Your what?’

‘Don’t trouble your mind,’ he said. ‘Everything is going to be all right.’ He was grabbing at straws, he was trusting in God, he was hanging on. ‘How was rehearsal Monday night?’

•   •   •

HESSIE MAYHEW JANGLED IN, white as a sheet. It was refreshing to see somebody without a tan.

‘Father, I need to talk.’ Hessie peered around the store, which was empty of customers, leaned over the counter, and spoke in a voice so low he had to lean toward her.

‘I think I’m losin’ it.’

‘In what way?’

‘You know my Lady Spring pieces for th’ Muse.’

‘Of course. You’re always good to remind us not to plant ’til May fifteenth.’

‘That’s exactly what I need to talk about. I couldn’t say this to Reverend Browning—he’s the nicest man in th’ world, but he’s my preacher.’

She looked around again. ‘I need to talk to somebody else’s preacher. Because I wouldn’t exactly want Reverend Browning to think I’m losin’ it.’

Hessie was clearly distraught. ‘I was writing a story on Mitford School and how they’re givin’ an art show at Hope House.’

‘Wonderful!’

‘But I ended th’ story by typing, Don’t plant ’til May fifteenth.’ She looked aghast.

‘Always good advice,’ he said.

‘But not in mid-October, Father, not in mid-October.’

‘Ah.’

‘And not in a story about children’s art.’

‘Yes, well . . .’

‘What I’m wondering is, what do people do when they’re losin’ it? I thought you might know if there’s a test people can take.’

‘If I knew of such a test,’ he said, ‘I would take it immediately.’

‘I read that if you can recognize the smell of cinnamon, you do not have Alzheimer’s.’

‘I read that, too,’ he said. ‘I headed straight to the spice cabinet.’

‘And what happened?’

‘I recognized the smell of cinnamon.’ He had been very happy with that outcome.

‘Same with me, but maybe that’s not the best way to tell.’

‘Actually, I’m not so sure you’re losing it. I misplaced my glasses the other day and for some reason opened the toaster oven and there they were.’

‘No! Was it on?’

‘It was not. Why they ended up in there is a complete mystery.’

‘You were thinking,’ she said.

‘That’s right. I was.’

‘Our minds stay so cluttered.’

‘They do.’

‘It’s modern times,’ she said.

‘True.’

‘I always feel better when I talk to you, Father. Reverend Browning is th’ nicest man in the world, but . . .’ Hessie sighed. ‘Actually, that isn’t the only confession I need to make.’

He didn’t know Presbyterians made confession, except as outlined in James 5:16.

‘Are you sure there’s nobody else in here?’

‘Just Barnabas.’

‘It’s Vanita Bentley,’ she said. ‘I could wring her neck. There!’ Hessie’s breathing was rapid; her face colored. ‘I said it and I’m glad.’

‘Why don’t we sit down?’

He led her to the Poetry hideout, where a single wing chair resided. For himself, he pulled in a chair from the Children’s section.

‘One thing you can say about Hessie Mayhew, Father—I am as honest as the day is long. A very desirable characteristic, if you ask me, considering th’ people in today’s media.

‘Vanita’s young and I’m old, so maybe our ages play some part in this, but look at Mike Wallace, he was a hundred if he was a day, and he kept his audience, people just loved him to death in a manner of speakin’. So you don’t have to be young to be great, Father, right? You must surely find that true for yourself in your golden years.

‘But here’s th’ thing. She can’t spell for shoot, I mean for shoot. Plus she can’t write for love nor money and all those exclamation marks drive me up the wall. Don’t they just drive you up th’ wall? If I had a nickel for every one, I’d be rich as cream and on a cruise to the North Pole to look climate change in the eye.

‘As for news material, she jumps all over the big stories before you can have your coffee in th’ mornin’. Up an’ down th’ street with that bloomin’ microphone stuck in every face an’ if there’s not a big story, what does she do? She makes one up! Like th’ Leading Citizen angle, it just came out of her tiny little head! Lord knows, I’m goin’ to hell in a handbasket for thinkin’ that, much less sayin’ it out loud.

‘But Father, I have read Cowper and Wordsworth and all those people you’re so fond of, and tried to educate my mind and venerate beauty and lead people to think higher thoughts as in my Lady Spring columns. But Vanita? Th’ highest thought she ever had was how to dye her old go-go boots black so she could wear ’em to a funeral.’

Hessie’s blood pressure must be through the roof. He sprinted to the coffee station for a cup of water. ‘Drink this,’ he said, using his wife’s directive. How fast could the ambulance get here if needed? Ten minutes?

‘So you see,’ said Hessie, looking tearful, ‘after fifteen years of faithfully reporting th’ facts, th’ truth, th’ verities of this mortal life, Vanita gets all the good stories . . .’

And there they came—the floodwaters.

‘. . . without even knowin’ where to put a comma!’ she bawled.

He trudged to the counter and returned with the box of Kleenex.

He was not retired from his old job, not by a long shot. He had merely moved his business up the street. Actually, there were only a couple of differences between priesting and his new occupation—he didn’t have to vest for this, or fool with the weekly pew bulletin.