Page 39 of Spike

“It’s a pleasureto meet you, Señora Celeste,” I said, gently taking her hand and kissing it.

Celeste saidnothing but turned to Trixie and winked.

“Celeste, whateveryou’re cooking tonight smells absolutely delicious,” Gary Mitchell said,joining us in the kitchen.

“I had Celesteprepare Duck Fesenjan for this evening’s meal,” Sherri said.

“My God, how Heloves me,” Gary said, placing both hands over his heart.

“Do you likeduck?” Trixie asked.

“I-I’ve never hadit before.”

“You’ll love it,”Gary said. “The way Celeste cooks. It practically melts in your mouth.”

“Fesenjan isa duck stew with pomegranate seeds and walnuts,” Sherri chimed in.

“I see.” I triedto sound sincere as I added, “Sounds delicious.”

“Thanks again forjoining us this evening, Spike,” Gary said.

“Thanks for theinvite.”

I had a theorythat most evangelical Christian pastors fell under one of two basic categories.The father figure, or the fuckable figure. From what I could see, most churchesseemed to be led by either an older, slightly out of touch, unassuming dadtype, or a hip, young charismatic cool guy. Gary Mitchell clearly fell intocategory one. He was short, stocky, and wore the moustache of a nineteenthcentury train conductor.

“Did you take yourback pill?” Sherri asked her husband.

“Yes, dear.” Garyreplied, before turning to me. “Old sports injury.”

“Oh, good grief,”Sherri interjected. “You fell out of a golf cart on the ninth hole at a resortin Mexico.”

“Can I get yousomething to drink, Spike?” Gary asked, ignoring his wife’s ‘jab.’

“Oh, sure,” Ireplied. “I’d love a beer. Any kind’ll do, I’m not picky.”

“We don’t drinkalcohol in this house,” Gary said, in a slightly less friendly tone. “How abouta Fresca? I’ll grab some from the basement.”

I threw Trixie agrimace and a shrug, as she clearly tried to fight back a laugh.

“Sounds great,” Ireplied.

I couldn’t imaginewhat it must have been like for her to grow up in a place like this. Shit, Ihad it easy in Lakewood.

“He’s going tocome back with a scripture about alcohol,” she whispered, guiding me into thefamily room next to the kitchen, but out of earshot of her mother. “Bet you tenbucks.”

“Didn’t Jesusdrink wine with his disciples? And pretty much everywhere else he went? Wasn’this first miracle making sure there was wine at the party?”

She chuckled. “Myfather would give you an answer about wine being different back in the times ofJesus, and how it wasn’t like it is now.”

“Was it?” I asked.

She scoffed. “No,of course not, it’s wine. It’s always been wine. That’s what makes it… wine.From a molecular standpoint, things are the way they’ve always been. Youferment a grape, you get a chemical reaction. It’s the same now, as it was atthe beginning of the universe.”

“So, you’re notsomeone who thinks science is mumbo jumbo, anti-god talk?”

“Of course not.People act like there are good chemicals and bad chemicals… good people and badpeople. Free will or the will of God. One or the other. When in truth, life isabout how we handle ourselves within the environment we find ourselves.”

“Seems to me thatkind of talk would be bordering on heresy for a pastor’s kid.”

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