Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa drove west from the city offices, following the curve of Water Street along the drop-off on the north side of Pronghorn Pond–it is technically a lake, since plants cannot grow all the way across it, but the name was given early on, and it stuck–and crossing the low bridge that stretched across Pronghorn Creek’s northern branch. Turning right, he pulled into the single campus that contained the whole of the Pronghorn Independent School District. I never did think I’d be back here, he thought, as he passed a long-familiar sign and statue, a rampant pronghorn some ten feet tall standing over a motto coined by Guy LeBeaux early in the town’s history: Requiro ut melius, ostensibly “I seek to know that I may do better.”

Passing it, Asa drove to where he knew visitor parking for the district was located, and he was soon enough standing in the front offices, where an elderly woman looked up at him and asked “Can I help you?”

Asa stepped forward and answered “Yes, ma’am. My name’s Asa Pemewan, and I’m just moving back into town. I was wondering if I could apply for a job.”

“All that’s online anymore, young man.”

“I thought it might be, ma’am, but I was also out and about, and I figured I’d drop in and ask.”

“That’s nice, young man. Is there something else I can help you with?”

Asa paused for a moment, then smiled. “Actually, ma’am, there is. I went to school here some years ago, and the thought occurs to me that one of my old teachers might still be with the district. You wouldn’t happen to know if Abe Johnson is still working high school English, would you?”

The older woman thought for a moment. “He is, but since it’s summer, he’s not here. I believe he’s off in Louisiana, visiting his grandchild.”

“Grandchild? He can’t be old enough to be a grandfather!”

The older woman nodded. “Brand new baby over there. Cute little thing, too.” She smiled a bit. “And Mr. Johnson heads the department, anymore. When did you say you went to school here?”

“It was about twenty years ago–Johnson’s first, if I remember right. And he helped me quite a bit with putting my college applications together–and with a few other things, too.” Asa noticed a plaque on one wall and gestured towards it. “I think my name might still be on one or two of those around here.”

The older lady turned and squinted at the plaque. Then she turned back to Asa. “I thought your name sounded familiar. I used to live next to you off of 411, east of town.”

“Wait…Mrs. Baker?”

The older woman gestured at the nameplate on her desk, which read “Martha Baker,” and nodded, smiling. “My, it has been a while, hasn’t it, Asa? I remember babysitting you more than once when your parents had to work late.”

Asa felt himself flush a bit. “I like to think I behave a little better now. Or I’m better at not getting caught, anyway.”

Baker laughed. “I hope so! And how are your parents?”

“They’re well. I’m staying with them for a bit while I get my feet back under me. Time away wasn’t as helpful as I could hope, but home is home is home, right?”

Baker nodded. “It is. And how’s your sister?”

“Last I heard, she’s doing okay. I haven’t seen her yet; the folks say she’s still in San Antonio. I might have to shake free and go see her.”

“You do that. She was always such a nice girl. Clearly didn’t take after her brother.” Baker was smiling impishly at Asa.

“Clearly.” Asa’s reply was ostentatiously flat. “Not at all responsible, that one.” He laughed a bit, unable to restrain it. “No, of course she was. And it’ll be good to see her, too.”

Baker nodded again. “Most likely. Tell you what, Asa; I’ll go ahead and take your information and pass it to Mr. Johnson. I think he might be able to find you a spot, if there’s one to be found. Funding’s not been the best around here of late, though; property values are still alright, but tax-rate freezes’ve been something of an issue.”

“What freezes?”

“Well, the city and county’ve both decided that they’ll cap local property taxes and the like. Folks hit retirement age, their tax rates stop wherever they were at that point. Makes a lot of folks I went to school with happy, of course, but costs go up even if revenues don’t.”

“Ah.” I hadn’t known that about the town. But it’s not a surprise.

Asa handed his CV across the desk to Baker. “I really do appreciate it, Mrs. Baker. And I need to ask, how’re things with you?”

