stepped this way and turned that way, touching their shoulders and shaking their hips. Looking for Jack or Maggie, or even Memory, I drifted into a corner at the front of the building.
“Sarah, I’m surprised to see you here,” a voice boomed behind me.
I turned and found Rich the Mushroom, balancing a heaping plateful of food on one hand, and holding onto a toddler with the other. The little girl hid her face against Rich’s thigh, and he wore a necktie, the thin back tail several inches longer than the front and stained with tomato sauce.
“Yeah, well, I do love the nightlife,” I said.
“Ha, ha. Honey,” he called, “come here and meet Sarah.”
A pudgy, gnomish woman ambled over, lugging an infant in a side sling. “Hi there, I’m Shelly Portabella.”
I shook her hand.
“This little princess is Penny,” Rich said. “She’s almost four. And that’s my son, Lane. He’s five months old.”
“He would have named them Yoko and John if I’d let him,” Shelly said, giggling and rubbing noses with her husband before kissing him moistly on the lips. “When I was pregnant with both these two, he put headphones on my belly and blared Magical Mystery Tour .”
Rich speared a meatball with his fork and took a bite. “Oh, you have to try these,” he said, waving the saucy blob in front of Shelly. She nibbled a little before her husband stuffed the rest in his mouth. “You want a bite, Sarah? I have a bunch here.”
“Uh, no. Have you seen Jack Watson?”
“Check the office. It’s over there.” Rich pointed.
I crossed to the opposite corner and shimmied between the piano and pulpit blocking a door marked pastor . Without knocking, I stepped into the dark room and swept my hand up the wall until I found the light switch.
The small study area smelled of old paper and aftershave. Unmatched bookcases flanked an antique desk and a computer. Words scrolled across the monitor:
His lord said unto him, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.”
I touched the Space bar and the screen saver disappeared, revealing an unfinished game of solitaire.
Two framed diplomas hung on the wall above the desk, both awarded to John Paul Watson: a Bachelor of Philosophy in Religious Ethics from Columbia University, summa cum laude, and a Master of Divinity from Manhattan Theological Seminary, magna cum laude.
So, not only was Jack a minister, he was disgustingly smart. That would explain all the books with titles longer than my arm. And how many Bibles did he need? KJV, NIV, NASB, HCSB, NLT—the acronyms continued across two shelves. Only alphabet soup strung more letters together.
Nestled in one corner of the desk were three photographs. The largest captured Maggie, tawny hair draped over one shoulder. She sat posed in front of a painted backdrop in a short, paisley dress, legs crossed self-consciously. A man stood behind her, his crooked smile nearly identical to Jack’s, his sideburns dark and stubborn.
In the second picture, a young boy waded knee-deep in a muddy river, hair twirling in the wind. He clutched a fishing rod in one hand and a squirming steelhead in the other. The photo paper was wrinkled behind the glass.
I picked up the third frame. Beth, probably fifteen or so, laughed candidly in front of a white country church, steeple pointing into the clear, perfect sky, her face clear and perfect. I wondered how she could now look in the mirror each day without screaming. I wondered if she looked in the mirror at all.
“Sarah? What are you doing in here?” Jack asked, coming through the door.
“I was looking for you,” I said. “And snooping.”
“Honesty. That’s refreshing,” he said, taking the frame from me. “Isn’t she beautiful?” His voice was wistful, broken.
“Is that your church?” I asked, trying to segue to a more pleasant topic.
“It was,” he
“Sarah, I’m surprised to see you here,” a voice boomed behind me.
I turned and found Rich the Mushroom, balancing a heaping plateful of food on one hand, and holding onto a toddler with the other. The little girl hid her face against Rich’s thigh, and he wore a necktie, the thin back tail several inches longer than the front and stained with tomato sauce.
“Yeah, well, I do love the nightlife,” I said.
“Ha, ha. Honey,” he called, “come here and meet Sarah.”
A pudgy, gnomish woman ambled over, lugging an infant in a side sling. “Hi there, I’m Shelly Portabella.”
I shook her hand.
“This little princess is Penny,” Rich said. “She’s almost four. And that’s my son, Lane. He’s five months old.”
“He would have named them Yoko and John if I’d let him,” Shelly said, giggling and rubbing noses with her husband before kissing him moistly on the lips. “When I was pregnant with both these two, he put headphones on my belly and blared Magical Mystery Tour .”
Rich speared a meatball with his fork and took a bite. “Oh, you have to try these,” he said, waving the saucy blob in front of Shelly. She nibbled a little before her husband stuffed the rest in his mouth. “You want a bite, Sarah? I have a bunch here.”
“Uh, no. Have you seen Jack Watson?”
“Check the office. It’s over there.” Rich pointed.
I crossed to the opposite corner and shimmied between the piano and pulpit blocking a door marked pastor . Without knocking, I stepped into the dark room and swept my hand up the wall until I found the light switch.
The small study area smelled of old paper and aftershave. Unmatched bookcases flanked an antique desk and a computer. Words scrolled across the monitor:
His lord said unto him, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant: thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.”
I touched the Space bar and the screen saver disappeared, revealing an unfinished game of solitaire.
Two framed diplomas hung on the wall above the desk, both awarded to John Paul Watson: a Bachelor of Philosophy in Religious Ethics from Columbia University, summa cum laude, and a Master of Divinity from Manhattan Theological Seminary, magna cum laude.
So, not only was Jack a minister, he was disgustingly smart. That would explain all the books with titles longer than my arm. And how many Bibles did he need? KJV, NIV, NASB, HCSB, NLT—the acronyms continued across two shelves. Only alphabet soup strung more letters together.
Nestled in one corner of the desk were three photographs. The largest captured Maggie, tawny hair draped over one shoulder. She sat posed in front of a painted backdrop in a short, paisley dress, legs crossed self-consciously. A man stood behind her, his crooked smile nearly identical to Jack’s, his sideburns dark and stubborn.
In the second picture, a young boy waded knee-deep in a muddy river, hair twirling in the wind. He clutched a fishing rod in one hand and a squirming steelhead in the other. The photo paper was wrinkled behind the glass.
I picked up the third frame. Beth, probably fifteen or so, laughed candidly in front of a white country church, steeple pointing into the clear, perfect sky, her face clear and perfect. I wondered how she could now look in the mirror each day without screaming. I wondered if she looked in the mirror at all.
“Sarah? What are you doing in here?” Jack asked, coming through the door.
“I was looking for you,” I said. “And snooping.”
“Honesty. That’s refreshing,” he said, taking the frame from me. “Isn’t she beautiful?” His voice was wistful, broken.
“Is that your church?” I asked, trying to segue to a more pleasant topic.
“It was,” he
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