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Hot Date

© Carl Parsons May 2021

1.

    In the innocent but powerful days when the twentieth century was but six decades old and America was robust from its triumphs in WWII, four friends would meet each Monday night to play five card draw. They lived on the blue-collar side of Parkeston, an Ohio Valley town, separated from the wealthier, more commercial side by a muddy river along whose banks lay a string of factories, the source of the town’s modest prominence.
    Despite his Christian name and the skillful tutoring from his friend, Burl Bivens, Acer Pence was not himself a great poker player. Nevertheless, Monday nights he’d meet his three friends in Burl’s garage to play, for he valued his place at the table. It made him feel masculine and bonded in brotherhood with his comrades-in-cards, as though he were some lesser knight in service to a great cause. And there was also the matter of viewing Serafina.
    It was hot as hell in that garage on summer nights. Just a single side window, a small wooden slider, with no cross ventilation. And raising the garage door to the cool night air meant inviting in swarms of mosquitoes and moths. The game unfolded on a wobbly card table with a brown and beige checkerboard printed on top, nearly erased now by wear. The table sat on the dirt floor with a box of matches Burl had placed beneath one leg for balance.
    On one especially sticky night Burl leaned heavily on the table with both arms, enthroned next to a galvanized washtub filled with crushed ice and a dozen Hudepohls—well, minus the four the players had already taken. An opened bag of potato chips and a bowl of popcorn sat on a folding table to Burl’s right, within easy reach. Also, on the table by the snacks was a green zippered banker’s bag holding all the wealth the players had brought to the game in exchange for pasteboard chips, their tokens of brotherhood. For air conditioning, a pedestal fan blew across the tub of ice in the direction of the gamblers. From overhead, the display of chance was lit by a trouble light dangling from a rafter.
    All about the players lay the clutter of Burl’s life—a six cylinder Olds engine on a heavy duty mechanic’s cart, being rebuilt for the past three years and currently wanting parts; a discarded hot water tank resting on its side along the wall, used now and then for extra seating; a collection of expired WV license plates, 1951 to 1964, nailed to the wall opposite the window in tribute to times past; a workbench at the back of the garage, strewn with tools, its metal drawers jammed with unused car parts, bolts, screws, nuts, and washers—all awaiting their shot at utility stardom.
    Then there was Burl himself. An eminence in their neighborhood, with a cleft chin, ever alert blue eyes, and short cropped blond hair. But his best-known quality—the one that made him the desire of neighborhood women, young and old, married and single—was his physique. Burl was a thoraxian creature with solid, bulging biceps and forearms. His shoulders and arms were sculpted, not by mundane exercises in a gym or even by his considerable manual labor as a material handler in the local textile plant, unloading delivery trucks and stocking the supply crib. No, his body was gifted by God Himself—from birth through genetic disposition. And just to be fair to Creation’s other males, God had at least made a good faith attempt, in an act of karmic grace, to withhold from Burl the normal allotment of brain cells. This attempt to even things out had largely failed, however, not due to divine incompetence certainly, but due to Burl’s stubborn commitment to practical wisdom, which, after all, can be acquired simply through living by those who are alert enough and determined enough to grasp it. Thus, though Burl could never become an Immanuel Kant, he had nonetheless molded himself into a functional working-class Franklin, full of practicality wrought from stubborn observation and experience. And thus, he was to Acer and the other players their mentor in life, for he loved nothing more than to pass on his wisdom, being at once his friends’ big brother and their Sicilian uncle.
    “So, who knows a girl in the neighborhood named Mary Jo?” Acer asked the other guys.
    “Not me,” snapped Mickey Dietrich. Stefano Salvetti, Burl’s brother-in-law, didn’t quite understand the question, since his American girlfriend Valery had been slow to teach him anything other than the romantic phrases she favored.
    “Lives somewhere on Crestview, I think.” Acer added.
    “Some reason we should know her?” asked Burl, while shuffling the cards and then presenting them to Stefano for cutting.
    “No special reason. Just saw her in the store on Friday night, with her parents. At least I guess that’s who they were. I rang up their order. She looked kind of cute. Smiled at me—a real sweet smile, with orange lipstick, and said hello while she was emptying the grocery cart. Then she smiled again to say goodbye after I’d bagged their groceries. Thanked me too. Most people don’t bother to say anything. Seemed like an invitation, so I thought I’d follow up.”
    “Well, has she got a last name?’ asked Mickey. “Help us out here.”
    “Don’t know her last name for sure,” Acer replied,” but heard her mom, or whoever it was, call her Mary Jo and the name on the paycheck I cashed for them was Mott, Charles Mott. So, I’m guessing she’s Mary Jo Mott.”
    Zip, zip, zip—Burl sent the cards flying round the table. “I thought you were going to quit Mello-Mart before you start community college this fall?”
    “No, no—not yet. Need more money first, so I didn’t enroll this semester. Probably wait until January, or maybe next fall.”
    “Be careful, Acer,” Burl cautioned. “I’ve heard a lot of guys say that, then next year never comes. First thing you know, you’ll be down at the mill with me unloading trucks and railcars.”
    “Or cutting up slabs of ribs for Mello-Mart, if you’re lucky,” added Mickey, who knew too well that he was one of those about whom Burl had just spoken. One who had waited too long and now never would do more than chase car parts in the local auto supply store.
    Acer picked up his cards and fanned them at the corners, just enough to see the denominations, then put them face down on the table, careful not to look too long and to keep his face frozen, just as Burl had taught him. And never to rearrange the cards. Never. But Stefano, who hadn’t caught on to American poker yet, since Valery didn’t play that game, quickly organized his cards. He’s got one pair, Acer said to himself, and not good enough to make him even raise his eyebrows.
    Mickey closed his cards before tossing two red chips into the pool of four white antes and then asked, “So, Acer, what caught your eye about this Mary Jo chick?”
    “Just about everything really—looks, personality, and that smile. She has a special smile.”
    “Looks?” Burl raised his head from staring at Mickey’s red chips. “Well, come on, Acer boy, we need some details!” Then he tossed three reds chips of his own onto the pile. “Pony up, guys. Another red.”
    Stefano folded, muttering, “Santa mia, che brutto inizio!”
    “I guess that means you’re out, huh?” Burl asked him with a laugh. “Get Valery to teach you how to say. ‘I’m out’ between smooches, will ya?” Stefano brightened at the sound of his tutor’s name; the others laughed.
    Next Mickey called; then Acer called. Then Acer resumed his rhapsody on Mary Jo. “She’s short, but curvy. And has the cutest face—pug nose, blue eyes, bangs with red hair curled around her neck.”
    Burl interrupted him with “Mick, how many cards for you?”
    “One.”
