LaRose(26)

Black medicine water, said Romeo. Howah. So you watch the news last night? He and Father Travis were both CNN junkies. Father Travis was stirring into his own cup a long stream of hazelnut cream powder from a cardboard carton.

What brings you down here? Father Travis took a careful sip as if the coffee were actually hot.

I heard McCain on Leap Day, said Romeo. He told the televangelists to f*ck a dead sheep, uh, not in so many words. Then what he said about pandering to the agents of intolerance? Falwell? Robertson? My man, said Romeo, punching air.

Romeo had a caved, tubercular-looking chest, scrawny arms, a vulturine head, and perpetually stoked-up eyes. His hair had started falling out and his ponytail was a limp string. He flipped the string behind him with the flat of his hand, as though it were a lush rope. The day was bright. He had hoped to start the morning with beer to dim the sunshine, but of course he couldn’t do that in front of his sponsor.

I’ve been following that story, said Father Travis.

Waiting for our maverick to make his move.

So what are you up to?

I’m on my way to work, said Romeo.

That’s a new one, said Father Travis.

Romeo glanced over at Virgil, who was wiping down the other end of the bar, not watching. Another customer, on the other side of Father Travis, asked the priest a question. While his back was turned, Romeo rummaged in the Styrofoam cup that customers paid into for the coffee. It was labeled 25 cents. The cup was over halfway full of change, mainly quarters. Romeo took a dollar from his pocket as if to change it. He then transferred all the change in handfuls from the cup into his pocket. He put the dollar in the cup and set it on the counter. Father Travis turned back to Romeo and said, I never see you at Mass.

Exhaustion, said Romeo.

Oh? Where you working now?

Same place. Here and there. Substitute sanitation engineering. Maintenance, you know.

Maintenance could mean anything. He could be maintaining a healthy supply of substance. Father Travis took the long view with Romeo. He was working on him, dropping tiny stones into the pond.

Romeo was wearing a lurid purple mock turtleneck and a black zip hoodie printed with tiny skulls that matched the tiny skulls tattooed around his neck.

Like the work?

There’s a glass bottom to it, said Romeo, shaking his head. I can see the fish down there eating the shit. They’re the bottom-feeders. You know me, right? Romeo smiled. His tiny brown teeth ached but he poured some sugar into the coffee and watched the oily stuff swirl around a red plastic stirring stick.

Yeah, I know you, said Father Travis.

Then you know I don’t travel with the top of the food chain. I don’t eat top shelf. Bottom-feeder, like I said. I can’t talk to the high-class Indians around here. Like Landreaux. He twirls the pipe and all, thinks he’s a medicine man like Randall. That’s how they get the women. With that old Indian medicine. Emmaline’s witched, you know. He gave his usual two-finger salute as he got up to leave, and asked.

Did you hear what Landreaux said about you?

Don’t try that alkie trick on me, said Father Travis, laughing.

If you don’t want to know . . . Romeo playacted hurt. Never mind.

Romeo lunged out the door, pocket sagging from the weight of the change. He crossed the street to Whitey’s Hot Bar, and emptied his pocket of the coffee change. He came out four dollars ahead.

Slice a sausage pizza, donut, Mountain Dew, he said to Snow behind the counter. How’s your dad?



THE ONE PSYCHOLOGIST for a hundred miles around was so besieged that she lived on Xanax and knocked herself out every night with vodka shots. Her calendar was full for a year. People who couldn’t get on it went to Mass instead, and afterward visited Father Travis in the parish office.

I’m scared, said Nola, picking at her pale rose nail polish.

Father Travis had a Pre-Cana class in half an hour. His desk was heavy oak, from the old parochial school. His legs were stretched out long underneath. Instead of a desk chair, he sat in a fold-out camping chair with a mesh cup holder—it held his insulated thermos coffee cup; it used to be just right for a beer. Sunlight filled the south windows. The papers on his desk were dazzling. The light reflected up; his pale eyes shimmered.

Mrs. Ravich, said Father Travis gently, don’t be afraid. The worst has happened. And now you’ve been given two children to cherish. LaRose and Maggie.

We are sharing him now. I mean LaRose. If they take him back I’m scared, scared of what I’ll do.

Do?

To myself, said Nola softly. She looked up in appeal, mistily. There was something disturbing in her doll-sweet prettiness.

Father Travis shifted slightly back in his chair. The snake of the livid purple scar slid up his neck.

He was careful with Nola. Kept her on the other side of his desk. Kept the door open. Pretended he didn’t quite understand that she gave off the wrong vibe.

Or if he noticed, as he noticed, a detail that might stab his sleep. Like the shadow of her black bra lurking underneath the thin cotton of her shirt.

Are you planning to harm yourself? Father Travis asked, blunt but kind, trying to stay neutral.

She backpedaled, pouted out her lips, manufactured a startled look. Her gaze flickered away as she realized the priest might call Peter.

That’s not what I meant?

Father Travis took a drink of coffee. He stared at her from under his brows. He couldn’t tell how much of what she said was bullshit. Suicide to him seemed an affront to his friends who had died in Beirut. They had wanted to live, made the most of their lives, died for nothing—except he hadn’t. So maybe he was still on this earth to honor 241 lost destinies. This thought hardened his emotions. His fist clenched and unclenched.