"Shut up," Hugh told his travel alarm as he groped it into his right hand and strangled its ringing into an angry whirr. Finally, through a sleepy, myopic haze, he found the right button.

"No gettin’ round it," said his roommate, pulling on his boots and gesturing toward the dark window. "Look at that sky. Bright blue dots in the empty black. Gonna be a cold mu’fu’!"

"Thanks for the weather report, Charles." Hugh forced himself to throw off the covers and swing his feet to the floor. "When things were going badly, when I was a kid, Mom would always say, ‘Cheer up, tomorrow is another day.’" He put on his glasses. "Well, Mom, it’s tomorrow, it’s another day, and things are still going badly."

"My Dad, he’d say, ‘You need me to piss on you, wake you up?’"

Hugh laughed. "Well, did he ever need to?"

"Oh no. We’d be gettin’ up." He stood "I’m fixin’ to go. You gotta smoke?"

"Oh sure. Even a jar of instant coffee. You gotta cup? I’ll make you one."

"Not me," said Charles, lighting one of Hugh’s cigarettes. "I’m gone. You have a goodun."

"You too," Hugh called into Charles’ departure. "Let’s all have a goodun," he told his jeans as he pulled them on.

…

Theresa woke up through the dim music of Liz’s radio alarm. She was talking to her boss. ‘I don’t want to beg for special treatment,’ she was telling him in her half-dream, ‘but I’m not in the best of health right now.’ No, erase that. ‘My doctor tells me—has told me—that stress is very bad for me. I’m already what your mother would call high strung.’ She was fully awake now. ‘Look, the bottom line is I already know we have quotas. You don’t have to—I just don’t need hourly reminders. In fact they hamper my work.’ There. ‘Dear God, please give me the words to say and the courage to say them, and give him the grace to understand.’ The thought came unbidden that somewhere there would be an evening Mass, and she would be there.

…

"This frame, Hugh, was made in the Renaissance." Joseph Lester Brooks, Craftsman looked up at Hugh from beneath lifted eyebrows. "We’re guessing about 1490. As you can see, over the centuries, it has dried into a gentle warp."

"We could steam that out, maybe?"

"At the risk of the 500-year-old hide glue and the remaining pigment? Oh no, no-no-no-no! Every flake of that finish is a twenty-dollar bill. No, what we want is a fillet on the back. We want it to hang almost flat against the wall, like this. So you get half-inch white pine, a little less wide than the frame, two-inch stock—three pieces, right?—And you taper them—plane them, sand them—pity we don’t have a spoke-shave—until they hold the frame steady against the wall. That’s called a fillet."

"Don’t let the sandpaper touch the frame."

"Riiiight."

"Don’t clamp it when you glue it."

"Riiiight. A little weight, maybe. A book, say. Don’t tie yourself in knots about this; just imagine you own it and you’ve found the perfect little painting for it. Vous comprendez?" Hugh nodded.

"Great," Joe drawled. "Graaaaaaaaayt," he sighed into the air as he ambled away, hands clasped in front of him, an intelligent man surrounded by Neanderthals, hoping to fend off the inevitable disaster with a positive outlook. The phone rang, and Hugh’s every sense sprang to full alert.

…

Mr. Myers spun the box of cigarettes in his left hand. "What kind of doctor, Theresa? … Look, it’s all right. I go home, my wife asks me, ‘Was it a one-Valium day or a two Valium day?’ Your doctor ever prescribe Valium?"

"No, sir."

"Damn shame, it’s a good drug. Might relax you some. You don’t snort coke, do you? You’re a good girl, right?

"No sir, no non-prescription drugs. In fact, I’m very sensitive to drugs, even allergic to some."

"Okay, so you’re a very sensitive girl, and you’re wrapped a little tight. That’s okay, so’s everybody else around here. We’re a sales department, right? Buncha prima donnas. We do tens of thousands of dollars worth of business every day. If I talk to you about quotas, it’s because my boss talks to me about quotas—I don’t make mine, I’m gone. All I need from you is typing, fast and accurate. I’m sitting in here, with a customer; I’ve already spent half of forever selling him a car, and we’re waiting the other half of forever for the sales contract. You’re very accurate, that’s good. I just need a little more speed sometimes."