    “Okay, Acer, we’re still waiting to hear what’s below her neck. You already told us about her red hair, and how many cards do you want to drool on?”
    “Two and there’s plenty below her neck.”
    “Plenty of what, that’s what we’re asking? Fat girls have plenty below their necks, too. I’m taking no cards and betting another pair of reds.” Burl tossed his chips on top of the others. Then he leaned back in his chair, where his sweaty Tee shirt immediately stuck to the vinyl padding.
    “What!” said Mickey, looking sourly at the pot.
    “Damn!” said Acer, slapping his cards down. “I’m out. I know how to say it.”
    “Me too, I guess,” Mickey added.
    “You two sure about that?” asked Burl with a Cheshire smile. Both nodded their surrender. “Well, that’s great, cause I got five of nothing. In fact, I don’t think these cards ever met one another till now,” Burl proudly displayed his five orphans and then pulled the winnings to his side of the table. “Hell, Steph is smarter than you two chumps, and he only understands half of what’s going on.”
    Acer felt his ears burning as he often did after one of Burl’s lessons. He knew he could never match Burl in anything—not in looks, not in confidence, not in girls, and certainly not in poker. But worse was waiting.
    “Now, Acer, did you say this girl lives on Crestview?” Burl asked while gathering up the cards and passing them to Mickey.
    “Well, like I said, that was the address on the guy’s paycheck, so—yeah—I guess so.”
    “I do know of a girl over that way.” In truth, Burl knew girls from all parts of town. “And I think she has red hair, but kind of a dumpy figure, if you ask me, not the type you’re crowing about. Bet she gets fat when she’s older. But maybe I saw her in clothes that didn’t show off her figure. Anyway, I didn’t give her that close a look, but I believe her name was Mary Jo, now that I think of it. Tell me, what does her mom look like?”
    “Oh, she’s real thin and kind of tall with red hair, but not as bright as Mary Jo’s. Maybe turning grey a little. Real quiet too.”
    “Okay, how about her ole man?”
    “He’s short and dark, with black curly hair, real tight and kinky. A good-looking guy, I suppose you’d say. Certainly not fat, but with a mean way about him.”
    “Well, at least your Mary Jo doesn’t fail the genes test since her parents aren’t hefty. Still, I’d be careful if I were you.” Burl cut the cards and Mickey dealt this time.
    Acer’s heart sank. He certainly didn’t need Burl’s approval to pursue Mary Jo but craved it nevertheless.
    After several more hands, Burl’s wife, Serafina, entered the garage with their son Earl on her left hip and replenishment popcorn in her right hand, for she knew with precision the rate at which her husband and his companions would devour the first bowlful. Both Acer and Mickey stared at her in fascination as she emptied the fresh bowl of fragrant popcorn onto the old, without saying anything, her English being even worse than her brother’s. Meanwhile, Stefano practiced shuffling the cards while Burl made baby talk with his son. Acer and Mickey remained entranced with Serafina.
    Her child-like beauty was haunting. Although seventeen-year-old mothers were not an oddity in the neighborhood, Serafina seemed even younger than all the others, much too young and fresh and innocent to have a child, though Stefano insisted that when Serafina visited her sisters she would offer up spicy details of her life with Burl, boasting in rapid-fire Italian about her husband’s prowess as a lover. Despite that, Acer imagined her as the model for all the Renaissance Madonnas he’d seen in the art history books at the Carnegie library in town; she was that pure and serene. Moreover, her devotion to Burl seemed an even greater miracle than her motherhood.
    The story of Burl’s capture of Serafina was by now a local legend. The Salvetti family lived in a large two-story house only a few blocks from Burl’s. They had purchased their home, which they had originally rented, with the profits from thousands of loaves of Italian bread baked and sold over a period of five years, plus the hundreds of biscotti, cannoli, and sfogliatelle that their neighbors had learned to love and eagerly purchased each day.
    To earn their livelihood, the entire family marched off, morning after morning, from their home to the bakery, scarcely more than a hundred yards away. At 4 AM the Salvetti parade could be seen, if one chose to rise that early. A small army it was, with the father in the vanguard, the older boys, including Stefano, immediately behind him, then the small children shielded from the traffic by their older sisters, including Serafina before her marriage, and, last of all, Signora Salvetti, locking the door of their home behind her and stuffing the house key, tied around her neck with a long trecolore string, into her blouse, before hurrying to catch up to her children. All of them off to work with flour and butter and milk and cream and sugar and yeast and almonds and pistachios and ricotta and flavorings of many fragrances. Each day, except Sundays when the entire family rode the City Lines bus downtown to Mass, the exhausts from the ovens in their little red-brick bakery suffused the entire neighborhood with the most delicious odors. Then, promptly at 7:00 AM, when the neighborhood could scarcely stand to wait any longer, Signor Salvetti flipped the sign hanging on the bakery window from “Closed” to “Open” and admitted the first customers. Soon afterwards the Salvetti children, their morning tasks completed and themselves often still dusted with flour and confectioner’s sugar, marched out of the bakery and down the street, the older ones to board the yellow school bus bound for the high school across town and the younger to enter the local elementary school, where they would slide into their desks, their dark eager eyes shining brightly and looking for all the world like little zeppole nestling next to demitasse cups of espresso. It was from this world of sweet toil that Burl first seduced and then snatched Serafina.
    And there she was, right now, standing behind Burl with her right hand on his shoulder. Then Burl grasped her hand with his and said, “Give him here, Sera. Let him stay with me a while and by damn I’ll teach him to play poker. Would you like that, Earl?”
    Earl flapped his arms in anticipation of the new experience he sensed was about to occur. His mother placed him in Burl’s lap. Then she kissed first the father and then the son and departed, as quietly and demurely as she had arrived, taking the empty popcorn bowl with her, and leaving Acer rapt in wonder and Mickey with his mouth agape. This vision and camaraderie were what Acer really came for, not the thrill of chance in penny poker, but to behold this exemplum of domesticity—her erotic solicitude for her husband and the adoration of her child. While he had no hope of achieving such success as Burl’s, Acer wondered if Mary Jo, proportionally at least, could become his Serafina.
    Then Mickey, looking up from his cards, asked, “What’s that smell?” A sulfurous odor wafted about them all.
    “Porca vacca!” shouted Stephano suddenly, leaping up from his chair, knocking the snacks onto the dirt floor, for the box of matches had just exploded near his left foot.
    Burl shouted, “Well, put it out, you dipshits!” and then began to roar with laughter at the sight of the three inept firemen rushing around before him accomplishing nothing. Little Earl, who had started the fire by pounding on the card table, cried at first, being startled by all the shouting, then quickly recovered, and began laughing instead in imitation of his father. The conflagration ended only when Serafina arrived with a small cup of water.

