Pastor Robens bowed his head. "Let us pray."
* * *
Polly Thrall gobbled the wafer and enthusiastically gulped the wine.
Father Ibarra smiled at her, gave his blessing, and moved to the next person, Bill Bench. He looked over Bill's head at the empty pews, then down at the double row of kneeling men and women. Overall attendance was down, but participation in communion was up.
Way up.
He should have been happy about that. But he wasn't There was something about the eagerness with which his parishioners drank their small sip of wine which seemed to him sacriligious, almost defiantly so. They were performing the most holy of rituals, enthusiastically going through all of the proper motions, but there seemed something wrong about it, something blasphemous, and he found their enthusiasm both unhealthy and unchristian. They appeared to be more interested in the wine than the ritual, though that did not make any sense to him.
Bill ate the proffered wafer, greedily swallowed the wine.
Father Ibarra smiled, gave his blessing, and moved on.
He didn't like the way things were going.
He didn't like it at all.
The restaurant was nothing like he'd expected. From its name, and from its stately, rustic, vaguely European exterior, Dion had imagined the Foxfire Inn to be a tastefully elegant eating establishment, a dark dining room filled with Victorian table settings, expensive chandeliers, and dimly heard classical music. Inside it was dark, all right, but file booths were covered with red and rather shabby naugahyde, and the plain walls were decorated with sportsmen's memorabilia: moose heads, antlers, guns. Through the open doorway which led into the smoky bar, he could see neon beer signs and could hear the hyperactive jabbering of a sports announcer from a too-loud TV.
Things were not turning out the way he'd planned.
But Penelope was taking it all in stride. In his mind he had mapped out every moment of the evening, had practiced each intended topic of conversation, and so far nothing was occurring in the way he'd foreseen.
The perfect romantic evening he'd envisioned was turning out to be a series of barely avoided misadventures.
But it didn't seem to matter. Penelope had merely laughed when he'd left his wallet at the Shell station and had to turn back for it. She'd politely ignored the fact that when he'd come to the door to say hello to her mothers, his zipper had been down. She'd registered no disappointment when she saw the inferior interior of the "nice"
restaurant he'd promised to take her to and for which she had worn her best dress.
The logistics of the evening had turned out to be a nightmare, but Penelope had turned out to be better than he had dared dream.
The food, to be fair, was not bad, and they ate slowly, talking. He told her of his life, she told him of hers. Their rapport was immediate and instinctually trusting, and even though this was only their first date, Dion shared with her thoughts and feelings that he had never shared with anyone else, that he thought he would never share with anyone else. He felt he could tell her anything, and that both scared him and made him feel exhilarated.
Two hours flew, by.
After they'd finished eating, the busboy cleared everything but their water glasses, and their waitress returned. "Is there anything else I
can get you?" she asked.
Dion looked questioningly at Penelope, but she shook her head. "I guess not," he said.
"I'll be back in a minute with your check."
Dion nodded and smiled, but as he looked at Penelope across the table, he realized that he didn't know how much money to leave for a tip. The dinner had gone surprisingly well, much better than he had expected or had reason to hope, but he had another chance to blow it right here. If he left a tip that was too small, she would think him cheap and miserly.
On the other hand, if he left a tip that was too large, she would think him foolish, since she already knew he wasn't rich. But how much was too little in this instance? How much was too much?
"I'll get the tip," Penelope said.
He stared at her. It was as if she had read his mind. But he shook his head anyway. "No," he said.
"You paid for the meal. It's the least I can do." She opened her purse, took out three one dollar bills, and placed them on the table.
Three dollars.
Relaxing now, he picked up the bills and handed them back. "No," he said firmly. "I'll get it."
She smiled. "Macho guy." But she put away the money.
They had paid the bill and were halfway to the door when Dion heard a woman's voice call out, "Young man!" He looked toward the source and saw, off to his left, an elderly woman seated alone at a small table.
She was in her late fifties or early sixties and was wearing a tight brightly colored dress inappropriate for both her age and the era. Her dyed blond hair was frozen in an unattractive beehive, and even in the dim light he could see the thick texture of her makeup. She winked at him.
He thought uncomfortably of his mother. It was too easy for him to see her as this old woman, alone and desperate, trying pathetically to recapture days that had long since passed her by.
"Young man!" the woman repeated. Her voice was high, hoarse.
Dion turned to go.
"She's talking to you," Penelope said. "Go see what she wants."
"No. She's talking to someone else."
"Young man!"
"Go see what she wants. Be nice."
Dion walked across the carpeted floor of the darkened room to the old woman's table. She was wearing no bra; he could see her large breasts and the points of her nipples beneath the tight material of her dress.
He was disgusted at himself for noticing.
"Sit down," the woman said, gesturing toward the chair next to her.
He shook his head. "We have to go."
This close he could smell the liquor. It hung about her table like strong, cheap perfume, permeating everything, and when she spoke it doubled in intensity. The woman grabbed his arm with bony fingers. He saw liver spots on the wrinkled flesh beneath her bracelet. "See that fish up there?" the woman asked. She pointed to an oversize plastic marlin mounted on the wall behind him. He was aware that people at the tables nearby were looking at him, giggling. His face felt hot.
"See that fish?"
He nodded dumbly.
"The owner of this restaurant caught that fish."
He looked toward Penelope for help, but she was merely looking at him, her face unreadable.
"He caught that fish on the wall."
"Yeah," Dion said.
"The owner caught that fish."
"Well, I have to go now." He tried to pull away.
The woman's grip tightened on his arm. 'That same fish right there.
The owner caught that fish."
And suddenly he wanted to smack her, to hit her in the face. The old woman continued to babble drunkenly, inanely, her eyes glued in their fixed position, her mouth open and closing like that of a ventriloquist's dummy, and he wanted to punch her hard, to feel his fist connect with the bone beneath her skin, to hear her cry, to hear her scream as he beat her.
The smell of the alcohol was making him dizzy. He pulled away. "That fish is plastic," he said.
"The owner caught that fish!" The woman sounded as though, she was about to cry. Her breasts shifted beneath her tight dress. "The owner didn't catch that fish. That fish is plastic. And you're drunk." He hurried across the room to Penelope. He heard people at the tables behind him giggling.
"He caught that fish! That same fish there!"
"Come on," Dion said. He took Penelope's hand and pulled her toward the front door.
"Have a nice night," the hostess said as they hurried past her and outside.
The night air was cool and crisp, fresh and clean. The sounds of the restaurant were cut off as the heavy wooden door closed behind them.
"What was that about?" Penelope asked.