If this is your first visit to the Blog for Sinners, you may want to start reading St. Ant Knee, A Novel for Sinners, at the link for Chapter 1. At the very top of each blog, on the right side of the header, you'll see the link to the next chapter. Enjoy!


8

Stage Three — Rage

“Don't you get me started on Adam.”

THE PANIC AND FEAR done, we’re about to see big little Lori get pretty ugly with rage, if you’ll forgive the Strunk and White reference. We scribes sometimes do get literary.

She storms to the car and throws open Christopher’s door.

I’m thinking, Don’t say it!

Christopher shushes me with a wave of his hand. He could just as well tell her now not to say the really horrible expression that’s flashing to her lips. But no. He’s got to wait till the last possible instant. It’s that flair for the dramatic I told you about.

Now!

No. He waits even an instant longer.

She’s gargling in her own fury. “Get out of my car,” she shrieks. I’ll say this for her, she does have grit. Most of you people would be running away by now. “Who the heck are you and what the—?”

“Don’t you say that word!”

She’s already spitting it out, but somehow, Christopher gets her to hold it between her overbite and lower lip. He can be wearying at the odd moment, but things like this leave me in awe.

“Thank you, Antonio.”

She’s about to cut loose with it again.

“Don’t you dare say that word,” he tells her. “Just mind who you’re talking to.”

For Saint Peter’s sake. She doesn’t know you from Adam.

He whirls and points a finger at me. “Don’t you get me started on Adam.”

She ducks down and gazes into the back seat to see what he’s pointing at. Of course there’s nothing to see. I’m not about to resume my human form again. I’d rather hide out in that cigarette coal of hers still smoldering on the car mat.

Christopher barks a most wicked little zebra laugh.

Christopher, no!

“Smile, Antonio.”

No, this is your miracle and I’m just the anonymous scribe. Don’t drag me into it—



9

Appearance, Part II, III, IV

Saints like us.

THERE AM I, into his miracle, the fat little Franciscan monk that I once was, dressed in brown woolen garb, lying across all her luggage and pressed into the rear window glass like a honey-cured Kentucky ham.

Which is even more shocking to Loretta than to me.

She reverts to form, human form. She runs off down the road and goes into another fit of shrieks. You people.

She’s still running down the eastbound lane of I-90 when she runs into me, as I appear in front of her. Imagine her surprise. Shriek-o-rama.

Christopher — ever Mr. Sensitivity — turns up the volume on “Ode” until it drowns out her screaming and my now-human teeth begin to rattle.

“Come on, Christopher, enough of the torment.”

He’s chuckling. So pleased with himself. He can hear me, music or no, but he acts as if he’s deaf, which Loretta will be soon enough if he doesn’t turn it down.

I try to get through to her. “Miss? Loretta? Please get in the car.”

Christopher appears at her shoulder. The least he could do is turn down the volume for the sake of the earthling among us.

He does.

As Loretta yells to be heard over the music. “How do you know—” then lowers her own volume as she realizes the music is off “—my name?”