I pulled a fresh cigarette from the pack. “I’m not alone. You’re here.”
“You know what I mean.”
I shrugged. “I’m not into holidays.”
He nodded, took another drink. There was a long pause, then, “There’s no hope for me, is there?”
I sighed, knowing exactly what he was talking about. “Personally, I think your last chance ran out the door stuck to the naked ass of Ms. Hastings Flowers. But my opinion doesn’t matter because I’m not the one who decides what Elizabeth wants.”
“Yeah,” he said, leaning back. “I know.”
“And it occurs to me,” I said, because I just couldn’t resist poking at a sore spot, “that if you really want Elizabeth back, you could start by dropping the lawsuit against her.”
He rubbed his hands over his face. “Yeah. I know. It’s just... She wouldn’t talk to me...”
“So... you thought you’d win her favor by suing her and forcing her to see you in court?” I snorted out a laugh. “I hate to be the one to break it to you, man, but you definitely are stupider than you look.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared out into the night. “You may not believe this, but I’m not a bad guy. I’m a stupid guy. I love Elizabeth. I love my kids.” He paused. “I didn’t even like Ms. Hastings Flowers.”
There was a long silence. I thought he was done. I was wrong.
“I guess I was so scared of losing everything that I just threw it all away on purpose. Like I said, stupid.”
I looked over at him. His face was tight, his eyes radiating misery. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, Jack Mackey and I were two peas in a pod.
“For what it’s worth, Jack,” I said, “I don’t think it’s hopeless. I’m not saying you don’t have a lot to make up for, but I don’t think it’s hopeless.”
He raised his eyes to me, looked over his shoulder and then back at me with a sly smile. “I’m sorry, Wanda, is that you? Are you being nice to me? Did the laws of nature just reverse or what?”
I raised my glass. “For both of our sakes, let’s hope so.”
We toasted, and each of us drank, then sat together in silence, two people bonded by stupidity.
Chapter Eight
“Forgive me, Father, but I’m still screwed up.” I leaned back in the confessional and rested my head against the wall, looking up all the way to the cathedral ceiling. It hadn’t occurred to me that there wouldn’t be a top on the confessional box. Maybe that was so the confession could drift right on up to God. Maybe it was so the confessional wouldn’t be too dark. Maybe it was so the parish could afford those rocking stained-glass windows.
“Do I know you?”
I picked my head up and looked at the grate. “You might not remember me. I’m Wanda, the woman who’s not Catholic? Came in here talking about how my horrible ex-husband drove my family away? You were really mean to me and made me cry? Told me to do something meaningful?”
“Oh.” I could practically hear him smiling. “Yes. Any chance you’re actually going to join the church someday and make this clandestine relationship of ours official?”
Clandestine. Vocab points for Father Hard-Ass. “Do you think that would help me?”
“Why would I think that?”
I smiled. “It’s kinda dead out there today, Father. I didn’t see a single other sinner when I came in. I thought y’all might be closed.”
“It’s the day after Thanksgiving. They’re all at the mall.”
“Ah.” I paused.
The father coughed. A beat. Then—“Wanda? You still there?”
“Yeah. I’m just thinking.”
“Well, it’s your dime, but since you’re here, you might as well think out loud.”
Okay. “Have you always known what you wanted, Father?”
That seemed to take him by surprise. He paused, then came back with, “I’m not sure I know what you mean.”
“Well, being a priest is a pretty big commitment.”
“You could say that.”
“Did you always know? That it was what you wanted out of life?”
Another pause. “Are we talking about me?”
“No.” I sighed and leaned my head back, staring up at the cathedral ceiling and performing a conversational free fall. “I just... I’m going through this thing right now. There’s this guy, this wonderful man who cares about me for God knows what reason... and then there are a bunch of sticky notes I have to go through... and I keep hearing this music that no one else can hear... It’s a long story. I guess what it all comes down to is that I’m trying to figure out what I want out of life, and I’m not getting anywhere. I’ll be honest with you, I’m a little frustrated.”
“Well, if it’s any comfort, that’s not an easy question for anybody to answer.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “Blah, blah, blah.”
I heard him huff through the grate. “You know, there’s a rabbi down the street who has office hours on Fridays.”
“You trying to get rid of me?”
“No, not at all.”
“Good, because I have another question for you.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“This whole ‘Do something meaningful’ thing. What did you mean by that?”
“I think it’s pretty self-explanatory.”
“I’m not that clever, Father.”
He chuckled. It echoed off the small space and lifted upward. I was beginning to like the confessional. “I doubt that.”
“It’s just that I don’t—thank you—I don’t know what to do. My friend and her ex-husband are still in love with each other. There’s a lot of bad water under the bridge, but they’ve got these great kids, and I think, you know, if I can help them get back together, then that would be meaningful, right?”
Silence.
“Right?” I asked again. Father Hard-Ass was being a little slow on the uptake.
“Well,” he said, “getting involved in other people’s relationships can be big trouble. Especially if they don’t want you involved.”