Theresa sighed. "Yes, sir."

"Let’s see, our service manager recommended you for this job, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Has it occurred to you a car dealership may not be the best work environment for you? You’re a college girl, right?"

"Yes, sir. I mean, I’m not enrolled right now, but I’ve thought about going back."

"Lotta book smarts, right little lady?"

"I do well on intelligence tests."

"And here you are, day after day, hour after hour, sitting on your pretty dairy-air, doing the same things over and over. Don’t you get bored?"

"It’s not the most stimulating job in the world, but it pays well, and I’m doing my best to keep it. I just need a little less…"

"Pressure?"

"Yes, sir."

"Ha! Don’t we all? Look, I’m not trying to get rid of you, but, hey, we’re all people here, we’re supposed to do right by each other, right? Let’s face it: You’re overqualified for the job. Just something to think about, okay?"

"What I’m hearing is, ‘My way or the highway.’"

"That’s not what I’m saying. What I’m saying is, slow but accurate works in a pharmacy or a doctor’s office. Or the license bureau—God those people are slow! Aren’t there girls who type up doctor’s notes for a living? Don’t hospitals need clerk typists? Don’t colleges give smart kids scholarships?"

"Yes sir. All of the above."

"All right then. You’re young, you’re smart. Smart enough to know when you’re a round peg in a square hole. There’s a big, beautiful world out there with lots of opportunities." He leaned forward, placed his forearms on the desk, and gave her his full-force attention. "Here’s the bottom line Theresa: This job is not the best place in the world for you to get back on your feet, now is it?"

"No, Sir."

"But it will have to do until you can do better, are we agreed on that?" He rose.

"Yes, sir. You’ve sold me the big beautiful car." He laughed, and came around the desk toward her, "That’s all right, Mister Meyers, we don’t have to shake on it. Can I take my lunch break now?"

…

The call Hugh was dreading came when he had stopped dreading it, at about 1:30 in the afternoon.

"Hugh?" said Joe Brooks. "Your presence is requested at Oak Lawn Place. That’s exactly what the lady said: ‘presence is requested.’"

"Guess my presence will have to drag me along with it," said Hugh and sighed. "So…" Suddenly it hit him: What if they asked to search his car? He had better get the gun and hide it elsewhere. "I have no idea what this is about," he told Joe, "or how long it will take. Later, then."

"Au revoir, Hugh."

Under the house? No, the vents were nailed and painted in place, at least in back. The garage-cum-storage-shed? Padlocked, no windows. In the house, then. The kitchen, under the sink.

In the back door, very quiet. The towel-wrapped pistol felt like it would drag the wind-breaker off his right shoulder. Open the cabinet door under the sink, quiet. Squat. Packet goes back, way back. Easy now. Ease the arm out.

"Hugh, what are you doing? Aren’t you on your way yet?"

"Ah, there it is! Found just what I need, Joe. Windex." He held up his prize, rose, and kneed the cabinet door firmly shut. "Bird poop, windshield, driver’s side. They never miss, right?"

"Hugh, what is this about?" Hugh ripped a handful of paper towels from the dispenser, tore one off and dampened it under the tap.

"All I know, Joe, is it’s about a roof over my head and a place to sleep. And frankly, I’m scared."

"Yes, I can see that. Are you in trouble, Hugh?"

"God, I hope not! Well, bon jour in any case." And he was out the door.

He was scrubbing the windshield with his whole being when he remembered the weed in the glove box. And Joe was watching him from the back door. Well, hey, might as well do the inside windshield as well.

Windex on the seat, wipe windshield with left hand, flip open the glove box with right, search out weed baggie. Wipe hands, almost done. Joe gone from back door, deep breath. Baggie inside damp paper towel, inside grubby paper towel—Trash can! Why didn’t I think of that five minutes ago?

Paper towel wad in trash can, up the back steps. Windex under sink. Packet still in dark corner, just a dirty dish towel. Wash hands, hell, wash face. Cleanse from all iniquity, free from all sin. Dry and three deep breaths. Two. Three.

And out the door, ready to face the world.