Baker shrugged. “I’m living alone, now, since Jim passed on. Tommy comes to see me every now and again, and he calls regularly, so that’s good; his kids do, too, which is also good. I volunteer at the food bank, and I still have this job, so I stay busy enough to suit me.”

Asa nodded. “I’m glad to hear it, really. Although I didn’t know about Mr. Baker.”

“It was about five years back. Cancer took him. All those years of smoking, you know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not to worry, Asa. It is as it is. And I miss him, but I figure I’ll join him again when it’s time–and I have grandkids, so I’m not eager for it to be time quite yet!”

Asa chuckled, and Baker continued. “Now, I’ll pass this on to Mr. Johnson. You probably have other things you need to do today; I know I do.”

Asa stuck out his hand. “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Baker.”

She came around the desk and hugged him. “Don’t be a stranger, Asa.”

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa Pemewan, having printed out some copies of his CV and some more copies of his professional–It’s a stretch to call it that, really; I’ve only been teaching for the last few years, and we all know what Shaw says about it–resume, returned to the main bulk of Pronghorn. This time, he parked on the 100 block of North Main, where an older, squat building still housed the city offices and plaques from the local and state historical societies marked specific moments in the town’s past. After putting up a sun shade–I’m not about to make that mistake again today–he walked into the offices and asked at the reception desk if there was a job application he could fill out.

“There is, but we don’t have any openings at the moment. I don’t believe the county does, either.”

Asa nodded and thanked the receptionist for the advice. He then headed across the street, seeing if any of the businesses on the other side of it were looking for workers. A restaurant that clearly meant to be upscale and just as clearly showed it did not know the meaning of the word was the first to be hit; the manager on duty looked at Asa and shook her head. “You’re not the kind who’ll do well here.” Asa thanked her and went next door, to a leather goods store. Asking at the counter about jobs available, he was met with another shaking head. “Ain’t hardly got enough work fer me right now, son. Couldn’t take on ‘nother hand if I wanted t’ do it.” Asa thanked him, in turn, and went to the last business on the block, a printing shop, asking the same question again. This time, at least, he got a “We might have a spot for a press worker. You have any experience?”

“No.”

“Well, we’ll take a look at your resume, and we’ll give you a call if we want you to come in.”

“Alright, then, thanks.” Asa handed over a copy of his resume and left.

Asa proceeded afoot down East First, then, passing the city offices and stopping at another small cafe–“We could use a busser. Would that work for you?” “Yes.” “Alright, then. We’ve got a few other applicants, so we’ll review the applications, and we’ll get back to you.”–before stopping at an antiques dealer’s store. In it, he found an older gentleman, rangy and balding, with a receding jawline. The man stood and shook Asa’s hand. “Rufus Hochstedler. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Asa Pemewan, sir, and I’m looking for work.”

“Now, son, I’m gonna have to stop you there. Now, I’m not really looking for workers; it cuts into my margins, you see. But I might be able to help you; a friend of mine recently died, and his wife will need some errands done and the like. So I’ll pull up her phone number and give her a call and send you over. Now, if I can just find it…”

He trailed off, and Asa sat with him as he hunted-and-pecked his way around his computer, muttering to himself for a while. Then he said “Maybe I’ve got it in the Rolodex,” and he reached into a desk drawer. From it, he produced a pistol, placing it on his desk with the barrel towards Asa. Asa’s eyes followed the weapon, and Rufus saw them. “It’s a Browning 1911-380, and it is locked and loaded.” He then pulled a Rolodex tray out of the drawer and began to thumb through it, the weapon still on the desk with its barrel towards Asa.

Asa said nothing as the muttering continued and until it stopped. “Well it seems I can’t find the number. But when I do, I’ll give her a call and let her know to look for you.” He stood and offered his hand. “Have a good one, son.”

Asa stood and shook the hand. “Thanks,” he said, and he left.

Once outside, Asa looked at the sky, squinting against the Hill Country sunlight. Why did he feel the need to pull that thing out and leave it there, pointed at me? He shook his head. I ought to have said “Thanks for telling me you have a micropenis” or something like that. Another head-shake. He’d’ve shot me. I should go.

