She closed the front door and turned out the lights, room by room.
They hobbled very slowly up a hill through the quiet dark neighborhood.
“How you doing, Pup?” Annette asked as they rested briefly in the doorway of an English hair salon.
His head lolled. “Would like to sleep.”
Annette dragged him another few blocks, animal sounds growing nearer. Just around a corner were the remnants of a church, the steeple gone, the stained glass windows shattered, goats and pigs milling in the courtyard.
Annette inhaled bravely and carried Puppy past the noisy beasts and through a door marked with a red X. Stepping around animal shit as best as she could, Annette half-dropped Puppy on a bench in the front row. A statue of Jesus, defiled with red Arabic lettering, looked at them through sightless eyes. Allahu Akbar obscured a large, broken cross.
Annette used her jacket as Puppy’s pillow and lay beside him, arm around his shoulder, head against his chest.
“That hurt?”
“Not at all. I could easily pitch five innings.” He so wished he had some water.
A pig passed with a haughty snort. Annette snorted back and the pig trotted away.
“Why’d that woman help us?” she finally asked.
“She’s a doctor.”
Annette considered this. “But she’s still our enemy.”
“Most people are confused and uncertain, honey. Unfortunately, the certain people rule the world.”
She propped up on an elbow. “Are you going to say profound things like that all night?”
“Probably.” He returned her smile so she wouldn’t worry.
“Is Italy far?”
“A few miles.”
“You’re lying so I won’t worry about the shit we’re in.”
“Yes.”
She rubbed his forehead. “At least we like spaghetti.”
“See? All’s not lost.”
“I never made pasta right.”
“Or anything. You’re a lousy cook.”
“Thanks. Maybe I can buy a cookbook when we get to Rome.”
“Good idea,” he mumbled.
Annette pulled Clary’s silver crucifix out of her pocket. “What’s this called again?”
He squinted. “A Christian cross.”
“Why?”
“Jesus Christ was killed on a cross. That guy.” Wincing, he pointed at the statue. “They nailed his hands and feet.”
“Fucking Allahs.”
“No, Annette. It was the Romans.” He felt so sad at that answer. It would’ve been much easier to blame the Arabs.
“How come?”
“He talked a lot of shit about people loving each other. We see where that gets you.”
“It got us this far.” Annette nestled against his chest. “You have to take another pill in four hours.”
Father Dempsey woke up at four-fifteen, as always, to shoo the animals out of his church. There were no parishioners and he would be shot if anyone caught him, but he had nothing else to do.
The Father gasped at Puppy and Annette, asleep on the bench, the woman clutching the silver crucifix.
Brave Christians. All I do is chase away beasts. Dempsey knelt and prayed, then covered the couple with a ragged blanket. He drove off a goat gnawing on Annette’s shoe.
Overheard, missiles seared the sky.
TO BE CONTINUED…
GARY MORGENSTEIN’S OTHER novels are Jesse’s Girl; Loving Rabbi Thalia Kleinman; Take Me Out to the Ballgame and The Man Who Wanted to Play Center Field for the New York Yankees. An accomplished playwright, Morgenstein wrote the critically acclaimed off-Broadway rock musical The Anthem, as well as the musical Mad Mel Saves the World, and his dramatic works range from A Tomato Can’t Grow in the Bronx to Right on Target, Ponzi Man and Saving Stan. Morgenstein, who grew up in the shadow of his beloved Yankee Stadium, now lives in Brooklyn with his wife, writer-critic Marcina Zaccaria.
