tale #48

“J. E. T.  Jet,” Father Steve sang out as he placed the letters on the scrabble board.  “And note, my dear,” he said with a triumphant grin, “the “j” is on a triple letter square.”

I sighed and added the numbers to his already ridiculously high score.  “You know, your respite from alcohol is giving you a mean streak.”  I studied the board and then looked sadly at the letters in front of me.

We were in our usual Sunday afternoon location, at the end of the dock of a quiet and closed Rumors.  The sky was gray and heavy but the rain had not yet started.  In deference to an annual visit from the Monsignor, Father Steve had temporarily abandoned his beloved tequila.  A bottle of vitamin water sat in front of him.  “Nasty tasting stuff,” he said with a curled lip each time he drank it.

“How’s the party planning going?” Father Steve asked.

I gave another sigh.  “Fine.  We’re having a pot luck here at Rumours.”  I fiddled with a tile and then set it back where it had been on my tray.  “We were going to have a lovely catered event out at the Village.  But Jaycee insisted that she was spending her last night on island at Rumours.  So, it’s pretty much a case of the mountain following Mohammad.”  I brightened as I spotted a word worth more than four points.  I added an “e” “s” “t” to Father Steve’s “j”.

Father Steve nodded.  “Sometimes less formal is appropriate.  How’s Lake handling their leaving?”  He studied his letters.

“He’s worried.”  I had come home from work yesterday and found Lake stretched out in the happy hammock, a beer balanced on his stomach, looking like the stuffing had been taken out of him.

“Hey Scarecrow, are you pining already?” I greeted him.  “They haven’t even left yet.”

“It won’t be Oz without the Tin Man,” he said.

I dropped my bag on the kitchen counter and opened the refrigerator door.  “We’re all going to miss Kelly,” I agreed.

“Whose going to explain women to me?”  Lake swung his legs onto the floor and took a swallow of beer.

That’s what he was fretting about?  I looked over the refrigerator door at him.  “Hello, female here.  I could help you with that.”

He looked at me with a thoughtful expression on his face.  Finally, he said, “Maybe Katherine.  She’s much more approachable these days.”
Father Steve rearranged his tiles.  “And you?” he asked.  “Are you worried?”

“I’m always worried.”

Father Steve nodded.  “True enough.  Are you sleeping any better yet?”

I watched the harbor water gently striking the pier while I thought about that.  I was sleeping, which was better than not sleeping.  And I hadn’t dreamt about the sawed off shotgun in awhile.  Still, my dreams were a jumble of colours and shapes that did not make sense and often left me with a sense of uneasiness upon waking.  “It’s not the sleeping, it’s the dreaming,” I said.

Father Steve laid down the word “amends.”  I added up his points while he drew more tiles from the box lid.  I watched as he arranged his tiles on the tray in front of him.

“Some people think dreams are your mind trying to communicate with you.”  Father Steve tapped the board.  “It’s your move.”

Using the “d” from his word, I put down five more tiles and spelled “sinned.”

Father Steve smiled.  “Do you know my favorite definition of sin?”

I shook my head.  “Is there more than one?”

“Certainly,” Father Steve looked down toward the leg of his chair, where his tequila bottle usually sat.  “I hope the Monsignor doesn’t make a long visit this year.”  He adjusted his seat.  “Many religions define sin as ‘without God.’  And that’s a decent definition.  But I like the one Father Greg on Majuro uses, ‘if you know what is right and don’t do it, that’s a sin.’”  Father Steve looked directly at me.  “Pretty good, don’t you think?”

The lawyer in me objected.  “That’s pretty broad.  Under that definition, everybody sins.”

Father Steve chuckled.  “Well you know how the song goes, you’ve gotta sin to get saved.”

“So when does it happen?” I blurted out.

Father Steve looked up.  “When does what happen?”

“Forgiveness.  Or redemption.  Or whatever it is you call it.  When does the past become the past?”  I studied the board while Father Steve studied me.

He reached over and touched my hand.  “It’s a journey,” he said softly.  He moved his hand back.  “A process.  That’s the new jargon.  Everything’s a process.”  He took a drink of his vitamin water and made a face.  “Nasty tasting stuff.”  He set the bottle down.  “Redemption is not a single event.  Neither is sinning.  We are continually sinning and redeeming ourselves.  It’s ongoing, like laundry.”  He chuckled again.  “Like laundry.  Oh, I like that.  I’m going to have to remember that one.”  Father Steve used the “s” from “sinned” to spell “sang” on a double word score.

Which reminded me, “there will be music,” I said.

Father Steve looked confused.  “Excuse me?”

“At the going away party,” I explained.  “Henri is going to bring his saxophone and Lisa’s husband Steve arrived a few days ago.  Apparently, he plays guitar.  So he and Henri are going to play together.”  I considered my word options, which were limited.  All my tiles had a vowel on them.

“Do you have the parting gift yet?” Father Steve asked.

I stopped looking for a word choice with more than three points.  “Telly and I are going to that wood carving village tomorrow.  We’re thinking about getting them one of those model mangrove outriggers.  Some of them are pretty intricate.”  I laid down an “o” and then another “o” after the “g” for the word “goo.”  I added the four points to my score.

“That’ll make a lovely gift.”  Father Steve looked over at the score sheet and rubbed his hands together.  “So, who’s ahead?”

I glared at him.  “Isn’t it considered unpriestly to gloat?”

Father Steve laughed.  “Indeed.”  He twinkled his eyes at me.  “Whatever shall I do to redeem myself?”

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