Prayers For Rain Part 29

"Bon voyage, Cody." I walked to the gla.s.s doors. "Bon voyage."

12.

The priest who presided over the noon ma.s.s at Saint Dominick of the Sacred Heart Church acted like he had tickets for the Sox game at one. Father McKendrick strode up the front aisle at the stroke of twelve with two altar boys who had to jog to keep pace. He riffled through the greeting, penitential rite, and opening prayer like his Bible was afire. He zipped through Paul's Letter to the Romans as if Paul drank too much coffee. By the time he slammed through the Gospel According to Luke and waved the paris.h.i.+oners to sit, it was seven past noon and most of the people in the pews looked wiped.

He gripped the lectern in both hands, stared down into the pews with a coldness bordering on disdain. "Paul wrote: 'We must wake from darkness and clothe ourselves in the armor of light.' What does that mean, you think-to wake from darkness, to wear armor of light?"

In the days when I went with any regularity, I'd always liked this part of the ma.s.s least. The priest would attempt to explain deeply symbolic language penned almost two thousand years ago and then apply his explanation to the Berlin Wall, the Vietnam War, Roe v. Wade Roe v. Wade, the Bruins' Stanley Cup chances. He'd wear you out with his grasping.

"Well, it means what it says," Father McKendrick said as if he were talking to a room full of first-graders who'd ridden in on the short bus. "It means get out of bed. Leave the darkness of your venal desires, your petty bickerings, your hating of your neighbors and distrust of your spouse and allowing your children to be raised and corrupted by TV. Get outside, Paul says, out in the fresh air! Into the light! G.o.d is the moon and the stars and He is most definitely the sun. Feel the sun's warmth. Pa.s.s that warmth on. Do good things. Give extra to the collection boxes today. Feel the Lord working in you. Donate the clothes you like like to a shelter. Feel the Lord. He is the armor of light. Get out and do what's right." He thumped the lectern for emphasis. "Do what's to a shelter. Feel the Lord. He is the armor of light. Get out and do what's right." He thumped the lectern for emphasis. "Do what's light light. Do you see?"

I looked around the pews. Several people nodded. No one looked like he had the first clue as to what Father McKendrick was talking about.

"Well then," he said. "Good. All rise."

We stood back up. I glanced at my watch. Two minutes flat. The fastest sermon I'd ever witnessed. Father McKendrick definitely had Red Sox tickets.

The paris.h.i.+oners looked dazed, but happy. The only thing good Catholics love more than G.o.d is a short service. Keep your organ music, your choir, keep your incense and processionals. Give us a priest with one eye on the Bible and the other on the clock, and we'll pack the place like it's a turkey raffle the week before Thanksgiving.

As the ushers worked backward through the pews with wicker donation baskets, Father McKendrick ripped through the offering of the gifts and the blessing of the host with a look on his face that told the two eleven-year-olds a.s.sisting him that this wasn't JV, this was varsity, so step up your game, boys, and make it snappy.

Roughly three and a half minutes later, just after bolting through the Our Father, the Reverend McKendrick had us offer the sign of peace. He didn't look too happy about it, but there were rules, I guess. I shook the hands of the husband and wife beside me, as well of those of the three old men in the pew behind me and the two old women in the pew ahead.

I managed to catch Angie's eye as I did. She was up front, nine rows from the altar, and as she turned to shake the hand of the pudgy teenage boy behind her, she saw me. Something maybe a little surprised, a little happy, and a little hurt pa.s.sed over her face, and then she dipped her chin slightly in recognition. I hadn't seen her in six months, but I manfully resisted the urge to wave and let out a loud whoop. We were in church, after all, where loud displays of affection are frowned on. Further, we were in Father McKendrick's church, and I had the feeling that if I whooped, he'd send me to h.e.l.l.

