6

It was two weeks before Ray could get up in the morning without feeling as if his body was a seized piece of machinery. He had to oil his joints with coffee before he was loose enough to pull his socks on. He was surprised to find that he was in such sad physical shape, although he should have expected it. He hadn’t worked out much in jail. He’d meant to, but in the end he’d found it boring, like everything else inside.

The roofing crew was working in a new subdivision of low-income housing, just north of Kitchener. Three hundred and forty-two houses, two-story duplexes, basic cookie-cutter design, tiny lots, the backyards not much bigger than a good-size automobile.

Ray had hitched to work the first couple of days, and then Steve Allman had let him have an old Coupe de Ville that had been sitting in the compound. The Caddy was dark blue; the radio worked, and the air didn’t. The motor ran pretty well, smoked a little, but was quiet. Steve had let Ray have the car against wages.

They were getting paid by the square and could pretty much work their own hours. The crew was contracted to roof sixty of the houses in the subdivision. There were four men in the crew: Doc Randolph, Neil Mulvale, Ray, and Steve Allman. There was a kid whom everyone called Pottsy who cleaned up after the crew, ran for coffee, sometimes carried bundles.

Most days, Steve worked alongside his men, never came on like a boss or a wheel of any kind. Ray had trouble keeping up with the others for the first few days, but nothing was mentioned of it. Everybody kept to their own pace.

Friday morning, Ray arrived on site at seven o’clock, barely light out. He finished a take-out coffee sitting in the Caddy and then got out, strapped his belt on, and walked to the next house in line. Doc was sitting on a bundle of shingles, looking sleepily across the open field to the north.

“Morning,” Ray said.

“Ray.”

“What’re you doing?”

“Meditating.”

“What’re you meditating on?”

Doc stood up, shook off his lethargy like a wet dog after a swim. “I’m meditating on gettin’ this motherfucker shingled, gettin’ paid, and gettin’ laid. That’s what.”

“Well, you’re a spiritual sonofabitch, I’ll give you that.”

Ray walked to the truck, pulled down an extension ladder, propped it against the house, ran it up to the eave. Neil arrived, and the three of them spent the next half hour carrying bundles up to the roof. They were just starting to shingle when Pottsy showed up, driving his mother’s Jetta.

“Where the fuck you been?” Neil asked.

“I had a late night,” the kid said. “Went to see Urban Shocker in concert.”

“Who?”

“They’re this awesome rap group.”

“Shit,” Neil said.

It was a cool October day, a good day for working. Steve Allman was out pricing new jobs, and it was just the three of them shingling. The kid was dragging his ass, and Neil kept after him. By noon, when they quit for lunch, the house was a quarter finished.

They sat on the shingle pallets to eat. Pottsy hadn’t brought a lunch, and he drove to the corner store and came back with Fritos and root beer.

“You kids and your health foods,” Doc said.

Ray finished his sandwich and lay back on the pallet in the sun, stretching his back muscles. He was beginning to feel pretty good, making some money, getting in shape. Of course, just being able to come and go as he pleased was reason enough to feel good these days. What he might do with the rest of his life was another matter, something he was going to have to think about, but not today. Hell, he had houses to shingle.

“How can you listen to that rap shit?” he heard Neil ask the kid.

“How can you listen to country and western?” the kid asked back.

“Country and western is real music.”

“Well, rap is my music,” the kid said. “It’s poetry; I can relate to it.”

“Yeah,” Neil said. “You’re a white kid from Middleburg. You can relate.”

“Urban Shocker is white.”

“Shit, that’s even worse,” Neil said. “White kids pretending they’re black. Everybody in the world wants to be something they’re not. White kids wanna be black; black kids wanna be white. Poor folks wanna be rich.”

“You wanna be smart,” Doc added.

“Fuck you.”

Doc laughed and looked at Pottsy. “You gotta listen to jazz, kid. Black, white, it doesn’t matter. Jazz is the only original music ever to come out of North America. Ever.”

“What about rock and roll?” Pottsy asked.

“Fuck rock and roll.”

The kid finished his Frito lunch and walked over to throw the trash into the iron dumpster where he stowed the shingle remnants. Walking back, he looked at Ray, reclined on the shingles, eyes closed, hands clasped behind his head for a pillow.

“What about you, Ray? What do you listen to?”

