A Stillness in Bethlehem(10)

“Mostly I’m interested in why you didn’t call first. It’s the first day of the Celebration. If I hadn’t been up all night refereeing, I’d be down in town already.”

“Liza and Dinah not getting along?”

“Liza and Dinah never get along,” Stu said. “The real surprise is that they haven’t killed each other yet. You notice our beautiful Christmas decorations?”

Peter frowned. “You don’t have any Christmas decorations.”

“I know. I don’t have them because they both made a set and they won’t either of them let the other’s go up, not even to put the two sets up together. That’s what they kept me up about, last night. Dinah says Liza’s are too hick, and Liza says Dinah’s are too arty. Dinah, by the way, has been having her portrait painted by Jan-Mark Verek. It’s got Liza fit to spit.”

“Jan-Mark Verek,” Peter said musingly. “You got some coffee somewhere, Stu? Even bad coffee?”

“I’ve always got bad coffee.”

“I couldn’t call you up because we’re putting out the paper today, and besides, you know what it’s like, calling from town. Even since the party lines died, you know what it’s like. How do you figure they do it without party lines?”

“They listen at doors.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. God, that does look like bad coffee. That looks like awful coffee.”

“It tastes worse.”

Stu put the cup full of black sludge down in front of Peter and stepped back. Peter looked tired and wrung out and just a little bit angry, but the drive up here must have leeched most of the fire out of him. That there had been fire, Stu was in no doubt. Peter wouldn’t have bothered to make the trip otherwise. It wasn’t as if he could be on his way to anyplace else. This farm wasn’t on the way to anyplace else. Even the only other thing out here—the Vereks’ brand-new ultra-bizarre log house—could only be reached by picking up the Delaford Road.

Stu got a fresh cup of coffee for himself—if you could call freeze-dried crystals fresh; this stuff really was awful—and sat down at the other end of the table. Years ago, when he and Peter were boys, they had sat for hours just like this. When it got dark, they didn’t turn the lights on. They talked instead. They talked about the things they would do when they finally got to Away. They talked about the men they would be once they knew they never had to come back. They never considered the obvious: that the place you were born and raised has a hold on you you might not ever be ready to give up.

Stu reached around to the shelf at the back of his head and found his pack of cigarettes. He got them down and lit up, offering the pack to Peter in the process. Peter shook his head, and Stu wondered if he was having another go at trying to quit.

“So,” he said, dragging and blowing smoke at the ceiling. “What’s up? What couldn’t you talk to me about on the phone?”

“It wasn’t that I couldn’t talk to you about it,” Peter said. “It’s just that I didn’t want to. I mean, hell, they want to know my opinions, that’s what I write editorials for.”

“Opinions about what?”

“Tish.” Peter jerked his head, more or less in the direction of the log house. “She’s finally gone and done it, you know. Or she’s on her way to go and do it. That’s what I hear from Franklin Morrison.”

“Done what?”

“Filed that injunction the ACLU has been blathering about for I don’t know how long now. Except she hasn’t filed it yet, it’s too early. She’s leaving for the federal courthouse in Montpelier at nine-thirty. Camber Hartnell’s taking her.”

“Camber Hartnell would, wouldn’t he?” Stu sighed. “You figure we’re really violating anybody’s constitutional right to freedom of religion, running this Celebration?”

“I figure we’re violating the Constitution six ways to Sunday. I’ve told you that before. With the case law the way it is—”

“The guy who’s playing Joseph this year is the biggest atheist in town.”

“The guy who’s playing Joseph this year is Bobby Beggen and he was born here,” Peter said. “Tish wasn’t born here, but she’s a bona fide resident and she qualifies as a potentially injured party under the law. She is therefore allowed—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” Stu took another drag on his cigarette. “So what does this mean? Is she going to get the Celebration closed this year? With the tickets already sold and the inns booked?”