…

"They’re waiting for you in Ms. Coates’ office," said Lou, the receptionist. "But, Hugh…"

"Yes?"

"You might want to brush your teeth, and change your shirt. Eddie’s father is here—Did you know he’s a member of the board?"

"No, but that explains a lot. Is he a congressman of some sort?"

"No, but he’s pretty high up in the District Attorney’s office. And speaking of pretty high, Hugh, believe me, you don’t want to go in there reeking of weed… You just couldn’t resist a couple of hits to relax, huh?"

…

The priest leaned close to Theresa where she knelt at the altar rail, arms crossed. She did not intend to receive communion until after she had made confession. "What’s your name, dear?"

"Theresa Cubbins." She could smell his after-shave.

"Theresa, the body of Christ." With patient insistence, he held the wafer before her. "The bread of heaven." She uncrossed her arms, crossed herself and opened her mouth so he could place the wafer on her tongue. Then he moved toward the next communicant: "Paul, the body of Christ." Gently Theresa held the wafer to the roof of her mouth and poured her thanksgiving toward this humble, innocent presence.

…

"I’m Father Matthias, Theresa. And you, I take it, feel the need to make confession." The priest glanced up at her from bright blue eyes beneath steel-gray brows, flashed a smile, then continued to remove his vestments with quick, sure, dismissive gestures.

"Yes, sir."

"First, have you murdered the wife of the man you’re having an affair with?" He removed his alb and tossed it on the dressing table.

Theresa laughed. "No."

"Not in a state of mortal sin, in other words."

"No, Father."

"I didn’t think so. Whatever powers of discernment I’ve developed over the last twenty-five years told me you weren’t."

"But I am troubled by impure thoughts. Sometimes I indulge in…"

"Sexual fantasies. With an occasional revenge fantasy thrown in, perhaps?"

Theresa blushed. "I was going to say masturbation."

"We all fight those battles, Theresa. Jesus and Freud are in solid agreement that lust comes built into our flesh. As the psalmist says, God ‘knows whereof we are made.’ He knows that if we’re not involved in a romantic relationship we’ll dream one up—during our twenties and thirties at least. If it’s any comfort, when you get to be my age, you’ll be dealing with fewer such urges. But whatever our age and station in life, God knows us and loves us, warts and all, wounds and all. For example, he knows that right now I would like to see the Curia hanged, every last man of them."

"The entire Church administration?"

"Yes. The Vatican bureaucrats whose purpose it is to make sure that in the face of paradigm shifts and the resulting cultural changes, the Church shall steadfastly refuse to change, but shall bury its head in the sand.

"For instance, I am to some extent responsible for the spiritual well-being of nearly nine hundred souls. Dear Sister in Christ, there is no way I can effectively minister to that many people. I’m a cookie and kool-aide dispenser: Here’s your cookie, here’s your kool-aide, you look vaguely familiar, see you next Sunday."

Theresa laughed.

"I’ll see you next Sunday if you’re not completely alienated by the cattle-car impersonality of your church. As you may have noticed, the Church is suffering from a massive clergy shortage. Why? It demands celibacy. And every time a priest hits it off with a woman parishioner and gets married the situation worsens. Why? Because the Church says a man cannot serve a marriage and an altar at the same time. Really? Marriage is no bar to sainthood, but it is to the priesthood? But we’ve always done it that way. Not at all! Jesus had married clergy. Saint Paul tells Timothy clergy should be once-married—not unmarried. For centuries we had married clergy. The Orthodox allow clergy to marry, Anglicans ditto. Why must we alone fly in the face of scripture and common sense? Answer: The Curia. Jesus had the Pharisees, we have the Curia. Hang the lot of them."
"You really enjoyed that diatribe, didn’t you?"

"Yes. God knows I went to a wedding this afternoon, of a young man I taught in seminary—to a lovely young woman—and what should have been the Church’s gain has become its loss, and I’m upset. God saw that diatribe coming afar off. And God knows I’m in my second adolescence and need something to rebel against, so he’s given me the Curia. I should be more grateful. About your romantic fantasies, may I tell you what’s worked for me?"

"Yes, please."