“Depends on what you’re doin’,” Ray said without opening his eyes. “If you’re traveling, listen to Hank Williams. If you’re lonely, listen to Hank Williams. If you’re having problems with a woman, then you better listen to Hank Williams. The rest of the time—well, I’d recommend Hank Williams.”

Steve Allman drove in then, got out of the truck, took his tool belt from the back, put it on, and walked over. Ray raised himself to a sitting position.

“Steve,” Doc said. “What kind of music you listen to at home?”

“I got one wife and four kids,” Steve said. “The only thing I want to hear at home is silence.”

They went back to work. Steve and Ray carried up a couple of lengths of valley and cut it to fit the dormers on the front of the house. They chalked the lines on the valley and then went back to shingling, each taking a dormer.

“You ever lay cedar shakes?” Steve asked after a time.

“Once or twice, when I was a kid,” Ray said.

“I priced a place this morning,” Steve said. “Old farmhouse in Caledon. Guy wants the original cedar roof. Figured you and I could do it next weekend.”

“Sure.”

When Ray got home from work, it was full dark and Pete Culpepper was gone. Ray took a cold beer from the fridge, filled the bathtub with water hot as he could stand it, and climbed in. He laid his head back against the porcelain, drank the beer, and let the water lubricate his muscles. He drank the beer so fast he had to get out after a few minutes and walk wet-footed into the kitchen for another.

The telephone began to ring, and he let it. It would be for Pete anyway. The phone rang maybe a dozen times—Pete didn’t have an answering machine and wouldn’t know how to operate one if he did—and then it quit. Ray leaned back, drank the second beer slowly, and willed his body and brain to relax.

When he got out, he put on clean jeans and a cotton shirt. In the kitchen he fried a steak and three eggs, ate standing up against the counter. Then he put the dishes in the sink and sat down at the kitchen table and wondered what to do.

It was Friday night, he had money in his pocket, and nothing that resembled responsibility to any thing or any person. There had been a time, in his younger days, when he wouldn’t even have made it home after work, just headed straight for the bars. He’d had more energy then, he remembered, along with a huge capacity for getting himself into trouble. One had waned; with a little luck, and better judgment, maybe the other would as well.

He found Etta’s number in the phone book, sat down, and looked at the phone on the wall for a long time. She would be home with Homer, he figured. Ray wondered if Homer really had Alzheimer’s. Could be he was just getting old and forgetful. Maybe in time he’d forget about hating Ray’s guts. He closed the phone book and grabbed his jacket from the peg inside the door and drove into town.

He had no intention of driving to the ballpark, but he drove there anyway. He saw the floods from two blocks away and knew that there was a game on. Home games were always played on Fridays. The ballpark was located on Canal Street, and it was built along the bank of the old feeder, in a valley of sorts. Ray parked up above, on the main street, which ran out of town. The teams were on the field, the game in the third inning when he arrived. He got out of the Caddy and sat on the hood, thinking he would watch a couple innings before he went down to see the guys.

He could see Bo Parker, sitting in the dugout, obviously not in the lineup. Pudge McIntyre was beside him, still managing the team, Ray guessed. Pudge was working over a wad of gum like it was the enemy, meaning he was still off the smokes.

There was a stringbean lefty on the mound for the home side. He had a wild windup, lifting his leg so high he almost kicked himself in the ear with his shoe, and then heaving himself forward in a jangle of arms and legs, releasing the ball from about three quarter. The movement was so herky-jerky that Ray wondered how the kid ever managed to throw strikes and then, watching for a bit, realized for the most part that he couldn’t. The bases were full when Pudge walked out to talk to the kid the first time, and they were still full, with three runs scored and nobody out, when he pulled him a few minutes later.

Al Robins came in to relieve. When Ray was on the team the young guys used to joke that Al had three pitches: slow, slower, and slowest. Of course, what the kids couldn’t understand was that a pitcher pitches with his brain, not his arm. Ray watched, smiling, as Al threw a total of four pitches, got a pop-up and a double-play ball, and walked off the field. Slow, slower, and slowest. Ray could see the guys kidding Al as he went into the dugout, and he knew what they were saying—ragging him about his age, his paunch, his lack of speed. The same things Ray might say when he went down to the field.

After another inning he got into the Caddy, sat there with the engine running for several minutes. Then he pulled out onto the street and headed out of town.

