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9. CHURCH; Sweet Baby Jesus Revisited.

Suddenly... I have... an inspiration!

What an idiot! If you had any doubts!

The thoughts in my head are more energetic than the sensations in my body, but the ideas overwhelm my fatigue, or my fatigue makes me too weak to resist.

I get up, cross the room, turn at the bottom of the stairs, look back at her. She's sitting up on the side of her hip, leaning on her right arm, middle of the couch, corner of my fuzzy blanket clutched in her left hand, inquisitive. I give her the one finger one-moment-please signal, run up the stairs. You're not supposed to run up the stairs here. They can hear it in the stairs in the apartment next door.

I jump in the shower, come out, shave, brush my teeth, deodorant, touch of smell-good on my throat, and on my upper lip so I can smell it too.

I dress in my work clothes, black slacks, shirt with a collar, gray tweed sport-coat, black cowboy boots. They don't shine. I wipe them off in the bathroom with a wet paper towel. They still don't shine. I should shine them some day. Transfer wallet, keys, necessaries from my jeans. Ready!

I step off the stair landing and spread my arms to indicate 'Voila', and say, "Let's go to church."

She's still sitting like I left her, leaning back now, still clutching the blanket. Her face is fluctuating between blank and WTH?

"I...," she starts, can't find words, then finds a bunch of them, which don't all seem to go together or complete all thoughts, "I can't... You can't..." She throws the blanket aside, leans, elbows on knees, fingers of each hand intertwined with the other, stares blankly at the wall. She looks at her watch. "No! No! No!" she says, standing up, coming to me. "You can't just show up at Mom's church after... all this. She might have a fit right there! Are you... you're not trying to hurt my Mom are you? This could... she'll think..."

"You have to go to church," I say. "It's not an option for you. You have to go. The exorcists are waiting for you to not go. She needs you to show up there to show her you're... okay... on her side, so to speak. I want to go with you." I start to call her Mrs. No, but the words that come out of my mouth are, "Your Mom will have to deal with it, in church, with you, with me. We have to show her we are not the people she thinks we are. I'm not a rounder! Do we have time to look that up? I'd rather know exactly what it means rather than just assume bad things about the Clancy Brothers. Maybe I am a rounder. Maybe I'd like being a rounder!" I smirk. "Depends on what I'm, you know, 'rounding'. We have to get her to see things... our way."

"We have a way?" she asks, rhetorically. No laugh. Head shake. She steps to me, hides her face at my right shoulder, arms around me. Watch check, her left wrist.

"I don't have time to go home and change!" she argues, steps back. "I was going to... blow it off and confront Mom's... intrusion... when she came home. I can't go like this... this top."

"Baby, Jesus loves that top as much as I do!" I tell her. "I think... your Mom was just... being your Mom. She scared the crap out of me but... Go... go upstairs and see if any of my shirts fit you!"

She looks at me... stares... blank face... Then she pushes past me, and up the stairs. I have to laugh. I yell after her, "We're not supposed to run up the stairs!"

In a minute she's back. She has on a lavender shirt I never wear, and a dark blue sport coat, the sleeves too long, but, she explains, "I... don't wear a bra with that top, and... the shirt, by itself, was... too... revealing. But this works! Doesn't it?"

"Oh does it ever!" I declare, opening the door. "You'll be the prettiest girl in the pews!"

She walks by me very calmly, cutest look on her face, sleepy eyes ignoring me.

"You can stop flirting now," she says. "I'm interested."

She says, "Let's take my fancy-smancy car. I know where we're going."

We get in. Seat belts. Radio on; rock n' roll, turned down, then, decisively, off. We're out on the street, right turn. Zip, at a very reasonable pace. 'The Safe Speed Limit on all City streets is 25 miles per hour, Sir, unless otherwise marked,' a nice policeman explained to me once, and once was all it took to educate me, as he wrote out a ticket that cost me too much. Soon she's pulling up near a church. She doesn't turn the car off. She's staring at the church. Lots of cars. People are going in. I don't ask any questions, don't make any remarks. I need her to think whether this is the thing to do. She turns off the car, still staring.

"You promise... you won't... hurt my Mother's feelings?" she says. "Gary, if... if you would hurt her... I... I could never forgive you. My Mom's not a bad person!"

"I'm hoping..." I start, "that we will win her over, allay... some of her... fears... her... delusions about... well... you actually. You're a woman. You're trying... to build your life. You took a big chance... with me. I could have been a dawg. I wanted to be a dawg! I actually have a list of eleven places I want to bite you! Where is that list?" I say, searching my coat pockets. "Oh! I left it in my other pants!" She's laughing; a tear leaks out of her right eye. I touch it with my thumb. She closes her eyes, leans her cheek into the palm of my hand. Her left hand comes up under mine, wipes the tear away.

"You're... actually...," she starts, "the nicest person I've met in a long time."

"Nunh unh!" I say. "I'm a rounder. I'm... pretty sure I'm a rounder. We have to look that up!"

"Well don't let that go to your head!" She laughs, says, "It's a low bar!" Laughs again. I love her laugh.

She checks herself in the rearview mirror.

"Do you..." I hesitate, almost afraid, afraid... to ask, "Do you think she'll... lose it? Is she... is she crazy? Or is this just Mom being Mom? This," I say, gesturing between her and myself, "This is crazy, us, just... figuring each other out, and all the stuff she said to me, but, is it crazy crazy or just... Mother's instinct, human instinct, and... a... a degree of desperation to maintain the status quo, protect you, protect the life you've been building for yourself, the life you've given her for three steady years?
I don't know Ileace. You have to decide. I'm the outsider here. I want... in... I want in with you. I'm willing to risk this, but I don't know... anything. Don't let me mislead you if this is too crazy., this, us walking in here today. If she stabs me in the chest in church with a butter knife I get to go to the hospital. You have to stay and explain it to the preacher and congregation! I don't even know your last name! Who in the hell are you? Oops!" I cover my mouth! I look at the church as if someone over there might have heard me.
"Ileace, I don't believe in this church stuff. Perhaps I should have told you that. I'm telling you now. This place may fall down when I walk in! I don't think I'm a bad person. Preachers say we're all sinners but... they turn out to be such sinners all the time I don't trust any of them! Only you can decide this. I'll go with whatever you decide. This... this is my crazy idea. I'm not crazy crazy, no matter what my Mom might tell you, and my teachers, and the neighbors, and Judge Hohobenhollern, and all those cops and Dr. Flegleman. I can walk home from here. You can go in without me. I still think the place may cave in on me!"

"Shut up," she says, stifling a laugh. "I think this building is built of stronger stuff. And Mom seldom carries a butter knife in her purse. Maybe you'll get lucky and this won't be one of those days." She opens her door. I open mine! I'm up and out before she is, looking across the top of her fancy-smancy car as she rises with the most beautiful smile I've ever seen; ever! We're walking past the hood. We angle to each other. She takes my left hand in both of hers. We're walking. I start making cracking, crunching sounds, explain that it's the church beginning to fall apart. "Stop being silly now," she says. "And don't make me bust out laughing while the preacher's talking."

I reach, catch the doors before the people in front of us let them close. We're... in. Sweet Baby Jesus!