She said, “They’ve got a Mother Mary that cries.” She went to the refrigerator. Poured herself a glass of grapefruit juice; Krome, waiting for more about Grange. “And on the highway,” she said, between sips, “in the middle of the highway, the face of Jesus Christ.”
Tom Krome said, “I heard about that.”
“A stain,” Katie elaborated. “Dark violet. Like blood.”
Or possibly transmission fluid, Krome thought.
“I’ve only been there once,” Katie said. “We stopped for gas on the way to Clearwater.”
Krome was relieved to hear she wasn’t a Grange regular. He tossed a stack of clean Jockey shorts into the suitcase. “What was your impression of the place?”
“Weird.” Katie finished the fruit juice, washed the glass. She slipped out of her shoes and took a seat at the table, where she had a good view of Tom packing. “I didn’t see the crying Madonna, just the road-stain Jesus. But the whole town struck me as weird.”
Krome suppressed a smile. He was counting on weird.
Katie asked, “When will you be back?”
“Day or two.”
“You gonna call me?”
Krome looked up. “Sure, Katie.”
“When you get to Grange, I mean.”
“Oh… sure.”
“You thought I meant for you to call when you get back. Didn’t you?”
Krome marveled at how, with no effort, he’d gotten himself into a downward-spiraling conversation before noon on a Sunday morning. He was simply trying to pack, for God’s sake, yet he’d apparently managed to hurt Katie’s feelings.
His theory: It was the pause between the “oh” and the “sure” that had tripped her alarm.
Surrender was the only option: Yes, yes, sweet Katherine, forgive me. You’re right, I’m a total shit, insensitive and self-absorbed. What was I thinking! Of course I’ll call as soon as I get to Grange.
“Katie,” he said, “I’ll call as soon as I get to Grange.”
“It’s OK. I know you’ll be busy.”
Krome closed the suitcase, snapped the latches. “I want to call, all right?”
“OK, but not too late.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Art gets home—”
“At six-thirty. I remember.”
Art being Katie’s husband. Circuit Judge Arthur Battenkill Jr.
Krome felt bad about betraying Art, even though he didn’t know the man, and even though Art was cheating on Katie with both his secretaries. This was widely known, Katie had assured him, unbuckling his pants on their second “date.” An eye for an eye, she’d said; that’s straight from the Bible.
Still, Tom Krome felt guilty. It was nothing new; possibly it was even necessary. Beginning in his teenage years, guilt had played a defining role in every romance Tom Krome ever had. These days it was a steady if oppressive companion in his divorce.
Katie Battenkill had poleaxed him with her fine alert features and lusty wholesomeness. She’d chased after him, literally, one day while he was jogging downtown. He’d gotten tangled in a charity street march—he couldn’t recall whether it was for a disease or a disorder—and clumsily slapped some money in her hand. Next thing he knew: footsteps running behind him. She caught up, too. They had lunch at a pizza joint, where the first thing out of Katie’s mouth was: “I’m married and I’ve never done this before. God, I’m starved.” Tom Krome liked her tremendously, but he realized that Art was very much part of the equation. Katie was working things out in her own way, and Krome understood his role. It suited him fine, for now.
Barefoot in her nylons, Katie followed him out to the car. He got in and, perhaps too hastily, fit the key in the ignition. She leaned over and kissed him goodbye; quite a long kiss. Afterwards she lingered at the car door. He noticed she was holding a disposable camera.
“For your trip,” she said, handing it to him. “There’s five shots left. Maybe six.”
Krome thanked her but explained it was unnecessary. Sinclair would be sending a staff photographer if the lottery story panned out.
“That’s for the newspaper,” Katie said. “This is for me. Could you take a picture of the weeping Madonna?”
For a moment Krome thought she was kidding. She wasn’t.
“Please, Tom?”
He put the cardboard camera in his jacket. “What if she’s not crying? The Virgin Mary. You still want a picture?”