“I'll be back with your tossed salads in just a moment, gentlemen,” Gracie says. She has a septum piercing but no visible tattoos, so maybe there's hope for her. Father John, who had ordered the chicken filet with greens on the side, thanked her and sipped his tea. He noticed that Father Martin on the other side of the booth watched the waitress as she weaved through the tables and disappeared into the back.
Well, he's a young man, and it's a minor fault, Father John decided.
“I've never had the steak here, I hope it's good,” said Father Martin, who had opted for medium-rare with a baked potato, plus cheese and bacon bits.
“It was the last time I tried it,” Father John said, scratching his cheek through his white beard.
“I'm glad you could meet me, by the way,” the younger man said, adjusting his glasses with their rectangular lenses. He sat for the most part stiffly upright, though periodically he'd catch himself slouching and pull himself up with a jerk like a bubble rising in water. “I know they keep you busy.”
“Not so much in the middle of the week,” said Father John, “And I'd be remiss in my duties if I wouldn't respond to a call from my assistant pastor. It was a little sudden, though, and I confess I'm a little curious what this is all about.”
“Curious…” Father Martin muttered, turning away.
The front door opened and in came a man of about six foot four, blue shirt and blue jeans, toting a toolbox the size of a casket. He walked straight up to the hostess and bellowed, “My boss called, I'm here to work on your pipes.”
The hostess, an African-American woman with what's known colloquially as a dump truck, turned puppy eyes on the man and said breathily, equally theatrically, “It took you so long to get here, we were starting to worry you weren't coming.”
“I had to make sure I had the right tool for the job,” the man said, reaching into his toolbox and extracting a foot-long gleaming wrench.
“Well you just follow me back here,” the hostess said, going tip-toed and spinning on her heel. “And we'll just make sure you can clear out all the blockage.”
“Your pipes will be wide open by the time I'm through,” said the plumber, who followed the woman into the back room, now and then fluffing the head of his wrench with his free hand.
At the table Father John, who had mostly been paying attention to his fidgety assistant pastor, leaned forward and said, “You seem a tiny bit distracted, my friend.”
Father Martin, who had been rubbernecking at the plumber and the round hostess, jerked upright, laughed nervously. One might even say he giggled. Adjusting his glasses he said, “It's just… well, you remember a few months back when I got called in one night to give… the last rites… after that accident on the Watterson.”
“Yes, I do remember that. It sounded… pretty bad,” Father John said. “Is that what's… haunting you?”
“You might say that,” Father Martin said, looking over at the door to the back room. He giggled again. “It's that… I never told you about the woman I gave the last rites to.”
“I didn't hear much about her at all, seem to recall hearing she was from out of town, but that's about it,” Father John said.
“She was from Louisville, all right, but she worked in Miami,” Father Martin said, becoming animated. “She was back in town visiting family, I think that's what led to the accident, really. I mean, she didn't really tell me much about that, she wanted to make her confession before… well anyway, I gathered that there was some kind of scene at home and that's why she wasn't paying full attention when she hit the–”
“Two tossed salads, right here and waiting for you two fine gentlemen,” Gracie said, leaning to place the salads before them and slightly throwing Father Martin off his concentration.
“Thank you, Gracie,” Father John said, popping a crouton into his mouth and sprinkling Italian dressing from a little plastic cup.
Father Martin likewise thanked the apparition with the septum piercing, dollopping Ranch into his salad bowl with the aid of a spoon. She nodded and assured them she'd be out with their meals in just a minute. Father John once again detected Father Martin viewing her departure with a rising interest.
The two men said grace over the salads before beginning to eat, closing, “In the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy spirit, amen.”
“Amen,” Father Martin emphasized. He took a cherry tomato, popped it into his mouth, and swallowed it before plunging back into his story: “So… she hit the barrier, and I think it's because of what happened back at home, she really wasn't in a state of mind to be driving.”
“Well, what happened back at home? Are you saying they abused her, or something?” Father John asked.
