Page 272 - What They Did to the Kid

260 Jack Fritscher

sacristan was already up preparing the vestments and chalices for
early Mass in honor of Saint Nicholas.
An incredible sadness took my breath. I stood on the steps star-
ing up at the moon over the silent white snow.
Oh my God, I offer the rest of my life to You. I offer You all
my prayers, works, joys, and sufferings of this day, of this life, in
union with the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the intentions for which
He pleads, and offers Himself in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass
throughout the world in reparation for my sins and the sins of the
whole world. Oh my God, I am so scared.
I trudged through the snow, feeling the true knee-deep meaning
of trudging, out the stately drive winding like a postcard out to the
highway. To leave the property was a mortal sin. The moonlit night
was freezing cold. I stepped off the drive and put my foot down. A
semi-truck roared passed. I walked along the shoulder of the forbid-
den road toward the town. Kennedy was assassinated and so was I.
Misery was growing distant in the dark. Cars and trucks swept by
me, wheels swirling snow, flakes caking my face.
Several times I turned and looked back, and, as Lot’s wife turned
to salt, I turned to ice. My heart turned to stone. My breath turned
to steam.
I stood on the shoulder of the highway and watched a few early
lights at Misery come slowly on. A horn swooped wailing beside me.
The headlights and the gusts of traffic overpowered Misery itself.
The swirling snow turned Misery into one of those toy miniatures
in a glass dome of water that kids shake to watch the snow fall. I
picked up my suitcase and left Misery behind me swirling like a tiny
fortress in a snowy medieval keep.
Down the highway, I walked into a drive-in coffee shop deco-
rated for Christmas. On the jukebox, Bobby Helms was singing,
“Jingle Bell Rock.” The waitress took a look at me and nodded to a
couple of truck drivers sitting at the counter. I was one of them now.
I was no longer set aside from life.
“You’re from that place, aren’t you,” the waitress said. “They
always come here like you with their suitcases. You all have the same
hangdog look. Maybe I should call the SPCA.”

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