On the inside, all a man thinks about is getting out. Night and day, it’s always there, like an unfulfilled promise—that always indistinct point of time somewhere in the distance when he is no longer in stir. It occupies a man’s head when he’s thinking about it, and it occupies his head when he isn’t. The mental pursuit of that future moment is so powerful that he invariably forgets to consider the next question.

What to do when it finally happens.

Because being out with nothing to do and nowhere to go is not all that much different from being in. The difference between being inside and being out was that on the inside, a man always had a plan. And that was to get out. Being out robbed him of that objective, and it was in looking for a brand-new objective that he usually got himself in trouble.

*   *   *

Dean and Paulie were at the bar in the Slamdance. Dean drinking a vodka martini, Paulie, beneath his porkpie, nursing a beer, both transfixed by Misty strutting the stage. Dean was pissed at Tiny Montgomery; he’d asked Tiny for Grey Goose vodka—that’s what Misty drank—and Tiny had told him he wouldn’t know Grey Goose vodka from gray goose shit. So Dean, on his third drink, had yet to tip the big man. Tiny was taking his penance in stride; Dean wasn’t much of a tipper in the best of humor.

Misty was into her finale when the door opened and a guy walked in, a guy Dean recognized but couldn’t finger. The guy was late thirties, brown hair, thin. Wearing jeans and a leather jacket. When he came under the light of the bar Dean could see he had a slight hook in his nose and a thin scar across the point of his chin. His hands on the bar were large and calloused.

“Paulie, who’s that dude?” Dean asked.

Paulie glanced over real quick, then went back to Misty, who was stark naked now, on a blanket on the floor, knees up, giving the boys on pervert row a reason to pay six bucks for a bottle of beer.

“I seen him before someplace,” Paulie said.

Tiny Montgomery walked over to the man, and they shook hands across the bar, Tiny smiling broadly. He brought the man a beer, refused payment. They talked until a customer drew Tiny away. The man in the jacket took his beer to a corner table and sat with his back to the wall.

Misty finished up, gathered her clothes and her blanket, and headed backstage. Paulie turned back to the bar and reached for his beer. He was thinking about asking Misty to go on a picnic.

Dean drank off his vodka, signaled to Tiny for another, and the big man brought it over. This time Dean tipped.

“Who’s that guy you were talking to?” Dean asked.

“What guy?”

“In the leather jacket in the corner.”

“Ray Dokes.”

“Ray Dokes.” Dean tried the name like he was sampling a drink. “How come I know him?”

“He’s the guy,” Paulie said. “I just remembered.”

“What guy?”

“He’s the guy put Sonny in the hospital for all them months,” Paulie said.

“Sonofabitch,” Dean said. “I thought he went to jail for that.”

“He did,” Tiny said. “That’s why you haven’t seen him around, genius.”

Dean took his drink and turned around, leaned back with his elbows on the bar. Ray Dokes sat with his legs crossed, watching as a fresh dancer ascended the stage. The dancer was dressed as a cowgirl, with six-shooters, a red cowboy hat, and a bullwhip, which she cracked periodically over the heads of the patrons up front.

“He doesn’t look so tough,” Dean said.

“What’s looks got to do with it?” Paulie asked.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Misty came out of the back room, wearing a short tight skirt and boots, which meant she was still working. She cast an irritable eye about the room, as if she was looking for someone who wasn’t there. When Dean waved to her, she rolled her eyes and walked over. She stepped between the two of them, and Paulie took the opportunity to smell her hair, her neck. She smelled, he decided, like a goddess.

“Johnny Walker Blue,” she said to Tiny. She indicated Dean. “He’s paying.”

Misty smiled impatiently as Dean did as he was told. She’d been hanging with the two pretty steadily for the past week or so. Dean was an easy touch for drinks, and she had, just a couple days earlier, hit Paulie up for two hundred dollars, saying she needed the money to buy her son a pair of hockey skates. This in spite of the fact that Misty was taking home two grand a week and that her kid, who lived in Wisconsin with his father, was barely two years old and probably not all that interested in hockey.

Now Dean took a twenty from his pocket and offered it to her. “I want a table dance.”

She shrugged. “We can go in the back.”

“Not for me,” Dean said. He looked at Paulie. “Watch—I’m gonna give this Dokes a treat.” Then to Misty: “That guy in the corner. In the leather jacket. Tell him it’s on Dean Caldwell.”

“I thought your name was Dino,” Misty said.

“It is,” Dean said quickly. “But in certain circles, I’m known as Dean.”

