“Have you ever made an offering?” I ask.
Claire looks down at the small glass of Budweiser she’s rotating in her hands. “I’m not an artist. But I really admire those who are.”
“Do you have to be a good artist to make an offering? Me, I can barely draw a circle.” I sketch one in the pool of ketchup with a fry to demonstrate.
“No, she accepts everything and everyone. One of the reasons I like her.”
That sounds too good to be true. Plus, culty. But. I shouldn’t be judgmental. We continue to chat periodically as Claire makes occasional forays back to the bar. It's nice, the first real social exchange I’ve had since I’d arrived in Astoria, and casual enough to be non-threatening. As I finish my meal, Claire says, “You should come to a service. It’s Thursday night, because so many people in the service industry have to work on Sunday. Details are in the flyer, and newcomers are welcome.”
I lay some cash on the table. “Maybe I will.” She’d been right about the burgers. Maybe I could trust her about the church. ‘Welcome’ is a word I haven’t heard in a long time. I want to see this pastor with my own eyes. And it sure beats another night alone.
By the time I get back to the house I'm drenched anew. The street lamps are few and far between, and my little avenue is almost pitch black. I’d remembered to leave the porch light on, and I pause on the sidewalk, watching insects flutter in the glow.
My edginess has softened in the beer’s gentle buzz. The little yellow craftsman stirs feelings of fondness, with its tiny detached garage and clapboard siding, looking welcoming in the darkness, rain pattering on the roof and dripping from the eaves. The lawn is patchy with moss, and the tiered flower beds next to the concrete steps which lead down from the sidewalk are a tangle of morning glory.
In the house next door, warm light glows behind the draperies. I think of my neighbors: the judge, and the wife I haven’t met yet. Nice people, I’m sure. I'm tempted to go down and knock on the door, return the judge’s visit. Except I'm afraid it would be more than an exchange of pleasantries. They would be intelligent, discerning. People whose professions make them adept at ferreting out information. They’d naturally want to know about my past, and I don’t want to tell anyone. I want — need — to make a clean break, start fresh. Get away from everything that ruined my life.
Maybe I’ll go to the church service tomorrow, talk to Claire again, and meet her husband. And the pastor. I wouldn’t have to reveal the truth: that I’m agnostic bordering on atheist.
Yeah, that’s how they roll. Cult leaders, pimps, and dealers; hunting for the weak and wounded.
Except I'm neither. Just going through a bit of a rough patch, is all. I'm a homicide cop, and nobody’s prey. But sketchy as it is, it still feels good to have a direction, a short path into the future.
I give up my rain-drenched vigil and make my way carefully down the concrete steps, clinging to the cold steel-pipe railing that was made for that earlier, shorter, generation of residents. Once inside, I hang my dripping jacket on one of the many hooks in the hallway. I’m freezing, and jack up the thermostat. Warm air gusts from the old-fashioned grilles. Better, but I still have to brave the basement before I shuck my weapon.
Darkness fills the lower story like a fluid. Rain rattles against the siding and the eeriness doesn’t dissipate even after I switch on the lights. Plus, it’s cold down here — all the exposed concrete, a hundred years old and showing it. Hurriedly, I check the windows and the outside door, confirming that all entry points are closed and locked before heading back upstairs for a cup of tea with a slug of JD.
I’m safe, for now. But for how long? The vision I had yesterday morning was so immersive. It felt like it was actually happening. And this time I can’t blame stress or street drugs.
Street drugs — could I be having some kind of acid-type flashback? I’ve never done LSD, but sometimes I had to use, take things I couldn’t identify, in order to keep up my undercover persona. I just hope I haven’t messed myself up permanently.
Too bad you flushed your meds. But you could get more.
I brush aside the voice of temptation. I won’t go back to the drugs. I won’t.
Killjoy.
CHAPTER FOUR
AFTER TWO DAYS of kicking around my house and long solitary walks, I’m ready for some human contact. The address on the flyer for the Church of the Spirit turns out to be in an old converted Safeway down by the water. I recognize the signature swoopy roofline, and the shadow of the letters across the front facade. After parking in the lot, I step out of my car amidst the squawk of seagulls and the wash of the waves and the deep rumble of a passing tug. The tide is in, and the river laps just below the edge of the stone-studded bank.
I left my weapon at home, and its absence makes me edgy. Through the big plate glass windows, rows of chairs are visible with their backs to the light, facing a podium. People are already filtering inside, and I square my shoulders and walk through the door. This will be my first large gathering since I left Denver, and even then I wasn’t the mingling type. So conflicted — I want the human contact but dread having to run a gamut of false friendliness from some insidious old biddy doing greeter duty at the door. God forbid that I might have to leave my
