The Ninth Interlude: From the Desk of T. Allen McQuary

When I picked up my hat to leave the post office, Nanalea was eating a sandwich and drinking a Coca-Cola at her desk. She said, "Would you lock the door behind you? This'll be the only moment of peace I get all day."

"Okay." I locked the door behind me and stepped into the bright light of the noonday sun.

No one in the street. Good.

It's too hot to be out and about.

I walked around the post office, and now, here I am, a grown man sitting beneath a big oak tree. I have on a three-piece suit and round-framed glasses and a natty hat. I am Somebody but not for long.

I always thought I would reimburse the till before I got caught. I thought Nanalea knew how to fix the books.

I thought, I thought.

I wonder if she's the one who told the inspector. Told him so she wouldn't have to go to jail.

Bitch.

Those inspectors think they're God Almighty.

My head hurts, so I massage my temples.

Right temple: Point of entry. Left temple: A god awful mess.

No, that's not fair. She's not a bitch. She's got seven kids and needs the money. My kids are grown and out of the house, and I still need the money. Why does money come so easy to some men?

Eight hundred and ninety-six dollars doesn't seem like enough to kill yourself over, but it's sure as hell enough to go to prison over.

I've been teaching Sunday School at the Christian Church for over seven years. The children sit in a semicircle on the floor and watch me as I hold up a picture book with Jesus rising from the grave.

One little boy asks, "How come he's not smiling?"

"You mean Jesus?"

"Yessir. You'd think he'd be happy."

"This is just a picture of what an artist thought he might look like."

"So it ain't a real picture?"

"Well, it's a real picture. It's just not the real Jesus."

"That's what I meant."

What will the kids think? That their teacher was a liar? A thief? Will they think Jesus is a lie because I am a liar? At least I won't be here to deal with it. I've been dealing with lies my whole life.

I pull the hammer back. Then I pull it back again and ease the hammer down. It's hard to shoot yourself even when you know you have to.

Money has always been a problem. Jesus said you can't worship God and money, but everybody does it. Everybody.

I look up and the leaves are moving.

A breeze on a hot day is a mercy. I like to look up and see the sun winking through the moving leaves.

Did you know I was a bookbinder for many years?

Yep. I was.

I was in the courthouse one day, and I heard a man say, "Get McQuary to bind them records fer ye. He does a fine job! He's a damn good bookbinder!"

A damn good bookbinder. Now, that's something to be known for.

All I ever wanted was to be somebody.

One time I was walking along the gravel path from Father's fishing camp on the James River, and I saw a girl swimming naked in the river. Suddenly, she stood and the water ran glistening down her body. Her hair hung limp and dripping on her shoulders.

She was pretty, but Maggie was prettier. She wore plain pinafore dresses, and I watched her from the window when she left for school.

Any fool could tell she was only fourteen, but the judge married us anyway. After the ceremony, I took my purple clothes out behind Vertrude's house and burned them in a metal barrel. The black smoke rolling upward seemed to mean something, but what, I couldn't say. The last thing I tossed on the fire was the mask.

"When I was a child, I thought as a child, but now I've put childish things away."

At least, that's what I kept telling myself while the clothes burned.

We were married for seven years when she said, "There's not room for two in this marriage. You've never been married to anyone but yourself. Besides, I got what I wanted, so no harm, no foul, no hard feelings. Bye, Mack."

Then she was gone.