He walked on, then, following the street further east, passing a tax office–open only on Wednesdays–and a furniture rental place–“No, we’re not hiring right now. Sorry.” A small mom-and-pop hardware store was next, offering a similar answer, and the air-conditioning service at the end of the block proved the same. Asa crossed to the other side of the street to head back towards his car, but he fared no better. A convenience store turned him down, as did a small novelty shop Asa had not recalled seeing before–“We’re still trying to get established, and we don’t have the business yet to bring anyone else on.” Another law office asked him about paralegal training, and another restaurant, brimming with staff, said “No openings now, sorry.”

Asa slowly made his way back to his car, getting in it and turning it on. It shuddered to life, and cool air from the air conditioner began to wash over him. I figured it’d be like this, he thought, that I’d not get a lot of traction from pounding the pavement. I don’t know why I did it, other than to say that I did. At least I can say that, though, that I am trying, and that I am not turning up my nose at most any work. He smiled. Except the head-shop. But I think I can be forgiven that one.

He took down the sun-shade, folded it, put it away, and put his car in gear. I suppose it’ll be time to try the schools, then, he thought as he began to drive off again.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Asa emerged from the stars back onto the sidewalk on North Main, folder in hand and still full of resumes. Might as well see about other work, since I’m here in town, anyway, he thought, and he ducked into the bank that took up most of the building where he had interviewed with Smitherson.

He was greeted at the door by a smiling young woman in a smartly pressed suit. “Good morning, sir! How can we help you today?”

Asa could not help but smile in return. “I was wondering if the bank is hiring for any positions at this point. Who would I need to talk to to find out and apply?”

The woman’s smile faded a bit. “I don’t believe we’re looking for anyone at this point, but I can take you back to see our manager, if you’d like.”

Asa’s smile fell, as well. “If you would, I’d be obliged.” The woman moved off, and Asa followed past the few tellers still working the counter, the few customers still standing in line, desks where one couple spoke with a sweating hulk of a man about opening new accounts, and to an office with its door standing open. The woman knocked lightly, and a “Come in” came through the door.

Asa recognized the voice. Oh, no.

The woman said “Mr. Delgadillo, this gentleman was asking about employment opportunities.”

“Thank y’, Vana.” The woman nodded and returned to the front as the man behind the desk–Was it Chris? I still can’t remember–stood and came around. “Come on in, sir, have a seat. I’m Christián Delgadillo.” He extended his hand, and as Asa took it, Delgadillo asked “And you are?”

“Asa Pemewan.”

“Asa…Asa Pemewan…” Delgadillo looked him up and down. “You seem awful familiar. Did you go t’ school here?”

“I did. We graduated from high school in the same year, in fact.”

“Did we, now? Well, that’s nice!” The last word came out rhyming with “mass,” and he circled back to his seat behind his desk, motioning Asa towards a chair in front of it. “So, you’re looking f’r work?”

Asa nodded. “I am.”

“Well,” Delgadillo said, “I don’t have any openings at th’ moment, y’ see, but if you’ got a resume, we c’n keep it on file. When something opens up, we c’n give y’ a call, see if y’ still wanna work here.”

Asa nodded less enthusiastically. “That’ll be fine.” He handed his resume across the desk and stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Delgadillo.”

Delgadillo stood. “It’s no pro’lem.”

Asa made his exit, telling the woman at the front door “Thanks, Vana,” as he passed by her and stepped once again onto the sidewalk beside North Main. Figured it’d be like that. I suppose I ought to press on, then.

He walked further up North Main, looking for other businesses where he might apply. Next to the bank was a restaurant, but its doors were closed and its lights off; Asa passed it by, coming next to a pharmacy that had several customers lined up, waiting. He popped inside and waited in line, and when he finally got to the pharmacy counter and asked if they were hiring, he was met with a brusque “No.”