Misty glanced at Paulie. “What are you known as, in certain circles?”

“I’m always Paulie.”

Ray was lighting a cigarette when he saw the blonde approaching, cutting through the crowd, the sway in her hips suggesting Monroe while the look in her eyes was all business. It took him a moment to realize that he was her target. Just as she arrived, the music ended. She sat down beside him, put her Scotch on the table.

“You’re getting a lap dance.”

“No thanks.” Ray drew on his cigarette, watching her narrowly.

“Hey, it’s paid for.”

“By who?”

“Guy’s name is Dean Caldwell.” Misty crossed her legs, then turned toward the bar. “See the idiot at the bar with his mouth hanging open, wearing the hat? It’s the idiot beside him, with the spiked hair.”

Ray looked over. “I don’t know him.”

The music started up, and Misty got to her feet, moved in front of Ray. “I don’t care if you know him or not. He paid for a dance, and that’s what you’re getting.”

“Go away,” Ray told her sharply.

“Don’t fuck with me, man. I’m just doing my job.”

“Go dance for somebody else. If I want to see you naked, I’ll go sit up front with the wankers.”

Misty stared at him for a moment, gave him a look that told him she was this close to telling him to fuck off. But then she sat down.

“What’s your problem?” she asked.

“I don’t have a problem. You think you’re at a mixer?”

“You’re a miserable prick. What’re you doin’ here if that’s your attitude?”

“Minding my own business, for starters. I came in for a beer.”

“Who the fuck are you to look down your nose at me? I happen to have a B.A. in business from Yale.”

“Oh yeah? And I’m an astronaut.”

She took a drink of Scotch and glanced over to the bar, where Dean was watching her in puzzlement. Then she turned her chair around, regarded Ray, and told him, “I’m not giving the motherfucker his twenty back.”

Ray shrugged. “What do I care? I don’t even know them.”

“I thought they were your friends.”

“I’ve never seen them before. Don’t you know them?”

“They’re just a couple guys who hang out here. They claim they’re related to Earl Stanton, the billionaire.”

Ray had straightened in his chair now, and he was looking in the direction of the bar. He glanced back at the woman for a moment. If it was some sort of power play, he had to wonder if she was in on it. He dismissed the thought, though; if she was involved, it would have been stupid to spill about the Stanton connection. And she didn’t appear stupid. Ray got to his feet and walked directly to the bar. Dean had his back to him, ordering another round. Ray slammed him from behind, pinned him against the bar, felt inside Dean’s jacket for a piece. Then he turned to Paulie, who was wearing a T-shirt, not hiding anything.

“Don’t move,” Ray said.

“What the fuck—” Dean said.

Finding no weapon, Ray turned Dean around, held him by the collar with one hand. “So what’s the story here?” he asked. “You boys got a message from cousin Sonny?”

“You got it all wrong,” Dean told him.

“I’ll tell you what, asshole,” Ray said. “Follow me out that door, and you’ll have it all wrong.”

He pushed Dean aside and walked out the door. Dean straightened his collar and gathered his dignity and then he turned to see Paulie watching him.

“It didn’t appear to me as though that man wanted a treat,” Paulie said, and then he ordered another beer.

*   *   *

Etta loaded the last of the whites into the washing machine and measured out the detergent. Before closing the lid, she glanced down at her own T-shirt, stained from the cereal Homer had tossed her way in a fit an hour earlier. She pulled the shirt over her head and placed it in the washer, closed the lid, and started the machine. There was a plaid work shirt hanging on the wall, just inside the back door; she took it from the hook and slipped it on. It smelled faintly of her father’s pipe tobacco.

She walked back into the kitchen. Homer was sitting by the window, rocking back and forth and watching a hummingbird as it searched fitfully for an autumn blossom. The second bowl of cereal sat soggy and untouched on the table. Etta considered another effort to get him to eat, then let it go. Homer would eat when he was ready.

Etta looked out the window and saw that the flag was up on the mailbox. She went out the front door and walked across the lawn to the road. The wind had come up overnight, stripping the large silver maples along the lane of their leaves and assorted small branches. The lawn was covered.

Etta flipped the red flag down and retrieved the mail from inside. There were several bills and the Farmer’s Monthly. She glanced quickly through the pile, saw nothing encouraging, and started for the house. Her next-door neighbor drove by in her filthy white LeBaron, honking her horn like she just got it for Christmas. Etta waved over her shoulder and continued on across the leaf-strewn lawn.

