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“Now he tells me! No, really, I didn’t want to.”
“You look much better. You really look great.” (Am I gushing too much about his looks? Paul wondered.)
They sat down at a picnic table with a view of the pond. The sun’s rays illuminated the right side of Ian’s face, making his features more soft and delicate. His eyes, in this light, seemed more green than blue. The light and shadow, the green of his eyes contrasted with the green of the willows—Paul wondered what classical artist could best have captured this scene.
“You know what I learned?” Ian asked, sucking on his cigarette and blowing the smoke out of his nose. (So much for the classical masters.) “They said that when one spouse is an alcoholic, the husbands usually end up leaving, but the wives usually stick it out. What do you think that says?”
“I don’t know.”
“Men are selfish shits, that’s what I think,” he said, gazing off into the woods. “They say, ‘This isn’t fun for me anymore’, and they take off.”
Paul laughed. “We’re not still talking about husbands and wives, are we?”
Ian tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and let his fingers run all the way down through the long tresses. “It’s okay,” he said. “I probably would have dumped me too if I’d been dating myself.”
Paul wished he could tell Ian what he was thinking: I wouldn’t.
Ian rested his chin on his palm with his cigarette between his index and second fingers, his pinky dangling in the corner of his mouth so he could chew absentmindedly on the much-abused nail. Two bad habits for the price of one, Paul thought. He laughed to himself.
“What?” Ian asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
They gazed at each other for a moment with curiosity. It seemed as if they had just shared a secret, but Paul could not be sure what the secret was.
“I think you’re different,” Ian said. “I bet if your wife was alcoholic you’d stick around.”
“Why do you think so?”
“Well, you’re here. You seem like that kind of guy. A good guy.”
Paul shrugged. “I’m a minister. It’s my job to be a good guy.”
“Come on! Not all ministers are good guys.”
“No, but it makes it easier. Being a minister gives you permission to help people. Do you know what I mean? People are so suspicious of each other most of the time. They’re afraid to accept help because they suspect the other person has ulterior motives. But if you’re a minister, and you want to help someone, they might let you. That’s one of the best things about the job. Having permission to be a good guy without people suspecting you.”
“Like with me, right?” He puffed again on the cigarette and squinted as the smoke wafted into his eyes. “I should… I’ve been joking around, but… thank you.”
“You don’t have to thank me. I’m just happy to see you doing well. That’s a present for me.”
“You see that building over there?” Ian pointed with the two fingers that held his cigarette. “That’s where they keep the priests. They have a special wing for clergy. “
“I didn’t realize there were that many alcoholic priests.”
“Loads. They can’t have sex, you know, so they just sit around drinking communion wine and they end up here.”
“We do grape juice at my church.”
“Do you believe it actually turns into the blood of Christ?”
“No, it’s symbolic.”
“I think the Catholics believe it actually turns into blood. It’s like cannibalism. Isn’t that kind of creepy, drinking blood?”
“We’re only symbolic cannibals.”
“I don’t get it, though. I’m not trying to be, you know, critical. I just don’t understand. I mean… isn’t cannibalism a bad thing?”
