Time Off for Good Behavior (35 page)

I rolled my eyes and looked at her.
“
Can
’
t you just be twelve for a f
ew minutes? Sit on the sofa and play Barbies?
”

Her face contorted into an expression of disgust.
“
A: twelve-year-olds don
’
t play with Barbies, and B: do you know that if a real woman had Barbie
’
s proportions, she
’
d have to carry her kidneys in her
—
?
”

I held up my hand.
“
Oh my God, you have been hanging out with me too long.
”

I moved my bishop. No check, but it was a legal move.
“
Do you want me to open it for you?
”
Kacey asked quietly, eyeing the envelope with curiosity. I sighed. It
’
s possible that wha
tever was in there might not be appropriate for Kacey to see. It could be a nasty letter. It could be a small bomb.

Okay, George wasn
’
t that smart. But it could be a nasty letter. It made a tiny tinkling sound when it moved, though, which letters didn
’
t te
nd to do. And if Kacey opened it, that meant I wouldn
’
t have to touch it.

“
All right. Go ahead.
”

Alex took my bishop with his rook.
“
Checkmate.
”

“
What?
”
I stared at the board.
“
Where?
”

Alex pointed to his rook, my king, and then his knight. I was cornered.

Checkmate.

“
Shit.
”
I thunked my hand on the table.
“
I mean, goshdarnit.
”

Alex leaned forward.
“
I don
’
t know why you do that. Mom curses all the time.
”

I rolled my eyes at him.
“
She tries to keep a lid on it in front of you. And besides, I
’
ve got enough ba
d karma without corrupting a minor.
”

“
It
’
s a necklace.
”

I looked up. Kacey was holding up a silver chain with a medallion hanging from it. I stood up and walked over to her. She was holding her hand out so I could get a closer look. I still wasn
’
t prepared
to touch it.

“
St. Erasmus,
”
I said, reading the inscription curving around the edge.

St.
Erasmus?

Either the world is full of coincidences or there
’
s no such thing as coincidence.

“
You okay, Wanda?
”
Kacey asked. My hand was shaking. I glanced at the envel
ope.

“
Is that all that was in there?
”

Kacey nodded.
“
Do you want to put it on?
”

Did I want to put it on? Did I want to wear a saint medal from my rotten bastard of a dead ex-husband?

I shook my head.
“
Not now. Could you put it back in the envelope for me,
please?
”

Kacey stuffed it back in and closed the envelope. Alex was setting up the chessboard again. Kacey squealed and jumped into my seat.
“
I take winner! I take winner!
”

I picked up the envelope by its edge, trying not to touch any more of it than I hid
to.

“
Hey, kids. Tell your mom I had to run out for a bit, okay?
”
They both grunted at me, attention fully on the chessboard. I headed out the back door, tossed the envelope into the back of my car, and drove straight for St. Benedict
’
s.

Chapter Eleven

“
Forgive me, Father, but I
’
m still not Catholic.
”

It was hard coming up with clever lines all the time. The drive from Elizabeth
’
s to St. Benedict
’
s took twenty minutes, and that was the best I could come up with. It still got a chuckle out of Father Gregor
y, though, so it was worth it.

“
Wanda, how are you? Done anything meaningful yet?
”

I shrugged, which probably wasn
’
t terribly effective through the grate.
Do something meaningful
was still on my wall, as were
Identify phantom music
and
Tell Walter
and
Go s
ee parents
and
Figure out what I want.
But I had made some small gains.

“
I got a haircut.
”

“
Well, that
’
s a start.
”

“
My ex-husband is dead, Father Gregory.
”

There was a long silence. I sat back and stared at the cathedral ceiling. It was a beautiful mix of
ivory shadows, and I couldn
’
t imagine how in the world they kept it so sparkling clean.
“
I
’
m sorry for your loss.
”

“
Don
’
t be. I wished him dead, Father. I wished him dead a million times. And now I feel... hollow. I
’
m not relieved, but I
’
m not sad. I
’
m jus
t... I
’
m numb. I don
’
t feel anything. Shouldn
’
t I be feeling... something?
”

“
Have you forgiven him?
”

I shook my head.
“
Sure.
”

“
Would you like to say a prayer for his soul?
”

“
Hell, no.
”
I could hear that one bounce off the confessional, right on up to God.
I put my face in my hands.
“
Is there a patron saint for someone who can
’
t keep her stupid mouth shut?
”

He laughed softly.
“
I
’
ll have to research that one for you.
”
There was more silence. It was Sunday afternoon, and there would likely be people waiting. B
ut I didn
’
t want to rush. I still hadn
’
t gotten to the point yet.