The next door was a coffee shop, similarly busy. Asa bought a cup of coffee–“An Americano, thanks”–and asked if they were hiring. “Not at the moment, no, but you can leave a resume.” He did, and he pressed on. The next door was a bar, still closed, and the one after was a tobacconist–and a head shop, if things haven’t changed; best to pass that one by–and an old gas station at the corner. There, he got much the same answer as he’d gotten from the pharmacy; it was an old Hochstedler family business, not one likely to take anyone not kin. So Asa crossed the street and began to come back down.

A law office–“No paralegal training? I’m sorry, then.”–a tax office–closed most days, given the end of tax season–a Mexican bakery–“¿No hablas Español? No puedo usarte. Lo siento.”–a dry-cleaner–“We’re not hiring.”–all turned him down. The last business on the block, an independent bookstore, was slightly better, the shopkeeper saying “No, I’m not hiring at the moment, and I doubt I will be anytime soon; it’s kind of a two-person operation, and the Mrs. is already on the payroll. But I have heard that the schools will be looking for someone. Maybe you can put in there?”

Asa replied “I’ll look into that. Thanks.” And he walked out the door, crossing the street again to retrieve his car. The sun smote down heavily upon him as he did so, and broiling heat greeted him when he opened the door of the car. Asa recoiled at the hot air, thinking I’d forgotten about that. Should’ve put up the sun shade.

Getting into the car, he winced as he put his hands on the steering wheel. The Hill Country sun has such an effect on cars, which is why almost all carry sun shades and park, when they can, near trees. Any shade helps, and its lack soon starts to hurt.

Asa loosened his tie against the heat. I really have been gone too long, if I forget the heat and what all it does. “And I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised about the bad results. But it’s only one morning, and only one ad was up. Maybe I’ll do better a bit later.”

He put the car into gear, backed out of the parking space he had claimed, and drove off towards his parents’ home again. I’ll need to look at the schools–both the public schools and the junior college. I might get lucky with one of them or the other, but I’ll need to print out some copies of my CV before I can try either one.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

The next day, Asa Pemewan found himself in slacks and a pressed shirt cinched by a tie despite the already-building heat as he drove into town to apply for a job. A folder with several copies of a resume sat in the passenger seat next to him. I hope this goes well, he thought to himself as he crossed onto North Main and pulled into the first open parking space of the 200 block. I really need to find some work soon.

A glance at the clock on his cell phone told him it was 9:03 in the morning. This counts as “9 to 5,” right? Asa straightened his slacks and his tie, grabbed his folder, and proceeded across the street to 200 North Main, where a three-story building loomed over the intersection. Signs advertising the Pronghorn First National Bank and no few financial products faced out from the lower stories; the third seemed to be shuttered, but when Asa arrived at the door leading up to it from the street, he found it open. No lettering was on it, outside or in, but the stairs were clean and well lit, and Asa proceeded up them.

I really need to get into better shape, he thought as he ascended and his thighs began to protest. And at the top, at the entrance to the third floor, he paused to catch his breath. I need to not look desperate. He ran a hand through his hair and pushed through the door, triggering a bell; he found a reception desk–tall and with a lower-set cut-out–with no occupant on the other side of the door.

Is this the position, or is the desk-worker out at the moment? But it’s a little early for that, isn’t it?

A door behind the reception desk opened and an older man emerged. Asa recognized him from the day before as Bartholomew Smitherson as the older man asked “May I help you?” in his hoary voice.

Asa stepped forward, extending his hand. “I hope so, Mr. Smitherson. My name’s–”

“Asa Pemewan. Yes. I recall you from the service yesterday.”

Asa nodded. “Yes, sir, and I’m here because I saw the advertisement for an office assistant position at this address–the one in the newspaper, I mean.”

“Hm. Well. Perhaps you ought to come into my office, then, Mr. Pemewan.”

It should be “Dr.,” dammit. “That’d be great, sir!” I have to look like I can work well and happily.

Smitherson motioned Asa through the door, closing it behind them. A hallway stretched down a way, making a turn to the right after several doors on both sides; Smitherson led Asa past them all, going around the corner and into a larger office of wood paneling. An imposing desk faced into the center of the room; a bank of shuttered windows stood behind it and an old leather chair into which Smitherson lowered himself before gesturing at a much less impressive seat. Asa took it, sitting forward.

