Ragnarök

Twelve: The Benevolent

"What are your plans for Christmas?" Liza asks from the floor, sitting cross-legged.

Mason, on the couch, nudges his head in the widow's direction. "You're looking at them."

Night has fallen, though it's early. Loosely watching a made-for-TV holiday special, they debate ordering out with the widow's debit card but can't commit to the idea of being hungry. Liza laments how often she eats just to pass the time. "Speaking of eating, you should sneak over to my place for Christmas dinner. That is, if it's alright by the missus."

He shoots her a look: very funny.

The missus is not doing well. She keeps bobbing in and out of consciousness, emitting short raspy coughs. Her complexion hasn't improved and her attitude is listless, though that could have something to do with the NyQuil he dosed her with half an hour ago.

". . . Otherwise it'll just be me and Patty and Todd, and that sounds worse than me and Patty alone. They're in that volatile phase of the relationship where they're either fucking or fighting. I've got Patty's arc down note for note. One day soon she'll sit me down and tell me either (A) Todd's an asshole and he left, or (B) Todd asked her to marry him."

"Which outcome are you rooting for?"

"What difference does it make. I'm out of there in two and a half years. She should start getting used to the idea, start finding ways to fill her time that don't involve me."

Liza migrates to the couch beside him. In lieu of eating, they kill some time making out, as the widow snores in her chair, as the mind-numbing plot of the holiday special pans out to some predictable, schlocky conclusion. He begins to brainstorm ways he can reel in the passion, otherwise the next logical step will be relocating to his bedroom. And while proof of his lust is on display, he feels traumatized by his previous inadequacy and doesn't think Liza will remain so patient with the chastity of their situation. Crackling from her at all times is this brazen, unchecked energy. It's what made her so appealing in the first place. He can't help wondering how far she's gone before, and with whom . . . Viktor? Jesus, what could she ever have seen in that greaseball? The human embodiment of roadkill.

Salvation comes in the form of headlights. They wash across the dim room and illuminate the ceiling. The couple pulls apart, trading looks. Mason goes to the window, expecting some confused out-of-towner to be making a U-turn. Instead, a dark-colored sedan kills its engine in the driveway. By the glow of an overhead dome light, he observes none other than Father Timothy Rourke behind the wheel, pulling on a pair of gloves.

"Fuck. It's the priest. What does he want?" He glances from Liza with her smeared lipstick to the widow in her codeine-addled stupor. "We have to get her out of sight. Stick her in the bedroom. He can't talk to her."

They bolt into action, startling the sick old woman awake as they take her by the arms and hoist her to her feet. The first knocks come at the door just as they are reclining her head upon the pillow. "I'm not sleepy," she murmurs, breath sticky with NyQuil. Liza can read Mason's unspoken preference. She volunteers to stay by the widow's side, keeping her quiet and complacent until Rourke goes away. Thanking her, Mason shuts the bedroom door.

He tempers his nerves with a few deep breaths before admitting Rourke inside.

The priest wears a long, intimidating gray coat, like an S.S. officer. He carefully removes his black earmuffs so as not to upset a single follicle, hair impeccably parted and tapered. Mason regrets to announce the widow has caught a mild cold and is currently resting.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Rourke says it with such effusive emotion one would think he's just heard about the passing of a family pet. Mason worries he'll want to go in and pray with her or some such thing. "Give her my best. But in fact it's you I came to speak with. You alone."