In the morning, knowing full well Cari was awake, Jason arose early and dressed quietly. He hunched into his jacket as a bashful sun peeked over the rooftops. Soon the sun would alchemize the dew into brief diamonds, only to vaporize them later.

Starbucks was only three blocks away, but he preferred McDonald’s coffee. Cheaper and not as strong. Maybe the extra five-block walk would help him think.

It didn’t.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had skipped Sunday mass, but on this morning he had no desire to attend mass or do anything else that required concentration.

A Now Hiring sign on the door extolled the benefits of working for McDonald’s: $9.75 an hour, flexible working hours and the opportunity for advancement. Jason wondered if Starbucks paid their help more. Their coffee sure cost more.

Two coffees, an Egg McMuffin with hash browns, the St. Paul Pioneer Press and the Minneapolis Star Tribune consumed an hour, during which he decided to go to mass at nearby Lumen Christi Church before returning to Cari’s apartment.

Her door was unlocked but she wasn’t there. Jason flipped between CNN and Fox News with detachment until Cari returned at nearly eleven.

“I’d like you to meet Rhonda. Would you mind?” she said, as if nothing unusual had happened.

What the devil? “Let’s go for it.”

“Thanks. She’s meeting us at a restaurant at eleven-thirty. We’ll have to leave in a few minutes. She has a twelve-thirty commitment, so lunch’ll be quick.”

What presumption.

They were nearly outside when Cari backed through the door. “I need to check something.” Going to a cupboard, she reached behind a ceramic canister for something she apparently didn’t want Jason to see. With her back to him, she shoved a dark object into her tote bag. The glimpse he got wasn’t enough for Jason to see for certain what it was.

On the drive to the restaurant, Cari reached over and touched his arm. “I’m sorry about last night, and I appreciate your willingness to meet Rhonda. You’re so understanding, Jason.”

Rhonda Harris materialized at Kafé 421 in Dinkytown as a black woman of dramatic beauty. Tall and athletic looking, with soft, flowing hair that brushed her shoulders and framed her face in an auburnish-brown halo, she glided across the parking lot like a dancer.

Introductions made, they entered the restaurant and took a corner booth. Even during the preliminary chitchat, Jason sensed Rhonda’s intelligence and high-mindedness, a combination that impressed him and stirred his curiosity.

“Packing?” Rhonda offhandedly asked Cari, who nodded and said, a mite too quickly, “The two of you know each other through my emails. I’m glad you’re finally meeting in person.”

“You are the mystery man,” Rhonda said. “You look normal.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Rhonda’s expression was noncommittal.

Deciding to let the women take the conversational lead, Jason sipped the water their waitress had placed on the table. Was Rhonda confrontational or merely suspicious?

“Cari hasn’t told me much about you. I know you grew up together, you were a priest, and now you do similar work.” She looked at Cari. “She talks about you a lot, but doesn’t tell me much.”

Cari smiled. “I don’t know much more.”

“There’s not much more to my story,” Jason said. “Yours is probably more interesting.”

She had grown up in Des Moines with her chiropractor father, who played saxophone in a local band, and her mother, a high school teacher and avocational violinist. Although not Catholic, a music scholarship had taken her to Clarke College, a Catholic women’s school in Dubuque, followed by a master’s degree and PhD at the University of Iowa, then on to play violin for the Minneapolis Symphony while tutoring music students until her current stint at St. Catherine.

“I was weaned on classical music and still love it, but jazz and blues take me off the straight and narrow.”

“She also speaks fluent Spanish and French, and plays a mean game of tennis.”

“Very impressive. What do you do in your spare time?”

A brief frown creased her face before she recognized his facetiousness was devoid of sarcasm. “I try to, you know, allow a little time for a social life.”

“If you know anyone in the car business, I’d like an introduction. I have to buy one right away.”

“How about a motorcycle? I know someone who sells Harleys.”

Jason laughed. “I’d kill myself on one of those.”

“Excuse me for a moment.” Rhonda extracted a red capsule from her purse and swallowed it with water.

“Another headache?” Cari asked.

“Oh, yeah. But these little beauties help.”

