If it happens again, I thought, I’ll begin to worry. Right now I’ll put it out of my mind. And I was able to do that for a few minutes at least. I showered and dressed and went downstairs to drink coffee and read old newspapers. Then I heard the alarm clock go off in Franny’s room and I knew I couldn’t face the others.

I decided to drive to Cainesville and see Father Jackson. Despite my difficulties with him, there was no one else with whom I could talk. It was only a bit after seven, but I was hoping that he might be saying early Mass.

I went down the road at a highly unsafe speed, fearful as I approached the Weber house that I would see what I had the last time I passed. But I didn’t. The house looked the same as always and Emil’s station wagon was in the yard. I did have the sensation that I was being watched as I went by, but I didn’t see anyone.

Mass was in progress when I reached Saint Mary’s Church and Father Jackson was the celebrant. There were only five or six people in the pews ahead of me as I knelt in the back. Boards had been put over several of the windows, I noticed, and there was evidence that the walls had been scrubbed in several places.

Father Jackson saw me when I entered. He was reading the Gospel and he paused briefly, then continued. He didn’t look at me again during his short homily that followed. He spoke eloquently and reverently, I had to admit, about charity and tolerance. I wondered for a moment if he was addressing the remarks to me, but then I realized he must have prepared them earlier.

After Mass I waited in church, wondering if he would come back out to see me. The rest of the congregation had gone, except for a couple of women who had moved into the shrine in the apse. In a few minutes he came out through the sanctuary door and down the aisle. He had removed his Mass vestments, but he was still wearing his cassock.

“Come outside,” he whispered as he passed my pew.

I got up and followed him out, then waited on the church steps with him while a couple of elderly women came up and complimented him on his sermon. He nodded graciously, puffing a cigarette and glancing nervously at me.

“I’m sorry about Saturday,” I said when the women were gone.

“I’m sorry too.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Did you get your car fixed?”

“Yes, and the statue has been put back in the shrine. Father Fogarty won’t have it repaired though. He wants to leave it the way it is as a reminder that Satan is still around in the world.”