The Main

David jumps up, knocking the table with his knees, and slams out of the room.

In the ensuing silence, Father Martin looks from Moishe to LaPointe, upset, confused. LaPointe draws a deep breath and begins desultorily to collect the cards. The moment David began his abuse, Moishe froze in mid-action; and now he replaces his glasses, threading each wire temple over its ear.

“Ah… listen,” he says quietly. “You must forgive David. He is in pain. He is grieving. Yesterday was the a

The others understand. David and Ha

During the pinochle games, David used to talk about Ha

Then, six years ago, Ha

For weeks afterward, the card games were quiet and uncomfortable; David was distant, uncharacteristically polite and withdrawn, and no one dared console him. His eyes were hollow, his face scoured with grief. Sometimes they would have to remind him that it was his play, and he would snap out of his reverie and apologize for delaying the game. David apologizing! Then, one evening, he mentioned Ha

That was how he would handle it. He would continue complaining about her. That way, she wouldn’t be gone completely. He could go on loving her, and being exasperated beyond bearing by her. Occasionally the sour void of grief returned to make him desperate and mean for a day or two, but in general he could handle it now.

The complicated double way he thought of his wife was expressed precisely one night when he happened to say, “Should Ha

“So just pretend nothing happened when he comes back,” Moishe says. “And whatever you do, don’t try to cheer him up. A man must be allowed to grieve once in a while. If he avoids the pain of grieving, the sadness never gets purged. It lumps up inside of him, poisoning his life. Tears are a solvent.”

Father Martin shakes his head. “But a friend should offer consolation.”

“No, Martin. That would be the easy, the comfortable thing to do. But not the kindest thing. Just as David is not grieving for Ha

LaPointe feels uncomfortable with all this talk of grief and consolation. Men shouldn’t need that sort of thing. And he is about to say so, when David appears in the doorway.

“Hey!” he says gruffly. “I went out to make the sandwiches, and I can’t find anything. What a mess!”

Moishe smiles as he rises. David has never made the sandwiches in his life. “You find some glasses for the wine. I’ll make the sandwiches, for a change.”

As David rummages about grumpily for the glasses, Moishe steps to a narrow table against the wall on which are arranged cold cuts and a loaf of rye bread. He cuts the bread rapidly, one stroke of the knife for each thin, perfect slice.

“It’s amazing how you do that, Moishe,” Father Martin says, eager to get the conversation rolling.

“Agh, that’s nothing,” David pronounces proudly. “Have you ever seen him cut fabric?” He spreads two fingers like scissors and makes a rapid gesture that narrowly misses Father Martin’s ear. “Psh-sh-sht! It’s a marvel to watch!”

Moishe chuckles to himself as he continues slicing. “I would call that a pretty modest accomplishment in life. I can just see my epitaph: ‘Boy! Could he cut cloth!’ “

“Yeah, yeah,” David says, fa

Father Martin has a fu

David turns and looks at him with heavy eyes. “What? What’s this about your appendix being damask?”

“No… I was just saying that… well, if Moishe were a surgeon…” Confused, Martin shrugs and drops it.

“I still don’t get it,” David says flatly. He is embarrassed about his recent loss of control, and Father Martin is going to feel the brunt of it.

“Well… it was just a joke,” Martin explains, deflated.

“Father,” David says, “let’s make a deal. You listen to confessions from old ladies too feeble to make interesting sins. I’ll tell the jokes. To each according to his needs; from each according to his abilities.”

“Look who’s the communist,” Moishe says, trying to attract some of the fire away from Martin.

“Who said anything about being a communist?” David wants to know.

“Forget it. Did you manage to find the glasses?”

“What glasses? Oh. The glasses.”

Moishe puts a plate of sandwiches on the table, while David brings three thick-bottomed water glasses and a handleless coffee mug, which he gives to Father Martin. The wine is poured, and they toast life.

David drains his glass and pours another. “Tell me, Father, do you know the meaning of aroysgevorfeneh verter?”

Father Martin shakes his head.

“That’s Yiddish for ‘advice given to a priest about how to play pinochle.’ But that’s all right. I forgive you. I understand why you overbid.”

“I don’t believe I overbid…”

“The reason you overbid was because you had a marriage of hearts. And who can expect a priest to know the value of a marriage? Eh?”

Father Martin sighs. David always delights in little digs at celibacy.

“Now me!” David gestures broadly with his sandwich. “I know the value of a marriage. My wife Ha

LaPointe laughs. “I’d like to see the hand you wouldn’t bid on.”

David laughs too. “Maybe so. Maybe so. Hey, tell me, Claude. How come you never married, eh?”

Father Martin glances uneasily at LaPointe.

When Martin was a young priest on the Main, he had known LaPointe’s wife. He was her confessor; he was with her when she died. And later, after the funeral, he happened upon LaPointe, standing in the empty church. It was after midnight, and the big uniformed cop stood alone in the middle of the center aisle. He was sobbing. Not from grief; from fury. God had taken from him the only thing he loved, and after only a year of marriage. More urbane men might have lost their faith in God; but not LaPointe. He was fresh from downriver, and his Trifluvian belief was too fundamental, too natural. God was a palpable being to him, the flesh-and-blood man on the cross. He still believed in God. And he hated His guts! In his agony he shouted out in the echoing church, “You son of a bitch! Rotten son of a bitch!”