I sighed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, too, but I’m really desperate to do something meaningful.”
Pause. “Then it seems like you have a choice to make.”
Well, duh. “Yes. That’s why I’m here.”
“Why?”
“So you can tell me what I should do.”
“What makes you think I know what you should do?”
“Well, I figure a priest won’t let me do the wrong thing.”
“This is why people need to join the church before going to confession. I’m here to listen to your sins, not to make all your choices for you.”
Now, there was the Father Hard-Ass I knew and loved. “Look, I’m just trying to do the right thing. Tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“All right. Join the church.”
We both laughed. “No, Father. I mean about the something meaningful. Should I do it? Do the ends justify the means?”
“That all depends on the ends and the means.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “For crying out loud! Do I have to join the church to get a straight answer outta you?”
“Yes!” He laughed again, then paused. When he started talking, his voice was more serious. “What you need to do is between you and God. And I’m not privy to that information, even if you join the church.” A beat. “But it can’t hurt to hedge your bets.”
I grinned. “A couple of Hail Marys, then?”
“We’ll get to that. For now, I think you should go to the gift shop and buy a St. Erasmus medal.”
“A St. what medal?”
“Erasmus. Also known as St. Elmo.”
“Oh,” I said, brightening. “The guy from St. Elmo’s Fire?”
Father Hard-Ass sighed. I imagined he got that a lot. “The lights in the sky that used to help sailors find their way were named after him, yes. He’s the patron saint of navigators. Maybe he can help you
find your way.”
I could feel my throat tighten with emotion. Cripes. What was the deal with me? Getting weepy over a saint? I should trade in all those sticky notes for a prescription and get it over with. I stood up.
“Thanks.” I looked up at the ornate cathedral ceiling again. “Hey, Father? I know this is supposed to be all confidential and everything, but can I know your name?”
There was a pause. Then, “I’m Father Gregory.”
“Nice to meet you, Father Gregory. I’m Wanda.”
I heard a chuckle. “It was nice meeting you, too, Wanda.”
I nodded, even though I knew he couldn’t see it. I grabbed at the curtain but paused before leaving. “Father Gregory?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you. For listening to me. Even though I’m not part of your flock.”
He leaned close to the grate and spoke in a low, friendly tone. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve enjoyed listening to you.”
I smiled. Had me a priest on my team. That had to be a good sign. “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”
“I’m here all week. Be sure to tip your waitress.”
I went straight from there to the gift shop. They were all out of St. Erasmus medals. Shocker.
***
“Just shut up and sit down,” I said. “And put the damn hat on, will you?”
Bones grumbled something offensive but put the hat on. “What time is it?” he asked. “I’m already hotter ’n hell in this getup.”
I checked my watch. “Eight-forty-five. Fifteen minutes to open.”
I checked the connection from the digital camera on the tripod to the computer, then went around the desk to check out the image in the software Kacey had set up for me. I hit the button to take the picture, and the flash lit up Bones’s craggy old face.
“Damn, girl, you trying to blind me?” he yelled. “I don’t know who ever heard of a black damn Santa Claus, anyway.”
“You don’t shut up, Bones,” I said, bringing the printout over to show him, “you’re gonna be a dead damn Santa Claus.”
He took the printout from me. It was good quality, on card stock, with a mistletoe border that read “Merry Christmas” in the lower right-hand corner. He harrumphed and handed it back to me.
“It’s off-center.”
“You’re off-center,” I grumbled, heading back to the computer but freezing midway.
“Bones? Is that music playing on the system?”
“What music?” Damn. The crescendo built. I hummed along, closed my eyes, tried to place it.
“What’s wrong with you, Wanda?”
I held up a hand to shush Bones. The music faded. Shit. I continued over to the computer, only looking up after I realized Bones had been uncommonly silent.
“What?” I said.
“You going crazy on me, girl?” he asked.
“Just a little,” I said. “No more than usual.”
He nodded but continued to watch me, his dark eyes glittering with poorly masked concern.
“Stop eyeballing me, Bones,” I said. “I’m fine.”
He looked away, tugging at the collar of the Santa suit. “Don’t think I’m gonna be doing this Santa thing for you every damn day. I have real work to do, you know.”
I grinned. “Just smile and look pretty, Bones. Only six more hours to go.”
***
“Have you spoken to Jack lately?”
Elizabeth stopped dunking her tea bag. I took a sip of my coffee and tried to look casual.
“No,” she said, and continued dunking. “Why?”
“No reason,” I said, shrugging. “Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Do you still love him?”
She gave me a tight smile. “Are you ever going to call Walter or what?”
Oooh. Counterattack. I raised my eyebrows and pulled an Elizabeth. “We were talking about Walter?”
“No,” she said, then threw her hands up in the air. “Don’t you have Santa pictures to take?”
I shook my head. “Monday. Station’s closed. Deft change of subject, by the way. Now back to you and Jack.”
“Why are you suddenly so interested in me and Jack?” She white-knuckled her tea mug and took a sip. I half expected the thing to crack in her hands.
