Page 262 of Darling Venom
When the metal doors split, I shifted the books onto one arm and entered the revolving door. I went an extra round, contemplating where Terry would be. I knew of two possible places.
Exit left for Old Town Bar. (Leave it to Terry to surround himself with booze while attempting sobriety. He called it people-watching; I called it unnecessary temptation.)
Or exit right for St. Francis de Sales Cathedral near Loeb Boathouse.
Last week, I bumped into him in front of its pointed tympanum on my way home from the Society Library next door. Terry attended AA meetings in the church’s thumb-shaped basement. According to him, no matter where he sat, the thumb pointed down.
Another rotation, and I made my decision.
I hid the books inside my coat and slipped through the door wing, dipping right.
Thumbs-down it was.
I bet wrong.
St. Francis’ basement was empty when I entered, save for a lone priest. He slapped the lap of a folding chair. It snapped together, pretzeling into a thin rectangle.
Tucking it beneath his arm, he glanced up at me. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
“Is there an AA meeting here?”
“It ended an hour ago. The next one starts tomorrow morning at seven. There’ll be donuts.”
I left the basement. (Definitely thumb-shaped, by the way. And pointed down. Not sure how anyone could heal in such a depressing environment.)
Climbing the last steps, I adjusted the books beneath my coat and hugged them through the thick fabric. A nun passed me, did a double take at my bundle, and side-eyed me as if I were hiding contraband inside it.
I strode to the cathedral’s entrance, dodged a signicade that read sugar-free sacramental wine available upon request, and burst onto the busy sidewalk.
Since I was here, might as well stop by the Society Library. I greeted Doris and Faye on my way to the stacks, stopping at a low-traffic corner with some of my favorite books.
I found Terry sitting at a table, hunched over Danez Smith’s Don’t Call Us Dead. He cradled the thin paperback between both palms as if it were one of the hymn books at St. Francis.
I cleared my throat.
Terry flattened the corner of a page some heathen had dog-eared, without glancing up. “How’d you find me here?”
“There aren’t many places to roam for free. You traded one vice for another. At least this one’s not destructive.”
“Destructive in a different way,” he corrected.
I wondered whether he was talking about Darling Venom or The Imperfections.
Possibly both.
He shut his book. “Now that we’ve established I’m broke, jobless, and an addict, what can I do for you?”
“I come bearing gifts. Gift, actually. Singular.” I set the hardcover onto the wooden table.
Terry yawned, peering down at the book.
His jaw snapped shut.
He bit his tongue, but I knew that wasn’t the reason for the tears forming. He stroked the hardcover with a single finger, then proceeded to rip off the shrink wrap in one go, flinging it behind him.
He was crying now.
Full-on bawling.
