3.
 They came to the church hall. Perry parked around the corner, and they walked arm in arm. He enjoyed the tight feel of her lithe body against his, the way she let him pull her close, each wanting to be possessed by the other.
The church was shuttered, its windows black like lead. Its heavy brown stones made it seem like a fortress in the night. The moon swam around its spire, and mourning doves cooed their melancholy song.
Inside the hall it was warm — almost too warm. There were people from all over, because this was a big holiday around town. There must be a thousand people here, Jane thought as she and Perry walked about looking at the food on the long tables — dish after dish, for this had to be the world's largest potluck.
On stage, a band played everything from polkas to rock, reggae to swing. That must be the talented guys from the fire station, Perry thought, joining the townsfolk in clapping and whistling between numbers. Jane and Perry found seats next to each other at a long people. Soon, most of the folks were seated and ready to eat. Volunteer waiters and waitresses from the Associated Veterans' Social Clubs hustled about, pouring beer and wine, replenishing water glasses. The fun of dinner was that you got a little of each thing — whatever the waiters happened to pick — a surprise! It was a town tradition.
The pastor took the stage, asked for silence, and, after a brief prayer, made his announcements. Among them, he reminded the parishioners to come to church the following day, a holy day. Then the band played on.
During dinner, Perry and Jane befriended the couple opposite them, a man and woman in their early fifties. His name was Roger, his wife's Maureen. Roger had a full head of graying hair, watery blue eyes, and a bemused smile. Maureen was a little darkskinned, dark-haired pip of a woman with a sharp tongue but evidently a good enough heart. "That band ought to take a break," she said, "it's hot in here! Whew!" She fanned herself for effect.
"Lived in town long?" Roger asked.
"Years," Jane said, tearing a dinner roll in half.
"We have an old place up on Beaker Street," Perry said.
"We just moved here a few days ago," Roger said. "Nice little town. I'm a retired policeman from the city. We wanted a little village in which to spend some quality time."
Maureen had a mouthful of food but she spoke anyway. "Those old houses up along the Heights? Used to be a lot of wealthy people up in that area years ago. Man, things have changed. Do you work?"
Perry winced, a bit pained. "Not for a while."
"Maureen — ." Roger said. He nodded apologetically. "My wife should learn some diplomacy."
Perry shrugged. "Oh, it's no secret. I was injured a couple of years ago. I used to be a lawyer. Had a pretty nice practice. Kept us well heeled. No more. Well, that's how it goes."
"Darling," Jane whispered, mortified, "don't tell everyone our whole life's story."
"I'm sorry," he whispered back, "I'm just trying to keep the conversation going."
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Copyright © 2018 by Jean-Thomas Cullen, Clocktower Books. All Rights Reserved.
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