— I don’t care. I wouldn’t come back here. Snobs. Pricks.
She turned around and held the edge of the sink in one hand and balled her skirt up in her other hand. Her underpants were down around her ankles.
— Come on, said Helen.
— Bend over a little more.
— Careful where you stick that thing.
She reached around behind her and took firm hold of him and guided him in. She bent over farther and the angle was better. For a moment he did nothing. Then he grasped her shoulder. He took her roughly, one knee into the back of her leg as if he might trip her. He could see the sink threatening to come loose from the wall. Her nails pierced hard into the bare flesh at the tops of his legs. Afterwards, she preceded him out of the washroom, recomposing her hair as she went. He was certain all eyes in the dining room would be on them, but no one paid them any attention. He gathered his jacket from the back of the chair.
Outside all she said was: I’ll sleep tonight.
She took his arm and they walked down the street. At one point she stumbled on the curb and dropped her purse. He squatted down to retrieve it and there in the street light he saw a drop of semen on her cowboy boot, like a crude pearl inlaid in the synthetic leather.
It was one of the few evenings Pete spent at home. He was sitting on his bed reading a paperback but he was unable to concentrate on it. His thoughts kept finding their way back to Emily. The last time he’d seen her was the morning after the party two weeks ago. He thought of Billy disappearing with her into a bedroom somewhere.
— Shit, said Pete.
— I heard that.
Pete’s half-brother Luke was at the door.
— You heard that? said Pete. Well, if you snitch on me I’ll cut your head off and hang it from the wall as a warning to other snitches. Come in. Close the door. What do you want?
— What’s a Jew?
— What’s a Jew? You know what a Jew is.
— Jesus was a Jew. But the other Jews killed him. We learned about how all the Jews are guilty of it.
— Look, said Pete. You know that store in town where we bought your sneakers? Remember the guy that worked there?
Mr. Gold?
— Yes. He had glasses.
— That’s right. Anyway, Mr. Gold’s a Jew.
— He is?
— Yes. Mr. Gold. Do you think Mr. Gold personally killed Jesus?
— I don’t know.
— Yes you do. You’re not using your head, Luke. What do you really think? Did Mr. Gold at the shoe store personally kill Jesus?
— No. But Mrs. Adams said all the Jews are guilty of it. Pete sat back in his chair. A nasty feeling went through him.
— Mrs. Adams, said Pete.
— My Sunday School teacher.
— When did Mrs. Adams become your Sunday School teacher?
— When we started this year.
— Well, Luke, it’s possible that your Sunday School teacher is full of shit. You have to be careful. Not all grown-ups are right just because they’re grown-ups. Or because they’re Sunday School teachers. Would God give you a brain if he didn’t want you to use it?
— No …
— No is right.
The boy loafed about, frowning at the carpet and at Pete when it seemed Pete was looking elsewhere.
— What’s on your mind, Luke? Really?
— How come Uncle Lee went to jail?
Pete straightened up: Well, Uncle Lee did a pretty bad thing.
— What did he do?
— I don’t know for sure, but it was really bad.
— Peter …
— You want to know, Luke, because you’re eight and when you’re eight you want to know everything. But-and you’re going to be mad at me saying this-you’re too young to know, Luke. I don’t even know. But it was a really long time ago and Uncle Lee’s different now.
— He’s a good guy?
— Yes. Is there anything else on your mind?
— No.
— Good. Now get out or I’ll sell you to the gypsies. I wouldn’t even get two bucks but I’ll sell you anyway.
Luke slouched out of the bedroom. Pete sat on his bed and chewed through another ten pages of the paperback. By nine-thirty the house was quiet. Pete rose from the bed and opened his wallet and counted out twenty-five dollars in rent money. He went out of his bedroom. His grandmother was in her chair in the living room, beside the radio. She often listened to evangelical cassettes that she got through the tabernacle library but now she was asleep.
Barry was in his office with his study bible open on his desk. He had a yellow legal pad he wrote his sermons on. Pete could see Barry’s tight handscript, almost glyphic, words and sentences, bible references written in bold. Pete tapped the door frame.
— Peter, said Barry.
Pete gave him that week’s twenty-five dollars. Barry took the money and counted it and put it in a little strongbox inside his desk.
— I’m grateful as always, said Barry.
— What’s the sermon about? said Pete.
— Think of your Romans. 12:16. That we should not think of high things but of keeping company with the humble. It’s the kind of thing that makes me think of Lee.
— You think Lee thinks of high things?
— What? Oh no. I think Lee is a lesson in how we ought to interact with each other as servants of Christ. Serving Lee has helped me learn a great deal.
— Serving Lee.
— Was there anything else, Peter? I’ve got a lot of work to do.
— One thing. Mrs. Adams. She teaches Sunday School.
Barry pressed his hands together: Sheila Adams, yes. I’ve got a lot of work to do.
— Do you … I mean … Did she get some kind of training before she got to be a Sunday School teacher?
— Peter, would you speak plain?
— Oh, ask Luke. I’m going to bed.
The next day was quiet at the Texaco. At half past three, Pete stocked up the jugs of washer fluid on the service island. Duane was in town for a doctor’s appointment.
It was the kind of workday when the hours went by slowly but when Pete got home he would wonder where it had all gone. Once, when he was new, a customer had driven away from the pumps with the gas nozzle still in the filler neck at the back of the car. The hose pulled off the pump and flapped like an obscene rubber tail. Gasoline sprayed everywhere. A woman walking by just stopped and stared. She was smoking a cigarette. It was an hour or two before the customer returned, whipped into a rage. He went on about how they all would be held financially liable for the damage to his car. Even then, new as he was, Pete guessed you couldn’t go long here before you were a veteran.
After he’d restocked the washer fluid, Pete went to change the trash bags in the washroom. He put on a pair of dish gloves they kept along with the other maintenance supplies. The gloves were pink and felt clammy inside. Pete was just stepping out with the bag of trash. He didn’t even see Billy.
— Hey, man.
— Jesus Christ, Billy, you scared the hell out of me.
Billy was leaning against the back wall of the store.
— What are you doing out this way? said Pete.
— I got my brother’s car. I kind of felt like driving around.
Billy spat out a little wad of saliva. He looked away at the bracken on the far side of the property: Emily, man. I don’t even know.
— What happened?
— Oh, what does it even matter.
Billy spat again. He kicked at the gravel. Pete felt an instinct to reach out, put a hand on the shoulder. He was halfway to doing this before he recalled that he was still wearing the pink dish gloves. Instead, he said: I’m sorry to hear that, Bill.
Even as he said it, he felt the lie for what it was. He was sorry that his friend was hurting, but he could not even pretend to feel bad that Emily had broken it off. He wondered what this meant, what this told him about himself. He cleared his throat and looked at the sky, looked anywhere but at Billy.
— Everything happens for a reason and all that other shit my brother’s wife always says, right? said Billy.