When she went back into the house she saw that her father was no longer in the kitchen. Looking out the kitchen window, she saw him walking in the orchard. At least he’d put a jacket on.

Etta went into the pantry—her office—and sat down in front of the computer. She opened the envelopes one by one, keeping a running total in her head, then tossed them in a pile.

“Shit,” she said.

After a moment, she turned on the computer and went on-line. She went into her bank account and checked her balance. Then she looked at the bills again, mentally aligned them in order of priority. Going off-line, she sat back and stared at the monitor until the screensaver appeared.

Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah, it advised.

Indeed.

She was still in the chair when Father Tim Regan walked in, wearing a windbreaker and carrying a brand-new Bible.

“I said hello!” he said.

Etta straightened with a start. She reached forward to turn the computer screen off, got to her feet. She wasn’t thrilled to see the priest; his visits were growing more frequent. Etta had Mabel Anton to thank for that.

“Hi, Tim,” she said. “I guess I was out of it.”

“I guess you were.”

“I need a coffee,” she told him.

In the kitchen Etta took the bowl of sodden cereal from the table and dumped it in the garbage. She made a pot of coffee while Regan sat at the old pedestal table and watched her. The Bible was on the table. Once, turning to the fridge, she thought he was looking at her ass, but she couldn’t be sure. Tim Regan was handsome, a boyish forty-one, and a charming man. There were people who thought that he was gay, but that was probably a preconceived stereotype more than anything. She’d never felt that he had any interest in sex at all. He’d never flirted with her.

When the coffee was ready she carried the pot to the table and brought out cups and cream.

“What are you doing in this neck of the woods?” she asked as she sat down.

Regan poured cream into his cup. “Just passing by. I thought I’d stop and see how things were going.”

“Fine as frog’s hair, as the old folks say.”

“I just saw Homer. How’s he doing?”

“Depends on what day it is. Did he speak to you?”

“He swore at me for parking on the lawn.”

“Well, he’s pretty much back to normal.” She smiled at him, and they drank their coffee.

“So what’re you really doing here?” she asked.

He shrugged. “I worry about him. And you, too. Especially when I see you sitting, staring at a blank computer screen. How are you making it?”

“I work three nights a week at the hospital in town. Nurse’s aide, twelve-hour shifts. Mabel didn’t tell you this?”

Regan smiled. “She told me. And that she comes in and looks after Homer.”

“Must have been tough getting all that out of her.”

“She has a good heart, Etta.”

“She’s a busybody, is what she is. She’s decided to save my soul, and apparently she’s signed you up to help.”

“She cares about you. She thinks you’re falling behind. Did your father pay the taxes?”

“You’re as nosy as Mabel, padre. The taxes will be fully paid, thank you very much.”

“Then you’ll borrow the money to pay them.” Regan hesitated, then pushed the new Bible toward her. “I brought you this. Thought I might see you and Homer at church.”

“That what you thought?” she asked, smiling. She picked up the Bible. “And you think I’m in need of this?”

He shrugged. “Better to have it and not need it than the other way around.”

She let go of the smile and looked away from him. Out the window, she could see Homer in the yard, making his way back to the house. He seemed unsteady on his feet.

“Sometimes he mistakes me for my mother,” she said. “And when he does, he thinks he’s entitled to his conjugal rights.”

“Oh.”

“Luckily, he’s not that strong anymore. Or it could be a problem.”

“But eventually he will be a problem. He can’t be any help to you around here.”

“Not a lot,” she admitted. She looked at him. “Sonny Stanton’s been bugging Dad to sell him the farm. Seems Sonny’s bent on becoming a gentleman farmer. Although I doubt either word applies with him.”

“Maybe you should consider the offer.”

“No way. History is all I have left. This is where I make my stand.”

Regan reached for his cup, found that it was empty. When he looked toward the pot she got up and poured another cup.

“Sonny Stanton,” he said. “That’s funny; Mabel mentioned that Ray Dokes is out.”

“Tell me, padre, does Mabel have any inside information on the JFK assassination?”

“I couldn’t say. Have you seen him?”

“JFK?”

“Ray Dokes.”

“He stopped by the other day. Wasn’t it in the newsletter?”

Regan shrugged and took a drink of coffee. “I’ve heard stories about the man. You two seem … an unlikely pair.”

