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Authors: Lawrence Block
Tags: antique
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There was a moment of astonishing sadness. Pain throbbed at the back of my throat and I felt myself close to tears.
Then the feeling passed. I don't know what brought it on or what took it away.
She said, "Well now," and smiled, and rolled on her side to face me and put a hand on my arm. "That was nice, Matt," she said.
I got dressed, turned down the offer of another cup of coffee. She took my hand at the doorway, thanked me again, and said she'd let me know her address and phone once she got relocated. I told her to feel free to call anytime for any reason. We didn't kiss.
In the elevator I remembered something she'd said. "It seems like there ought to be a bonus." Well, that was as good a word for it as any.
I walked all the way back to the hotel. I stopped a few times along the way, once for coffee and a sandwich, once in a church on Madison Avenue where I was going to put fifty dollars into the poor box until I realized I couldn't. Kim had paid me in hundreds and I didn't have enough in smaller bills.
I don't know why I tithe, or how I got in the habit in the first place.
It was one of the things I began doing after I left Anita and the boys and moved into Manhattan. I don't know what the churches do with the money and I'm sure their need for it is no greater than my own, and of late I've tried to break myself of the habit. But whenever some money comes in I find there's a restlessness that comes with it that I cannot shed until I've handed over 10 percent of the sum to one church or another. I suppose it's superstition. I suppose I think that, having started this, I have to keep it up or something terrible will happen.
God knows it doesn't make any sense. Terrible things happen anyway, and will go on happening whether I give all or none of my income to churches.
This particular tithe would have to wait. I sat for a few minutes anyway, grateful for the peace the empty church provided. I let my mind wander for awhile. After I'd been there a few minutes an elderly man seated himself on the other side of the aisle. He closed his eyes and looked to be in deep concentration.
I wondered if he was praying. I wondered what prayer was like, and what people got out of it.
Sometimes, in one church or another, it occurs to me to say a prayer, but I wouldn't know how to go about it.
If there'd been candles to light I would have lit one, but the church was Episcopalian and there weren't.
I went to the meeting that night at St. Paul's but couldn't keep my mind on the qualification. I kept drifting off. During the discussion the kid from the noon meeting told how he'd reached his ninety days, and once again he got a round of applause. The speaker said, "You know what comes after your ninetieth day?
Your ninety-first day."
I said, "My name is Matt. I'll pass."
I made it an early night. I fell asleep easily but kept waking up out of dreams. They withdrew from the edge of thought as I tried to catch hold of them.
I got up finally, went out for breakfast, bought a paper and brought it back to the room. There's a Sunday noon meeting within walking distance. I'd never been to it but I had seen it listed in the meeting book.
By the time I thought of going, it was already half over. I stayed in my room and finished the
paper.
Drinking used to fill up the hours. I used to be able to sit in Armstrong's for hours, drinking coffee with bourbon in it, not getting loaded, just sipping one cup after another while the hours went by. You try and do the same thing without the booze and it doesn't work. It just doesn't work.
Around three I thought of Kim. I reached for the phone to call her and had to stop myself. We'd gone to bed because that was the sort of gift she knew how to bestow and one I didn't know how to reject, but that didn't make us lovers. It didn't make us anything to one another, and whatever business we'd had with each other was finished.
I remembered her hair and Jan Keane's Medusa and thought of calling Jan. And
Then the feeling passed. I don't know what brought it on or what took it away.
She said, "Well now," and smiled, and rolled on her side to face me and put a hand on my arm. "That was nice, Matt," she said.
I got dressed, turned down the offer of another cup of coffee. She took my hand at the doorway, thanked me again, and said she'd let me know her address and phone once she got relocated. I told her to feel free to call anytime for any reason. We didn't kiss.
In the elevator I remembered something she'd said. "It seems like there ought to be a bonus." Well, that was as good a word for it as any.
I walked all the way back to the hotel. I stopped a few times along the way, once for coffee and a sandwich, once in a church on Madison Avenue where I was going to put fifty dollars into the poor box until I realized I couldn't. Kim had paid me in hundreds and I didn't have enough in smaller bills.
I don't know why I tithe, or how I got in the habit in the first place.
It was one of the things I began doing after I left Anita and the boys and moved into Manhattan. I don't know what the churches do with the money and I'm sure their need for it is no greater than my own, and of late I've tried to break myself of the habit. But whenever some money comes in I find there's a restlessness that comes with it that I cannot shed until I've handed over 10 percent of the sum to one church or another. I suppose it's superstition. I suppose I think that, having started this, I have to keep it up or something terrible will happen.
God knows it doesn't make any sense. Terrible things happen anyway, and will go on happening whether I give all or none of my income to churches.
This particular tithe would have to wait. I sat for a few minutes anyway, grateful for the peace the empty church provided. I let my mind wander for awhile. After I'd been there a few minutes an elderly man seated himself on the other side of the aisle. He closed his eyes and looked to be in deep concentration.
I wondered if he was praying. I wondered what prayer was like, and what people got out of it.
Sometimes, in one church or another, it occurs to me to say a prayer, but I wouldn't know how to go about it.
If there'd been candles to light I would have lit one, but the church was Episcopalian and there weren't.
I went to the meeting that night at St. Paul's but couldn't keep my mind on the qualification. I kept drifting off. During the discussion the kid from the noon meeting told how he'd reached his ninety days, and once again he got a round of applause. The speaker said, "You know what comes after your ninetieth day?
Your ninety-first day."
I said, "My name is Matt. I'll pass."
I made it an early night. I fell asleep easily but kept waking up out of dreams. They withdrew from the edge of thought as I tried to catch hold of them.
I got up finally, went out for breakfast, bought a paper and brought it back to the room. There's a Sunday noon meeting within walking distance. I'd never been to it but I had seen it listed in the meeting book.
By the time I thought of going, it was already half over. I stayed in my room and finished the
paper.
Drinking used to fill up the hours. I used to be able to sit in Armstrong's for hours, drinking coffee with bourbon in it, not getting loaded, just sipping one cup after another while the hours went by. You try and do the same thing without the booze and it doesn't work. It just doesn't work.
Around three I thought of Kim. I reached for the phone to call her and had to stop myself. We'd gone to bed because that was the sort of gift she knew how to bestow and one I didn't know how to reject, but that didn't make us lovers. It didn't make us anything to one another, and whatever business we'd had with each other was finished.
I remembered her hair and Jan Keane's Medusa and thought of calling Jan. And
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