Mark Schweizer - Liturgical 12 - The Cantor Wore Crinolines Read Online Free PDF Page A

it out.”
    “I think it’s the future participle form of skink,” I said.
    “You know it’s not. It’s a descriptive noun and you can’t use it.”
    “Skink, skank, skunk,” I said, conjugating morphemes like the true professional I was. “Skinketh, beskanked, done skunked.”
    “Use that in a sentence. I dare you.”
    “Easy,” I said. “You done skunked up that potato salad.”
    Meg wrinkled up her nose, thought for a moment, then said, “I think we’ve lived in the hills too long, my dear. You’re beginning to make sense.”
    “Thank you.”
    “Now take it out.”
    “Oh, man,” I grumbled, pulling the paper out of the typewriter. “I’ll have to retype the whole page. I don’t see why … ”
    “Hayden Konig, you love it,” Meg said, and gave me a kiss full on the mouth. All of a sudden I couldn’t remember what I was going to say, but it was probably going to be a brilliant rejoinder of some sort. I watched her walk back to the kitchen, enjoying the view and noticing a little more sway than usual. She stopped at the door and turned back.
    “What are you looking at, big boy?” she said in her best Katherine Turner voice. “If you want something, just ask.”
    “Well, now that you mention it … ”
    “Later,” she laughed. “We have people coming over.”
     
    * * *
     
    Bratwurst Night was something special. Hot German potato salad was a necessity. Fresh rolls from Bun in the Oven, the new bakery in town. Caramelized onions, baked apples, and sauerkraut. The sauerkraut was an old family recipe, consisting of a jar of good kraut with a couple spoonfuls of red currant jam mixed in to sweeten it, bacon crumbles, caraway seeds, and a dollop of goose fat. The bratwursts had to be the best — hand stuffed into natural casings by Bavarian virgins, salted with their tears, and steamed in beer before grilling. I prefer a heavy, dark beer for steaming. Black Raven is perfect.
    We never had to dress up for Bratwurst Night. That was another plus. The only person that would not be in something extremely comfortable was Kent Murphee, chiefly because he didn’t own anything comfortable. I had never seen Kent when he hadn’t been wearing his old tweed jacket and vest, corduroy pants, and a tie stained with whatever he happened to be working on. Since he was the Watauga County Medical Examiner, no one ever bothered to ask what those stains might be. Jennifer, the good doctor’s wife, Jennifer, was not inclined to follow his example of quasi-formality. She was happy to dress down for the event and join the rest of us in our sweatshirts and jeans.
    The Murphees were the first to arrive, then Pete and Cynthia. Bev Greene and Nancy Parsky drove together and arrived as everyone else was deciding which of the colorful beers to try first.
    “Or wine,” Meg said to Bev, as she took her coat. “We have wine as well.”
    “Can we have some of that horrifically expensive stuff that Hayden and Bud bought?” asked Bev.
    “No,” said Meg.
    Bev laughed. “A glass of Pinot Noir then.”
    “These are all North Carolina beers,” said Pete, as he perused the selection.
    “I’m embracing our mutual heritage,” I answered. “Here, try this Duck-Rabbit.”
    “I’ll have one of those Black Ravens,” Kent said. “If you don’t need them all to steam the brats.”
    “Help yourself.”
    “Heck of a thing about that Pepperpot woman,” said Kent, popping off the cap. “You know it made the paper in Boone.”
    “No doubt,” I growled.
    “Well, she’s gone now,” said Meg.
    “I guess the thing that made us the maddest,” said Bev, “was that she thought she could get away with it. I mean, what priest in their right mind would try to funnel a hundred thousand dollars into their discretionary fund and use it to take a trip to Nicaragua?”
    “It was a mission trip,” Meg said. “She was on a mission.”
    “She sure was,” said Bev. “She and that personal trainer — which, by the way, the church