“Well, Mr. Pemewan, do you know what an office assistant will need to do?”

Asa nodded. “In general terms, certainly. I expect specific duties vary by office, but they typically involve preparing correspondence, accepting incoming correspondence and packages, running telephone operations, and doing light maintenance on the office and its equipment.”

“Good. Have you a resume with you, Mr. Pemewan?”

“I do, sir.” Asa withdrew one from the folder and handed it across the desk. Smitherson took it and glanced over it briefly, nodding. “So, postgraduate education, several collegiate teaching jobs. Why, then, would you want to work here as an office assistant?”

I should’ve known I’d get asked that. Clearing his throat, Asa answered “I’ve been away from Pronghorn for long enough, sir, and thought it was time to come home. That meant that I need to find a job, and this one was advertised on the very day I came home.” Here’s the stretch. “It’s the kind of thing that might be called providential.”

“Hm.” The older man’s dubiousness emerged in his tone, hoary as his voice was. “There were other jobs advertised that day, as well, yet you’ve not applied for them.”

“This also seemed a better opportunity than those jobs, given my skill set.”

“Hm.” The grunt was less dubious in tone. “Well.” Smitherson cleared his own throat with a rheumy cough. “I’m keeping the position open for a few more days; I paid for the advertisement in the paper for two weeks, and I mean to get my money’s worth. After that, though, I’ll review such applications as come in, and I’ll be sure to get back to you about yours.”

He sat back. “Now, do you have any questions for me, Mr. Pemewan?”

You jackass, you know it should be “Dr.” “I did have one, sir. Having been away from Pronghorn for some time and only recently returned, I’m not sure what all you do here. I’d heard something about legal practice, but I’m not about to proceed on rumor alone.”

“As well you should not, for I am no attorney. No, Mr. Pemewan, this is something of a complicated business. You, given your studies, might have the right word to describe it as it deserves; I have not had the luxury of such studies, so I do not have such a word. You might say, however, that I coordinate a number of things from this location, much as it might seem that I am less than ideally equipped to do so.”

“I’d not presume, sir.”

The older man smiled. “Good.” He stood, then, and extended his hand across the desk. “It’s been a pleasure, Mr. Pemewan. I’ll be in touch, as I said.”

Asa shook the offered hand. “Thank you for the opportunity, sir,” he said, and he followed Smitherson’s gesture towards the door, leaving quietly whence he had come.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

The major business of Pronghorn has been honey production since the Smithersons established themselves in the area, and Pronghorn Honey has been perhaps the major employer in town throughout the town’s existence. But the Smithersons, having been apiarists for generations, were well attuned to the secondary industries that could arise from their primary vocation. Wax was the first of them, and early in Pronghorn’s development, the Smithersons made themselves useful to the already-placed Zapatas and Hochstedlers through providing it alongside the honey. A chandlery soon emerged as another business in the burgeoning town, and its history in the town serves as something of a bellwether for the economy of Pronghorn as a whole.

Early in town history, candles were the primary indoor light source for homes in the area, as shipping lanterns and their oil into town was deemed too expensive–and the glass kept breaking, in any event, owing to the ruggedness of the Hill Country terrain–but both wax from the Smitherson hives and tallow from the local beef were available fairly readily, and cotton for wicking could be gotten without too much trouble. As the town grew, then, the Smitherson chandlery–operated at one point by Chandler Smitherson; there is still a somewhat perverse sense of humor at work among the family–grew, perhaps even faster than the honey production in town, and the Smithersons as a whole came to control more and more of the town’s financial output.

