I don’t understand how you’re functioning. Frankly, it’s the closest thing to a miracle I’ve ever seen.”
Robert leaned forward. “Do me a favor.”
Matt nodded. “Anything.”
He raised a finger and his voice trembled with anger. “Don’t talk to me about the miraculous. Fuck God.”
“Robert, don’t.”
“If you even breathe a word about how this is God’s plan, you’ll be joining me in the dirt sooner than you’d like.” Robert’s gaze dropped to the Formica tabletop. He clasped his hands. Sweat beaded on his brow. “Go away,” he said. Matt didn’t dawdle. But as the doctor scooted out, Robert grabbed his hand, asking, “Chemo?”
Matt shook his head. “It would kill you quicker. That’s all.”
“Any bright ideas?”
“Just one,” said Matt.
“What’s that?”
“Pray.”
Robert went blank. Hadn’t he just warned the asshole? But he only let go of Matt’s hand and watched him leave, wondering if he’d ever see him again.
He drank three pots of coffee that afternoon. Unable to move, barely capable of a thought, he was reduced to one function: pouring java. At first the waitress made a stab at small talk, but soon gave up. By late afternoon his head—if not his sight—cleared enough for him to consider returning home. He realized that Veronica and Jennifer had long ago returned from their Saturday antiquing. He inched from his booth, laid a crisp ten dollar bill on the table and tried not to stumble on his way out.
He took the back roads. Outside his home, he heard laughter. He inserted the key and it stopped.
They were on the living room couch, his girls, and they looked up from a game of Checkers. The instant they saw him their smiles vanished. Veronica dropped a captured piece on the floor and stood.
Chapter Eleven: On the Steps of the Inn
1
Nathaniel Durham burst through the batwing doors of Cheney’s Saloon at just after nine that morning. William followed as the preacher screamed for John. Durham was looking up at the second floor, where, the innkeeper had overheard more than once, a few of the friendlier tenement girls might be found after dark.
Downstairs bore none of the scars of a long night. The tables were clean, the chairs overturned atop them, their legs shooting into the air. The floor looked to have been swept. Stools rested seat-down on the bar top.
William followed Durham’s eyes. The preacher had been in opposition to a bar operating in Tempest. He’d wailed Sunday after Sunday, and on that Holy Day the town’s people shouted their solidarity. But on Monday, things always changed. After a long day’s labor, the citizens cried out for a saloon; the same folks who sang ‘Amen!’ on Sundays wailed for whiskey on Mondays.
The Reverend screamed for John again and this time the floorboards began to creak. Soon, John Cheney appeared over the railing that enclosed the second floor. He was shirtless; he wore only a pair of riveted Levi’s. He yawned, leaned over the whitewashed railing and asked, “And what can I do for you so early in the morning?”
“Taylor’s cattle are dead,” said Nathaniel.
The consternation on Chaney’s face changed to concern. He waited for more.
“William checked in a family of strangers last night. They asked about Daniel.”
“And what does Daniel have to do with dead cattle over at Taylor’s?”
“Gather some men and bring them to the church,” said Durham. He glanced back at William, who followed him out.
* * * * *
Although the front doors stood open, the church was stifling. Forty or more men pressed together in the pews. All stared up at the pulpit, behind which stood Reverend Nathaniel Durham.
His every mannerism, vocal or otherwise, served to create a rhythm. He used his voice and body language as either a sledgehammer or a scalpel, shifting his attack in response to attitudes: When faces grew pallid, he drove harder, pounding his fist into his open palm, raising his voice an octave; when brows
Robert leaned forward. “Do me a favor.”
Matt nodded. “Anything.”
He raised a finger and his voice trembled with anger. “Don’t talk to me about the miraculous. Fuck God.”
“Robert, don’t.”
“If you even breathe a word about how this is God’s plan, you’ll be joining me in the dirt sooner than you’d like.” Robert’s gaze dropped to the Formica tabletop. He clasped his hands. Sweat beaded on his brow. “Go away,” he said. Matt didn’t dawdle. But as the doctor scooted out, Robert grabbed his hand, asking, “Chemo?”
Matt shook his head. “It would kill you quicker. That’s all.”
“Any bright ideas?”
“Just one,” said Matt.
“What’s that?”
“Pray.”
Robert went blank. Hadn’t he just warned the asshole? But he only let go of Matt’s hand and watched him leave, wondering if he’d ever see him again.
He drank three pots of coffee that afternoon. Unable to move, barely capable of a thought, he was reduced to one function: pouring java. At first the waitress made a stab at small talk, but soon gave up. By late afternoon his head—if not his sight—cleared enough for him to consider returning home. He realized that Veronica and Jennifer had long ago returned from their Saturday antiquing. He inched from his booth, laid a crisp ten dollar bill on the table and tried not to stumble on his way out.
He took the back roads. Outside his home, he heard laughter. He inserted the key and it stopped.
They were on the living room couch, his girls, and they looked up from a game of Checkers. The instant they saw him their smiles vanished. Veronica dropped a captured piece on the floor and stood.
Chapter Eleven: On the Steps of the Inn
1
Nathaniel Durham burst through the batwing doors of Cheney’s Saloon at just after nine that morning. William followed as the preacher screamed for John. Durham was looking up at the second floor, where, the innkeeper had overheard more than once, a few of the friendlier tenement girls might be found after dark.
Downstairs bore none of the scars of a long night. The tables were clean, the chairs overturned atop them, their legs shooting into the air. The floor looked to have been swept. Stools rested seat-down on the bar top.
William followed Durham’s eyes. The preacher had been in opposition to a bar operating in Tempest. He’d wailed Sunday after Sunday, and on that Holy Day the town’s people shouted their solidarity. But on Monday, things always changed. After a long day’s labor, the citizens cried out for a saloon; the same folks who sang ‘Amen!’ on Sundays wailed for whiskey on Mondays.
The Reverend screamed for John again and this time the floorboards began to creak. Soon, John Cheney appeared over the railing that enclosed the second floor. He was shirtless; he wore only a pair of riveted Levi’s. He yawned, leaned over the whitewashed railing and asked, “And what can I do for you so early in the morning?”
“Taylor’s cattle are dead,” said Nathaniel.
The consternation on Chaney’s face changed to concern. He waited for more.
“William checked in a family of strangers last night. They asked about Daniel.”
“And what does Daniel have to do with dead cattle over at Taylor’s?”
“Gather some men and bring them to the church,” said Durham. He glanced back at William, who followed him out.
* * * * *
Although the front doors stood open, the church was stifling. Forty or more men pressed together in the pews. All stared up at the pulpit, behind which stood Reverend Nathaniel Durham.
His every mannerism, vocal or otherwise, served to create a rhythm. He used his voice and body language as either a sledgehammer or a scalpel, shifting his attack in response to attitudes: When faces grew pallid, he drove harder, pounding his fist into his open palm, raising his voice an octave; when brows
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