The Jew's Wife & Other Stories by Thomas J. Hubschman Page A

to
try his mother once more before returning Charlie’s call. He still
could not believe she would change her plans without consulting
him. Margaret might even have gotten the message backward: his
mother might have returned home ahead of time. God knew he
encouraged her often enough to get away from the senior citizen’s
housing whenever she had the chance. But she always resisted,
citing one or another of her fellow tenants who would not have
anyone to go to the store or talk to if she left even for a few
days. Her building, a modern tower planted between a shopping
center and a horse farm, seemed more like a nursing home than a
residence. Many of the tenants were too sick, alcoholic or
depressed to properly care for themselves. His mother played nurse,
go-fer, and father confessor to them—an admirable response on her
part, but even a saint needed a break sometimes from the world’s
misery.
        There
was no answer. He would try again later. He dialed Charlie Weeks’
number.
        A woman
answered. He identified himself, making every effort to sound
cordial (he could not for the life of him remember Mrs. Weeks’
first name), but she cut him off to call Charlie to the phone.
There was a long pause before someone picked up again.
       “ Hello?”
        The voice was
tentative, suspicious.
       “ It’s Richard.
Richard Walther.”
        Charlie’s tone
immediately softened. He apologized for not keeping in touch, more
so than was necessary. After all, the sum total of their
relationship since high school amounted to just a few hours light
conversation.
       “ I
should have sent you my new address. I’m really sorry.”
       “ It’s alright.
No harm done.”
       “ Which brings us
right to the point.” Charlie said he had bought a house at the
shore and wanted Father Walther to spend some time there. “It’s
only a couple hours from your parish. The gentleman who took my
message told me you went to see your mother. How is your mother, by
the way?”
        He felt
he should be jumping at this invitation. But how was he to explain
how he had ended up in Toms River? On the surface, his story was
simple: a breakdown on the Turnpike, the demise of his car, his
mother’s change of plans. But he could not admit to the crazy
notion he had indulged of visiting Fords Pointe—not, at any rate,
until Charlie and he became better reacquainted. A priest did not
just wander off like that (not to mention—not to mention—his
episode with Anne-Marie).
       “ As it happens,
I still have some vacation left.”
       “Great. Hop in your car.”
       “I’ll have to take a bus. My old
Ford gave up the ghost.”
       “ No
problem. I’ll meet you at the bus stop. Just give me an
ETA.”
        It was
scarcely nine a.m. He figured he could probably get a bus by
afternoon.
       “ There’s
a phone right next to the bus stop. We’ll expect you for
supper.”
       “ Sounds
wonderful.”
       “ Our pleasure,
old man.”
       
        Charlie
looked much the same as he had a decade earlier. His short hair
(when everyone else was long-haired he wore a crew cut) was the
same sandy brown Father Walther remembered from their school days.
His face seemed more angular, at least it did in profile as they
sped up the decrepit highway from the bus stop. But everything else
about him looked remarkably unchanged.
       “ Nice
car,” Father Walther offered. Charlie had never been much of a
talker. The confidences they shared in adolescence were always
highlighted by long periods of silence. But that was a long time
ago. “Rides well.” Actually, it was a sumptuous vehicle, and in
comparison with his Ford, rode like a dream. The seats were
upholstered with real fabric instead of vinyl. The windshield was
tinted, and a symphony orchestra seemed to be concealed behind the
padded dashboard.
       “Costs an arm and a leg to keep
up.”
       Father Walther would have liked to
relate