was going past limits, boundaries, to where nothing made sense and Q was high judge in red velvet robes. I fell into a drowse sudden as a fainting spell. Then woke to the vibrations of a quick-moving set of footsteps. I opened my eyes and stared straight up the flowing lines of black cloth to the wooden cross and Father Travis’s rope belt. Above his rigid torso, broad chest, and undercliff of chin, his colorless eyes shone on me under the flat lids.
There’s no smoking on the playground, he said. One of the nuns saw you.
I opened my lips and a hoarse little sound emerged. Father Travis continued.
But you are welcome at Holy Mass. And if catechism interests you, I teach Saturdays at ten a.m.
He waited.
Again, I made some sound.
You’re Clemence Milk’s nephew. . . .
The drawing flow of gravity suddenly reversed and I sat straight up, filled with an electric energy of purpose.
Yes, I said. Clemence Milk is my auntie.
Now, remarkably, I found my legs under me. I stood. I actually stepped toward the priest, a small step, but toward him. My father’s phrasing left my mouth.
May I ask you a question?
Shoot.
Where were you, I asked, between three and six o’clock on the afternoon of May fifteenth?
What day was that?
The grave mouth tucked at the corners.
It was a Sunday.
I suppose I was officiating. I don’t really remember. And then after mass there was the Adoration. Why?
Just asking. No reason.
There is always a reason, said Father Travis.
Can I ask you another question?
No, said the priest. One question per day. His scar jumped to life on the side of his throat. It glowed red. You’re a good kid, I hear from your aunt, get good grades. You don’t give your parents trouble. We would love to have you in our youth group. He smiled. I saw his teeth for the first time. They were too white and even to be real. Young as he was, but with false teeth! And that scar like a thick rope of paint up his neck. He put his hand out. The callow artist’s rendering of features resolved. Too handsome to be handsome, Clemence had said. We stood there. The sheen off his cassock reflecting up into his eyes spooked me. He held his hand out steady. I tried to hold back but my hand reached out of its own accord. His palm was cool. The callus smooth and tough, like Cappy’s dad.
So we’ll see you then. He turned away. Then looked back with the hint of a grin.
Cigarettes will kill you.
I stood rooted until he’d entered the church basement door far up the hill. I put my back against a tree and leaned there—not slumping. I was filled with that odd energy. I was allowing the tree to help me think. I decided first of all not to hate myself for what had just passed between the priest and me, that moment. I could hardly have refused. To refuse to shake a person’s hand on the reservation was like wishing them dead. Although I did wish Father Travis Wozniak dead and wanted to burn him alive, even, my wish was contingent on secure proof that he was my mother’s attacker. Guilty. My father would not have condoned a conclusion bereft of factual support. I scratched my back with the ridged tree bark and stared at the place where the priest had disappeared. The door to the church basement. I intended to get those facts, and when my friends came, I would have help.
Cappy appeared with Angus. He had a bread bag half full of potato salad and a plastic spoon. I made a bowl out of the bag by folding down the top, then I ate the salad. It was the kind with mustard in the mayonnaise and pickles and eggs. Cappy’s aunts must have made the salad. My mother made it that way. I scraped my spoon against the inside of the bag. Then I told Cappy and Angus about the conversation I had overheard and how my father’s suspicion had landed on the priest.
My dad said he was in Lebanon.
Whatever, said Cappy.
He was a Marine.
So was my dad, said Cappy.
I’m thinking we should find out if he drinks Hamm’s beer, I said. I was going to ask him but figured I’d give away the game. I did get his alibi. I have to check it.
Angus said, His what?
His excuse. He says he officiated at mass that Sunday afternoon. All I have to do