“I don't know… exactly… what happened,” Father Martin said between mouthfuls. “I know they weren't exactly thrilled with her line of work, and that might have…”
“Line of work?” Father John asked, furrowing his brows.
“Her work in Miami, that's right,” Father Martin said, scratching his neck. “I can't exactly say it, because most of what she told me was part of her confession, but I can tell you Mom and Dad weren't happy about it.”
“I'm not following,” Father John said.
Father Martin giggled again, scratching at his neck like he had a rash that would never stop itching. “Well, she was… a very prolific artist of a certain sort.”
“In Miami,” Father John said.
“Yes, that's right. And she was very successful too, she had a lot of talent in her line of work.”
(At this moment a cacophony of clanging rang out from the back room, stunning Father Martin into a spasm of silence. For a moment it seemed the rhythmic banging would escalate forever, but in another moment there was only silence. The voice of the hostess, ecstatic, announced to all the world and the hosts of heaven, “That's it, just like that, keep going just like that, let those pipes flow!”)
“So her parents weren't happy, they got upset, she got upset, and that's why she crashed the car?” Father John asked.
Father Martin took a moment to respond, gazing as he was transfixed at the back room. There was something unwholesome in his face, like a man unable to turn away from a charred corpse. He nodded and said, “Yes, that's pretty much it.”
“And it's still sticking with you?” Father John asked.
“I still see her every night,” Father Martin said, giggling yet again. Father John wished he wouldn't do that, but then again he hardly seemed aware of it. “And I don't mean that in any spooky way, or anything, I just find myself circling back to–”
“A hot rare piece of meat for you, Father,” Gracie said, appearing with Father Martin's swelling plate of meat and potatoes. A moment later she placed Father John's more restrained meal in front of him, adding, “And a sweet little chicken filet with greens for you.”
“Thank you, Gracie,” Father John said.
“Now, do you boys have an appetite for dessert, or is it too early to tell?” Gracie asked, fixing Father Martin with her eye.
Father John declined the offer, but Father Martin, reddening, said, “I think I might like two scoops of vanilla ice cream.”
“And would you like anything to drizzle over that?” Gracie asked. She had a toothpick in her mouth.
Father Martin jerked upright, said, “Marshmallow cream, if you have it.”
“We do indeed, Father, I'll get that out to you just as soon as you're done with that there steak,” Gracie said. Father John turned his attention to his plate so he wouldn't have to watch Father Martin's keen interest in Gracie’s departure.
“Anyway, I just keep coming,” Father Martin said, pausing to take a bite of his steak, “Back to that image of her. Of her face, of her body, of all the blood after the accident. But more than that…”
“Yes?” Father John asked.
“I was… curious… about her.”
Father John opened his mouth. It was beginning to dawn on him. “You mean…”
“I mean I tried not to,” Father Martin said, “But I've become a little… fascinated with… her work. In the months since the accident.”
“If I understand you right…” Father John said, “That's a serious matter. For a man in your position.”
(“That's it, baby, let it flow!” came the enthralled voice of the hostess. “Hand me over that wrench, lemme get those nuts good and tight!”)
“It is,” Father Martin said. “I don't like it, but I can't help myself and I don't know what to do about it.”
“Pray the rosary,” Father John said. “And make your confession. The Blessed Mother understands these things better than any of us do.”
“Yes, but I–” Father Martin said, his mouth working with his fork halfway to his mouth. That same unwholesome look in his harried eyes.
Father John raised his eyebrows. “If you're questioning your calling… that would be a very serious matter indeed.”
“It is,” Father Martin agreed.
The two men finished their meal, Father Martin agreeing to meet with Father John for confession that evening. They ate in silence, haunted by the periodic clanging of the wrench and the image of the dead woman who had been a prolific artist in Miami. Father John left some cash and exited before Gracie could bring Father Martin his two scoops of vanilla, drizzled with marshmallow cream.
(Audio version of this story available on YouTube.)
Commentaires