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thin old man at the
wheel. He regarded the angry priest as if he were the Angel of
Death, and urged his wheezing machine to a greater
effort.
       
        After
his nausea passed, his head began to throb. He estimated he had
walked a mile from where Anne-Marie had let him off. It seemed he
should have reached the intersection of 537, but there was only
more of the same underused two-lane ahead. Had that man in the
general store given him false directions?
        The few
cars and trucks on the road showed an obvious reluctance to take
him aboard—the result, he supposed, of his appearance. Finally a
car stopped. It was an antique, a ‘48 or ‘49 Mercury, driven by a
youth whose long brown hair was tied back in a ponytail. He looked
sober enough, but the priest had begun to doubt his own ability to
judge character. The radio was playing loud rock music.
       “ Where
you headed?” the youngster shouted. Father Walther started to shout
back an answer, then realized he didn’t have the strength. The boy
lowered the radio.
       “ My car
broke down on the Turnpike. I’m a Catholic priest. I’m also not
feeling well. I’m not looking for alcohol, drugs, or sex. I
appreciate your stopping and I realize this is your car, not mine,
but I just can’t tolerate any loud noise at the moment.”
        The
youth stared at him for several seconds. Then he turned off the
radio altogether.
        He tried
to doze, but the aches in his head and stomach kept him awake. His
lip was trembling like an old man’s. When he closed his eyes the
lids refused to stay shut. He felt he should throw in the towel and
go home. But he didn’t have the energy to make even that decision.
He told himself his condition was just the result of a series of
unfortunate incidents, starting with his breakdown on the Turnpike.
But he didn’t feel any better for these thoughts.
        When he
opened his eyes again he seemed to be in a pine forest. By the
light, he judged it was late afternoon. The radio was still turned
off.
       “ Where are
we?”
       “ Lebanon State
Forest.” The name meant nothing. “Halfway to your
destination.”
        He
pulled himself up straight on the seat. Unlike contemporary car
seats, it was of a piece from one door to the other, covered by a
worn plastic weave. The car was a good forty years older than his
Ford, yet it was still on the road, while the Ford was pushing up
daisies in a junkyard.
       “ You
must know how to take care of automobiles,” he offered to make up
for his earlier rudeness.
       “ Some.
It’s kind of a hobby. Keeps me out of trouble,” the youngster added
with a first-prize grin. “Where exactly are you headed, Father? I
mean, the shore’s a pretty long stretch of real estate.”
        He
hadn’t given any thought to his precise destination. He had
presumed he would make that decision when he reached a bus
depot.
       “ I could let you
off in Toms River.”
       “ I don’t want to
put you to any trouble.”
       “ No trouble,
Father. Just say the word.”
       “ Toms River
would be fine. Thank you very much.”
       “ Like I said,
Father, no trouble.”
        It seemed
strange being addressed as a priest again. It made the last two
days seem like an illusion. He had not realized how much his idea
of himself was conditioned by the way other people saw him. All he
had noticed was how much of ordinary life he was denied because of
his roman collar. But now that same clerical identity seemed like a
warm coat on a cold day, a haven from a troubled, confusing world.
Yet even as he welcomed its comfort he sensed that something was
wrong. The coat didn’t fit the way it used to. The haven was no
longer invulnerable. And the smell of vomit that clung to his shirt
insisted that the past two days had not been an
hallucination.
        When
they reached Toms River the youth saw his passenger safely to the
bus stop.
       “ Be sure
you flag him down,