he thought was an appropriate distance to wait for her but she laid her hand on the man’s elbow, turning him slightly to face Edward Everett. Then Edward Everett knew where he had seen him: her former husband. Art. The one who had left her for his cousin.
“Art,” Renee said. “You remember Ed.” Art colored slightly but extended his hand to shake Edward Everett’s. His palm was massive, engulfing Edward Everett’s. “Can I talk to Ed for a minute?” Renee asked. Art eyed Edward Everett in a way that suggested he suspected he might assault Renee but nodded and stepped away. Renee gave him a nod, meaning, a little farther, and after hesitating, he left them there, walking to the vestibule, glancing over his shoulder several times.
“So,” Renee said. “You finally tracked me down.”
He realized that she assumed the only reason he had been at Mass was to see her. “No,” he said. “I just decided to come to church.”
“Just decided,” Renee said. “Right.” She shook her head sadly. “I thought, since you signed the divorce, you had let go. You really need to, Ed. I’m not coming back.” She held up her left hand, a slender gold band glinting from the fourth finger. “Art and I remarried.”
“I thought—what happened to his cousin?”
“We’ve all made mistakes,” she said. “It’s not common but sometimes life lets you use a delete key.” She shrugged. “This was one of those times.”
“That was …” Fast, he was going to say; how long had it been since he signed the divorce papers?
“You know what? As far as Mother Church is concerned, we were always married—Art and I. No divorce in the Church.”
“What about us?” he said.
She shrugged. “In here,” she gestured to take in the church, “we never happened. So maybe it’s best if you think of it that way. I’m really not coming back. It’s not like before.”
He shook his head. “I wasn’t trying …” he began but then just said, “I was just coming up to say good-bye.”
“What?”
“I’m leaving,” he said. “I have a new job. In another country.”
“Another county?”
“Country. With an ‘r.’ ”
She furrowed her brow and cocked her head to one side—what he had come to know as her sign that she was dubious.
“And I forgive you,” he said on impulse.
“You forgive me?” she said. “That suggests—”
He didn’t want to argue and so he interrupted her. “I’ve got to go.” He left her there, although she snapped, “Wait,” her voice echoing in the church. “Wait!”
Outside, small knots of families chatted amiably. Standing on the top step leading to the street, the priest shook his hand. “Thank you for coming. Have a blessed day.”
It was a benediction, he thought, walking to his car, feeling peaceful. Whether it was the Mass or his conversation with Renee that had allowed him to put a period at the end of their relationship, he wasn’t sure—it was not absolute absolution but perhaps the promise of one, and as he got into his car, he did feel blessed.
As he put on his jersey for the game, he found that some of the threads affixing the initial “P” in the town’s name had broken, the top arc of the letter flopped over. Leaving the jersey unbuttoned, he went to the kitchen to fish through the junk drawer to look for a needle and thread. Before he got there, however, his doorbell rang.
When he opened the door, Nelson was on his front porch, more disheveled than he’d been the last time Edward Everett had seen him, running away from St. Aloysius. Blades of grass clung to his four or five days of beard and there was a redbud leaf stuck behind his right ear, the leaf skeletonized by an insect. He wondered if Nelson had been sleeping outdoors. His face looked as if he had been in a fight: scratches across his left check, his eyes swollen. His clothing was torn: his nylon gym shorts; the sweatshirt that seemed stretched out longer on the right than on the left; his canvas skater shoes.
“Jesus, Nelson,” he said, not meaning to. “You look bad.”
“How did you expect I’d look?” he said, glancing over his shoulder as a car passed.
“Come on in,” Edward Everett said, not wanting him to but not wanting him on his porch, either. Taking the step up from the porch into the house, Nelson staggered, clutching Edward Everett’s arm to steady himself, nearly pulling him down. That close, he thought he smelled beer on Nelson’s breath, on his