A series of clicks and clacks drew his attention back to the door as numerous bolts were pulled in rapid succession. The door swung inward, revealing a nervous-looking young man in a long black cassock. As he looked at Zev his mouth twisted and he rubbed the back of his wrist across it to hide a smile.
"And what should be so funny?" Zev asked.
"I'm sorry. It's just—"
"I know," Zev said, waving off any explanation as he glanced down at the wooden cross slung on a cord around his neck. "I know."
A bearded Jew in a baggy serge suit wearing a yarmulke and a cross. Hilarious, no?
Nu? This was what the times demanded, this was what it came down to if he wanted to survive. And Zev did want to survive. Someone had to live to carry on the traditions of the Talmud and the Torah, even if there were hardly any Jews left alive in the world.
Zev stood on the sunny porch, waiting. The priest watched him in silence.
Finally Zev said, "Well, may a wandering Jew come in?"
"I won't stop you," the priest said, "but surely you don't expect me to invite you."
Ah, yes. Another precaution. The undead couldn't cross the threshold of a home unless invited, so don't invite. A good habit to cultivate, he supposed.
He stepped inside and the priest immediately closed the door behind him, relatching all the locks one by one. When he turned around Zev held out his hand.
"Rabbi Zev Wolpin, Father. I thank you for allowing me in."
"Brother Christopher, sir," he said, smiling and shaking Zev's hand. His suspicions seemed to have been allayed. "I'm not a priest yet. We can't offer you much here, but—"
"Oh, I won't be staying long. I just came to talk to Father Joseph Cahill."
Brother Christopher frowned. "Father Cahill isn't here at the moment."
"When will he be back?"
"I—I'm not sure. You see—"
"Father Cahill is on another bender," said a stentorian voice behind Zev.
He turned to see an elderly priest facing him from the far end of the foyer. White-haired, heavyset, also wearing a black cassock.
"I'm Rabbi Wolpin."
"Father Adams," the priest said, stepping forward and extending his hand.
As they shook Zev said, "Did you say he was on 'another' bender? I never knew Father Cahill to be much of a drinker."
The priest's face turned stony. "Apparently there was a lot we never knew about Father Cahill."
"If you're referring to that nastiness last year," Zev said, feeling the old anger rise in him, "I for one never believed it for a minute. I'm surprised anyone gave it the slightest credence."
"The veracity of the accusation was irrelevant in the final analysis. The damage to Father Cahill's reputation was a fait accompli. The bishops' rules are clear. Father Palmeri was forced to request his removal for the good of St. Anthony's parish."
Zev was sure that sort of attitude had something to do with Father Joe being on "another bender."
"Where can I find Father Cahill?"
"He's in town somewhere, I suppose, making a spectacle of himself. If there's any way you can talk some sense into him, please do. Not only is he killing himself with drink but he's become a public embarrassment to the priesthood and to the Church."
Zev wondered which bothered Father Adams more. And as for embarrassing the priesthood, he was tempted to point out that too many others had done a bang-up job of that already. But he held his tongue.
I'll try."
He waited for Brother Christopher to undo all the locks, then stepped toward the sunlight.
"Try Morton's down on Seventy-one," the younger man whispered as Zev passed.
* * *
Zev rode his bicycle south on route 71. So strange to see people on the streets. Not many, but more than he'd ever see in Lakewood again. Yet he knew that as the undead consolidated their grip on the rest of the coast, they'd start arriving with their living minions in the Catholic communities like Spring Lake, and then these streets would be as empty as Lakewood's.
He thought he remembered passing a place named Morton's on his way in. And then up ahead he saw it, by the railroad track crossing, a white stucco one-story box of a building with "Morton's Liquors" painted in big black letters along the side.
Father Adams' words echoed back to him ...on another bender ...
Zev pushed his bicycle to the front door and tried the knob. Locked up tight. A look inside showed a litter of trash, broken bottles, and empty shelves. The windows were barred; the back door was steel and locked as securely as the front. So where was Father Joe?
Then, by the overflowing trash Dumpster, he spotted the basement window at ground level. It wasn't latched. Zev went down on his knees and pushed it open.
Cool, damp, musty air wafted against his face as he peered into the Stygian darkness. It occurred to him that he might be asking for trouble by sticking his head inside, but he had to give it a try. If Father Cahill wasn't here, Zev would begin the return trek to Lakewood and write off this whole trip as wasted effort.
"Father Joe?" he called. "Father Cahill?"
"That you again, Chris?" said a slightly slurred voice. "Go home, will you? I'm all right. I'll be back later."
"It's me, Joe. Zev. From Lakewood."
He heard shoes scraping on the floor and then a familiar face appeared in the shaft of light from the window.
"Well I'll be damned. It is you! Thought you were Brother Chris come to drag me back to the retreat house. Gets scared I'm gonna get stuck out after dark. So how ya doin', Reb? Glad to see you're still alive. Come on in!"
Zev noted Father Cahill's glassy eyes and how he swayed ever so slightly, like a skyscraper in the wind. His hair was uncombed, and his faded jeans and worn Bruce Springsteen Tunnel of Love Tour sweatshirt made him look more like a laborer than a priest.
Zev's heart twisted at the sight of his friend in such condition. Such a mensch like Father Joe shouldn't be acting like a shikker. Maybe it was a mistake coming here.
"I don't have that much time, Joe. I came to tell you—"
"Get your bearded ass down here and have a drink or I'll come up and drag you down."
"All right," Zev said. "I'll come in but I won't have a drink."
He hid his bike behind the Dumpster, then squeezed through the window. Joe helped him to the floor. They embraced, slapping each other on the back. Father Joe was a bigger man, a giant from Zev's perspective. At six-four he was ten inches taller, at thirty-five he was a quarter-century younger; he had a muscular frame, thick brown hair, and—on better days—clear blue eyes.
"You're grayer, Zev, and you've lost weight."
"Kosher food is not so easily come by these days."
"All kinds of food are getting scarce." He touched the cross slung from Zev's neck and smiled. "Nice touch. Goes well with your zizith."
Zev fingered the fringe protruding from under his shirt. Old habits didn't die easily.
"Actually, I've grown rather fond of it."
"So what can I pour you?" the priest said, waving an arm at the crates of liquor stacked around him. "My own private reserve. Name your poison."
"I don't want a drink."
"Come on, Reb. I've got some nice hundred-proof Stoli here. You've got to have at least one drink—"
"Why? Because you think maybe you shouldn't drink alone?"
Father Joe winced. "Ouch!"
"All right," Zev said. "Bisel. I'll have one drink on the condition that you don't have one. Because I wish to talk to you."
The priest considered that a moment, then reached for the vodka bottle.
"Deal."
He poured a generous amount into a paper cup and handed it over. Zev took a sip. He was not a drinker and when he did imbibe he preferred his vodka ice cold from a freezer. But this was tasty. Father Cahill sat back on a case of Jack Daniel's and folded his arms.