"God has given us the desire for the company of the opposite sex, and he’s given us imagination. Let him be thanked and praised for these gifts. Now: How can we use them in a way that will not leave us feeling ashamed? Suppose you ask Jesus to hold you close, like he did John. In the Gospel stories women like to be around our Lord, don’t they? They feel free to be who they are. Consider Magdalen’s wild display of grief before he dies, washing his feet with her hair and tears. She feels safe doing that because she knows that he will not reject her nor take advantage of her. He sounds like an ideal date."

"That’s a little scary for me. I don’t know if I can trust my imagination."

"No, but you can trust God. Next time you start to fantasize about Jack or George or the sack boy at the grocery store, ask Jesus for a sense of his presence. It’s all right to ask for graces."

"Please do not understand me too quickly. I meant that my imagination really is untrustworthy. I’ve been in a metal hospital because of it."

"Oh, my dear child. Do you need to tell me about that?"

"Not right now. It’s too complicated—where the communion of the saints leaves off and madness begins."

"Maybe later, then. Meanwhile, your imagination will operate, whether or no. No sense being scared of it. Ask God to help you use it in a way that will be pleasing to him. Asking Our Lord or your patron saint to become your imaginary companion may not work for you, but why not try it once, see what happens. I’ve found Our Lady to be delightful company. She’s girlish and witty and altogether charming."

"Maybe I’ll try her first. You mentioned paradigm shifts. I take it you’ve read Kuhn’s ‘Structure of Scientific Revolutions.’"

"Yes, and paradigm shift describes what I’ve seen over the years. When I entered the priesthood, the question uppermost in the mind of those inquiring into the faith was, Is Christian faith conformable to reason—in other words, can you square religion with science? Well, probably not, ultimately, but Aquinas struggles fetchingly with the problem, as do Descartes and de Chardin. And the attempts of modern biology and physics to account for the existence of the known universe as mere matter operating according to its own laws has its obvious absurdities.

"Yes, science does have trouble explaining God out of the universe, doesn’t it?"

"Absolutely, and for at least one good reason. But nowadays potential converts—and this is more and more true as the decade progresses—take a spiritual realm for granted. Their question is, Who’s got the power? If my soul needs healing, do I go to a priest or to a psychotherapist or to the new age theosopher who’s into crystals and channeling? Listen, I’ve lost all sense of discretion. You came to find a listening ear and got an earful instead."

"That’s all right. I like ideas."

"But you came to make confession. Shall I put on my stole and we’ll do this right?"

"No, I’ll take what you’ve said as counsel and absolution. What’s my penance?"

"Is anything else troubling your conscience."

"Intellectual pride. I think I’m smarter than everybody else. Almost."

"More intelligent than most may be a fact. To feel that we’re therefore better than most, more favored by God, that’s a sin."

"Guilty as charged."

"Likewise. Your penance is Psalm 32. Go in peace. The Lord has put away all your sins. And forget not to pray for me, who am also a sinner."

…

"Now, let’s imagine a house in the country," Gilly was saying. They were seated in the group room: Liz, Rose, Clytie, Hugh, Scobey, Charles, Brian, and Doctor Guilliam Fouchet, Psychotherapist. The room was lit by a single floor lamp beside Gilly’s recliner. "A house in the country with a big shady yard. You know how it is out in the country. Acres and acres of quiet. It’s a summer’s day, and a breeze stirs the leaves. Deep green leaves. Lush, shaded grass. Blue sky. Puffs of clouds. Easy, gentle breeze. The breeze is very relaxing. It’s blowing away all the day’s troubles." Charles began snoring softly.

"Under one of those trees is a tire tied to a branch with a rope, a children’s swing. And the rope has been twisted so tight it’s in kinks. Think of your muscles now, and watch that rope unkink and untwist as the tire begins to turn. Muscles of the neck and back let go as the tire turns faster and the rope unkinks and unwinds. Muscles of the chest and abdomen let go as the tire turns faster. You are breathing free and easy now, free and easy and deep. And with each deep breath you are growing more and more deeply relaxed. The tire spins and the rope unwinds, and the muscles of the lower back let go.

