Read Emma Donoghue Two-Book Bundle for Free Online Page B

Keilor said, ‘See you next week,’ part of him was so relieved he thought he might go down on his knees and cry.
    Which was exactly what he did a few weeks later, on his forty-third birthday. Pastor Tull said it took a lot of folks that way.
    For the first few weeks he hadn’t said a word to Margaret about where he was going; he let her think he was stretching his legs. And when he began to mention the church it was all very cool; he tried to sound like an anthropologist on the Nature Channel.
    ‘Do you actually believe any of that stuff?’ Margaret asked lightly in the middle of Sunday dinner, and he shrugged and took another slice of salmon.
    But on his birthday he walked home and told her he’d accepted Jesus Christ as his Lord and Personal Saviour. He said it all in a rush before he lost his nerve; he could hear how odd the words sounded as they left his mouth, like a very dry sort of joke.
    Margaret let out a single whoop of laughter. He didn’t take offence; it was a sound she always made when an appliance broke down or she slept through the alarm and missed her car pool. After a minute she came over to give him a hug with stiff arms and say, ‘Whatever makes you happy.’ As if it was a line she’d found in a magazine.
    A couple of months on, he started bringing her to the odd church social. She seemed to come willingly enough, just as years ago she used to accompany him to occasional hockey games, because that was his thing. She recognized a guy from her accounts department, and they talked about the crazy new ventilation system. She admired Pastor Tull’s moustache.
    Mrs Keilor was in charge of the salad table. She whispered a question about whether his wife was saved, too. ‘Not yet,’ he said, as if he had great hopes. He was afraid somebody would ask Margaret the same question; he kept one ear out for her sharp laugh.
    Margaret had no time for the abstract; that was something he always used to love about her. If she couldn’t touch it, smell it, taste it, then it didn’t matter. Her favourite exclamation was ‘Unreal’. Whenever he started talking hypotheticals, she would reach for her sewing box, so the time wouldn’t be completely wasted. Once she got around three sides of a cushion cover while he was wondering aloud about the future of democracy.
    He didn’t talk about his ideas, these days. He kept his new books on his side of the bed; he left his new cassettes in the car so he could play them on the way to work. He only watched the Bible Channel on the evenings when Margaret was out at the Y. And she quietly worked around this latest and most obscure of his hobbies.
    He waited for her to ask, but she didn’t. He would have welcomed her questions; he still had a bunch of his own. But Margaret was content not to understand. He couldn’t figure that out. How she could bear not to know what was going on in his head. In his heart. In what he was learning, with some embarrassment, to call his soul.
    He was dreaming about Jesus these days; that was something he wouldn’t have told Margaret even if she’d asked. In the dreams he was generally walking up a mountain behind Jesus, who only looked about twenty-two, thin but surprisingly solid. You could lean your head on his bony shoulder. Jesus could speak without moving his lips.
    He never had difficulty getting up these mornings; he just asked Jesus to get him out of bed and next thing his feet were on the rug. And work got done just like that. The things he had expected to be hardest were almost easy. He had thrown away his Zippo the day after his birthday and hadn’t had a single drag since. Every time he got the craving he said, ‘Jesus, Jesus, Jesus,’ in his head till it went away. The same with beer. After Josh Miles at the church, who used to be an alcoholic, took him aside for a word, he saw he was better off without the stuff. Now he didn’t miss it, didn’t need it. He still dusted his stein collection, but he was thinking of