2.

    The next day produced a miracle. Acer was stocking the canned soups at Mello-Mart, making room for the tomato with rice, when he heard a voice behind him say, “So you stock the shelves, too!” It was Mary Jo. And she was alone. She was dressed in denim cutoff shorts, the remnant no doubt of dungarees, white Keds sans socks, and a white knit tube top. Acer resolved not to let this opportunity go by without action.
    “Oh hi, nice to see you again,” he said. “Well sure, I get to do a little bit of everything around here. Tonight, I’ll be mopping and waxing the floor right where you’re standing now.”
    “Wow, you’d be good to have around the house! I’ll bet a lot of girls are after you. But just listen to me—and I don’t even know your name.”
    Acer had never heard this gambit before. No doubt Burl had, probably many times, but for Acer compliments from girls were completely unexpected. “I’m Acer Pence, like the playing card only with an ‘r’ on the end. And you’re Mary Jo, if I remember right.”
    “That is right. I’m Mary Jo Mott. Say, you’re good! But don’t let me keep you from your work. I just came in to pick up some RC Cola, if you carry it.”
    “We sure do. You’ll find it four aisles down toward frozen foods. But say, why don’t I just walk you there? It’s easier than giving directions.”
    “Oh, that’s awfully nice, but you don’t have to.”
    “It’s okay. I’m almost finished here anyway.”
    As they went in search of the RC Cola, Acer made his move. “If you think you might be interested, Mary Jo, I’d like to take you out sometime. Would that be all right?”
    “Sure, why not. How about tomorrow night? I’m not working then, are you?”
    “No, have to work tonight, but not tomorrow night. So that would be perfect. What would you like to do?”
    “Oh, I have an idea, but let it be a surprise for now. Just call for me a 6:30. I live at 1330 Crestview, at the end of the street, where it dead-ends.”
    “Okay, I know where that is. Sure, I’ll be there. And here you go, here’s the RC Cola.”
    As Mary Jo walked toward the checkout with her RCs, Acer watched her and wondered, Is Burl right? Is she too heavy? No, no—she looks fine to me, really fine!
    Suddenly another voice startled him—that of Matt Davis, the assistant store manager. “I saw that, Pence. I think that girl could easily have found the soft drinks by herself. You need to finish stocking the soup over on aisle 3. Remember where that is?”

3.

    Wednesday evening Acer guided his ’53 Plymouth over the gravel surface of Crestview Lane, which had recently been oiled to keep down the summer dust. It must be said that Crestview had neither a crest nor a view, other than rows of small houses set on tiny lots with vine-laced chain link fences outlining them. Most of the houses were sided with clapboard that by now had passed into varying stages of drab decay.
    He arrived at 6:20 and parked the car in a dirt alley as near 1330 as he could make out from the mailboxes, but the warren of houses and alleys and footpaths converging and diverging at the end of the street confused him. Soon he spotted the right place, however, thanks to the faded house number hanging on a fence gate.
    A noisy black and tan terrier was guarding the house, or at least pretending to. Acer tentatively opened the gate and entered the yard, whereupon the terrier began jumping against his legs, inviting him to play, but, after Acer patted its head, the terrier instead escorted its new friend briskly to the house’s small porch and stood beside him, yapping happily.
    Acer knocked on the screen door. Mary Jo’s father responded, peering through the screen, and declaring, “Whatever the hell you’re sellin’, Kid, I ain’t buyin’ it. Don’t want no religious tracts neither. And, please, definitely no damn sermons. I can’t be, won’t be, redeemed. So just beat it, I’m watchin’ a ball game.”
    “I’m not selling anything, Sir.” Acer finally was able to say. “Not redeeming anybody, either. But is this the Mott residence? If so, I’m here to see Mary Jo.”
    “You are! Then why the hell don’t I know anything about it?” Charles Mott hesitated a moment before adding in a much friendlier tone, “Guess you can’t answer that, now can you? Well, come on in, Kid.”
    Charlie Mott opened the screen door and Acer stepped inside. The tiny living room contained an overstuffed sofa covered in part by a worn green throw with its fringe limp against the brown carpet. In one corner was a matching chair where Charlie Mott had been sitting. Acer knew this because a can of Carling Black Label sat on a lamp table beside the chair. He remembered ringing up a six pack of Carling for the Motts. A walnut rocker was in the other corner, while along the far wall stood a large TV and another stand, this one supporting a oversize green lamp with a wide fringed shade. Acer wondered if the Motts had moved to this house from a larger one, for the furniture didn’t fit.
    “Damn if you don’t look familiar, Kid. You live around here?”
    “Yes, Sir, up on Broadway. And I work at Mello-Mart. I’m the one who checked you out last Friday.”
    “Hah, that’s right! I knew I’d seen you before. What’s your name anyways, so’s I don’t have to keep calling you ‘Kid’?”
    “Name’s Acer Pence.”
    Charlie shook Acer’s hand vigorously. “I’m Charlie Mott, Mary Jo’s dad, but I guess you figured that out by now. . . Acer, huh? How the hell did you get a name like that?”
    “My dad thought it would help me shoot through life as number one.”
    “So, how’s that worked out?”
    “I’m still waiting for it to take effect,” Acer said with a chuckle.
    “Well, doubling girls’ names is supposed to bring them good luck, too, here in Appalachia, but it ain’t worked out so far for Mary Jo. But let me know if your name ever works out and damn if I won’t change my name to Acer, too!” Charlie laughed and clapped Acer on the shoulder. “So, you want to see our Mary Jo, do you?” Charlie had made his way back to his chair and his beer.
    “Yes, Sir, I sure do.”
    Looking toward the next room Charlie shouted, “Hey, Janie, there’s a boy out here come to see your daughter. What the hell do you know about this?”
    Acer could hear the clack of dishes being stacked and then put down before the same pale, thin woman he’d seen in the store on Friday appeared in the doorway just long enough to say that Mary Jo would be right along in a minute or two.
    “Well, that could mean somethin’ or nothin’,” Charlie said to Acer in a low voice. “That girl would be in the bathroom all night if we’d let her. Hell, Acer, you might just as well sit down there on the sofa and watch the ballgame with me a while. You like baseball?”
    “Sure do. Love the Reds.” Acer could see that the Reds had just thrown out a Pittsburgh baserunner. Then he added, “I played left field for the high school team.”
    “You did! Well, then hell I’ve probably seen you play a few times. I love to go out to the City Park and watch the games. . . Say, look at this, Vada Pinson’s up next for the Reds. He’s got a single and a run scored already tonight. The Reds are whippin’ up on the damn Pirates 3 to 2 for a change. . . Now, as for Mary Jo, just a warning, she’s usually off to some church down the street here on Wednesday nights. Leaves about now.” Charlie glanced at his wristwatch. “Yep, ‘bout now. Been goin’ there for several months. Beats the hell out of me to understand it. Most girls her age are chasin’ after boys or boys are chasin’ after them, not runnin’ off to some church in the middle of the week. But maybe you can change her mind about that, Acer.” Charlie winked at him. “And if you do, good luck to you, boy, is all I can say.”
    Before Acer could respond, Mary Jo appeared, wearing a pale green dress with a matching pillbox hat and a veil that covered her bangs and forehead down to her eyebrows. Despite the formal dress, she wore no lipstick, rouge, or mascara. Acer was concerned about just what her attire might mean but only said how pretty she looked. Now that he had seen the entire Mott family again, and bearing in mind Burl’s advice on genetics, Acer determined that Mary Jo had inherited from her father only her short stature and perhaps a bit of his snappy personality. And from her mother the shape of her mouth and nose and the red hair, though Mary Jo’s hair was a brilliant red, like spring roses, or so it seemed to Acer, while her mother’s hair seemed to have been painted from a much duller palette. Plus, Mary Jo’s figure was much fuller than her mother’s.
    On their way out of the yard, the terrier, which Mary Jo identified as Sparky, accompanied them, barking less happily than at Acer’s arrival. Then it stood, silent and mournful, inside the gate, watching them walk away.
    Once inside the Plymouth, Acer asked, “So what do you have in mind for this evening, Mary Jo? What’s the big secret?”
    “We’re going to church. It’s just down Crestview at 14^th Avenue.”
    “Church!” Acer feigned surprise, not wishing to betray Charlie Mott’s warning. “Well, that explains your hat and veil, but this is Wednesday not Sunday.” By now Acer was wilting inside since he had hoped that he could report on a hot date at the next poker game and so could not adequately conceal his disappointment. How could he ever explain to the guys that he had accompanied Mary Jo to church, on a Wednesday night, as a first date?
    While Acer was descending into gloom, Mary Jo was busy trying to plaster over the awkward situation with the story of how she and her mother had discovered this wonderful church with a truly inspiring preacher, but now her mother would not attend with her, so she just needed somebody . . . and Acer seemed so nice.
    Then, seeing no change in Acer’s disappointment, she added, “We can do something else after the service if you like. Perhaps burgers and cokes at the diner? On weekends I work the concession stand at the drive-in theater, so it’s hard for me to date boys then—but not impossible.”
    By now Acer was resigned. “Okay, so where’s the church, again?”
    “Just drive back down Crestview and you’ll run into it at 14^th Avenue. You can’t miss it.”
    “Funny, I don’t remember a church being on that corner, only a house.”
    “Well, that house is now this church.”