"And the rope unwinds and the tire is slowing down as the muscles of the buttocks and thighs relax. More and more deeply relaxed as the muscles of the shoulders let go. Arms and calf muscles are warm and relaxed. Slowly the tire stops turning. All tension is gone now.

"The sun shines down through the leaves, and the grass is soft underfoot. The breeze makes a gentle hush. The grass is dappled with sunlight and shadow. Sunlight and shadow, like my day. Some good things happened to me today, and some bad things. So I’m just going to lie down on the grass and watch the movie of what happened to me today. It was just a movie, and I was one of the characters in it. I’m watching it on TV now, and it’s kind of interesting..."

In Hugh’s afternoon drama he was played by Tommy Chong. Ida Lupino played Karen Coates, and Dale Evans played Twinkie Kahane; the young Peter Lorre was squeezed into a plaid jacket and a red wig to become Eddie Dean; his father was played by George Raft. Who could do Brian Heywood? Art Garfunkel.

Fade into Chong, right arm extended, hurling an imagined pistol far away, into White Rock Lake.

Chong: "So long Excalibur!"

George Raft explodes: "Damn! That .38 was a souvenir of the first murder case I won as a Deputy DA. My son tells me he wanted to return it, but you and your friend here refused."

Chong: "Good Lord! I’m sorry about your gun, of course. But we had no idea it was yours. I thought your son had bought the damn thing in a pawn shop. Eddie told us—told Brian—a friend of yours had given it to him for protection. Brian, help me out here."

Garfunkel (to Raft): "Do you live in Oak Cliff?"

Raft: "Yes, we do. What’s that got to do with anything?"

Garfunkel (with thousand-watt smile): "I thought you might. Edward said the ‘friend of the family’ who ‘gave him the gun for protection’ lived in Oak Cliff."

Raft: "Sometimes Eddie gets confused."

Chong: "He’s confused as to whether you’re a senator or a member of the house of representatives."

Raft: "Eddie likes to brag on his Dad. Somewhile back I was appointed to finish a term in the Texas House."

Dale Evans: "Hugh…"

Ida Lupino: "Yes. Hugh, your attempts at one-upsmanship are inappropriate in this setting." (She turns to Raft.) "George, you will remember, ten days ago I expressed misgivings about the appropriateness of placement here for Eddie. But we agreed with Dr. Straightner that this would be the least restrictive environment for him while he got back on his medication. I put in a call to Dr. Straightner before I called you about this matter. He hasn’t called us back—He seems to be a very busy man. Incidentally, we discovered this morning that your son has only two changes of clothes. Were you aware of that?"

Raft: "Eddie has a waiter’s job at the club. That’s his uniform. It’s the only clothes he wants to wear."

Lupino: "I understand. Now, George, as for whether Eddie knew he was not supposed to have a gun here—Here is the contract he signed the Monday he arrived. You’ll see that Eddie has initialed each of the six rules—We go over them again Monday night. Note Rule Three, ‘No firearms on the premises.’"

Peter Lorre: "I wasn’t thinking."

Ida Lupino: "No, Eddie, you weren’t. What if someone stole that gun who wanted to hurt someone? George, note that we added the stipulation: ‘I will take my medication as prescribed,’ and Eddie initialed that also, and signed the ‘I have read and agree to’ at the bottom of the page.

"The first thing we did when this matter came to our attention was to search Eddie’s room. Here are his medications: Haldol 40 milligrams, twice a day; Sinequan 200 milligrams, before bedtime. Note the count on the label and count the capsules if you’d like. He has taken none of them.

"Eddie, I told you coming in, we expect a reasonably adult level of functioning here. You simply have to show that in order to stay."

Raft: "Eddie, your mother is going to be so disappointed."

Garfunkel: "Perhaps it would be appropriate for Hugh and I to leave at this point. I have a waiters job I should have been at five minutes ago."

Chong: "Me too. Job. Need a lift?" (They rise.)

Ida Lupino: "One thing. Hugh, Brian: If anything like this ever happens again, you go to the counselor on duty. Immediately. He, or she, has the authority to deal with problems like this, you do not."

Chong: "Absolutely."

Garfunkel: "No question." (Segue to Chong and Garfunkel laughing over stiff drinks at noisy bar. Fade to black.)

…