hands in the pew after communion and she felt to her left anticipating his rough thick fingers around hers, the safety, the comfort this man had brought to her for seventeen years. She needed that this week – it had been a tough one for them with four cows dead Wednesday and the vet still not knowing why and their only kid Leonard (named after his grandpa) acting up at school and a parent-teacher scheduled for Tuesday night (get a baby-sitter?) and the house still so cold even as the weather warmed up.
But she felt only air and looked at the empty pew beside her and then at the toe of his boot in the air beside her. Those boots, she’d asked him not to wear them to church any more – there were a pair of nice loafers she’d got on sale for him at the outlets in his shoe tree in the closet, but she imagined him coming in from the barn just in time for Mass, gulping his coffee and looking at the loafers in the closet and deciding changing wasn’t worth the trouble and she forgave him completely.
Father Young stood and said “the Mass is over, go now in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
As slowly as he had risen, Jake sank back into the pew, the toes of his dirty boots clipping over the edge of the seat. His knees hit the kneeler and he took his hands from his face and smiled at his wife.
They all said “Amen.”
Jake walked out the door into the warm spring sun. He went over to the edge of the path and kicked at the grass. The winter was over, the earth was melting, and soon it would be time to plant again.
Copyright 2010 Matthew Montague
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Jake Aloft Page 4