That. That's it. That's the grabber.
She watched as a beer truck lumbered by with a clink of quivering warm, wet promises.
She crossed. As she walked down O and passed the grade-school auditorium, a priest rushed by from behind her, hands in the pockets of a nylon windbreaker. Young. Very tense. In need of a shave. Up ahead, he took a right, turning into an easement that opened to a courtyard behind the church.
Chris paused by the easement, watching him, curious. He seemed to be heading for a white frame cottage. An old screen door creaked open and still another priest emerged. He looked
glum; very nervous. He nodded curtly toward the young man, and with lowered, eyes, he moved quickly toward a door that led into the Church. Once again the cottage door was pushed open from within. Another priest. It looked--- Hey, it is! The one who was smiling when Burke said "fuck"! Only now he looked grave as he silently greeted the new arrival, his arm around his shoulder in a gesture that was gentle and somehow parental. He led him inside and the screen door closed with a slow, faint squeak.
Chris stared at her shoes. She was puzzled. What's the drill? She wondered if Jesuits went to confession.
Faint rumble of thunder. She looked up at the sky. Would it rain?... the resurrection of the...
Yeah. Yeah, sure. Next Tuesday. Flashes of lightning crackled in the distance. Don't call us, kid, we'll call you.
She tugged up her coat collar and slowly moved on. She hoped it would pour.
**********
In a minute she was home. She made a dash for the bathroom. After that, she walked into the kitchen.
"Hi, Chris, how'd it go?"
Pretty blonde in her twenties sitting at the table. Sharon Spencer. Fresh. From Oregon. For the last three years, she'd been tutor to Regan and social secretary to Chris.
"Oh, the usual crock." Chris sauntered to the table and began to sift message. "Anything exciting?"
"Do you want to have dinner next week at the White House?"
"Oh, I dunno, Marty; whadda you feel like doin'?"
"Eating candy and getting sick."
Chris chuckled. "Where's Rags, by the way?"
"Downstairs in the playroom."
"'What doin'?"
"Sculpting. She's making a bird, I think. It's for you."
"Yeah, I need one," Chris murmured. She moved to the stove and poured a cup of hot coffee.
"Were you kidding me about that dinner?" she asked.
"No, of course not," answered Sharon. "It's Thursday."
"Big party?"
"No, I gather it's just five or six people."
"No kidding!"
She was pleased but not really surprised. They courted her company: cab drivers; poets; professors; kings. What was it they liked about her? Life? Chris sat at the table. "How'd the lesson go?"
Sharon lit a cigarette, frowning. "Had a bad time with math again."
"Oh? Gee, that's funny."
"I know; it's her favorite subject," said Sharon.
"Oh, well, this 'new math,' Christ, I couldn't make change for the bus if---"
"Hi, Mom!"
She was bounding through the door, slim arms outstretched. Red ponytail. Soft, shining face full of freckles.
"Hi ya, stinkpot!" Beaming, Chris caught her in a bearhug, squeezing, then kissed the girl's cheek with smacking ardor. She could not repress the full flood of her love. "Mmum-mmummmum!" More kisses. Then she held Regan out and probed her face with eager eyes.
"What'djya do today? Anything exciting?"
"Oh stuff."
"So what kinda stuff?"
"Oh, lemme see." She had her knees against her mother's, swaying gently back and forth.
"Well, of course, I studied."
