everything looked as if it had been scrubbed and polished.
Jim opened the door of the Toyota even as Father Geary braked in front
of the terminal. He got out, turned, and leaned back in for a last word
with the priest.
“Thank you, Father. You probably saved my life.”
“Nothing that dramatic.”
“I’d like to give Our Lady of the Desert some of the three thousand I’m
carrying, but I might need it all. I just don’t know what’s going to
happen in Boston, what I might have to spend it for.”
The priest shook his head. “I don’t expect anything.”
“When I get home again, I’ll send some money. It’ll be cash in an
envelope, no return address, but it’s honest money in spite of that.
You can accept it in good conscience.”
“It’s not necessary, Jim. It was enough just to meet you. Maybe you
should know. . . you brought a sense of the mystical back into the life
of a weary priest who had sometimes begun to doubt his calling but who
never doubt again.”
They regarded each other with a mutual affection that clearly surprised
them both. Jim leaned into the car, Geary reached across the seat, and
they shook hands. The priest had a firm, dry grip.
“Go with God,” Geary said.
“I hope so.”
AUGUST 24 THROUGH AUGUST 26 Sitting at her desk in the Press newsroom in
the post-midnight hours of Friday morning, staring at her blank computer
screen, Holly had sunk so low psychologically that she just wanted to go
home, get into bed, and pull the covers over her head for a few days.
She despised people who were always feeling sorry for themselves. She
tried to shame herself out of her funk, but she began to pity herself
for having descended to self pity. Of course, it was impossible not to
see the humor in that situation, but she was unable to manage a smile at
her own expense; instead, she pitied herself for being such a silly and
amusing figure.
She was glad that tomorrow morning’s edition had been put to bed and
that the newsroom was almost deserted, so none of her colleagues could
see her in such a debased condition.The only other people in sight were
Tommy Weeks-a lanky maintenance man who was emptying waste cans and
sweeping up-and George Fintel.
George, who was on the city-government beat, was at his desk at the far
end of the big room, slumped forward, head on his folded arms, asleep.
Occasionally he snored loud enough for the sound to carry all the way to
Holly. When the bars closed, George sometimes returned to the newsroom
instead of to his apartment, just as an old dray horse, when left on
slack reins, will haul its cart back along a familiar route to the place
it thinks of as home. He would wake sometime during the night, realize
where he was, and wearily weave off to bed at last.
“Politicians,” George often said, “are the lowest form of life, having
undergone devolution from that first slimy beast that crawled out of the
primordial sea.” At fifty-seven, he was too burnt-out to start over, so
he continued to spend his days writing about public officials whom he
privately reviled, and in the process he had come to hate himself, as
well, and to seek solace in a prodigious daily intake of vodka martinis.
If she’d had any tolerance for liquor, Holly would have worried about
winding up like George Fintel. But one drink gave her a nice buzz, two
made her tipsy, and three put her to sleep.
I hate my life, she thought.
“You self pitying wretch,” she said aloud.
Well, I do. I hate it, everything’s so hopeless.
“You nauseating despair junkie,” she said softly but with genuine
disgust.
“You talking to me?” Tommy Weeks said, piloting a push broom along the
aisle in front of her desk.
“No, Tommy. Talking to myself”
“You? Gee, what’ve you got to be unhappy about?”
“My life.”
He stopped and leaned on his broom, crossing one long leg in front of
the other. With his broad freckled face, jug ears, and mop of carroty