Peter
Palmieri was raised in the eclectic port city of Trieste, Italy. He
returned to the United States at
Guest Post from Author:
Fabio sat on his beach towel and gawked at the form bobbing on the flat blue surface of the water. He rested his chin on his spindly knees, his bony arms wrapped around bronzed legs. Despite the warmth of the late August sun, a shiver snaked down his spine making the downy blond hair stand at attention over the goose flesh of his sinewy forearms. He stole a look around him. No one had noticed yet.
To his left, on the half-moon terrace overlooking the gulf, a plump lady in the one-piece canary swimsuit lay in her cloth recliner, eyes half-opened. Her round chin sunk, then jolted upright, yet she somehow managed to clutch onto her glossy magazine plastered with blown up photos of celebrities’ legs pocked by cellulite. Just in front of him, a scrawny teenager with dark peach-fuzz over his lip drew a finger down the calf of an aloof, olive-skinned beauty who lay prone on a bamboo mat, her fire-engine red bikini flaunting her precocious shape. Even the lone seagull overhead seemed intent on expending the least effort as it drifted in the lazy breeze, adjusting the pitch of its wings just enough to keep its body fixed in the same patch of sky.
It seemed too late to say anything now. People would wonder why he hadn’t spoken up earlier. They would blame him.
When he first saw the white sphere emerge from the deep blue, he thought it was a jelly fish. But it was too white – not translucent at all. Perhaps it was a lost soccer ball. That got his attention, made him focus. Then he realized there was something attached to the ball, partly submerged: a ghostly shape just discernible under the surface of the water. It was a body, still as a mannequin. The sphere was its head, covered in a white swim-cap. He recognized it as one belonging to a lady who had scolded him that very morning for dripping water as he leaped over her towel. She was “La Madama”. At least that’s what Fabio’s mom called her sometimes, miming her peacock swagger and pompous elocution for her son’s delight.
Fabio bit his lower lip and tried to appear nonchalant. Surely, someone would notice her. Behind him two retired gentlemen with bathing trunks pulled over their navels leaned on the narrow granite counter of an aluminum framed concession stand and sipped white wine spritzers.
“I bought a loaf of bread the other day,” one told the other. “Three Euros! The next day it was hard as the sole of my boot.”
The taller man rubbed his white-haired chest and smirked. “It’s the sawdust. They add it to the flour to reap a bigger profit. It’s all a farce.”
His shorter companion nodded with satisfaction. If the act of complaining was a form of reassurance for the city’s elders, evoking conspiracies was a downright comfort, especially in the languid days of summer.
“And the tomatoes nowadays… They have no flavor at all.”
The tall man took a deep drag from his cigarette and exhaled through his nostrils. “It’s all the chemicals and pesticides they inject. To kill us off, so they can stop paying our pensions.”
Maybe he could tell them. They were the closest thing to men on this part of the waterfront. They would know what to do. But the short man had seen him drip water on La Madama’s towel. What if they blamed him, accused him of drowning her as an act of revenge?
Oh, why did I wait so long? Sure, at first he thought La Madama was just drifting the way he liked to do with his goggles and snorkel, counting sea urchins on the rocky seabed until his lips and fingers pruned up. But she had no snorkel… and she just wouldn’t come up for air.
He should have stood up and yelled something. Alarm, alarm! Drowning woman! But if he was wrong, he’d have looked like a fool. La Madama would have probably scolded him again, maybe even tugged him by the ear. He just hoped someone else would notice. Why did no one notice?
The seagull alighted on the aluminum ladder on the side of the seawall, just a few feet from the floating body. If the bird only squawked it would surely draw someone’s notice. The boy glared at the bird, tried to will it to make a noise. Instead, it just preened its wing feathers with its jaundiced beak.
Fabio surveyed his surroundings. The woman in the yellow swimsuit snored softly. The peach-fuzzed teenager bent down to whisper in red bikini’s ear. The short man at the concession stand yawned and rubbed his round belly while his tall companion craned his neck to inspect a mole on his shoulder. Fabio picked up a pebble and launched it at the perched bird. There was no squawk but enough of a flutter of wings as the bird took flight to catch the attention of peach-fuzz mustache who peered at the water with narrowed eyes and wrinkled his brow. A moment later his eyes widened and he jumped to his feet.