4.

    And she was right. As they approached 14^th Avenue, Acer could see that the original two-story house had been expanded on all sides until it nearly occupied the entire lot. In fact, it was so close to the adjacent house that two people could scarcely stand shoulder-to-shoulder between the two structures. He wondered how the local building code could have permitted such a thing and what the neighbors must think.
    “Pull in here.” Mary Jo pointed to a narrow dirt parking area beside the church where several cars and a pickup truck were already parked with their front bumpers snuggling within inches of the building and their rear bumpers nearly protruding into the street.
    “We’re lucky to get this spot,” Mary Jo said rather proudly. “In just a few more minutes there won’t be a parking spot for blocks around here.”
    Acer opened Mary Jo’s door and they walked in the street to the front of the church, since there was so little room between the parked cars and the building. A large lighted box sign occupied much of the church’s frontage. It seemed twice the size it needed to be to state:

SOUTH SIDE SALVATION TEMPLE OF GRACE
    PREACHER JERRY THACKER
    SERVICES SUN 10:00 & 7:00, WED 7:00

    And outside the church, greeting the arriving worshippers, was Preacher Thacker himself, dressed in a shiny neon green suit. His straight black hair glistened with pomade to which a stubborn cowlick at the crown of his head had refused to surrender. He looks more like a carnival barker than a preacher, Acer thought.
    As he greeted the arriving worshippers, Preacher Thacker kept up a pitter-patter of commentary, seemingly to himself, about the Second Coming, the Apocalypse, and other divine matters, possibly a warm-up for his sermon. When Mary Jo stepped forward, he stopped his recitation, put his hands on her shoulders, and kissed her cheek.
    “Who’s this with you, Sister Mary Jo?” he asked cheerily. She paused before answering, blushing a bit, then introduced Acer. Preacher Thacker then took Acer’s hand in both of his, shook it vigorously, and began inquiring about his name and his parents and whether he already belonged to a church anywhere. An usher came forward just in time to save Acer from telling a string of placating lies. The usher’s eagerness reminded him of Sparky the terrier.
    Now, Acer’s entire religious experience consisted of attending Christmas and Easter services with his parents at St. James Episcopal Church in town, but that was enough for him to have formed some clear expectations about just what a church should look like and what a church service should be—that is, one replete with pomp and ceremony and infused with incense. The South Side Salvation Temple of Grace would not conform to any of these expectations.
    The church’s interior could better be described as a hall, perhaps even a performance hall, rather than a sanctuary. The seating consisted of metal folding chairs arranged theater style with a center and two side aisles along the walls. Acer noticed that some congregants had brought their own cushions, a bad sign, he guessed, foretelling a lengthy service. The seating faced a low stage, no more than two feet high. On the back wall of the stage area hung a huge red banner displaying a simple gold cross. Ordinary sash windows lined the side walls; those on the neighbors’ side had frosted glass, but, due to the heat, tonight all the windows were raised. Interspersed with the windows were unframed velvet pictures—a kindly shepherd leading a lost lamb back to its flock, three crosses on a hill with a storm flashing behind them, four ominous horsemen descending a mountain, and three eagles soaring over a lake. The last picture, Acer surmised, had nothing to do with the Holy Trinity and had probably just been on sale.
    On the stage itself stood a multitude of guitars and amplifiers along with a drum set. Some of the guitars were held upright on stands, others were being tested by their musicians. Cords snaked along the stage and wrapped around each other like mating vipers. Men in white costumes milled about, probably the other musicians. All the while, amplifiers were squealing and screaming as though they contained small animals being tortured with electrical shocks.
    But the most prominent feature of the stage was its podium, located front and center and shaped like an old-fashioned console radio with wooden grillwork fronting beige fabric behind which, Acer guessed, there must have been at least three, maybe even four, speakers. He noticed too that there were speakers fastened to the wooden pillars supporting the ceiling throughout the church. Clearly, no part of the hall would be spared the smallest sound from the stage. But there was one thing Acer did not see.
    “Mary Jo, where’s the altar?”
    “The what?”
    “You know, the altar—where the wine and wafers are. Does it just pop up from behind the guitars at the right time?”
    “There’s no wine or wafers here. Definitely no alcohol of any kind allowed. No altar, either. We don’t kill animals here. This is a church, Acer!” He asked no more liturgical questions.
    Sensing that she had reacted too strongly to his bizarre question, Mary Jo shifted to softer tones to extol the virtues of the church, albeit in a whisper, for by now other worshippers were seated close around them. She clutched Acer’s left arm to pull him closer so that he didn’t miss her words. The smell of her fresh skin and the thought of perhaps kissing her later assuaged somewhat his uneasiness about the evening.
    “Volunteers from the congregation finished all the remodeling of the house to turn it into this church in just three months. Imagine that, Acer! From the time they ripped out the second floor and put in these pillars,” she pointed to one, “to the time they nailed the steeple in place, just three months. Why, it’s just like a miracle happened right here on 14^th Avenue, that’s all you can say.”
    “Steeple? I didn’t notice a steeple. Maybe we were too close to the building.”
    “Oh, there’s a steeple, all right. No bell yet, but Jerry—Preacher Thacker, I mean—is having us save up for that, in the building fund.”
    “I expect the church’s neighbors will really enjoy a bell,” Acer remarked dryly. “What else is Preacher Thacker up to?”
    “Oh, he’s going to get us on one of the local radio stations soon. He’s negotiating the contract right now,” she continued, grasping Acer’s hand, “so that everyone can know about our success. Then he’ll get some of the better-known Gospel quartets to perform here. Do you realize that this congregation has grown by thirty per cent just this year alone! Isn’t that fantastic?” She squeezed Acer’s hand hard as she talked.
    “I had no idea, especially since I didn’t even know there was a church here.”
    “Well, it has.”
    But Acer was more interested in the warmth of Mary Jo’s hand than the growth of the congregation.
