All Saints Read Online Free PDF Page B

and do up his room.
    He grabbed his cell phone and turned it on. Ruth had called at six the evening before. Called and left no message. Six. Just when it would have been starting to get dark.
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    He gets up from his desk. Walks past the chair with the sweater on it. Goes to the bookcase. In the dim light the junk sculpture cross looks like a black and white photograph of itself. He puts his palms on the wall to either side of it and braces himself, leaning forward and hanging his head.
    â€œRuth,” he begins, “that time, when you tried to tell me you were sorry for screwing up my career, I should have let you talk. I should have heard you out and accepted your apology. And then I should have said, You’re right, Ruth. You did screw up my career. You screwed it up good. Best thing you ever did, matter of fact. But you know something? It’s okay. Because if it was between the church and you, there was no contest. Even with all the ups and downs and the craziness and the shit and the maxed-out credit cards, the church never stood a chance. I chose you, Ruth. And I’m glad. There. That’s what my so-called career was about. And that’s what I should have said to you. And I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry, Ruth. I’m sorry.”
    He stays leaning against the wall, head down. Breathing through his mouth. Feeling the tears well and drop. Forcing himself to see her. To ask himself the questions.
    Would she have heard the phone, if he had called back in time? Was she already out on the porch in that bitter cold, shivering under the quilt she had allowed herself, washing her pills down with the bottle of cabernet she had selected from their wine rack? And even if he had called and she had heard, would she have been capable of getting back inside the house?
    Or did she sit and wait on the couch? The quilt folded beside her, the bottle and pills resting on it? Feeling, as the darkness deepened and the stars got sharp in the sky, his tacit permission sinking into her bones?
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    What was it about this woman? He had to take charge here. He was starting to feel ridiculously close to tears again.
    â€œHow about I start by touching base with you, Kelly? What brings you through the door of this place every Sunday?”
    She had every right to remind him that she wasn’t the one being interviewed. But she stopped writing and sat very still, her eyes on his desk blotter.
    â€œIt keeps me real.”
    He wanted to prompt her— real in what way —but sensed that the answer was coming.
    â€œI mean, I work with a lot of people who are a lot younger than me, okay? And they’ve all got their gadgets—their cell phones and their iPads and whatever everybody’s just got to have this week. And that’s what they talk about. Gadgets and clothes and TV. Even when I’m on the bus, I hear all the phones going off, and all the people flipping them open and saying, Hi. I’m on the bus. And I just get scared. And I’m not even sure what I’m scared of.”
    She was silent. He waited, watching her mouth.
    â€œIt’s just so easy to—I mean, I worshipped my ex. I did. He was everything. And then he left me for somebody else. And I felt like Alice for a while—you know? Falling and falling and never touching bottom? And you want to touch bottom. But at the same time you’re scared of what bottom might be?”
    Simon nodded. “Getting back to your word, real,” he said. “Are you saying that coming here saves you from worshipping false gods? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be putting words in—”
    But she was nodding. “No, you’ve got it. I mean, I don’t know if All Saints is the be-all and the end-all. But it’s about something. And whatever that is, it’s not going to be obsolete next week. And it’s never going to dump me.”
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    Simon is back at his desk. The window behind him is turning