I heard the bench creak as he shifted his weight.
“
I tell you what. Go home. Take some time to think. Try to find forgiveness in your heart for your ex-husband. Then come back, and we
’
ll tal
k about it a little more.
”

I felt tears sting my eyes.
“
What if I can
’
t forgive him?
”

“
You can always forgive. It
’
s not a feat, it
’
s a choice.
”

“
Oh, for crying out loud, Father, can
’
t you cut me some slack? Just once? Sake of variety?
”

“
If you wanted slack
, you wouldn
’
t have come here.
”

I sighed.
Fine.
I swiped at my face.
“
Hey, Father Gregory?
”

“
Yes?
”

“
Remember when you told me to buy the St. Erasmus medal?
”

“
Yes.
”

I inhaled.
“
He got me one.
”

“
What?
”

I spoke louder.
“
He got me one. Before he died. The bastard shoved it under the door of my apartment.
”

Silence. I could hear him breathing. But he didn
’
t say anything.

“
Father Gregory how could he have known that? I mean, I
’
m not Catholic. How could he have known?
”

He sigh
ed, and I heard the bench creak again as he shifted.
“
Sometimes people just know things.
”

“
So, what?
”
I said, exasperated.
“
So he just turned psychic? Just like that, right before he croaked?
”

“
I don
’
t believe in psychic ability,
”
Father Gregory said.
“
I b
elieve in God.
”

I chewed on that one.
“
That doesn
’
t help me, because I don
’
t know what to believe.
”

Father Gregory gave a light chuckle.
“
Sometimes, Wanda, that
’
s exactly the point.
”

I made my excuses and got out. The confessional seemed smaller than usual
. I needed some air. I walked out into the parking lot, not sure what I was going to do next. I got into my car, looked at the envelope on the backseat containing St. Erasmus, patron saint of navigators.

“
Fine,
”
I said to St. Erasmus, starting up the car.
“
I
’
m gonna drive. You tell me where to go. If it
’
s good, I won
’
t flush you down the toilet.
”

***

Molly wasn
’
t home when I got there, so I sat down in the driveway next to the back gate. The Great Dane, who was named Putter after Greta
’
s love of golf, was
lying down in the backyard. When he saw me, he got up, lumbered over, and plopped himself down, resting against the gate. Had to admit, the company was nice.

The St. Erasmus medal was still in the car. I hadn
’
t touched it after throwing it onto the backse
at. It enraged me, this idea that George bought me a Catholic symbol, like he was using me to get a last-ditch shot at heaven.

Even more infuriating was that it was one I
’
d wanted. How could he have known? Or did he not know, and it was just some elaborate
joke God had cooked up to get at me for flirting with priests in the confessional?

“
Do you think the world just converges sometimes, Putter?
”
I said, sticking my fingers through the gate and scratching behind one tremendous ear.
“
Do you think that sometim
es stuff just happens a certain way because it
’
s supposed to? Do you believe in coincidence?
”

His body heaved in a contented dog sigh.
“
I don
’
t know,
”
he said.
“
I
’
m just a dog.
”

Molly and Greta pulled up about a half hour after I got there. I helped them c
arry groceries into the house. They made me iced tea.

“
So... he
’
s dead?
”
Molly was having trouble getting used to the thought. Maybe she was jealous. Her ex was in jail, but he was still alive. And he had a parole hearing every two years.

“
Yeah,
”
I said.
“
I identified him. Looked pretty dead to me.
”

Molly nodded. She looked like she was in about as much shock as I
’
d been. Maybe she
’
d wished him dead, too. Even when someone was a rotten bastard, and even when you were in touch with reality, it was still hard
not to feel a little guilt when he dropped dead.