Empire Falls by Richard Russo Page A

paint-spattered overalls. “He’s a filthy degenerate is what he is. He’s tracking his filth into my house.”
    Father Mark sighed. “You’re wrong all around, Tom. First, it’s not your house.”
    “Is too,” he said.
    “No, the house belongs to the parish, as you’re well aware.”
    Father Tom seemed to consider the unfairness of this arrangement, then finally shrugged.
    “And Miles isn’t a degenerate,” the younger priest said. “He’s covered with paint because he’s painting the church for us, remember? For free?”
    The old man squinted first at his colleague, then at Miles. Always a frugal man in the extreme, Father Tom might have been expected to be mollified by this news, but instead he continued to glare fiercely, as if to suggest that no good deed could disguise the fundamental evil of Miles’s heart. “I may be old,” he conceded, “but I still know a peckerhead when I see one.”
    Father Mark, his patience exhausted, slid out of the booth and took him by the shoulders, rotating him gently but firmly. “Tom,” he said, “look at me.” When he continued to glare at Miles, Father Mark placed the tips of his fingers on the old man’s stubbled chin, turning his head. “Look at me, Tom.”
    Finally he did, and his expression instantly morphed from disgust to shame.
    “Tom,” Father Mark said, “remember what we talked about before?”
    If so, he showed no sign, as he studied Father Mark through red, rheumy eyes.
    “I’m sorry you’re not feeling well today, but this sort of behavior is intolerable. You owe our friend an apology.”
    To Miles, Father Tom resembled nothing more than a scolded child, convinced against his better instincts by a loving parent that he’d been a bad boy. He glanced back at Miles to see if it was possible to owe such a man an apology, then returned to Father Mark’s stern gaze. The two men stared at each other long enough to make Miles squirm, but finally Father Tom turned to Miles and said, “Forgive me.”
    Miles didn’t hesitate. “Of course, Father Tom. I’m sorry, too.” And he was sorry. Satisfying or not, it wouldn’t have been a good thing to kill an elderly priest, which also suggested it was not a good thing to wish for.
    “There,” Father Mark said, “that’s better. Isn’t it nicer for all of us when we’re friends?”
    Father Tom appeared to consider this extremely dubious, again studying Miles for several long beats before shaking his head and shuffling out of the room. Miles couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard one more “peckerhead” escape the old man’s lips out in the hallway.
    Father Mark continued to stare at the doorway as the sound of shuffling slippered feet receded. The expression on the younger priest’s face wasn’t quite as tolerant as one might have expected of a clergyman.
    “It’s okay,” Miles assured him. “Father Tom and I go way back, you know. He’s not himself.”
    “You think not?” Father Mark asked.
    “It’s not his fault that stuff comes out.”
    “True,” Father Mark said. “Interesting that it’s there to begin with, though. I understand why it’s coming out, but how do you suppose it got in there?”
    “Well …”
    “I know.” Father Mark grinned. “An eternal question, answered in Genesis. Still, I’m sorry he said what he did. I have no idea where he comes up with such things. He probably doesn’t even remember your mother.”
    Miles forced himself to consider this possibility. True, the old man’s mind was gone. The problem was, it wasn’t completely gone, and Father Tom’s eyes, especially when he was angry, often appeared to be ablaze with both intelligence and memory. “Actually, she’s been on my mind lately,” Miles said, adding, “I have no idea why.” Though he did know. It was the Vineyard that had done it, just as it did every summer.
    Outside, the rain had begun again, steadier now beneath the low sky. Miles pushed his empty coffee cup toward the