Another seven minutes, and we were out of there. If it was all up to McKendrick, we would have hit the street in four, but several older paris.h.i.+oners slowed the line during Holy Communion and Father McKendrick watched them struggle to approach him on their walkers with a face that said, G.o.d might have all day, but I don't.

On the sidewalk outside the church, I watched Angie exit and stop at the top of the stairs to speak to an older gentleman in a seersucker suit. She shook his trembling hand with both of hers, stooped as he said something to her, smiled broadly when he finished. I caught the pudgy thirteen-year-old craning his head out from behind his mother's arm to peer at Angie's cleavage while she was stooped over the man in the seersucker. The kid felt my eyes on him and turned to look at me, his face blooming red with good old-fas.h.i.+oned Catholic guilt around a minefield of acne. I shook a stern finger at him, and the kid blessed himself hurriedly and looked down at his shoes. Next Sat.u.r.day, he'd be in the confessional, owning up to feelings of l.u.s.t. At his age, probably a thousand counts of it.

That'll be six hundred Hail Marys, my son.

Yes, Faddah.

You'll go blind, son.

Yes, Faddah.

Angie worked her way down through the crowd milling on the stone steps. She used the backs of her fingers to move the bangs out of her eyes, though she could have solved the problem simply by raising her head. She kept it down, though, as she approached me, fearful perhaps that I'd see something in her face that would either make my day or break my heart.

She'd cut her hair. Cut it short. All those abundant tangles of rich cocoa, streaked with auburn during late spring and summer, rope-thick tresses that had flowed to her lower back and splayed completely across her pillow and onto mine, that could take an hour to brush if she were dressing up for the night-were gone, replaced by a chin-skimming bob that dropped in sweeps over her cheekbones and ended hard at the nape of her neck.

Bubba would weep if he knew. Well, maybe not weep. Shoot someone. Her hairdresser, for starters.

"Don't say a word about the hair," she said when she raised her head.

"What hair?"

"Thank you."

"No, I meant it-what hair?"

Her caramel eyes were dark pools. "Why are you here?"

"I heard the sermons rocked."

She s.h.i.+fted her weight from her right foot to the left. "Ha."

"I can't drop by?" I said. "See an old pal?"

Her lips tightened. "We agreed after the last drop-by that the phone would do. Didn't we?"

Her eyes filled with hurt and embarra.s.sment and damaged pride.

The last time was winter. We'd met for coffee. Had lunch. Moved on to drinks. Like pals do. Then we were suddenly on the living room rug in her new apartment, voices hoa.r.s.e, clothes back in the dining room. It had been angry, mournful, violent, exhilarating, empty s.e.x. And after, back in the dining room, picking up our clothes and feeling the room's winter chill suck the heat from our flesh, Angie had said, "I'm with someone."

"Someone?" I found my thermal sweats.h.i.+rt under a chair, pulled it over my head.

"Someone else. We can't do this. This ride has to end."

"Come back to me, then. The h.e.l.l with Someone."

Naked from the waist up and p.i.s.sed off about it, she looked at me, her fingers untangling the straps of the bra she'd found on the dining room table. As a guy, I had the better deal-I could dress quicker; find my boxers, jeans, and sweats.h.i.+rt, and I was good to go.

Angie, untangling that bra, looked abandoned.

"We don't work, Patrick."

"Sure, we do."

On went the bra with a hard sense of finality as she snapped the straps together in back and searched the chair seats for her sweater.

"No, we don't. We want to, but we don't. All the little things? We're fine. But the crucial things? We're a mess."

"And you and Someone?" I said, and stepped into my shoes. "You're all hunky-dory across the board, are you?"

"Could be, Patrick. Could be."

I watched her pull the sweater over her head, then shrug that abundant hair out of the collar.

I picked my jacket up off the floor. "If Someone's so simpatico with you, Ange, what was what we just did in the living room?"

"A dream," she said.

I glanced across the foyer at the rug. "Nice dream."

"Maybe," she said in a monotone. "But I'm up now."