Poor Butterfly

“Sure?” I asked. “I could give you a ride to the church.”

“I’m sure,” he said, and the madness was back. “We are sure. Have we touched your soul? Is that why you wish to see the Reverend?” There was hope in his question.

“You’ve aroused my interest,” I said. “I’d like the Reverend to give me some more information.”

“Amen,” said Cynthia.

“Amen,” I added.

The old man gave me directions to the Church of the Enlightened Patriots and I headed for my Crosley.

I’d left the windows open a crack. The crack had been enough for the Reverend’s trio to stuff through a handful of leaflets. I put them in a pile on the seat next to me, started the Crosley, and went out in search of the church.

I found the Church of the Enlightened Patriots on an intersection just outside Chinatown. I was impressed. It was a red brick building with two sides curving down from a central clock tower. Above the clock was a carillon. At the top of the central tower were four crosses, one facing each direction, and a pinnacle with a bigger cross. I got out of the Crosley, waited for a streetcar to pass, and started up the stone steps before I saw that I had the wrong building. Above the door was written: OLD SAINT MARY’S CHURCH. I stopped a Chinese woman who was hurrying down the steps clutching a black patent leather purse to her breasts and asked her for the Church of the Enlightened Patriots. She pointed to the next corner and made a sharp gesture to the right to indicate a turn. Before I could thank her, she was gone.

I went down the street she had pointed to and found the church. It looked as if it had gone through a few changes. It was a wooden two-story building painted white, with a wooden sign with black lettering announcing that this was the church and the Reverend Adam Souvaine was the pastor. There was no parking lot next to the church, which was wedged in next to a second-hand bookstore and a four-story office building whose sign, twice as big as that of the church, announced that there were vacancies.

It was after five and the street was empty except for a few cars parked along the curb. It was raining lightly. I locked the Crosley and found a burger joint half a block away.

The joint was small and clean with white tile floors and swivel stools at the counter, where you could see the grill. A few customers were chomping burgers and downing coffee or cola. I sat at the counter, where someone had left a copy of the San Francisco Chronicle. I ordered a Pepsi and a burger from the old Chinese guy in the white cap and apron sweating at the grill and learned that the Allies were repelling new tank attacks in Tunisia and that our planes were hitting Naples, Turin, and Rouen. The British had opened a new drive in Libya, and the Nazis were admitting that their defenses had been pierced.

“Nazis been pushed back more than seven hundred miles from El Alamein,” the sweating guy behind the counter said, handing me the Pepsi.

“Montgomery’s a tough fart,” said a burly guy in a plaid shirt at the end of the counter. “Even if he does talk snooty.”

“British all talk that way,” the grill guy said, turning to my sizzling burger.

“No they don’t,” the plaid shirt said. “I work with a guy from London or someplace, and he don’t talk like that.”

“Like it rare or what?” the grill guy asked me.

“Or what,” I answered.

He nodded.

“Know the church down the street?” I asked. “Church of the Enlightened Patriots?”

The plaid guy laughed.

“What about it?” The grill guy stopped to wipe his hands on his apron.

“The guy who runs it,” I said. “He ever come in here?”

“Nah,” said the grill guy, sweeping my burger and onions onto a bun and putting them on a waiting plate. “But I see him coming, going. Looks a little like Robert Taylor, only he got white hair.”

“Another nut church,” the plaid shirt mumbled through a mouthful of burger. “They come. They go. He opened about a year back. Before him was … What, Eddie?”

“Baptists,” said Eddie, putting a toothpick in his mouth. “They was Baptists.”

“Lot of people go to the church?” I asked. “Good burger.”

“Thanks,” said Eddie the grill man through the toothpick. “Not too many. Mostly old people. No Chinese. Chinese don’t go for that stuff.”

I finished my burger, considered ordering another one, but looked down at my gut and decided to be righteous. I dropped a half buck on the counter, pulled out my notebook, and made a note about the expense.

“Take it easy,” said Eddie.

“Only way to take it,” I said, scooping in the change.

I nodded at the plaid shirt, who moved his head a little to acknowledge me, and I was back on the street heading for the church. Something in the window of a store I passed caught my eye. I tried the door. It was open. A young girl was cleaning up, getting ready to close. This was the fringe of downtown, not the heart, and this was the kind of shop men with flat noses didn’t usually visit.

I calmed her down by asking how much something in the window was. She told me and I pulled the cash out of my wallet. She wrapped it and handed it to me with a smile. The second I was out the door, I heard it lock behind me.

I dropped the package on the floor of the front seat of the Crosley, locked the doors again, and headed across the street for the Church of the Enlightened Patriots. A curtain on the first floor of the church moved as I crossed the street, and I caught a glimpse of one of the women who had been picketing in front of the opera-the woman who had left early. As I hit the sidewalk, the curtains parted and a man looked out at me. He was big, lean, and wearing a black suit with a white turn-around collar. His hair was bushy and white, and he smiled a confident smile he made sure I could see.

6

The door of the Church of the Enlightened Patriots was open before I hit the top wooden step. The Reverend Adam Souvaine stood inside, hands folded in front of him, smooth face beaming at me. His eyes were green and wide, and his white mane of hair looked as if belonged on an older man, or a show horse. Behind him on the wall was an orange cross about the size of Mickey Rooney.

“Mr. Peters,” he said, voice deep and steady. “Welcome to our church.”

His hand was out. I took it. Firm grip. Palm and fingers hard. Behind him I could see into the small entryway.

“Reverend Souvaine,” I answered.

“Please come in,” he said, letting go of my hand.

The door closed behind me. Standing behind it was a man about my height but a hundred pounds heavier. The man’s face was round and dark, black hair combed back. He wore a gray suit with a white turtleneck sweater. He looked like a turtle-hard, cold, slow, and determined. He also looked as if he didn’t like me. I hoped it was the look he greeted all converts with.

“Mr. Ortiz is deacon of our congregation,” Souvaine said, beaming at the medicine ball of a man blocking the door.

“He must give a mean sermon,” I said.

“Mr. Ortiz functions best as collector of tithes, tender of the meager possessions of our church, recruiter for committees and causes. You will not believe it, Mr. Peters, but our Mr. Ortiz has had a number of careers, including that of professional wrestler, and not so long ago was a criminal in his native country. Mr. Ortiz has done some things in his day which God had difficulty forgiving, but Mr. Ortiz’s sincere contrition and genuine repentance have earned him forgiveness.”

A python ready to strike but kept in check by the soothing voice of his trainer, Mr. Ortiz’s expression did not change. At no time in those few moments did I recognize anything on that dark, round, leathery face that resembled repentance or contrition.