Mass saw its pews filled to the last. A few chivalrous men—having given up their seats to the women who arrived late—even stood at the back of the church. Thomas remained in the front seat of his Chevy, smoking cigarette after cigarette, and watching family after family enter the cramped, oaken parish.
“You think God hears you from out here?” a group of boys had once taunted as they walked down to the field behind the church.
“He forgot about you years ago old man,” they jeered.
At least I’m here, thought Thomas and he rolled up his window.
After that, he began parking in the back corner of the lot—away from the field, unseen by the other parishioners.
The tolling of bells signaled the end of Mass. A few eager churchgoers scurried out before the final blessing. Seeing this, Thomas flicked his last cigarette out the window, started the truck, turned on the radio, and pulled out onto the gravel road. The radio cracked and hissed as he scanned through the stations. He settled on a local weather report. They were predicting snow. A lot of snow. Thomas hadn’t seen snow since moving to the Valley in the mid-nineties. But now they were predicting snow and it seemed like the only thing anyone was interested in talking about. He had been hearing about it all week. Apparently it would start with light flurries around eight and by morning the roads would be covered.
“There’ll be no traffic this weekend,” said the weatherman with a laugh. “Residents are being advised to take their cars off the road. Don’t plan on going anywhere. Settle in by the space heater and prepare to be there until late Sunday night.”
That the snow wasn’t supposed to pick up until the early hours of Sunday morning came as welcome news. After keeping vigil outside of the Vigil Mass, Thomas typically took dinner at a local pub. Then he would walk over to a nearby hotel and drown the rest of his evening in middle-shelf scotch. Tonight promised to be no different. He savored the sameness.
Chapter 3
On the other side of town, Kitty and Mary were getting dolled up to go out. Saturday night was girls’ night. At least it had been for the past few weeks. Girls’ night, however, was oddly similar to most nights. Perhaps it gave cause to indulge in an extra mixed drink. But to an outside observer the difference was nearly imperceptible. The two friends went clubbing five or six times a week. Some nights they danced until dawn. Most nights, each found a man to take her home. The next morning, they would meet at a local diner to share stories and laughs.
The stories, they began to notice, had an odd sort of consistency to them. Gentleman X—who was not much of a gentleman—had bought her drink after drink and paid her compliment after compliment. Then, when she was sufficiently drunk, he hailed a cab and they left for her place. There, he admitted to having recognized her. He had seen her do it on screen. He had fantasized about her a hundred times. A thousand. And now, to have her here: in the flesh. It was almost more than he could bear. He knew—he knew!—that he would be the best lover she’d ever known. He was wild and passionate—grabbing her, pushing her against the wall, kissing her with all of his might. He tore off his clothes. Then hers. He grunted and growled and sang. He was lost and free. Wild and lost and free.
Then something happened. He began to think. His mind raced. Reason replaced instinct. He realized that he had no business being with a woman like this. He could never live up to the others. The others! How many others? How many had come before? All of them more experienced. All of them more knowledgeable. All more physically gifted. How could he compare? He couldn’t. Only a fool would think he could. He was making a fool of himself. At this very moment. He was making a fool of himself right now. Was she enjoying this? Was he? Was anyone even enjoying this? What if he touched her here? What if he kissed her there? No. No, she wasn’t enjoying it. Not at all. And neither was he.
Wait. Wait, what was that noise? That noise she just made? Was she moaning? Was she sighing? Was she laughing? She was laughing. She was laughing! She was laughing at him! Wait. She let out a moan. Yes, she let out a slight moan. He was sure of it. He heard it. But what was it? Was it pleasure? Was it passion? No. No, it was laughter. It was laughter at him! She was laughing at him. At this moment. Laughing. How could he compare? He couldn’t. How would he please her? He wouldn’t. What was he thinking? What was he doing? How should he act? What should he say? Who should he be?
No, he was doomed. Yes, doomed. He was doomed from the start. And in a matter of moments, he went from wild and lost and free to mechanical and awkward and doomed. He had lost himself in passion and found himself in shame. Try as he might, he fell flat. There was nothing to be done. He knew it was over. He had fallen.
“Don’t fret,” she told him sweetly. “It wasn’t your fault. You were doomed from the start.”
After getting dressed, she walked him to the door and, with a final patronizing kiss, sent him on his way.
This was how the story went. This was how each story went. Morning after morning, coffee after coffee, recap after recap. They were all the same. They were all always the same. The circumstances varied from time to time—what he said or how he said it. But in the end, they were all the same. All always the same. And after a while, these once entertaining failures lost their charm. They used to be the source of endless laughter. But the repetition had become so repetitive. It had become monotonous. It was a bore. So in order to break up the sameness, the girls devised a new approach. They decided to make a game of it. And they played for keeps.
Chapter 4
The Ragged Urchin wasn’t Thomas’s favorite pub. It wasn’t anyone’s. But it was cheap and it was quiet and it was dark. It had food and beer and scotch and tables. It had places to sit and places to piss and it had a middle-aged mother of four with a fat belly and a prosthetic leg to bring you your food and tell you when you were drunk. If you didn’t stare at her leg, she talked to you sweetly. If you asked about her four children, she gave you an extra pickle with your burger. She didn’t expect a tip and always seemed surprised and grateful when she got one. She was pleasant enough and only spoke to customers who spoke to her.
She spoke affectionately of her late husband—how he was a tireless worker and a loving father. It was the work, she often said, that killed him. He’d wanted to be able to send their four children to school. He’d wanted to provide. He worked for them. He died for them. And when he stopped by each week to leave them with her at the end of her Sunday night shift—the court had seen fit to give him custody on weekends—no one asked any questions. To her he was dead. And so he was.
The Ragged Urchin wasn’t Thomas’s favorite pub but it was the pub at which he took his Saturday night dinners. He’d been doing so for almost a year. Before that, he was a regular at another bar which he liked much better. He’d been a regular there for almost a decade. Then the owner fell ill. When his son took over the business, he instituted a number of changes. The dark, dank, quiet, bar where Thomas was accustomed to eating dinner without being bothered became a trendy night club full of twenty-somethings just out of college.
For the first few months, Thomas attempted to ignore the changes. He was the type of man who would rather adapt than go through the hassle of finding a new place. And to some extent, he was successful. The one good thing about humans, he often reminded himself, is that they can get used to anything. Then he would look around his new habitat and remember that it is also the worst thing about humans.
He was forced to find The Ragged Urchin after a slight altercation at his old pub. It was shortly after happy hour one Saturday night and the young crowd was starting to file in. Thomas had just finished eating. He stared at the white head of his beer which tossed and turned along the bottom of his glass like the frothy foam which crashed along the coast the morning after a storm. As he considered whether or not to order another drink, something on the other side of the bar caught his attention. One of the young patrons—just a boy, really—was barking out orders at the frightened girl seated next to him. She had a sweet face and long, brown hair and she looked as if she was about to cry. It was clear by their body language that she and he had entered together and that—as young girls often do—she’d done something to make him