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.”
He considered that, then,
“Meaning?”
“My doctor, Dr. Boxer, told me that and my
meaning is, do I get to see Loyola? Let’s call it a
vested interest?”
I nodded at the fat envelope, continued,
“Be nice to actually meet the dude who got me
such a fine payday.”
He looked at his watch—yeah, you guessed it: not
a freaking Timex, a fine slim gold job—said,
“I must run Jack, I’ll try and visit soon.”
And he was gone.
He made no sound as he slipped from the room. A
clerical stealth bomber and, no doubt, this guy was
incendiary. I glanced uneasily at the envelope. I
should be delighted. Few things give me the blast
like counting money, especially if it belongs to me.
But the term tainted was rooted in my head.
Something was off center and I knew in my heart
that, whatever else, I hadn’t, as he said, performed
a great service for Mother Church. Betrayal
touched my tongue like blood in my mouth.
My favorite nurse came in to settle me, said,
“Isn’t that a lovely aftershave? What is it?”
“Treachery.”
She looked at me, said,
“The names they give these new fragrances these
days. Men are getting better aromas than women.”
Like I’d know.
She had gotten me a sleeper and I said,
“You’re an angel.”
“Ah, go away with that. You wouldn’t know an
angel if it flapped its wings in your face.”
But I did know their opposite number—and all too
fucking well.
She fluffed my pillows, saw the envelope, said,
“You got a card?”
I didn’t answer and she asked,
“Are you all right Jack? You seem down in
yourself?”
“I’m good, honest, just a bit weary.”
And wary.
After she’d gone, I did count the money; it was a
lot, an awful lot.
I was due to be discharged in a few days but I
caught an infection, it developed into a fever, and I
was semi-comatose for another two weeks. I
dreamt a lot of Laura and my surrogate son, and
would come to, bathed in sweat, my heart hopping
in my bedraggled chest. Sorrow was like a
constant cloud over me and lashed me in every
way it could. Times, too, I woke to an irritating
itch in my hand, no fingers to do the necessary, and
despair loomed larger than at almost any time in
my banjaxed existence.
I do remember a patient strolling into my room a
few times. I think his name was Anthony but I
wouldn’t swear to it. He liked to sit and read the
papers, aloud, saying,
“Keep you up to date with what you’re missing.”
What, like my fingers, my fucking life, Laura?
I’d drift in and out of fever as he read on.
One particular morning, as the fever was
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.”
He considered that, then,
“Meaning?”
“My doctor, Dr. Boxer, told me that and my
meaning is, do I get to see Loyola? Let’s call it a
vested interest?”
I nodded at the fat envelope, continued,
“Be nice to actually meet the dude who got me
such a fine payday.”
He looked at his watch—yeah, you guessed it: not
a freaking Timex, a fine slim gold job—said,
“I must run Jack, I’ll try and visit soon.”
And he was gone.
He made no sound as he slipped from the room. A
clerical stealth bomber and, no doubt, this guy was
incendiary. I glanced uneasily at the envelope. I
should be delighted. Few things give me the blast
like counting money, especially if it belongs to me.
But the term tainted was rooted in my head.
Something was off center and I knew in my heart
that, whatever else, I hadn’t, as he said, performed
a great service for Mother Church. Betrayal
touched my tongue like blood in my mouth.
My favorite nurse came in to settle me, said,
“Isn’t that a lovely aftershave? What is it?”
“Treachery.”
She looked at me, said,
“The names they give these new fragrances these
days. Men are getting better aromas than women.”
Like I’d know.
She had gotten me a sleeper and I said,
“You’re an angel.”
“Ah, go away with that. You wouldn’t know an
angel if it flapped its wings in your face.”
But I did know their opposite number—and all too
fucking well.
She fluffed my pillows, saw the envelope, said,
“You got a card?”
I didn’t answer and she asked,
“Are you all right Jack? You seem down in
yourself?”
“I’m good, honest, just a bit weary.”
And wary.
After she’d gone, I did count the money; it was a
lot, an awful lot.
I was due to be discharged in a few days but I
caught an infection, it developed into a fever, and I
was semi-comatose for another two weeks. I
dreamt a lot of Laura and my surrogate son, and
would come to, bathed in sweat, my heart hopping
in my bedraggled chest. Sorrow was like a
constant cloud over me and lashed me in every
way it could. Times, too, I woke to an irritating
itch in my hand, no fingers to do the necessary, and
despair loomed larger than at almost any time in
my banjaxed existence.
I do remember a patient strolling into my room a
few times. I think his name was Anthony but I
wouldn’t swear to it. He liked to sit and read the
papers, aloud, saying,
“Keep you up to date with what you’re missing.”
What, like my fingers, my fucking life, Laura?
I’d drift in and out of fever as he read on.
One particular morning, as the fever was
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