I didn’t have to worry about Terrence’s friends. He was halfway toward me already. It was as if he knew I was afraid—of his friends; of him, even.

“Whassup, Charlie?” he said.

“Hey,” I said.

“Thanks for coming,” he said.

“I’m really sorry,” I said, and meant it, both about Louella and about the two of us, though I didn’t imagine Terrence missed me much. He had never needed me as much as I’d needed him.

“It’s okay,” he said. “She’s with Jesus now. No pain no more.”

Terrence smiled. I looked at my watch.

“You got somewhere to be?” he said.

“Sorry,” I said. “Somebody’s picking me up in like five minutes.”

He put his arm on my shoulder.

“I’ll walk you out.”

We stood outside on the sidewalk together. I asked him about football, and school, and when and how he’d become a fiery lay preacher.

“That was something else,” I said.

He grinned.

“When did you learn how to do that?”

“I felt the call a few years ago. Made Gran-Lou happy, so I just listened to the spirit, you know?”

“I never made you for a preacher,” I said.

“Why? ’Cause I’m a sinner?” he asked. “We all sinners. Look at Rev Joseph. He’s God’s messenger to the Lighthouse. But every Sunday after church, he’s out front with the women, on the make.”

Terrence pointed through the windows of the fellowship hall. Sure enough, the reverend was surrounded by women, none of whom looked old enough to be his wife.

“Shoot,” Terrence said, “for all I know, I got the spirit because he’s my daddy.”

“You really think so?”

“Naw,” he said. “Could be though, right?”

When we were boys, Terrence and I would make up stories about the fathers we had never known. The only difference between us was that I knew my father’s name. Terrence’s mother refused to say. She later told Louella that it was one of three, that she couldn’t be sure which; she was only certain none of them were worth holding to account. But in our games, Terrence’s father was a soldier like mine. They had met in Vietnam, just as Terrence and I had met in Montague Village. They were POWs on the run, or ex-Green Berets, sent back to save their captive brothers.

“How’s your mom doing?” I asked.

“Hell if I know,” he said. “She just showed up today. They heard she was flopping with some fool out in Bordeaux. My uncle drove out and found her. She’s already gone. Probably smoking rocks as we speak.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Ain’t nothing to me,” he said. “I just buried my real mama.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked. “I mean, are you still living at Montague?”

“Was. I been living with Rev since Gran-Lou went in the hospital.”