    By now the hall was nearly filled and Preacher Thacker processed up the center aisle by himself toward the podium, holding a paperback hymnal with one hand and trying to subdue his cowlick, unsuccessfully, with the other. The church band was now in place on the stage and playing a soft slow hymn that Acer did not recognize, if in fact it was a hymn at all. Once Preacher Thacker reached the podium, he stopped, turned solemnly to the congregation, and with dramatic flair buttoned his shiny green jacket. As he fastened the last button a bright gold cross, heretofore unnoticed, lighted up on his breast pocket. Some in the audience gasped, newcomers apparently; others, in the know, applauded. Acer choked while stifling his laughter. Mary Jo struck his arm and withdrew her hand from his in reprimand—though only momentarily.
    Then she leaned into him to whisper, “He can also make the cross flash if he pushes the button twice instead of just once, but he saves that for Christmas.”
    “Good idea” was all Acer could manage in response while inhaling some more of Mary Jo’s soapy fragrance and feeling the press of her breast against his arm. He distracted himself by trying to guess just where the batteries might be located in the green jacket. For there had to be batteries.
    Preacher Thacker began tapping on the podium microphone and testing it with puffs of air. Satisfied that the mic was working, he began. “Brothers and Sisters, welcome to you all! A hearty welcome indeed to the South Side Salvation Temple of Grace. For those of you who are here for the first time, you need to know that we worship God here with the Old Time Religion.” Many in the congregation served up applause and whooping “Amens” at this declaration. “Let’s begin the service tonight with Hymn Number 32, “Standing on the Promises of God.”
    By now the ushers had distributed paper-bound hymnals and a quartet took to the stage from its front row post to lead the singing. The band started up with a squalling guitar and thumping bass leading the way. The entire assembly arose at Preacher Thacker’s signal. Despite the congregation’s discordant roar, the quartet’s harmonies could still be heard blasting from the numerous speakers in the hall. Mary Jo sang out lustily, but Acer only mouthed the lyrics until she noticed and punched him in the side with her elbow. “Sing!” she demanded. So, he sang. The hymn’s chorus was repeated three times before the band brought the whole thing to a raucous conclusion with a twanging vibrato.
    Preacher Thacker stood at the podium again, this time with a fistful of announcements: A Bible study on Saturday morning at 9:00, a potluck next week downstairs in the fellowship hall after the 10:00 AM service, a newcomers group meeting Thursdays at 7:00 PM starting next month. Then he introduced his “beloved wife,” Maisie Gribble Thacker, to perform the next musical selection, “I Come to the Garden Alone.”
    A rather large woman arose from the front row and mounted the two steps to the stage. Streaks of grey coursed through her mouse-brown hair, and the lines in her face, especially about the mouth, seemed deep. Acer commented on her apparent age to Mary Jo, who whispered back in reassuring tones, “But they love each other. They belong together.”
    In an often-quavering voice, Maisie sang a soft nostalgic rendition of the hymn, accompanied by more thumping from the bass guitar and the drummer’s soft brushes. One had the sense throughout, however, that Maisie’s voice would not make it to the hymn’s conclusion, that she was, in fact, about to lose the melody completely. Before the last chorus, the lead guitarist rendered a solo with deft rock-a-billy variations that rescued the performance, while Maisie composed herself for the finale. Her facial expressions and gestures throughout indicated her own complete satisfaction with her performance. But when she finished, the congregation seemed much less moved than it had when her husband illuminated his pocket cross.
    Next came the offerings. Ushers, including Sparky, passed tightly woven breadbaskets among the rows of worshippers while the band played another indistinguishable hymn. Mary Jo dropped a dollar into the basket that passed along their row; Acer, just fifty cents. When all the rows had been solicited, the ushers walked briskly forward and presented the gleanings to Preacher Thacker. He peered into the baskets, each one separately, very deliberately, as though looking into chasms, but didn’t touch them. Then his hands covered his eyes and he seemed to weep. Lowering his hands slowly, he looked out onto the congregation and declared, “Children, this won’t do! You are not answering God’s commandment on tithing. No, no!” he looked now at the traitorous ushers, “Gentlemen, this is shameful!” He shooed the ushers away from him. “Go back and try again.” Then to the congregation he said, “God needs you to show your gratitude for His gifts to you. Respond to Him properly this time, please. This church needs you to.”
    And so, the ushers again passed the breadbaskets. Mary Jo searched her purse before giving up and passing the basket to Acer, who contributed his remaining pocket change, thirty-seven cents worth of gratitude.
    With the flock now properly fleeced, Preacher Thacker lifted from the podium a red leather Bible with his left hand and held it at chest height. The edges of its cover and spine were tattered with use. “I take as my text tonight the Gospel of Matthew, chapter ten, verses five through seven.” Then, in a most solemn, deliberate voice, he read those verses:
    Go not into the way of the Gentiles, and into any city of the Samaritans enter ye not:
    But go rather to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.
    And as ye go, preach, saying, The kingdom of heaven is at hand.
    Then he paused a long thoughtful pause before addressing the congregation with “My brothers and sisters, I believe that there are many lost sheep among us here tonight.”
    With that prelude Preacher Thacker unleashed his sermon, conveyed with every phlegm-coated syllable and every rustling page of Scripture by the hall’s speakers so that it missed no ears. Free to roam, the sermon stalked the hall, sizing up this and that worshipper for fit and conformity to the lesson. It proceeded at great lengths, dragging behind it Old Testament precedents and pushing ahead of it Epistle commentaries and apocalyptic warnings, while ever moving toward the compelling moment of the altar call, despite no altar yet appearing.
    “Some of you, I know, want peace to come into your troubled hearts. And it can . . . right here . . . tonight, if only you’ll let it.”
    The sermon nipped at one man’s ankle here and a woman’s leg there, while it sat, whining and pleading at the feet of others, testing each one for a moment of weakness in order to gain entrance into his or her soul. All stirred uneasily in their metal seats, even those with cushions.
    “God is waiting for you, waiting patiently, in this Garden of Grace, waiting for you to come to Jesus.”
    Some lowered their eyes, a few wept quietly. Acer rolled his eyes but was careful not to let Mary Jo see him do it.
    “Now is the hour, the very minute, for you to commit yourself. To do what only you can decide to do, to throw off Satan and his ways, with God’s help, and commit yourself to Jesus Christ here tonight! Right here, right now!”
    Several worshippers finally rose and went forward, six in all—no, now seven! Mary Jo nudged Acer. “Aren’t you going up, too?” Sheepishly, he shook his head, then uttered, “No, not me.” She frowned.