“In addition to music,” Cari said, “Rhonda loves to travel by car. She knows Minnesota and its history better than most. She runs me ragged chasing around the state.”

They split a large Greek salad three ways. Jason followed Rhonda’s lead and ordered a panko-crusted walleye pike sandwich. Cari decided on fish tacos. The food was excellent. Although amicable, Rhonda remained guarded. As a result, the conversation suffered from a certain meeting-for-the-first-time awkwardness and never got beyond weather, hobbies, and other small talk.

“Jason, it’s been a pleasure,” Rhonda said at ten past twelve. “I have to run. You guys take your time.” She scooped up the checks. “Lunch on me, tip on you.” She hurried away.

“She likes you,” Cari said.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

Cari fiddled with her napkin. “She doesn’t warm up to people right away.”

“I need to ask you a question.”

“Fire away.”

“Interesting segue. Why do you carry a gun?”

She didn’t answer.

“Come on, Cari. When I saw you put something in your purse, I didn’t know what it was, or maybe I didn’t want to believe my eyes, but it became clear when Rhonda asked if you were packing. She wasn’t talking about a suitcase.”

She opened her purse for him to see inside. “It’s a Ruger nine-millimeter with a ten-shot clip. Rhonda and I go to the range once a month.”

“Practicing at a range for sport is one thing, but why carry a gun like that around? Does she?”

“Jeez, Jason, why do we do a lot of things?”

“And I’m the mystery man? What’s going on, Cari?”

“Do you read the papers? Watch TV? Lot of crazies out there.”

“And that’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Insanity was accumulating like snow in a Minnesota snowstorm. At least the gun wasn’t a tape recorder. He slid from the booth. “Let’s go find me a car.”

Staying for dinner, to say nothing of spending the night, was out of the question. He shuddered at the thought of sleeping in her apartment another night, no matter which bed. He couldn’t wait to hit the road, couldn’t wait to reach the calm confines of his tiny one-room apartment in the former brewery.

The seven-year-old Chevy he bought with a credit card for the down payment and the balance to be wired to the dealership by his bank was luxurious compared to his dead thirteen-year-old Ford. He disliked dipping into savings, but he disliked monthly payments more. Besides, his income was next to nothing and even the miniscule amount he earned varied from month to month. His credit rating dated to his teaching days at Saint Victor and enabled him to keep a credit card. To his immense relief, the sales person, an upbeat young Mexican woman in her twenties, handled all the details with grace and efficiency, including the out of state issues.

They didn’t meet in Eau Claire the following weekend, or the one after that. Cari’s email showed up the Monday following their second missed get-together.

From: Cari Lang carefreecari@gmail.com

Monday, July 30, 2012, 6:14 p.m.

Dear Jason,

I can’t tell you how much I miss seeing you. A familiar dark void has reappeared in my life. I know it’s my fault and hope you will forgive me for being so unfair and bitchy. I can’t promise anything, but I’m willing to try for a different outcome. Please let me know. Love always,

Cari

Not physically tired, but emotionally fatigued, Jason pushed up from his chair in slow motion. He wove his way across the plank floor to the crucifix and took down the old bugle his father had brought home from the Army, a souvenir from his tour in Viet Nam. He had taught Jason to play “Taps,” the only tune Jason ever learned before blowing those mournful notes over the grave of his father—that patient, loving man who had taken his own life to protect his family. Jason pressed the bugle against his chest and blinked rapidly against the morning sun slanting through the window of his cubicle.

Love always? This is love? Had ten years in the priesthood put him that far out of touch with reality? Or was Cari waging some kind of internecine or internal war? If so, what had touched off the conflict? Why would it affect their relationship? Who needed that kind of complexity? Life in a run-down brewery and no attachments was so much simpler.

Jason returned the bugle to the nail in Christ’s hand. He recalled his last visit to his mother in that godforsaken place for people who could no longer distinguish external reality from their own internal realities. Was Cari peering over the edge of a similar abyss?

Right now he had a class to teach at the prison, followed by a tutoring session, maybe the final one, with an inmate who was nothing but trouble.

Next Chapter: Chapter Nine