“They’ll heal son, don’t worry.”
And Laura, she was in the distance, her hand held out, saying softly,
“But Jack, you have no fingers I can hold.”
Yeah, like that.
Jesus wept and then some. I think, I don’t know, but there were tears on my face. Loss is sometimes so palpable. You can almost touch it.
Almost.
The single night-light threw an eerie glow across the room. I struggled to sit up, still half caught in the wish desire of the dream, phantom pain in my destroyed hand, and my heart did a jig as I saw a dark figure rise from the chair in the corner. Maybe the light-bringer was back to claim his own. He stood, moved into the dim radiance, and I thought,
“Yeah, the devil all right.”
Being afraid is natural.
Being afraid to do something about it is an insult to life.
– C
Father Gabriel.
Looking immaculate as usual. If the pope can wear Gucci slippers, then no reason why Gabe shouldn’t have his clerical suit made by Armani; it had that cut. His white collar seemed to gleam in the half-light, matching his perfect teeth and discreet tan. He moved like an athlete. He leaned over me, asked,
“How are you, Jack?”
Like he gave a good fuck.
I said,
“Been better.”
He made the sign of the cross over me. I wish I could say it was a comfort but, from him, it was like a curse. He smelled of some great aftershave. Man, this guy was a player.
But at what?
He said,
“The Brethren have been praying for you.”
What? That I’d croak?
I nodded, trying to appear appreciative. He reached in his elegant jacket, produced a fat envelope, left it on the bed, said,
“Your bonus, and I think you’ll find it more than generous.”
I asked,
“You found Loyola then?”
He gave a radiant smile, gave more illumination than the measly night-light, said,
“Your information was spot on. A job well done. Your church will remember the great service you performed on its behalf.”
I pushed,
“So, what happens to Loyola now?”
The smile was still in place but it had eased. He said,
“Back in the flock. All is well in God’s world.”
Fucking guy didn’t get out much it seemed.
He added,
“Now Jack, don’t concern yourself anymore with that. You must focus on recovery and bask in the task you did so admirably for Mother Church.”
He was so slick, so polished, you could almost believe him. I kept at it, though,
“The money that Loyola nicked, got it back, I guess?”
He touched my shoulder, said,
“Jack, you fret too much. Be assured, all is restored.”
His touch was like brushing against a cobra, the venom just waiting to be released, and his eyes had hardened. I asked,
“You ever read Tim McLaurin?”
The tolerant smile. He said,
“Oh, Jack, if only we all had the time to read as much as you, but no, I haven’t.”
I figured accounts sheets were more his forte. I said,
“Esse Quam Videm.”
He finally took his hand off my shoulder, leaned back, said,
“Latin? I should really know the meaning but one’s memory is not what it was.”
This fuck remembered how much he got on his First Holy Communion and who gave what. I smiled, said,
“Don’t fret! It means, to be, rather than to be seen.”