“Help! Someone help!” he shouted. He waved his arms over his head in a way that struck Fabio as comical – a cartoon character signaling at a locomotive just before it leveled him.
All around, people sat up, and turned with drunken, plodding movements, the heat having dried their muscles into hardened dough. They appeared confused, unable to make sense of the situation as they awakened from their dizzying slumber. A few people finally made their way to the water’s edge. Murmurs turned into frantic shouts.
Fabio breathed a sigh of relief.
It took several men to hoist the body out of the water and lay it on the seawall. It was bloated and pasty like a giant squid. The olive-skinned beauty sat up, trembling, wrapped a towel around her chest and let out a strange whimper. Fabio rested his chin back on his knees and tightened his lips to suppress a laugh. The legs of a bystander blocked the boy’s view of La Madama’s face. Then the legs moved and Fabio saw her. Her mouth was open like that of a hooked fish, and a milky froth oozed over lips the color of an eggplant’s skin.
A man pressed his ear on the woman’s chest, put a finger on her neck, turned to the others and shook his head. There was a collective shrug.
But her eyes! Couldn’t anybody see? Were they all so blind? Had no one noticed how those marbled eyes glared at Fabio knowingly, unrelentingly, inquiring, Why did you wait so long, my boy?
A story by Peter Palmieri
Fabio sat on his beach towel and gawked at the form bobbing on the flat blue surface of the water. He rested his chin on his spindly knees, his bony arms wrapped around bronzed legs. Despite the warmth of the late August sun, a shiver snaked down his spine making the downy blond hair stand at attention over the goose flesh of his sinewy forearms. He stole a look around him. No one had noticed yet.
To his left, on the half-moon terrace overlooking the gulf, a plump lady in the one-piece canary swimsuit lay in her cloth recliner, eyes half-opened. Her round chin sunk, then jolted upright, yet she somehow managed to clutch onto her glossy magazine plastered with blown up photos of celebrities’ legs pocked by cellulite. Just in front of him, a scrawny teenager with dark peach-fuzz over his lip drew a finger down the calf of an aloof, olive-skinned beauty who lay prone on a bamboo mat, her fire-engine red bikini flaunting her precocious shape. Even the lone seagull overhead seemed intent on expending the least effort as it drifted in the lazy breeze, adjusting the pitch of its wings just enough to keep its body fixed in the same patch of sky.
It seemed too late to say anything now. People would wonder why he hadn’t spoken up earlier. They would blame him.
When he first saw the white sphere emerge from the deep blue, he thought it was a jelly fish. But it was too white – not translucent at all. Perhaps it was a lost soccer ball. That got his attention, made him focus. Then he realized there was something attached to the ball, partly submerged: a ghostly shape just discernible under the surface of the water. It was a body, still as a mannequin. The sphere was its head, covered in a white swim-cap. He recognized it as one belonging to a lady who had scolded him that very morning for dripping water as he leaped over her towel. She was “La Madama”. At least that’s what Fabio’s mom called her sometimes, miming her peacock swagger and pompous elocution for her son’s delight.
Fabio bit his lower lip and tried to appear nonchalant. Surely, someone would notice her. Behind him two retired gentlemen with bathing trunks pulled over their navels leaned on the narrow granite counter of an aluminum framed concession stand and sipped white wine spritzers.
“I bought a loaf of bread the other day,” one told the other. “Three Euros! The next day it was hard as the sole of my boot.”
The taller man rubbed his white-haired chest and smirked. “It’s the sawdust. They add it to the flour to reap a bigger profit. It’s all a farce.”
His shorter companion nodded with satisfaction. If the act of complaining was a form of reassurance for the city’s elders, evoking conspiracies was a downright comfort, especially in the languid days of summer.
“And the tomatoes nowadays… They have no flavor at all.”
The tall man took a deep drag from his cigarette and exhaled through his nostrils. “It’s all the chemicals and pesticides they inject. To kill us off, so they can stop paying our pensions.”
Maybe he could tell them. They were the closest thing to men on this part of the waterfront. They would know what to do. But the short man had seen him drip water on La Madama’s towel. What if they blamed him, accused him of drowning her as an act of revenge?
Oh, why did I wait so long? Sure, at first he thought La Madama was just drifting the way he liked to do with his goggles and snorkel, counting sea urchins on the rocky seabed until his lips and fingers pruned up. But she had no snorkel… and she just wouldn’t come up for air.
