Читать книгу Out of the Storm - M. Saverio Clemente - Страница 9

Thomas had his doubts. Still, he knew there was something there. Something more. So every Saturday afternoon he drove over to Our Lady of Sorrows and smoked a box of Camel unfiltereds in the parking-lot. It was a small, wooden church two towns over. Unlike his home parish of St. Anthony’s—a daunting Cathedral of stone and stained glass—this quaint chapel was no larger than a cabin. The work of poor Irish immigrants, it sat a meager forty parishioners. Yet every Saturday, the Vigil 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.