The increasing control did cause some strain in the relationships the Smithersons had with the Zapatas and the Hochstedlers, of course, both of which families saw their relative influence diminish against it (although, with more and more kin among the Smithersons, they were not wholly displeased). It is perhaps traceable to that strain that the Smitherson Chandlery was burned one night in the early 1900s. A bucket brigade was formed in short order, of course, and enough people were nearby that they could draw water straight up from Pronghorn Creek. But there is only so quickly a bucket brigade can work, and the Chandlery was lost. It was not the only building affected, either; typically dry Hill Country weather and the stiff wind of an incoming front conspired to send sparks over to the Hochstedler Saloon, which burned rapidly–as would be expected of a place filled with alcohol. It was fortunate, then, that the front drove rain with it, and the ensuing sudden thunderstorm drenched the flames still live and soaked the town such that no others could catch.

The Chandlery was rebuilt reasonably quickly; the Smithersons had been thrifty folks and had saved much of their money in the town bank. (They also helped underwrite the reconstruction of the Hochstedler Saloon, with obvious consequences.) The second construction made more use of the local limestone than had the first, and the building soon resumed its earlier level of production. Production improved when water services began to be installed, and it changed focus when the Great War broke out and many of the town’s young men shipped out to fight in Europe. When they returned and began to call for the kinds of improvements they had seen–albeit in damaged form–overseas, the Chandlery helped to underwrite many of them–again, with obvious consequences.

In the wake of the Great Depression, however, and the beginning of the work of the Rural Electrification Administration, the Chandlery experienced a marked downturn. The Depression itself affected almost all businesses and industries, although the agricultural production of the town itself and the wisdom of the preeminent families ensured that few if any of Pronghorn’s residents went hungry; too, ranches almost always can use more hands to tend the herds–and the goats raised in the area benefited from additional attention, as well. Electrification, however, in offering a safer source of light than open flames, did much to reduce the call for candles–and so for the Chandlery’s services. (Federal authorities prevented the outright assumption of power over the power supply by the Smithersons, and when they–along with the Zapatas and Hochstedlers–attempted to establish themselves as the controllers of the public utility board, one federal agent interdicted the attempt. Courts supported the interdiction, and it was long before the Pronghorn utility commission was free from direct federal oversight.)

Production increased again during World War II, with some candles being sent overseas to support the war effort, and others being used to ease burdens on the electrical grid so that other areas, more vital to the production of materiel and the training of troops–San Antonio is not too far away–could be more fully powered. But it fell off once again after the war ended, and Pronghorn did not experience as much of the post-war prosperity that much of the rest of the country did. Indeed, for a time in the 1960s, the Chandlery looked as if it would close utterly; the Smithersons used it as a way to ensure that some of the less convetionally desirable cousins could find something with which to occupy themselves, which is hardly the best way to ensure the endurance of a business. The town followed suit, with many of the youth leaving for other places and not returning except for holidays and in extreme distress.

As with many small towns in Texas, it was tourism that saved Pronghorn–and that saved the Chandlery. A resurgence of interest in Western life and Texana began to drive people to the Hill Country for visits, and retirement beckoned to many, as well, and Pronghorn benefited from both. The Chandlery, where candles were still made by hand in a way passed down for centuries, found itself similarly returned to prominence as people started seeking out “more authentic experiences” and the goods that undergirded them. Honey production still remained the primary focus of the Smithersons, but the Chandlery did much to support the family coffers, as well, and proceeds from it began again to underwrite other businesses and public works projects. Its success became Pronghorn’s once again.

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Continued from the previous chapter, here.

Reverend Kerr continued. “If, as the ushers will come forward, you’ll think about what you can do to follow truth, I’ll awkwardly ask you for money so that we can keep the lights on and I can get a bit to eat every now and again.” Some laughter percolated through the congregation as four people wearing suits and dresses approached the altar, plates in hand. “Let us pray.”

Over a sea of bowed heads–and Asa’s watching eyes–Kerr stretched out her arms. “God Almighty, You are the bread of life, and we ask that You bless the offerings made so that they will go forth and become the bread for others. We ask it in Jesus’s name. Amen.”

The congregation responded, and the organ played a soft, contemplative tune as the ushers walked back down the aisles, passing collection plates back and forth. At length, they assembled as one, and the organ struck a different chord. The congregation stood, its members lifting their voices up in song, proclaiming their thanks for what had been given them. Asa stood with them, but he did not sing. I don’t know this piece, and why would I be singing to a god I don’t believe in?