He should have stood up and yelled something. Alarm, alarm! Drowning woman! But if he was wrong, he’d have looked like a fool. La Madama would have probably scolded him again, maybe even tugged him by the ear. He just hoped someone else would notice. Why did no one notice?
The seagull alighted on the aluminum ladder on the side of the seawall, just a few feet from the floating body. If the bird only squawked it would surely draw someone’s notice. The boy glared at the bird, tried to will it to make a noise. Instead, it just preened its wing feathers with its jaundiced beak.
Fabio surveyed his surroundings. The woman in the yellow swimsuit snored softly. The peach-fuzzed teenager bent down to whisper in red bikini’s ear. The short man at the concession stand yawned and rubbed his round belly while his tall companion craned his neck to inspect a mole on his shoulder. Fabio picked up a pebble and launched it at the perched bird. There was no squawk but enough of a flutter of wings as the bird took flight to catch the attention of peach-fuzz mustache who peered at the water with narrowed eyes and wrinkled his brow. A moment later his eyes widened and he jumped to his feet.
“Help! Someone help!” he shouted. He waved his arms over his head in a way that struck Fabio as comical – a cartoon character signaling at a locomotive just before it leveled him.
All around, people sat up, and turned with drunken, plodding movements, the heat having dried their muscles into hardened dough. They appeared confused, unable to make sense of the situation as they awakened from their dizzying slumber. A few people finally made their way to the water’s edge. Murmurs turned into frantic shouts.
Fabio breathed a sigh of relief.
It took several men to hoist the body out of the water and lay it on the seawall. It was bloated and pasty like a giant squid. The olive-skinned beauty sat up, trembling, wrapped a towel around her chest and let out a strange whimper. Fabio rested his chin back on his knees and tightened his lips to suppress a laugh. The legs of a bystander blocked the boy’s view of La Madama’s face. Then the legs moved and Fabio saw her. Her mouth was open like that of a hooked fish, and a milky froth oozed over lips the color of an eggplant’s skin.
A man pressed his ear on the woman’s chest, put a finger on her neck, turned to the others and shook his head. There was a collective shrug.
But her eyes! Couldn’t anybody see? Were they all so blind? Had no one noticed how those marbled eyes glared at Fabio knowingly, unrelentingly, inquiring, Why did you wait so long, my boy?
Genre:
fiction: medical (medical suspense)
Publisher:
self
Release
date: June 2013
Book
Description:
Dr.
Lloyd Copeland is a young neurologist who is tormented by the
conviction that he has inherited the severe, early-onset dementia
that has plagued his family for generations – the very disease
which spurred his father to take his own life when Lloyd was just a
child. Withdrawn to a life of emotional detachment, he looks for
solace in hollow sexual trysts as a way to escape his throbbing
loneliness. Still, he clings to the hope that the highly
controversial treatment for memory loss he’s been researching will
free him from his family’s curse.
But
when odd mishaps take place in his laboratory, his research is
blocked by a hospital review board headed by Erin Kennedy: a
beautiful medical ethicist with a link to his troubled childhood. The
fight to salvage his reputation and recover the hope for his own cure
brings him face to face with sordid secrets that rock his very
self-identity. And to make matters worse, he finds himself falling
irretrievably in love with the very woman who seems intent on
thwarting his efforts.
Praise for The Art of Forgetting:
"Read this one!" Bobby Garrison, Amazon Reviewer
"Entertaining medical thriller!" Roy Benaroch, MD
"The Art of Forgetting is unforgettable!" Apollonia D., Amazon Reviewer
Excerpt:
Prologue
Chicago, June 6, 1982
“What is my penance, Father?”
For the past five weeks Anne Langdon had come to Wednesday afternoon confession, sometimes waiting for the other penitents to leave before stepping into the box to disclose her petty transgressions: returning a book to the library past its due date, slipping into a movie matinee and then fibbing about it to her husband, pretending not to be home when Mrs. Murphy, that crusty owl of a next door neighbor, rang her door bell to borrow a cup of sugar.
It seemed as though Mrs. Langdon were holding something back. Father Roy felt it the day he bumped into her in the canned food aisle of the supermarket. She had startled when he said hello, dropping the can of green beans whose label she’d been inspecting, and blushed when he’d kneeled to pick it up. And he had felt it during mass when his gaze fell upon her eyes as he delivered his sermons. Sad serious eyes. Beseeching eyes, glazed with a somber emptiness. In her mid-twenties, Mrs. Langdon had the mien that Father Roy had only seen in souls burdened by the yoke of a life-long secret too shameful to reveal.
