Somewhere Safe With Somebody Good (17 page)

‘Do you know how to do that?’

‘I’ve never done it,’ she said. ‘All I know how to do is watch
60 Minutes
and PBS.’

‘Puny knows technology. Get her to show you,’ he said.

‘Get her to show
you
, and I’ll make dinner.’

He was supposed to know this stuff, but he had never, not once, known this stuff. He was pretty good at softball and handy with a hammer and paintbrush, which should be enough for anybody.

‘What do other people do in the evenings?’

‘Shirlene Hatfield plays Scrabble online. J. C. Hogan once confessed he cleans Adele’s Glock .45. Let’s see—Mule and Fancy watch reality TV.’

‘How do you know these things?’

‘People talk,’ he said. ‘Then there’s Esther Bolick. She sleeps in her recliner for a couple of hours after dinner, then goes to bed and watches Johnny Carson reruns.’

‘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.

•   •   •

I
T
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.

•   •   •

T
HE
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!

•   •   •

‘W
ANDA
’
S
F
EEL
G
OOD
C
AFÉ
’ 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.’

•   •   •

W
ANDA
’
S
F
EEL
G
OOD
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.’

‘Where’s he getting this stuff?’ he asked J.C.

‘From literature that comes with th’ spray tan deal.’

Wanda whipped around with the coffeepot.

‘Is that you, Mr. Skinner?’

‘It’s me, all right.’

‘Just back from the Sunshine State?’

‘Just back from A Cut Above,’ said Mule, ‘where they have the amazing, not to mention revolutionary, spray tan technology. Why be pasty when you can be tan?’

‘It is
not
the
season yet
for people to be tan,’ said Wanda. ‘We get tan in summer when we garden and play golf. If this weather keeps up, we will have snow in here before the leaves turn.’

‘So you garden?’ said Mule. ‘And play golf?’

‘I kill plants and can’t hit a ball. I was usin’ a general example.’

‘So,’ said Mule, ‘are you goin’ to do a little something to, you know, live up to your new name? To, like, make people feel good?’

‘How people feel is their business, not mine. If they like to feel good, fine. If they don’t, fine. I’m here to give you a decent cup of joe and a great hamburger.’

He raised his hand. ‘I’ll have the hamburger.’

‘Same here,’ said J.C.

‘Okay, that’s what I’m havin’,’ said Mule. ‘All th’ way, but hold th’ onions.’

‘All the way
comes
with onions,’ said Wanda.

‘Right, but hold ’em.’

Wanda rolled her eyes. ‘I was warned.’

‘Who warned you?’ asked J.C.

‘The poor woman who owned th’ place before I bought it. She said th’ turkeys will make you crazy.’

‘Double fries on th’ side,’ said J.C. ‘And double aioli.’

‘And you, Father?’

‘Pickle. No fries.’

‘Lovely,’ said Wanda. ‘One more thing, Mr. Skinner. We’re
supposed
to be pasty in autumn, that’s what autumn is
for
, to rest our faces from the harmful rays of the sun.’

Wanda moved on.

‘She has not rested her face in a coon’s age, I can tell you that,’ said Mule.

J.C. stared into his empty coffee mug. ‘What ever happened to the waitress with a heart of gold?’

‘Lunch is on me,’ said Mule, waving the chit.

•   •   •

‘G
O
HOME
and get some clothes on, buddyroe.’ He slapped Mule on the back as they left the café.

‘And wash that stuff off!’ said J.C.

‘Won’t wash off, that’s how you get your money’s worth. It has to wear off.’ Mule zipped his fleece-lined jacket, grinned, headed to his vehicle. ‘I don’t care what you turkeys say,’ he hollered from the curb. ‘I’m tan, you’re pasty.’

‘You’re goin’ to like Thursday’s main feature,’ said J.C.

Wind rattled the scaffolding, hammered them as they walked across Main.

‘Don’t count on it.’

‘You’re goin’ to like it big time. It was Vanita’s idea. She’s a sharp little writer. Adele’s making news next week. Front page, four-color. Don’t miss it.’

‘Great. Can you talk about it?’

‘I could, but then it wouldn’t be news.’

He was impressed that the
Muse
editor never scooped himself.

‘So,’ said J.C., stopping off at the bank, ‘you still don’t want to hear what’s goin’ on at Lord’s Chapel?’

‘Out of my precinct.’

‘Talbot has a habit, you know. Women. Paid.’

‘Enough,’ he said, meaning it.

Since he’d sat in a car most of yesterday and running today was not going to happen, he would compromise with a power walk up Lilac, and around the block to home.

Abe Edelman, owner of Village Shoes, peered out the window and threw up his hand.

The marching band . . .

‘Hey, buddy.’ He kept going, breathing hard.

‘What’s with the Mustang?’ said Dooley.

‘Carburetor, heater, radiator, clutch.’

‘Don’t get another old car.’

‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s get a new one. What do you think?’

‘BMW X1.’

‘You’re lookin’ for something hot to drive when you come home.’

Dooley’s cackling laugh.

‘What else do you have in mind?’

‘You’d like a Jeep.’

‘I don’t need to go off-road or splash through mud puddles.’

‘What are you doing? Running?’

‘Walking.’

‘So you want a boring vehicle?’

No, he didn’t want boring; life was short and getting shorter.

‘What’s the least boring vehicle to get me to Wesley, and down the mountain on the rare occasion, and over town in bad weather?’

‘A Mini Cooper, Dad. Clubman hatchback. Plenty of room for
Barnabas. Twenty-seven miles per gallon around town, thirty-five on the highway when you come to see me in Athens. Cynthia would love it.’

‘Very small,’ he said, thinking of eighteen-wheelers, propane tankers . . .