5.

    Due to the length of the service, Mary Jo’s diner idea had now gone stale. On the brief drive to her home, she badgered Acer some more about his not responding to the altar call. He was tempted to reply that, since no actual altar ever appeared, an altar call seemed to him a moot point, but he thought better of that, still entertaining some vague hope for romance. Nevertheless, he managed to say in his own defense, “That was just not me, Mary Jo. I wasn’t comfortable with it. Not at all. Sorry.”
    When Acer was about to say a forlorn good night on the porch at Mary Jo’s house, under Sparky’s surveillance, she, perhaps feeling that she too was about to lose an opportunity, kissed him. A briny kiss, owing to the heat and humidity that still gripped the night and formed beads of perspiration that dotted her upper lip. Even so, she prolonged the kiss with no prompting from him, grasping his neck with her hand and pushing her mouth hard against his, a second time.
    Then she stepped back, smiled her smile, and said, “If you like, you could meet me at the drive-in on Friday night. We close concessions at nine. Just park in the back row and come to the concession stand to let me know where to find you.” Quickly, he agreed, with the hope that the second date might yet redeem the first and provide him with something to boast about to Burl and his other poker companions come Monday night.

6.

    Monday night Acer arrived at Burl’s garage whistling “Kisses Sweeter Than Wine.”
    “What makes you so damn perky tonight?” Mickey asked him as they gathered around the card table. “You connect with that Mary Jo girl?”
    “I did.”
    “And?”
    “Can’t say. Gentlemen don’t talk about their ladies like that.”
    “That’s true,” said Burl, popping up from below the table, after inserting a wooden shim under the table’s one charred leg. “But that leaves you plenty of room to tell us everything, now doesn’t it?”
    “Well, I will say that I saw her three times since last Monday, once at Mello-Mart, where I asked her for a date, and twice on dates.” Acer hadn’t really planned to open a discussion of the first date, but his exuberance had gotten the better of him.
    “Two dates, already!” Burl exclaimed. “Well, aren’t you hot stuff!”
    “Data?” asked Stefano.
    “Yeah, you know,” Burl explained. “Like when you’re smoochin’ with Valery instead of learning English the way you’re supposed to.”
    “Ah, un appuntamento a una ragazza!”
    “If you say so, Stef. Right now, we’re gonna find out from Acer here if he did any smoochin’ with this Mary Jo, aren’t we, Acer.”
    “Gentlemen don’t tell.”
    “The hell they don’t. Now start with the first date.” Burl shuffled the cards and began to deal.
    “We went to church.”
    “Church!” Burl stopped in the middle of dealing the first round. “You went to church?”
    “Church?” Mickey echoed in astonishment and then joined Burl in laughter.
    “Gli americani baciano le ragazze in chiesa? Dio santo!” added the perplexed Stefano.
    “Well, the church part wasn’t my idea, but at least it was a start.”
    “What church?” Burl was a relentless interrogator.
    “The one just down the street from here. The one that used to be a house.”
    “You mean that Grace Temple place, or whatever it is they call it?”
    “Yeah, that one. Preacher Thacker’s church.”
    “You’re saying your Mary Jo goes to that church?”
    “Yeah, what’s wrong with that?”
    “Oh, nothing much, just that Jerry Thacker’s no real preacher, but he is a genuine scammer, I’ll give him that. My brother went to high school with him. Russ knows him real well.” Burl resumed dealing now. “How about Thacker’s wife, was she there?”
    “You mean Maisie?’
    “Yep, the rich widow, Maisie Gribble. Her first husband owned the tire store down on Camden. Died suddenly, heart attack they say, and left her quite a bit of money, at least a lot for our side of town.”
    “Well, she does look a lot older than Thacker.”
    “I’ll say, about twenty years older! And rumor has it that he wheedled the money out of her for that church of his on the promise that she could sing there. She’s always thought she was a great singer.”
    “Well, she did sing, but she’s definitely not great.”
    “Her singing is probably what killed her first husband.”
    By now Mickey was drumming the table with the fingers of his left hand. “Don’t let me interrupt this interesting story, but I would like to bet two reds . . . that is, if that’s okay with you guys.” He dropped his chips atop the white antes.
    “Okay with me. I’ll see your reds and raise you a blue. How’s that?” Acer said.
    Burl was wide-eyed. “You bet a blue! You never bet blues. What the hell’s up with you?”
    “I feel lucky tonight.”
    “Well then, I can’t wait to hear about this second date. Skip over the church part and just tell us about the rest. Where’d you go on this second date? Oh wait, first I’ll see your damn blue. What about you, Stef?”
    “I’ma out.”
    “Well, just listen to you! Damn, you did learn something from Val! Sera will be real proud of you.”
    “I met Mary Jo over at the Stars ‘R Bright for the second date. She works concessions there. Parked in the back row, at her request.”
    “Whoa! Back row!” Mickey nearly jumped from his chair. “All right, then what happened?”
    “I thought you were in such a hurry to play this hand?” But truthfully Acer had now reached a point of reluctance as he recalled to himself just what did happen Friday night.

7.

    Leaving Mello-Mart at 9:00, he had just a short trip to the Stars ‘R Bright Drive-in. He had washed up as best he could in the employee rest room, spritzed on some deodorant, gargled some Listerine, slapped his face with Mennen’s, and donned a fresh shirt. Even this rapid pit stop was too long for Matt Davis, however, who was about to lock up for the night with Acer still inside.
    “Dammit, Pence! In another minute you’d have set off the alarm. Then I’d be stuck here dealing with the cops for an hour! What’s wrong with you, anyway?”
    But Acer had more pressing concerns than cops and store closings. As he hustled to the Plymouth, he could see the back of the drive-in’s screen in the distance. A huge yellow neon star radiated out from its center a greeting to passersby. He imagined it saying, “Come on in, enjoy our decades-old feature films, munch on our stale hot-buttered popcorn and mostly melted Hershey bars, quaff down a cup or two of Mountain Dew.” But no matter, for in Acer a different appetite was stirring, and the star was inviting for that too.

