Read Online Poor Butterfly by Stuart M. Kaminsky - Free Book Online
Authors: Stuart M. Kaminsky
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rain.”
“Looks like,” I said. Raymond ducked back into the building, and I went down the steps right toward the old man with the placard.
“Got a question,” I said to him when I reached the sidewalk.
He was wary, but any attention was better than what he was getting from the departing workers. The old woman looked at me hopefully and put down her sign.
“Got an answer,” the old man said. “And the answer is quit this place and help convince others to do the same.”
“Wrong answer,” I said. “You mentioned a Reverend …?”
“… Souvaine,” the old woman piped in.
The old man gave her a look of distinct rebuke.
“I am the on-site spokesman, Cynthia,” he said to her.
Cynthia looked properly put in her place.
“I’m sorry, Sloane,” she said.
“The Reverend Souvaine is the spearhead of God in the battle against the godless,” said the old man, looking up to God with a small, knowing smile. God spat a few drops in his face.
“Getting God and politics a little mixed up, aren’t you?” I asked.
“They are, as the Reverend Souvaine points out, inseparable,” said the old man, looking at the woman, who nodded her approval.
“How do I find the Reverend?” I asked.
“He does not hide,” said the man.
“Amen,” said the woman.
A pair of women leaving the Opera looked over at us, then pretended to return to an absorbing conversation.
“Where doesn’t he hide? Where do I find him?”
“Church of the Enlightened Patriots,” replied Sloane. He reached into his back pocket and came out with a crumpled sheet of paper announcing an open meeting at the church. The date had passed, but the address and telephone number were there.
“Think it would be a good idea to get the lady off the street and get her a glass of iced tea?” I suggested. “It’s starting to rain.”
The man cocked his head to one side and looked at me with new eyes. The madness passed.
“The work of the church is Cynthia’s and my life,” he said softly. “It gives us meaning, purpose. Cynthia has not been well and doesn’t have … We will stay till there is no one left in the building whose mind and soul we might still touch by the truth.”
“Sure?” I asked. “I could give you a ride to the church.”
“I’m sure,” he said, and the madness was back. “We are sure. Have we touched your soul? Is that why you wish to see the Reverend?” There was hope in his question.
“You’ve aroused my interest,” I said. “I’d like the Reverend to give me some more information.”
“Amen,” said Cynthia.
“Amen,” I added.
The old man gave me directions to the Church of the Enlightened Patriots and I headed for my Crosley.
I’d left the windows open a crack. The crack had been enough for the Reverend’s trio to stuff through a handful of leaflets. I put them in a pile on the seat next to me, started the Crosley, and went out in search of the church.
I found the Church of the Enlightened Patriots on an intersection just outside Chinatown. I was impressed. It was a red brick building with two sides curving down from a central clock tower. Above the clock was a carillon. At the top of the central tower were four crosses, one facing each direction, and a pinnacle with a bigger cross. I got out of the Crosley, waited for a streetcar to pass, and started up the stone steps before I saw that I had the wrong building. Above the door was written: OLD SAINT MARY’S CHURCH. I stopped a Chinese woman who was hurrying down the steps clutching a black patent leather purse to her breasts and asked her for the Church of the Enlightened Patriots. She pointed to the next corner and made a sharp gesture to the right to indicate a turn. Before I could thank her, she was gone.
I went down the street she had pointed to and found the church. It looked as if it had gone through a few changes. It was a wooden two-story building painted white, with a wooden sign with black lettering announcing that this was the
“Looks like,” I said. Raymond ducked back into the building, and I went down the steps right toward the old man with the placard.
“Got a question,” I said to him when I reached the sidewalk.
He was wary, but any attention was better than what he was getting from the departing workers. The old woman looked at me hopefully and put down her sign.
“Got an answer,” the old man said. “And the answer is quit this place and help convince others to do the same.”
“Wrong answer,” I said. “You mentioned a Reverend …?”
“… Souvaine,” the old woman piped in.
The old man gave her a look of distinct rebuke.
“I am the on-site spokesman, Cynthia,” he said to her.
Cynthia looked properly put in her place.
“I’m sorry, Sloane,” she said.
“The Reverend Souvaine is the spearhead of God in the battle against the godless,” said the old man, looking up to God with a small, knowing smile. God spat a few drops in his face.
“Getting God and politics a little mixed up, aren’t you?” I asked.
“They are, as the Reverend Souvaine points out, inseparable,” said the old man, looking at the woman, who nodded her approval.
“How do I find the Reverend?” I asked.
“He does not hide,” said the man.
“Amen,” said the woman.
A pair of women leaving the Opera looked over at us, then pretended to return to an absorbing conversation.
“Where doesn’t he hide? Where do I find him?”
“Church of the Enlightened Patriots,” replied Sloane. He reached into his back pocket and came out with a crumpled sheet of paper announcing an open meeting at the church. The date had passed, but the address and telephone number were there.
“Think it would be a good idea to get the lady off the street and get her a glass of iced tea?” I suggested. “It’s starting to rain.”
The man cocked his head to one side and looked at me with new eyes. The madness passed.
“The work of the church is Cynthia’s and my life,” he said softly. “It gives us meaning, purpose. Cynthia has not been well and doesn’t have … We will stay till there is no one left in the building whose mind and soul we might still touch by the truth.”
“Sure?” I asked. “I could give you a ride to the church.”
“I’m sure,” he said, and the madness was back. “We are sure. Have we touched your soul? Is that why you wish to see the Reverend?” There was hope in his question.
“You’ve aroused my interest,” I said. “I’d like the Reverend to give me some more information.”
“Amen,” said Cynthia.
“Amen,” I added.
The old man gave me directions to the Church of the Enlightened Patriots and I headed for my Crosley.
I’d left the windows open a crack. The crack had been enough for the Reverend’s trio to stuff through a handful of leaflets. I put them in a pile on the seat next to me, started the Crosley, and went out in search of the church.
I found the Church of the Enlightened Patriots on an intersection just outside Chinatown. I was impressed. It was a red brick building with two sides curving down from a central clock tower. Above the clock was a carillon. At the top of the central tower were four crosses, one facing each direction, and a pinnacle with a bigger cross. I got out of the Crosley, waited for a streetcar to pass, and started up the stone steps before I saw that I had the wrong building. Above the door was written: OLD SAINT MARY’S CHURCH. I stopped a Chinese woman who was hurrying down the steps clutching a black patent leather purse to her breasts and asked her for the Church of the Enlightened Patriots. She pointed to the next corner and made a sharp gesture to the right to indicate a turn. Before I could thank her, she was gone.
I went down the street she had pointed to and found the church. It looked as if it had gone through a few changes. It was a wooden two-story building painted white, with a wooden sign with black lettering announcing that this was the
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