LaRose(74)

It’s not supposed to be this hot, Romeo complained.

It is what it is, said Puffy.

Romeo hissed in exasperation. Everyone was saying It is what it is as though this was a wise saying. They would say it with a simple hand lift. To get off the hook, they would say it. They would say it when too lazy to finish a job. Or often when watching the news.

And it ain’t what it ain’t, said Romeo.

Father Travis didn’t register this comment. He just sweated, stoic, with a jar of Puffy’s special iced tea. Last night he’d entered the whirling energy, the black aperture, silence. Before the screams, he was suddenly with Emmaline, naked, their bodies moving and planing, slick with sweat. Father Travis rolled the cold jar across his forehead.

Romeo squinted at the TV, nodding.

There’s that clue. Chemical weapons. They showed some diagrams. Fuzzy gray recon pictures shot off a satellite.

They’re pulling together a case, he muttered.

Father Travis cocked his head and looked sideways at the shapes pictured on the screen. On 9/11 he had watched the Towers dissolve and thought, They’ve learned. After that, over and over, he’d sifted down in his dreams with the others, his body flayed by the acceleration of the building’s mass. He watched the news, flipping channels. It was like the barracks bombing never happened. Nobody made the connection. What was the connection? It hurt to think. He felt himself disintegrating. One night that September, he had gone off the wagon. He drank the bottle of single malt scotch an old friend from the Marines had sent to him. He’d stayed in bed the next morning—sick for the first time in his history as a priest. It had felt like the thing to do.

Hey Father, said Romeo. Can I ask you something?

No.

How come you quit trying to convert me?

This was an opening for Father Travis to say something mildly insulting that they would pretend was a joke but know was true.

I didn’t want to have to baptize you, said Father Travis.

How come?

I’d have to sponsor you. Promise to stand between you and the devil. But there is no space, nowhere to stand.

Haha! Romeo preened in delight. No place to stand! Between me and the devil!

This remark would make the rounds, Father Travis knew. Romeo would repeat it to everyone he saw in the hospital corridors. Knowing that, Father Travis usually gave more thought to what he said to Romeo. But right now he was having trouble. He couldn’t sit still, anywhere. He had to get out of the Dead Custer. He had to get out of every place. He had to get out of his skin.

I have to go.

Was it something I said? Romeo was joking. It was always something that he said. He caught the priest’s arm. Wait. What would you say to a kid joining the National Guards?

Which kid? Father Travis managed to sit down.

My kid, Hollis, the one Landreaux and Emmaline have, you know.

I’d say he’ll learn a useful set of skills, get out of Dodge for a while . . .

. . . what do you mean, out of Dodge?

He’ll go to Camp Grafton, or Bismarck, Jamestown training sites, depending on what he wants to do.

Not like a war then?

Father Travis was surprised. His attention sharpened.

I don’t think the Guard has ever been called up for a war. Although LBJ was within a heartbeat of doing it for Vietnam, right? But he instituted a draft. Tested the will of the people.

Who said f*ck you.

Yes, and I’m sure the Pentagon learned from that, said Father Travis, thoughtful.

If Bush threw the Guards in . . . Father Travis paused. He’d voted for this president because his father had been a decent and a prudent president. Bush Sr. had understood that getting out of a war was, like marriage, far more difficult than getting in.

Romeo gulped down his healthful iced tea and Father Travis clapped him on the shoulder as he got up to leave.



SMALL TOWNS AND reservations nearly always had a tae kwon do school, even if no Korean was ever there or even passed through. Great Grandmaster Moo Yong Yun of Fargo had planted the discipline throughout the tristate area. Father Travis had studied in Texas with Grandmaster Kyn Boong Yim. He’d earned his third degree black belt before seminary. A few years after settling into his job, with his teachers’ permission, he opened a dojo in the mission school gym. He had learned that he couldn’t stay sharp himself unless he taught. He had arrangements with several affluent schools that shipped outgrown uniforms and donated color belts. His classes took the place of the usual Saturday catechism classes. Now he just gave handouts on church doctrine. It was much more satisfying to teach combinations and run through drills, to yell numbers in Korean while fiercely punching air.

During classes, Emmaline waited for LaRose in an orange chair with an hourglass coffee stain. She always brought work—kept a laptop open or worked through a stack of papers. Sometimes she put everything down, stared at the class, driftingly smiled, and then caught herself. After the class, Father Travis always found a few words to say about LaRose. He’s making progress, for instance.

Emmaline tipped her head to the side, raised her eyebrow.

He’s getting strong, said Father Travis.

He’s okay, isn’t he?

You did well.

LaRose took her hand. Emmaline’s eyes were fixed on Father Travis.

I kept him this time.

Father Travis nodded and tried not to think of Nola just yet.