Now, he spied her through the grid separating the compartments of the confessional. Motes of dust floated in the hazy light which outlined her profile, the effect making her seem even younger – plain yet exuding that curiously poignant allure borne of vulnerability: the naïve appearance of a peasant saint. She smiled as if they were sharing a moment of innocent intimacy.
“What is my penance, Father?” she asked again.
He leaned towards the grid. “Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?”
She took a deep breath and looked down at her hands which lay folded on her lap. “Yesterday, I was looking out my kitchen window at my neighbor’s back yard. She has a row of tulips; yellow, pink and red, all lined up like perfect soldiers. And suddenly – I really don’t know how the thought got in my head – I imagined what it would feel like to step on them; to crush the flowers under my feet. And I felt such a thrill, as if I were really doing it. I just stomped and stomped and stomped, and I could see, in my mind’s eye, how the stems were left all bent, the petals torn, but what’s more… I could feel them under my feet.”
A bang echoed in the church. A worshipper had dropped a kneeler in a nearby pew.
“I could feel it, Father,” she whispered. “It was absolutely delicious.”
“You didn’t trample Mrs. Murphy’s flower bed now, did you?”
“I did in my heart.”
“I don’t think that rises to the level of a transgression.”
“But Father, isn’t it a sin when we think something... when we think of something so much that we start to feel it with every fiber in our body.” She was breathing heavily now. She looked at him through the grid, her eyes watery, her lips slightly parted. “Isn’t that a sin, Father, when you imagine the impossible and live it in your thoughts?”
Father Roy brought his fist up to his mouth, turned his head slightly and coughed. He felt a bead of sweat trickle down his back. Mrs. Langdon’s demeanor, the shape of her mouth, the subtle heaving of her chest thrust forward like an unexpected belch the memory of that summer his family vacationed in Door County before his sophomore year in high school – the last family vacation. He had met a girl – Kathleen was her name – the daughter of a man who sold fresh produce out of an old, converted gas station. Auburn hair, lanky legs bronzed by the sun and lively green eyes that beamed with all the incandescent self-assurance of sixteen-year-old beauties.
Roy’s mother referred to her as “that jaunty lass”.
“Do you intend to whittle away the afternoon with that jaunty lass again, Roy?”
“Her name is Kathleen.”
“The way she looks at you…”
“We’re just friends, mother.”
One afternoon they had gone swimming on a secluded rocky beach; not another soul in sight. When Roy inched his way deeper in the lake, toes curled, arms raised as if he had a gun pointed at him, gasping as the frigid water lapped at his waist, Kathleen chopped the placid surface of the lake with an outstretched palm spraying chilly droplets across his back. Roy arched his spine and jutted out his shoulder blades as if in the throes of a spasm while the jaunty lass snorted and snickered.
“It’s not funny!”
She splashed again and giggled.
“I’m warning you, you little vixen.”
Kathleen’s jaw dropped at this last word but then her eyes lit up and again she started splashing with renewed zeal using both hands.
Roy chased her in the shallow waters, plodding clumsily on the smooth pebbles that rolled and shifted under his feet. She attempted a half-hearted escape, trudging backwards, but soon Roy was upon her (she, by now, paralyzed by howls of laughter) and he wrapped his arms around her.
“So you think that’s funny? You think that’s funny? Now I’m gonna dunk you. Let’s see how funny that is!” He grinned at her with clenched teeth as he gaped in those bottomless emerald eyes.
She grabbed his shoulders, pressed them, kneading his taut muscles. “As if you can,” she said in a tantalizing voice.
He widened his eyes, then squeezed her more tightly, lifted her off her feet. She palmed the nape of his neck, just pitting his skin with her nails. Roy plopped her back on her feet and they wrestled playfully, reveling in the contact of their bare flesh. At last, he was able to grab both her forearms just above the wrists and immobilize her as she twisted her torso.
