Welding with Children by Tim Gautreaux Page A

every day, and they liked the taste in the evening, too. A ticket wouldn’t change his mind about drinking for long. On the other hand, Father Ledet had ruined Mrs. Barrilleaux’s sedan, which for twenty years she had maintained as if it were a child.
    A few minutes earlier, Vic had walked down the corridor and peeked into the room where they were treating her. He hadn’t let her see him, and he studied her face. Now he sat and twirled his hat, thinking. It would be painful for the priest to have his name in the paper attached to a DWI charge, but it would make him understand the seriousness of what he had done. Patrolman Garafola dealt with too many people who did not understand the seriousness of what they were doing.
    The priest came into the lobby and the young policeman stood up. “Father, we’ll have to take a ride to the station.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI want to run a Breathalyzer test on you.”
    Father Ledet straightened up, stepped close, and put an arm around the man’s shoulders. “Oh, come on. What good would that do?”
    The patrolman started to speak, but then he motioned for the priest to follow him. “Let me show you something.”
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œI want you to see this.” They walked down the hall and through double doors to a triage area for emergency cases. There was a narrow window in a wall, and the policeman told the priest to look through it. An oxygen bottle and gauges partially blocked the view. Inside, Mrs. Barrilleaux sat on an examining table, a blue knot swelling in her upper arm. One doctor was pulling back on her shoulder while another twisted her elbow. On the table was a large, menacing syringe, and Mrs. Barrilleaux was crying, without expression, great patient tears. “Take a long look,” Vic said, “and when you get enough, come on with me.” The priest turned away from the glass and followed.
    â€œYou didn’t have to show me that.”
    â€œI didn’t?”
    â€œThat woman is the nicest, the best cook, the best—”
    â€œCome on, Father,” Vic said, pushing open the door to the parking lot. “I’ve got a lot of writing to do.”
    *   *   *
    Father Ledet’s blood-alcohol content was well over the legal limit, so the patrolman wrote him a ticket for DWI, to which he added running a stop sign and causing an accident with bodily injury. The traffic court suspended his license, and since he had banged up the Lincoln before, his insurance company dropped his coverage as soon as their computers picked up the offenses. A week after the accident, he came into the rectory hall drinking a glass of tap water, which beaded on his tongue like a nasty oil. The phone rang and the glass jumped in his fingers. It was Mrs. Arceneaux again, who told him she’d been arguing with her husband, who wanted to tell her brother Nelson Lodrigue that he had stolen his car ten years before. “Why’d you tell him to talk to Nelson about the stealing business? It’s got him all upset.”
    The priest did not understand. “What would be the harm in him telling Nelson the truth?”
    â€œAw, no, Father. Clyde’s got so little oxygen in his brain, he’s not thinking straight. He can’t tell Nelson what he did. I don’t want him to die with everyone in the neighborhood thinking he’s a thief. And Nelson … well, I love my brother, but if he found out my husband stole his old bomb, he’d make Clyde’s last days hell. He’s just like that, you know?”
    â€œI see. Is there something I can do?” He put down the glass of water on the little phone table next to a small white statue of the Blessed Virgin.
    â€œIf you would talk to Clyde and let him know it’s okay to die without telling Nelson about the car, I’d appreciate it. He already confessed everything anyway, right?”
    The priest looked