"Can you let me see it?" Father Paul asked. "My, my, what a very nice, big one."
Luther stood shyly at the church door at the end of mass while Father Paul took the picture the young man had been drawing during his homily from his hand and examined it with an interest that didn't seem too feigned. Luther had trouble sitting through the church service. He always had. Since his mother brought him here as a child, she'd given him one of the children's activity packets the church provided to hold his attention through the mass. Working with that while the service went on around him always kept him quiet and content. He'd gotten older, but he hadn't stopped entertaining himself with the packets.
"A secretary desk. And drawn with such precision," Father Paul said. "I can see that you are making good use of your training in furniture design."
This was said with some genuine admiration. Father Paul was, indeed, impressed with Luther's drawing talent. Luther stood before him, the two still in a handshake, while the line of parishioners waiting to greet and rush home to their lunches built up behind them. Thank God this child of limited means has found a true talent provided by thee, the priest intoned in his mind.
And then in added prayer in his thoughts that he hoped God was too busy to hear, Father Paul also said a little prayer of thanks that Luther had been too dim to fully understand some liberties the priest had taken with him earlier in life. Well, somewhat more than "some," he admitted to himself.
"But the tall brown tower next to the desk. I don't quite understand how that fits in."
"Umm, don't know father. I dream some when I draw. I don't know what I was thinking."
"That's fine, Luther. But it looks so out of place with that nicely drawn desk. Why don't you take some scissors when you get home and divide the drawings—and if you didn't want the tower one, you could give it to me and I will throw it away for you."
The priest knew full well what Luther had drawn in his daydreaming and what its reference point was. And it was making him feel hot and was stirring both memories and something more physically demanding in his body. It was a time to be glad that priests wore robes.
Giving Luther an affectionate pat on the shoulder, he propelled the young man on down the church steps and turned to the next parishioner in line and widened his smile. He was worried about Luther and what was in his future—and, perhaps, a bit, what he might someday say about his past. But Father Paul would think more on that later.
Luther gave a little smile of his own and started out across the church's lawn for the walk home. He might divide the picture, but he liked both. He'd keep them both.
When he looked up, he saw that Mrs. Sims was standing on the walk and looking at him. She seemed to be waiting for him. She was the Mrs. Sims of the Mr. Sims, who had been Luther's gym teacher and who now was one of his special friends. Luther liked Mrs. Sims better than he liked Mr. Sims, although he liked both just fine. She had been his teacher too. She had been his English teacher and she had spent extra time with him without being asked and had always been especially nice to him. She was in church alone, without Mr. Sims, today. That wasn't unusual. Mr. Sims always said he'd rather stay home and open his veins with a butter knife then walk into a church—and their wedding day may have been the last time he'd done so—walked into a church, that is.
As Luther approached Mrs. Sims, something in the back of his brain told him he should be apprehensive about something, but he couldn't grasp what that might be. She was giving him a big smile, so he knew it couldn't be anything very serious.
"There you are, Luther. I've been waiting to talk to you. I see that you were showing Father Paul a picture you drew in church. May I see it, please?"
"Sure." Luther handed the drawing to her.
"This is a very, very nice, drawing, Luther," Mrs. Sims said after inspecting it. There was a little catch in her voice when she said it, though. And Luther didn't notice that she didn't look into his face when she said that. He blushed in appreciation and whispered a "Thank you." He didn't notice that she looked a bit flushed too.
"It's so nice that I'd like to have it, if you are giving it away," she said.
"Well, sure, if you want it." Luther hadn't been planning to give it away. He had meant to try crafting that secretary. But the image of the design was in his mind—he was good at holding images in his brain. He guessed he could draw that again without any problem. Maybe that would be what he'd do right now when he got home.
"What I stopped you for, though, Luther, is that, if you'd like to earn a little extra money, I have some heavy-lifting, and reaching-up jobs in the house I need some young, strapping man like you to do for me. Do you think you'd be interested?"
"Yeah, sure," Luther answered. Mrs. Sims had always been very nice to him. He didn't mind one bit being nice back. And he wasn't paying full attention to her anyway. He was changing some trim work on the secretary in his mind.
"Some day this week between 3:30 and 5:00 in the afternoon, maybe? I'll be home from school and Mr. Sims will still be at intramural practice. He doesn't like for there to be fussing around in the house while he's there."
"Yeah, sure," Luther answered.
"You'll remember now, won't you?"
"Yeah, sure."
"So, you'll come by when?"
"Sometime this week."
"Between what times?"
"Ummm."
"Between 3:30 and 5:00. In the afternoon. Can you repeat that for me?"
"Yeah sure. Between 3:30 and, ummm—"
"And 5:00." Mrs. Sims repeated patiently. "In the afternoon." She'd always been patient with Luther. That's why he liked her so much.
"And 5:00," he said. "Yeah, sure. I'll come. Now I gotta go to the store. Tim and Alfred, they want me at the store this afternoon. I gotta go help them."
Luther was beaming so wide at remembering just now that he was headed to the store rather than home and at the prospect of being needed to help at the store that Mrs. Sims nearly teared up. What are we going to do with you, you dear, dear, manchild? Mrs. Sims thought, as she watched Luther turn and start humming as he walked toward Decatur Street, near the beach. She looked at the picture Luther had drawn again, folded it, put it in her purse, and snapped the clasp of the purse tightly shut.
* * * *
It wasn't exactly a crash, but it had the effect of bringing both Tim and Alfred posthaste into the room.
"What the hell?" Alfred exclaimed. "What are you doing in this room, Luther?"
Alfred was the little, frenetic one, always bouncing around and nervous about this and that. He also was the one who knew what to buy from an estate sale and for how much—and had a very good idea who he could unload it on at twice the price.
"You told me to turn the lamps on so the customers would see the lights on. I did that in the dining table room. And then that room was all lit up and this one was too dark and so I . . ."
"Didn't I tell you never, ever to come into the crystal room?" Alfred exclaimed. Nearly every time Alfred opened his mouth, he was exclaiming.
"Now don't fret, dear," the just-arrived Tim said. He was the hippy one, the tall, thin one, with the long hair he kept tied back in a pony tail but down on his shoulders at home. The one who moved like he was a dancer and who fluttered with his hands. He also was the one who kept the Pink Poodle afloat with his accounting abilities and his skill with reining Alfred in on the grandiose schemes and monster purchases.
