Edward Lee - The Black Train

Dominique held his hand through the entire service, save for intervals for hymns. She as well as most everyone there listened to the minister with the same attention that Collier had paid to those Girls Gone Wild commercials: with rapt veneration. Maybe that was the difference.

The minister pointed his finger at the congregation, like an accuser, then slowly aimed it at himself. “My friends, there really are seven deadly sins: wrath, lust, pride, greed, envy, sloth, and—my personal favorite—gluttony…” He stepped away from the lectern and hoisted a considerable belly beneath his vestments, which summoned laughter from the pews.

“But the other day I was thinking that maybe that’s why God put seven days in the week—a day for each sin. Why don’t we reserve each separate day to atone for one, and stick to it. Monday can be pride, Tuesday can be envy, Wednesday can be sloth, and so on. And today? Sunday? Let’s assign greed to Sunday, and use the Lord’s day to try to redeem ourselves of this sin. Let’s remember Jesus’ story of the widow’s mite, how a destitute woman gave her last two leptons to the offering box—only a fraction of a cent. That’s not much money but to Christ that woman’s selfless sacrifice was worth more than a mountain of gold.”

Collier grew suspicious. Here it comes. Open up your hearts and open up your wallets…

“Let’s remember that for every dollar we give, we get back a hundred in spirit. Let’s remember the word of James: ‘Every act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above,’ so that when we give in the name of God, we become like God. And the words of Matthew: ‘Freely we have received, so freely we must give.’ Just go out and give— let’s do that today instead of watching TV or washing the car—”

The collection plate’ll be making the rounds any minute now, Collier thought.

“—and for you wise guys out there who think I’m just pumping you up for the collection plate, I’m asking you to not give a penny to this church today. Give it to someone else instead—”

Collier frowned.

“—and if you’ve got no money, give your time. Or maybe we can follow our best examples”—he pointed to someone in the pews—“like Mr. Portafoy who spends every Friday night helping terminal patients at the hospice, or Janice Wilcox who runs the local clothing drive, or Dominique Cusher who prepares a hundred meals before her restaurant opens and drives them all the way to the Chattanooga homeless shelter every Sunday—”

Collier looked at her…then wondered if he’d ever given anything as charity in his life…

“Let’s be like those wonderful people, and also remember Corinthians: ‘God loves a cheerful giver.’” Next the minister stepped away from the lectern again, hoisting his belly. He seemed to be looking right at Collier when he said, “And for you wise guys out there wondering what I’m going to give? I’m not going to eat today, but instead I’m going to go drop a hundred dollars on pizzas and take them to the Fayetteville soup kitchen. I’m gonna drive those people at Domino’s nuts …and I’m not even going to snitch a slice for myself. I swear!”

More chuckles from the crowd.

“Go to the hospital and give a pint of blood! Go to the underpass and dole out a backseat full of Quarter Pounders! Go online and throw some of that MasterCard at the Red Cross, or fill out that organ-donor form and drop it in the mail. You’re not gonna need your liver when you’re dead, are you? So go on and do it!” Then he scanned his finger across the pews and barked like a game-show host, “And until next week, go in peace to love and serve the Lord!”

Everyone said “Amen” while they were still laughing, then a jazzy organ kicked in to signal the final procession.

“Wow,” Collier whispered. “Church has changed.”

“When was the last time you went?”

“Ah, you would ask. I’m too ashamed to say. When was Oliver North shredding documents for Reagan?”

Dominique chuckled. “Being here is a start, isn’t it? And, yeah, Father Grumby gets a little gung ho sometimes but he’s a great pastor.”

Collier’s throat felt thick when he noticed two young girls in white dresses filing out behind their parents. Couldn’t be, he thought. He still wasn’t sure if he’d really seen the girls or if it was a booze-triggered phantasm.

Then his belly twitched again when he recalled the other mirage: the four small hands playing with him…and the dog…

“Let me ask you something,” he said on a completely inappropriate lark. “Does Harwood Gast have any descendants?”

“Nope.” She smiled at him. “Why do you ask?”

“I bought a bunch of books from Mr. Sute but I haven’t read them yet. Isn’t it kind of curious that the Gasts never had kids?”

“Oh, they had kids, two of them, two girls.”

Collier felt a twinge. “But you just said he didn’t have any—”

“No descendants, that’s right.” She seemed to stall on a thought. “But his two daughters died in their teens, during…the war.”

Collier watched the backs of the two girls. One was dirty blonde, the other drably brunette. Just like…

Before they exited the nave, they turned for moment to wave to some other children. Collier saw that it clearly wasn’t them.

“Did…Gast’s daughters have a dog? ”

“Justin, how would I know that? ”

“Well, you know a lot about the legend. How did the two girls die, exactly?”

She nudged him. “I don’t think church is the best place to talk about Tennessee’s version of Ivan the Terrible. If you insist on obsessing over it, go ask your friend J.G. Sute. He’ll tell you all the facts and all the B.S. you want to hear. If anybody’s more obsessed with this stuff than you, it’s him.”

Collier felt foolish now, but what she’d said spiked him. Maybe that’s what I’ll do today—give Sute a call. Suddenly he felt intent on learning about Gast’s two children.

He followed Dominique out as she spoke briefly to acquaintances. Outside he said, “So I take it you’re busy this morning.”

“Yeah, like the man said, that’s what I do on Sundays before work.”

“It’s quite a gesture.”

“No it isn’t—it’s no big deal. I use all the leftover side dishes from Saturday, then make some kind of meat dish with overstock or specials that didn’t sell. It’s actually kind of fun. One time I made chimichurri pork tenderloin with a banana-pepper drizzle and wasabi mashed potatoes for a hundred homeless.”

“I’ll bet that made their day,” Collier said.

“They loved it. Another time my supplier was trying to get rid of eight-count sea scallops, so I bought a bunch on the bulk discount and did them up over penne quill pasta with truffled cream pomodoro sauce. It was a riot. The only real hassle is driving all the way to Chattanooga and back.”

Collier felt a stab of obligation. “Let me help you. I’ve got nothing big to do today.”

“No, no, it’s something I do by myself. You heard Father Grumby; you’ve got to choose your own manner of charity.” She grinned. “You’ll think of something.”

Collier felt relieved beneath his falseness. The last thing he’d actually want to do is cook for homeless people hours away. But at least he felt like less of a schmuck for offering.

He pulled on her hand and stopped her. “I hope I can see you later.”

“Of course you can. Anytime after five at the restaurant, but I’ve got to run now. Today I’m taking chicken marsala and saffron rice to the shelter.” She kissed him briefly but not so brief that she didn’t have time to run the tip of her tongue across his lips. Collier tried to retrieve her for a longer kiss but her arms pressed him back.