* * *

    When he arrived, Mary Jo was pacing back and forth outside the already closed concession stand.
    “I was beginning to think you weren’t coming.”
    “Sorry I’m late. Got called in to work in place of one of our slackers. Then I couldn’t find your number in the phone directory.”
    “True, it’s not there. Dad wants it unlisted. Makes us seem important, I guess. And keeps the mortgage company from calling. But it’s okay now that you’re here. Let’s go to your car. Stuck in concessions all the time, I never get to see any of these movies.”
    And she saw very little of this one, too, nor wanted to, for once in the car she wasted no time before she kissed Acer again. And little more time after that before she ducked down low in the front seat and shed her Stars ‘R Bright smock. Soon, with minimal assistance from Acer, she was nude to the waist.
    While this was the moment Acer had long dreamed of, imagining himself, like Burl, the master of—in truth he was completely unprepared for it. But such was not the case with Mary Jo. She was skilled, ample, and voracious; while he was tentative, unsure, and scrawny. How could she be so different Saturday from the girl who insisted they go to the Temple of Grace on Wednesday? And how could he tell his friends, without exaggerating his own contributions, about her starring role in their coupling? No, better by far to play the gentleman’s card and leave them guessing.

* * *

    “I’ll just say Mary Jo was great, nothing more.”
    “Come on! You guys know more than that about Sera and me,” Burl said as he clutched his wife by the waist and pulled her against him. She had just appeared to replenish the popcorn.
    “But I have more good news,” Acer added, hoping that a distraction would work to his advantage.
    “What’s that?” Mickey asked.
    “You know ole’ Axel Weiniger at the store?”
    “You mean the old guy in the meat department with the thick glasses?” Mickey asked before adding, “I wouldn’t want him cutting any meat for me, I can tell you that.”
    “Well, he won’t anymore,” Acer explained. “This morning he lobbed off part of his left thumb cutting up pork chops for this week’s sale. Lucky the other butchers found it before they packaged the chops. Anyway, Weiniger says he’s gonna put whatever disability he gets together with his pension and just retire. That’s nearly the first thing he said after he woke up.”
    “Why, did he faint?”
    “Come on, Mickey, butchers don’t faint at the sight of blood, now do they, Acer?” Burl scolded.
    “They do when it’s their own blood,” Acer replied. “So now I’m being promoted to take his place. Start training tomorrow. Actually, I think that Matt Davis just wants me out of his grocery department, he’s never liked me. But that’s okay with me, I’m none too fond of him, either. Besides, it means a three dollar an hour pay increase and nearly all dayshift work.”
    “Damn, that’s nice. Congrats, Acer.” Burl stood up, reached across the table, and shook Acer’s hand. Even Serafina delayed her departure to congratulate him, once she understood what had happened. Acer eagerly stood to receive her embrace.
    “Yeah, you’ll be on Easy Street now,” Mickey remarked, once his envy over Serafina abated. “But you can forget about community college. You can’t afford to go now. So, you really are one of us—and will be for the rest of your life.”
    “Oh, not necessarily. Night classes are a possibility, after all, since I’ll be working days. Plus, I’ll be saving money faster as a member of the Amalgamated Meat Cutters and Butcher Workmen of North America.”
    “Well, Mr. Amalgamated Meat Cutter, how many cards do you want?” Burl asked.
    “Four.”
    “Four! You’re betting blues and yet you want four cards! Hell, here, you might as well take the whole damn deck and pick out what you want.” Burl extended the cards to Acer in a mock gesture.
    “Told you, I’m feeling lucky tonight.”
    And a few minutes later with another round of blue chips in the pot, Acer unveiled four treys.
    Burl stared at them. “And to think I dealt you those. Disgusting, absolutely disgusting.”

8.

    More dates quickly followed for Acer and Mary Jo, always with climactic moments like that of the second date. Acer was even becoming a competent lover. At least, that’s what Mary Jo told him as they exchanged love vows on date number four. Acer was keeping a running count of their dates, but only dropped vague hints about the romance’s progress at the poker table, despite being castigated with claims of fraud by his card mates.
    By now Mary Jo’s dad had become Acer’s best friend. Charlie Mott was always ready to talk sports and share work experiences with Acer, such as showing him the scars on his fingers from his own work accidents on the milling machine, earned while slotting hoe handles. Acer made a point of arriving early just to spend some time with Charlie. They would down bottles of Black Label together while watching the Reds and, as fall approached, fretting together over the Cleveland Browns. Charlie was especially elated with Acer’s promotion to the meat department. “Now you’ve got a real career in the works,” he said, “something you can build on.”
    Indeed, Acer’s work in the meat department did progress rapidly. The first week he did little more than wash bloody racks and pans, something he’d been assigned to do before. But the next week he began learning the cuts of meat. Diligently, he even studied them at home using profile charts of a cow, a sheep, and a pig. Soon he was able to cut a sirloin from a carcass; properly weigh, package, and label it; and place it for sale on a meat tray that he himself had washed clean, disinfected, and sniff tested. What’s more, his savings account was growing. And as it grew, thoughts of attending community college gradually faded away, just as Mickey had foretold. For the first time in his life Acer felt successful and confident. And he was loved by Mary Jo.
    He had traded his Plymouth for a two-year old cherry red Chevy Nova with white leather seats. On Burl’s advice, he had passed up a more favorable deal on a used Edsel. Besides, he loved the Nova’s sleek design that made the car look as though it were about to take flight.
    When Acer walked Mary Jo to the Nova on their ninth date, she seemed anxious. Once they were both inside the Nova, she grasped his hand, just as he was about to insert the car key into the ignition. With her other hand she covered her face and, while weeping, told him she was pregnant. “Pee-gee” she called it. “After all, you—we—haven’t used protection a single time. I haven’t made you. It happens, Acer! It just happens!”
    He slumped in the Nova’s leather seat, unsure what to say for a moment. He finally blurted out, “Do your parents know?”
    “No, I haven’t told them yet. I wanted to tell you first, but I think my mom suspects.”
    “Then why don’t we just get married now. We would sooner or later anyhow, don’t you think?”
    “If that’s what you really want, yes. But only if you really mean it. I don’t want to trap you, then have you regret it later and hate me for it.”
    “Mary Jo, I could never hate you; you know I couldn’t.” By now his arm was around her shoulders, comforting her and kissing her red hair.
    Once she calmed herself, leaning against his shoulder and placing her hand on his chest, he asked, “You’ll want Preacher Thacker to marry us, I suppose?”
    “No,” she replied sharply, lifting her head to look directly into his eyes. “I hate him. You were right about him, so I stopped going there. Besides, he can’t marry people; he doesn’t have a license. I don’t think he’s even finished his correspondence courses.”
    “Correspondence courses?”
    “Yes, like the ones you see advertised on TV—courses that let you become a legal preacher. He started one of those but never bothered to finish once he married Maisie and had such success with the Temple. I guess he didn’t see the need for a preacher’s license when he was taking in so much money without it.”
    So, Burl was right, Acer thought, again. Flashing through his mind was also the evening Burl told them he was going to marry the very pregnant Serafina. “If I don’t, her papa will have the mafia kill me,” he had explained by way of justification, even though smiling with satisfaction as he told the story.
    “Do you know of a place where we can get married?” Mary Jo was almost pleading now. “We need to hurry.”
    “Why? How far along are you?”
    “Far enough to worry. At least two months, probably more. I thought it was something else at first, but now I’ve been to a doctor.”
    “I know the rector at St. James Episcopal, not real well, but I could ask him. I’m sure he wouldn’t say no.”
    “Okay, then do that. Could we go there really soon? To a service, I mean. You know, so I can see what it’s like?”
    “Sure, it’s a little drive into downtown, not just down the street like Thacker’s place. But we can go this Sunday; that’s no problem. Plus, it’s a real church with a real service—and an altar, if you know what I mean. And I’ve never heard of Rector Ellis taking collection twice in the same service.”
    “Will I have to take lessons, like new Catholics do?”
    “I think so. And, come to think of it, so will I, since my folks never joined and so neither did I.”
    She was calm now and seemed reassured. “You’re sure this will all be okay, Acer? You won’t regret it later?”
    “I’m sure!” he replied. Then he kissed her.