Then Roy saw her as he had never seen a girl. Her chest was heaving, her skin glistening with tiny droplets, her auburn hair tousled over half her face, her white bikini top pushed below her left breast exposing a bright pink nipple. He let go of her arms, took a step back. She said nothing, just stared at him, her mouth open, breathing more heavily still. Then she lowered the rest of the bikini top letting it flip over her toned midriff. Roy gawked at her smooth, downy skin, at the pale, plump breasts. His Adam’s apple lurched up towards his throat. She gently clasped his wrists, brought his hands to her breasts and pressed her open mouth to his lips.
“Isn’t it a sin to have some thoughts, Father Roy?” Mrs. Langdon said in a near whisper.
Father Roy was breathless. “About tulips?” he asked, attempting to sound nonchalant, but his voice quivered.
“As a man, do you ever feel the urge to –”
“I am not the one in confession, sister,” Roy said. It was not the first time someone had tried to ask him that question – a query impertinent souls seemed compelled to ask a young priest with the looks of a Hollywood movie star.
“I’m so ashamed, Father. I don’t know what’s happened to me. I just don’t know what to do any more.”
Father Roy grasped the silver crucifix hanging over his chest and rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. He considered giving a short discourse on the tenth commandment but decided on a more pragmatic approach.
“When our path grows dim and we’re in peril of losing our way, it’s helpful to remind ourselves of our commitments. Our commitments define who we are. When I step in the shadows, I remind myself of the covenant I made with God.”
“My husband sickens me.”
The suddenness of the statement left Father Roy speechless.
“We haven’t had sex in over six months,” she said. “I wanted you to know that.”
“The Diocese offers couple’s therapy for marital conflicts. Perhaps –”
“Couple’s therapy!” Mrs. Langdon said with a sour chuckle. She shook her head. “I’m such a fool. For some reason I was under the impression that we…” She pulled a crumpled handkerchief out of her handbag, dabbed her nose and sniffled. “Tell me my penance, Father.”
Roy hesitated. “Your penance is to reflect on the holy sacraments of our church. And… say a rosary.”
“Am I absolved of my sins?”
Father Roy made the sign of the cross, trying not to make it appear perfunctory and said, “Go in peace, sister.”
He listened to the clicking of her heels resonating off the church’s tiled floor as she walked away, brought a knuckle to his lips and inhaled deeply through his nose. How was it that he had still not learned to recognize when women were attracted to him? Was he doing something to garner this type of attention? Could he whole-heartedly deny that he enjoyed it?
A figure entered the confessional and sat heavily on the wooden bench. “Forgive me father, for I’m about to sin.”
The musty smell of stale beer and sweat permeated the enclosed space making Father Roy sit back and turn away.
“How long has it been since –”
“You know damn well the last time I went to church, Roy.”
“Andrew?” Father Roy studied the silhouette through the perforated partition. “Is something wrong?”
“It started, Roy.”
“I’m sorry?”
“It has begun. How did Churchill phrase it? Not the end of the beginning but the beginning of the end… or maybe I’m saying it all wrong. I don’t know, you’re the one with the fancy schooling.”
“Maybe we should go in the Parish office.”
“It’s been going on for months. I know you’ve seen it too. You just didn’t want to say anything and of course I’ve been trying to hide it. That’s the Copeland family way, isn’t it? Ignore things, deny they’re happening, hide all the evidence and go about your business with a stiff upper lip. Isn’t that what Pops did?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But he did know. He couldn’t deny that in the last year he had witnessed his brother’s worsening mood swings and those barely perceptible moments of hesitation that were becoming more frequent. Those same tell-tale signs he had witnessed in his father when the illness had yet to progress to its extreme. Signs that made Roy feel powerless, like a sandcastle on a beach in the face of a slowly rising tide. So he ignored it all, said nothing, and prayed.
“At first I thought I was just overworked, you know,” Andrew said. “Pulling overtime, staying out late with the boys, getting burned by the candle at both ends, so to speak. Then this morning, I’m driving to work. I got my thermos and lunch pail on the front seat. I get on the Eisenhower, same damn route I’ve taken for twelve years. But today I get to South Damen and I realize I don’t know where the hell I’m going. I don’t have a fucking clue!”
“Andrew, please.”
He lowered his voice. “I don’t have a flipping clue, Roy. I pull over in front of Cook County and I start bawling like a kid in a department store who can’t find his mom.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“It’s not the booze, Roy. It’s not the damn booze.”
“Have you seen a doctor?” the priest asked.
“What for?”
“They might be able to help.”
“Like they helped our father... who art in heaven?” Andrew snorted. “You know there’s not a damn thing they can do.”