“What’s going on here?” she asked. “You concerned about my welfare, or just looking for tales of true romance?”

“Maybe both.” He smiled. “I’m a modern man.”

Etta looked at him a moment, thinking that she’d like to tell the priest to go to hell. Though she’d probably lose her sitter if she did.

“All right. I’d just come home, what—three years ago. I was teaching art history at Sheridan College, and the job was losing its patina, if you will. Also, I’d just broken off with a guy who wasn’t nearly as divorced as he’d led me to believe—gee, maybe that’ll be next week’s installment. Anyway, I decided to move back home for a while. I was teaching an art class at the Tompkins Gallery, and Ray’s sister was one of my students. Ray started dropping in—he was still playing ball then—and next thing you know, I was going to watch him pitch, and we were going out for beers afterward, and we golfed a couple times, and then—well, you know all about the birds and the bees, right?”

Regan didn’t bother to smile this time. “Why were you attracted to him?”

She leaned back in her chair and regarded him narrowly. She was torn between a feeling of resentment and a need to justify herself. “He is—” she heard herself say and then she hesitated. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but he is as good a man as I’ve ever known.”

“Really.”

“Really. Having said that, I should add that he is also—and you’ll pardon my language here—a bit of a fuckup.”

“I’ve heard that. Is that what made him so attractive?”

“Nice try, Oprah. No, that’s what made him unattractive. I’m a pretty conventional person; I pay my parking tickets promptly, declare all income to the government, and only rarely cheat at solitaire. Ray, on the other hand, has very little regard for the law. Or authority in general.”

“I’ve sort of gotten that impression. I mean, the man was in jail for attempted murder.”

“That’s what he was in for.”

“And you have no problem with that?”

“From a moral standpoint I have absolutely no problem with what Ray did to Sonny Stanton. Our legal system sure as hell wasn’t gonna take care of it.” She paused. “But it was a stupid move. He spent two years in jail. And if you asked him today if he’d do it again, I’m betting he’d give you a big old Gary Cooper yup.” She paused. “I just can’t deal with that kind of … I don’t know … recklessness.”

“You’re saying he’s still reckless? Wouldn’t you think that two years in jail might have changed him?”

“I think it’s a pretty inherent trait.”

“So he’s not done with Sonny Stanton?”

Etta sighed in resignation. “Probably not,” she said.

Regan was finishing his coffee. She hoped he didn’t have designs on a third cup. She was through with pouring and through with talking. The next sitter she hired would be an atheist.

“How’s Homer like him coming around?” Regan asked her.

“Homer hates Ray. Homer’s a Sonny Stanton fan, believe it or not. To him, Ray’s a criminal.”

“Seems like you have a lot of things in your life that you could do without.”

“You’re really looking to recruit us, aren’t you? One day Mabel brings you over for coffee cake—which she baked and passed off as mine, by the way—and the next you’re looking to herd us into the flock.”

“The Lord is your shepherd, not me.”

“Yeah, so I hear.”

“Maybe you should go back to the school,” Regan suggested. “I’m sure you were a good teacher. Maybe you should do what you’re good at.”

“Are you saying I’m not good at this?”

“At beating your head against the wall? Nobody is.”

Etta walked the priest to his car, said good-bye, and watched as he drove away. Homer was standing in the yard, and he hung back while Regan left.

It was a warm day, denying the month. Etta went into the garage and found a rake, walked out front, and began to gather up the leaves there. A moment later, Homer was at her side.

“I don’t want that damn Johnson hanging around you,” he said.

“That was Tim Regan, Dad,” she told him. “He’s the priest.”

She stepped close to him, ostensibly to zip his jacket, but in truth to smell his breath. As she’d suspected, he’d been into the rye; she realized he would have a bottle, or perhaps two or three, stashed in the barn. Up to his old tricks. His medication, the doctor had emphasized, would be virtually useless if he continued to drink.

The doctors had decided that he was suffering from Wernicke’s dementia. The good news was that it wasn’t Alzheimer’s; the bad news was that it might as well be. The doctor had put him on Aricept to combat the disease and Risperdal to calm him. It was a good bet that alcohol exacerbated his condition and quite possibly had a hand in initiating it. So now it was up to Etta to keep him out of the hooch. Along with everything else.

“He’s a goddamn liar if he says he’s a priest,” she heard him say. “The Johnsons were all Baptists.”