“He came by to check on the house on Thanksgiving. We talked.”
“Wait. You were here on Thanksgiving? I thought you had plans.”
“They fell through. Anyway, we talked and...” I cleared my throat. “He still loves you, Elizabeth.”
She put the mug down and put her face in her hands. “I can’t talk about this, Wanda.”
“Okay,” I said. “That’s okay Look, I don’t know anything about anything, but he seemed sincere to me. I just thought you should know.”
She slammed her hands down on the table. I jumped back. “I know,” she said, her voice taut with anger. “I know he loves me. I know he’s out there being all hurt and sorry and...” She took a deep breath. Her eyes welled up. “You wanna know if I love him? Yes, I love him. And maybe he still loves me. And maybe he’s changed, but I’m not going to destroy myself again on a maybe. I’d rather be alone forever than go through that again.” She stood up and poured her tea down the drain. I kept my back to her, feeling like the stupidest person alive, hearing my father’s voice ring out in my head: Sometimes you just have to know when to shut the hell up.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She sighed. I turned around and looked at her. In four minutes she’d aged five years.
“No, I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “It’s just... You’re right. You don’t know about me and Jack. Just like I don’t know what’s going on with you and Walter, but I stay out of it because it’s not my business.”
I nodded. “Well, actually, you have kind of butted in on it once or twice.”
She raised one eyebrow at me. “You looking for a fight?”
I smiled. “As I’m pretty sure you’d kick my ass, I’d have to say no.”
She walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. “I appreciate that you cared enough to talk to me about it.”
I grinned at her. “No, you don’t. You wanna pull my damn hair out.”
She grinned back. “Not all of it.”
I glanced at my watch and stood up. “On that note, I have to run.”
She sat down at the table and grabbed the paper. “I thought today was your day off.”
“It is,” I said, grabbing my jacket off the coatrack. “But, thanks to you, I’ve got a wall of sticky notes that aren’t resolving themselves.”
She smiled and waved me away. “Go do something meaningful, then.”
***
The Randall P. McKay Shelter for Men was a small place downtown that was stuffed between a gay nightclub and the offices for the Hastings Daily Reporter. I walked in the front door and found an older woman sitting at a desk, her arms wrapping a sweater tightly around her. Some shelter. It wasn’t any warmer inside the place than it was outside.
I handed her one of the color sheets I’d made at the Kinko’s down the street. “Hi, my name is Wanda...” I looked down at the ID tag hanging around her neck. “... Karen. I’m running the Grand Santa Station over at Osgiliath Books, and I need some Santas.”
Karen took the paper from me and skimmed it over, then handed it back. “Oh, honey. You don’t want to come here.”
I gave a tight smile. “If I didn’t want to come here, then I wouldn’t be here. I’m just trying to give an opportunity for a little work.”
She shook her head. “I appreciate it, honey, really, it’s a nice thought, but I’m not going to post that here. These guys are not the guys you want around kids. Trust me.”
I sighed. She was probably right. But after my flaming crash-and-burn with Elizabeth that morning, giving jobs to down-and-outs was the only meaningful thing I’d come up with. Turns out, doing someth
ing meaningful was a massive pain in the ass.
“So there’s no one here who needs a job, then?” I said. Before she could answer, I felt myself thrown forward over her desk.
“Hey, watch it!” I snapped, turning to see what big buffoon was plowing through the Randall P. McKay Shelter for Men. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Who the fuck are you?” Lyle’s eyes widened, then narrowed, then widened again. “Do I know you?”
“Told you,” Karen said, picking up her newspaper.
Lyle pointed his finger at me, wobbling forward slightly and then doubling back. “I know you.”
“Six grand goes fast, huh, Lyle?” I said. I took the paper back from Karen and gave her a smile. “I think you’re right. Thanks for your help.”
I stepped outside and hurried away from the shelter. I paused briefly outside the Hastings Daily Reporter office, then pushed my way inside. The girl at the front desk was hanging up the phone as I stepped in. She turned to me and smiled. “Can I help you?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m looking for Jennifer, in classified ads. She owes me a favor, and I’m here to collect.”
***
One Santa ad and three errands later, I pulled into the parking lot at Hastings Channel 8. I didn’t want to go in, almost turned around and drove out without stopping, but the day had been a bust in regards to sticky notes. I had to start making some progress.
I pushed through the double glass doors. Someone I didn’t recognize was sitting at the front desk. Not a shock. Turnaround at Channel 8 tended to be speedy, and the receptionists whirled in and out of that place so fast I was surprised they didn’t get whiplash.
“Hi, I’m Wanda Lane. I’m here to see Cate Manton.” I flashed the new receptionist my most brilliant smile. She looked up at me and cracked her gum, staring vapidly at me. I cleared my throat and spoke slower and louder.
“Is Cate in today?”
“Damn straight she is!” Two firm hands grabbed my shoulders and pulled me into a hug. Cate was a tall woman, of solid German stock. I believe the term used most often to describe her was brick shithouse.
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