Manny and I sat in opposing rocking chairs and played chess on a Saturday. Each of us held a freshly squeezed margarita—over ice, because Manny said the good blenders cost a thousand dollars and nothing else would do. So we were saving up.
Kix took his afternoon nap in a reclining bouncer beside me, exhausted from a fifteen-minute protest of being the only guy without a cocktail.
While I waited for Manny’s move, I checked the map on my phone. Ronnie had turned off her location sharing; she no longer appeared on my screen. Maybe she realized my life would be easier without the temptation. Or maybe she was taking her engagement more seriously. Both good reasons, and I was grateful.
Her goodbye had been sincere and heartfelt and painful. A bittersweet coda allowing me to move on.
One day soon I’d quit checking the map and hoping.
Manny pushed his knight forward.
It was, I thought, not a wise move.
I told him so and he rebutted with Spanish profanity.
Thusly our game proceeded on the plank of mutual respect and collegiality, until a Porsche Boxster arrived and my ol’ pal Hugh Pratt climbed out of the passenger seat; he had a driver.
His left hand was cradled in a sling and wrapped in fancy plaster up to the elbow. But on the bright side, it was still there. His right arm wasn’t plastered, but it also rested in a sling, because of the broken shoulder.
He looked ridiculous.
“Hola amigo. How’s the hand?” said Manny.
Hugh smiled in a way he hadn’t since I’d known him—genuine and lighthearted.
“Hurts! Big time. Replantation is a process best avoided. But I deserve every bit of it.”
At the word ‘replantation,’ Manny looked a little queasy. I knew the feeling; my father and Sheriff Stackhouse were on an extended date this weekend, causing my stomach distress.
“It’ll still work?” I said.
“My hand will never be the same. But I’ll have partial use, yes.”
I fetched him a chair and he sat. Despite the cool afternoon, he was sweating and he adjusted the slings into a more comfortable position.
“I won’t stay long. I bring greetings and gratitude from Alec Ward and his parents. He’s in a recovery clinic in Pennsylvania and doing well. His parents are searching for ways to thank you two,” he said.
I arched an inquisitive brow.
“Both of us?”
“That’s what they said.”
“Manny was only there for fifteen seconds.”
Manny grinned. “That’s all it took me, mijo.”
“But still.”
“Seemed like an important fifteen seconds. Maybe the most important.”
“I had it under control,” I said.
“That why your face is purple?”
“Tell the Wards to make a donation to All Saints,” I instructed Hugh. “Fifteen cents of which can be on Manny’s behalf.”
Hugh, without speaking, conveyed his impression that we were jackasses. Or idiots. Or both.
“Have you spoken with Jeremy Cameron, Mr. August?” he said, eager to change the subject. “Or Nicholas?”
“Not in over a week.”
“Nicholas is accepting the severance package and moving on. I tried to keep him but I think he needs a fresh start.”
“He does,” I said. “He should take his wife and child and get the hell out of Dodge. Clean breaks hurt, but often for the best.”
“I wish him all the best. And his severance package is generous indeed, as it should be. On a happier note, Jeremy Cameron might stick around. After my email to the congregation, the general consensus has shifted in Jeremy’s favor. Not only was Father Louis guilty but he’s gone, making it easier for people to not take his side. So to speak. I spoke with Jeremy this morning. He’s considering a well-deserved two-month sabbatical, fully paid for by the church, and then returning to us. Isn’t that great news?”
“The greatest.”
“It’ll be good for All Saints, I know that.”
“Is the church on the cusp of falling apart?” I said.
Manny got up and went inside. Came out with a pitcher of margaritas and a highball glass for Hugh. He filled Hugh’s glass and topped mine off.
What a guy.
Hugh, with some pain, was able to meet his right hand halfway and sip his margarita. He said, “Attendance is down. Twenty percent, and the flight will continue. But All Saints will survive, even without our two biggest pillars, Louis and Robert. They were celebrities.”
“Maybe churches shouldn’t have celebrities,” said Manny.
“I’m sure you’re right. But I don’t know how to do that. We’re only people, after all.”
We sat in silence a couple minutes. It was comfortable, the way most silences weren’t. The three of us had been in that dungeon and seen horrors no one else had. A shared bond we tacitly agreed should be left behind soon. In the meantime, we’d earned some comfortable repose.
My phone buzzed and I checked it—another urgent request for my services. I had a dozen waiting. Demand for Mackenzie August was sky high.
The professional slump had concluded. Even though I considered it a nonexistent slump to begin with.
The personal slump…endured.
Hugh finished half his margarita, stood, and said, “Thanks for the drink. My driver is probably bored and I’m needed at home.”
“Good to see you, Hugh.”
“And you, hey, I should mention, your face is looking healthier, Mr. August.”
“Better than your hand, I bet.”
“You got that right.” He laughed. “You should see the thing, it’s awful. Like Frankenstein’s monster.”
Manny made a groaning noise.
“Heroes come away with the best scars,” I said.
“I’m no hero, but thank you. You and Jeremy Cameron are the real heroes in my eyes.”
“Well,” I said. “Yes. There’s that.”
He returned to his Porsche. Awkwardly slid in and rode away.
Manny said, “You’re a hero, amigo?”
“Obviously.”
“Still a little purple under the eyes. Don’t look like a hero.”
My phone was on the table. The map was still displayed and I remained the only dot. No Ronnie.
I didn’t feel like a hero either.
“It’s your move,” he said.
I finished my margarita and set it down with a thunk.
Kix stirred. Opened his eyes to peer at me. Smiled at his father, twisted a little bit, and returned to sleep.
It was enough for me.