Reverend Kerr accepted the collection plates from the ushers, offering them up and placing them on the altar. As the song concluded, she turned again to the congregation and called for another hymn. Asa stayed standing as many voices rose up in song around him again, and he continued to hold his peace, recalling, too, the wincing of those around him earlier. It is not the kind of impression I wanted to convey. And he found his gaze repeatedly returning to Reverend Kerr and the drape of her tartan stole. I wonder what she would look like in nothing else–dammit! Stop it, Asa!

The hymn concluded, and Reverend Kerr called out “May you go in peace, and may your peace be a beacon to the world! Be well, be safe, and be in service to Christ!”

The congregation  responded “And you,” and the two boys from before advanced up the aisle, lit tapers from the altar and stifled the flames from the candles upon it. They retreated, Kerr following as the organ played a triumphant recessional. The congregants remained seated for the most part, save for a few who advanced up the sides of the church and knelt before the altar in private prayer.

At length, as the organ ceased its song, Asa’s parents stood to leave, and he joined them as they merged into the stream of people leaving the church. Ahead of him, he noticed many people stopping to shake Reverend Kerr’s hand and exchange a few words with her. From her smile–It is a nice smile, Asa thought–they seemed to be pleasant ones, and Asa overheard more than a few as he and his parents approached her.

“Al, Matilda, I’m glad to see you!” Kerr stretched her hand out to Asa’s parents in turn.

Al took her hand in his, shaking it briskly. “Good sermon today, Rev’nd.”

She smiled–It’s a really nice smile, Asa thought, and he could feel himself redden a bit–and replied, “It’s easy with good congregants.”

She then turned to Asa, hand extended again. “Asa, was it? It’s a pleasure to meet you more personally.”

Asa shook the extended hand. “And you, Ma’am.”

She laughed. “I never do get used to the ‘Ma’am’ here. But I gather you’re Al and Matilda’s son? You’ve got good folks, you know.”

Asa smiled tightly. “I am, and I know it well.”

“I’ll be happy to talk with you again later, Asa, if you’d like.” She looked more closely at him. “I’d guess you could use someone to listen.”

Asa reddened a bit more, and Kerr laughed again, winking. “Just a guess. Go in peace!” And she turned to the next congregant in line. Asa hurried out of the church, finding his parents waiting in front of it for him.

“Told you she was somethin’, didn’t I?” Asa’s father smiled at him, almost laughing.

Asa nodded. His face reddened again.

“Honey, don’t harangue him.” Asa’s mother came up and slipped her arm around her son’s, guiding him along. “Come on, Asa, let’s go get some lunch.”

Asa nodded again, mutely. Food would be good right now, he thought. And figuring out what the hell just happened would, too. I’d’ve sworn she was talking straight to me a few times during that sermon, but that can’t be right. Unless…

“Mom, Dad,” Asa said as they proceeded towards the car, “did either of you tell Reverend Kerr I was coming with you to church?”

Asa’s father shook his head. His mother said “No. Why do you ask?”

“Eh, I’m not sure. The thought just occurred to me that you might’ve, is all.”

As they reached the car, Asa’s mother looked at him, an eyebrow raised. “What, you think I’m some kind of gossip?”

Asa’s father suppressed a laugh, and Asa answered in a deliberately, ostentatiously flat tone “Yes. Yes, I do. Because you are, Mom.”

“Don’t insult me!” She smiled as she started to climb into the car. “I’m the gossip! Credit where it’s due!”

Asa laughed as he joined his mother in the vehicle. His father climbed in and started it, and they joined the parade of cars leaving the church parking lot. “I feel like some Chinese,” he said. “That okay with you two?”

Asa’s mother said “Yes,” and Asa shrugged. “Is the Chiu place still open?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Good. I always did like their hot and sour soup.”

“Bit warm for that, isn’t it?”

“Probably, but the food’s still good.”

And they drove off that way.

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