Roy swallowed hard. He wiped beads of sweat from his upper lip as a rhythmic pounding grew in his temples.
“You’re frightening me, Andrew.”
“I’m frightening you?” Andrew let out a chuckle. “Hell, Roy, you never had nothing to be frightened of your whole life except God above.”
Someone knocked on the door of the confession box.
“Hold your piss out there! The stall’s taken,” Andrew said in a gruff voice. There was a timid shuffling of feet, then the resonating silence of the church. “Roy, I’ve never been good with words, and I don’t like to wear my feelings on my sleeve like a damn chevron, but I want you to know something. I want you to know that you’re the best damn brother I could have ever asked for.”
Roy felt a pall of guilt draping over him. “I’m the one who should say that to you.”
“Just hear me out. I know I haven’t always told you, but I’m proud of you. I’ve always been proud of you... even when you made us lose at stick-ball.”
“Which was all the time.” The men chuckled.
“You made me a better man,” Andrew said.
“After all you’ve done for me I can’t bear to hear you say that.”
“I thought this was a confessional. Don’t people come here to get things off their chests?”
“They come to be absolved of their sins,” Roy said.
“And you can do that?”
“God can do that. It’s never too late to open your heart.”
“It’s too late for me. But I do need to get something off my chest.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s time to come clean with you about something, Roy. Something you should have known long ago.” Andrew rubbed his massive hands together, stopped suddenly and cracked his knuckles. “Two things we Copelands have always been able to do: hold our liquor and keep a secret.”
“I’m afraid I’m not so good with the liquor part,” said Roy.
“No, I suppose not, padre,” Andrew said with a wistful smile. The wooden bench creaked as he shifted his weight and leaned into the partition. “Now listen carefully. I can only stand to say this once.”
The two men sat with their heads inches from each other as Andrew spoke in a hushed tone. At one point Roy let out a gasp and recoiled. Andrew paused as his brother gazed at the darkness hanging over the floor – the priest’s eyes darting about – and resumed his soliloquy when Roy leaned heavily towards him again.
Andrew murmured for another minute or two. Finally, he straightened and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as if to brush away the bitterness of the words from his lips. “Just promise, if something happens to me, you’ll take care of the bride and child.”
“What’s going through your mind?” Roy said between heavy breaths.
“Just promise me.”
“You know I would never abandon them.”
“That’s all I needed to hear.” Andrew cleared his throat and sat silently.
Roy felt as though he were inching towards the edge of an abyss. That he would fall into the darkness if left alone to ponder his brother’s revelation. But an even stronger fear was pulsing through his veins. There was something in Andrew’s countenance: an eerie sense of relief, a cool resoluteness that sent a shudder down the base of Roy’s neck.
“Maybe I can come by the house tonight,” Roy said. He wanted to punch through the partition, to clench his brother and not let him leave.
“You got customers waiting,” Andrew said. “Business is good for you these days.” Andrew got to his feet. “Good-bye, Roy.”
“Godspeed, Andrew.”
When Andrew opened the oak door of the confession box, a small man wearing a tweed jacket stood outside, a crest of wild gray hair spilling over his wrinkled forehead. The man’s eyes opened wide at the site of the large police officer stepping out of the confessional and he began to finger the well-worn fedora he held by his paunch, turning it in his hands as if it were a steering wheel. Andrew stopped in front of him and said, “Give a man a chance to pull his pants back up, will you?”
Roy greeted the next penitent in the confessional but his mind remained on his brother. How was it possible to feel such dread and deliverance, contempt and gratitude, guilt and utter relief all in the same breath? He had witnessed souls under severe strain shift from throes of laughter to sobs of despair in the span of a few seconds and always wondered how this was possible. But now he understood. He rested his head in his hands, elbows digging in his thighs, and tried to catch his breath.
A sound like a hollow crack startled him. Not the sound of a kneeler. It must have come from outside. It brought his focus back on the words of the old gentleman who confessed that he lied to his wife about going to Cicero and losing fifty bucks at the Hawthorne race course, and that he harbored less than charitable feelings towards the Negroes who were moving westward into good Irish neighborhoods.
The murmur of voices reverberated off the church’s arched ceilings. Then a single plaintive voice: “Someone call an ambulance. A cop’s been shot!”
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I would most like to forget my ex-husband!
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