9.

    When Acer told his parents about Mary Jo’s condition, they were disappointed with him, but supportive, nevertheless, and agreed to meet their prospective daughter-in-law at once, along with her parents. And dutifully, within a week, they followed through.
    Mary Jo’s father, however, was delighted with the news; her mother, just as noncommittal as always, though she did give Acer a hug for the first time and seemed as though some silent worry within her had been relieved.
    “You’re havin’ a hell of a year, Acer!” Charlie declared. “A big promotion and a pregnant girlfriend! Congratulations! I don’t mind tellin’ you that Mary Jo showed up a little early, too. Maybe it runs in the family. But what the hell’s a month or two either way, that’s what I’d like to know. If it all works out in the end, who cares? That’s what counts.” Then they each had a Carling Black Label while watching the Browns beat the Eagles. “Now if you and Mary Jo have a kid that can run the ball half as well as that Jimmy Brown there,” Charlie said, pointing at the TV, “why you’ll really have accomplished something!”

10.

    St. James Episcopal Church, with its gray stone exterior, lofty bell tower and steeple, and bright red doors, was one of the earliest churches in Parkeston and generally had a membership placed socially well above that attained by Acer and Mary Jo. She was more uneasy about this discrepancy than he. In fact, he was much more at ease and enjoyed having her dependent on him as he had been on her in his only visit to the South Side Salvation Temple of Grace, which, now was no more. It had recently burned to the ground, taking the adjacent home to Perdition as well—all the result of an electrical overload and faulty wiring. Insurance and arson investigations were still pending. Burl had entertained Acer with a long dissertation on the likelihood of Jerry Thacker’s complicity in the fire and linked him to overextended loans taken out by the Temple, loans that were soon due to default. St. James, Burl assured him, was remarkably solvent by contrast, and always had been.
    In their first attendance at St. James, Mary Jo was confused by all the standing, sitting, kneeling, and bowing, but applied herself as best she could and asked Acer an endless string of questions, liturgy being an entirely new concept for her. All in all, he was pleased with their visit. She seemed anxious, but happy and eager to learn more, even if she had to go to lessons. Acer recalled Burl’s complaining about taking lessons from the priest at St. Benedict’s. “Papa will have gli uomini d’onore shoot you if you miss just one time!” Serafina had warned him before adding as proof, “Just remember, they like my papa’s bread.” The story seemed dubious to Acer since he couldn’t imagine Serafina ever uttering that many words at one time, at least not in English.

* * *

    The following Tuesday evening Rector Ellis listened patiently to Acer’s appeal for a wedding at St. James. “Within the month, if possible,” Acer pleaded. After admonishing Acer for his haste in impregnating Mary Jo, the good rector agreed to oblige, though it could only be a small, private ceremony. Without prompting, Acer responded by vowing his and Mary Jo’s membership and faithful attendance, plus the christening of their child—all to be done within the august walls of St. James, God willing.

11.

    By the time Baby Gerald was three months old, the newlyweds were established in their own apartment, located over a local laundromat, where Mary Jo now worked evenings, forcing Acer to forsake his poker partners. One Saturday morning Mary Jo plunked the baby onto Acer’s lap and said, “Watch him for me, Hon, just for a while. I’m going to Mello-Mart for some baby formula and diapers. I miscalculated. Be back before you leave for work. Got the car keys?” Acer fished the Nova’s keys out of his pocket with one hand while balancing his son with the other.
    Once little Gerald’s mother was out of sight, he began to whine, as he nearly always did when left with Acer. Spotting the baby’s hairbrush on the end table, Acer thought brushing Gerald’s hair might soothe him, and it did. Acer continued to brush Gerald’s straight black hair with smooth, soft, gentle strokes, even as his son slumbered against his shoulder, until Acer noticed something new. At the back of the baby’s hair a cowlick was developing. Acer brushed it down. It popped up again, then again, and again. He brushed it more vigorously as if just the effort alone could change the reality. Gerald began to cry at his father’s frantic motions.
    When Mary Jo returned, Acer showed her the cowlick.
    “Heck yeah, I noticed that the other day,” she said dismissively. “Probably got it from my Uncle Edmond, just like the straight hair. Remember, I told you about him. He was Mom’s brother. Don’t you remember?”
    “The dead brother?”
    “Yeah, that’s him. Believe Mom said he had a cowlick.”
    “So does Jerry Thacker.”
    “Well,” she said without hesitation, as though she had practiced this moment, “they’re not that uncommon, now are they? Cowlicks, I mean. I think people with straight black hair get them a lot. And the cowlick you just mentioned is in jail right now.”
    “Burl said that would happen.”
    “Did he?” Mary Jo laughed as she bent over to take up her child again, kissing him on the forehead, and saying, “Did you miss your momma, little Jerry?” Then she bent down again to kiss Acer’s forehead. Never before had she called her son Jerry, only Gerald.
    “What’s wrong, Hon, do you want to send him back for a refund because of a cowlick?” she asked, still laughing while swaying side to side with the child in her arms.
    “No,” said Acer. “I guess I’ll keep him.”
    “Besides,” she added quickly, “wouldn’t you still love me even if I had made a mistake and Gerald were another man’s baby? Wouldn’t you?”
    Acer paused before replying, a long pause. Then she breathed a mock sigh of relief and smiled her special smile. It rose in her face, like the morning sun, as he lied to her.

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