please…''
She didn't want him to talk about himself, what he was doing or not doing that time. 'You know,' she said, 'all over Rwanda they were cutting off the feet of Tutsis, so they not taller than the Hum killers anymore.'
He brought it back to the church saying, 'They stood there and let it happen.'
She wished he'd be quiet. 'Listen to me. If they had no weapons they knew it was their fate to die. I heard of people in Kigali, they paid the Hum killers to shoot them rather than be hacked to death with the machetes. You understand? They knew they would be dead.'
Her words meant nothing to him. He held the yobie to his mouth but didn't draw on it, saying, 'I didn't do anything to help them. Not one fucking thing. I watched. The whole time they were being killed, that's what I did. I watched.'
He said it without feeling and it frightened her.
'But you were offering the Mass. You told me, you were holding the Host in your hands when they came in. There was nothing you could do. You try to stop them they would have killed you. They don't care you're a priest.'
Again he raised the yobie to draw on it and paused.
'Let me ask you something.'
He paused again and she said, 'Yes, what?'
'You think I do any good here?'
Sounding like he was feeling sorry for himself.
She said, 'You want the truth? You don't do as much as you could.' She said, 'Do more. Talk to people, preach the word of God.
Do what a priest is suppose to do. Say Mass every Sunday, what people want you to do.'
'You really believe,' he said, staring at her in the candlelight, 'I can take bread and change it into the Body of Christ?'
What was he doing asking her that? She said, 'Of course you can.
It's what priests do, in the Mass. You change the bread, and also the wine.' What was wrong with him? 'I believe that, as all those who come to Mass believe it.'
'Sally, we believe what we want to believe.'
Calling her that, Sally, from asali, the Swahili word for honey, which he did sometimes.
He said, 'You want to know what I believe?'
'Yes, I would like to know.'
'I did come here with a few good intentions. One thing in particular I wanted to do was paint Fr. Toreki's house. Every picture I ever saw of it, going back years, the house needed painting. I knew how, I used to help my dad sometimes when he had a big job, the outside of a two-story house.'
Why was he telling her this? She believed she was listening to his mind wander from having too much to drink.
'My dad was a housepainter all his life. Forty years at least he stood with a wall in front of his face painting it, smelling it, going to his truck with the ladders on top to smoke a cigarette and drink vodka from the bottle. He said to me-it was when I dropped out of college and was helping him he said, 'Go back to school and get a good job.' He said, 'You're too smart to spend your life pissing in paint cans.' The only time he took off was to go deer hunting in the fall.
Never saw a doctor, he was sixty-three years old when he died, my brother Fran said watching the Lions on TV. Not real ones, the Detroit Lions, a professional football team. Fran said in a letter our dad's last conscious experience was seeing the Lions march all the way down the field, fumble on the two-yard line and lose the ball.'
She watched his expression looking at her. He seemed to smile. Or she could be wrong.
'You have to know my brother,' Terry said. 'He wasn't being disrespectful.'
Was he speaking to her in that quiet voice or to himself? She watched him draw on the yobie It had gone out.
'You should go to bed.'
'In a while.'
'Well, I'm going.' She got up from the table with her Russian pistol and stood looking at him. 'Why do you talk like this to me?'
'Like what?'
Walking away she said, 'Never mind.'
And heard him say, 'Why are you mad at me?'
Lying still to listen, she heard him taking a shower and then could hear him brushing his teeth, in the bath between the two bedrooms.
Always he brushed his teeth and smelled of toothpaste when he came to her bed. Once a week he brought two Larium pills, so they wouldn't catch malaria, and a glass of water they shared. The pills were hallucinogenic and in the morning they would try to describe their dreams.
Tonight he slipped in next to her beneath the netting and remained lying on his back, not moving, leaving to her whatever would come next.
She said, 'You tell me you come here to paint a house. That's the reason?'
'It's something I wanted to do.'
'Then why don't you paint it?'
He didn't answer, but said after a few moments, 'I want to have the bodies buried, the ones lying in the church, the bones.'
She said, 'Yes?'
But now he was silent.
She said, 'Can't you talk to me?'
'I'm trying to.'
She said, 'Give me a break.' One of his expressions she liked.
For several minutes she listened to the sounds in the night, outside, before turning onto her side and was closer to him now, close enough to see his face, close enough to rest the stump of her arm on his chest.
Now if he takes it in his hand…
He did, he took the hard, scarred end of what remained of her arm and began to caress it lightly with his fingers. She raised her head and he slipped his arm around her.
She said, 'I know why you don't talk to me.'
She waited and he said, 'Why?'
'Because you going to leave and not come back.'
This time when she waited and he said nothing she raised her head and put her mouth on his.
She awoke in the morning looking at sunlight through the netting and closed her eyes again to listen for sounds in the house. She knew he was gone but continued to listen. Sometimes he would return to his own bedroom during the night. Sometimes he rose before she did and would put the coffee on the stove to boil. She listened to hear him cough and clear his throat. She believed if she didn't see him for a long time and heard him clear his throat in a crowd of people she would know it was Terry. There were times she believed he loved her: not only when they were in bed and he showed his hunger for her, but other times, seeing the way he looked at her and she would wait for him to say it. When she said it to him she would smile, so the words wouldn't frighten him. After they went to bed the first time he was so quiet she said to him, 'Listen, there were always priests who want me, Rwandese priests, French priests, it's nothing new. Do you think people care if we sleep together?'
Opening her eyes she turned her head on the pillow.
He was gone.
Now she turned to her side of the bed to get up, looked at the night table and saw her pistol was also gone.
