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was going on five, and traffic on the Saw Mill was
snarled. Sister Margaret would wait, of course. She was a lovely old woman, not
even the slightest whisper of Sister Teresa, the ancient, belittling crone
who'd taught Thomas when he'd attended junior high at St. Bridget's.
    The school was as boring and nondescript a hunk of real
estate as ever graced the real estate rolls of Roman Catholicism. St. Bridget's
church, in and of itself, was a gorgeous edifice, with a towering spire and an
enormous oval stained glass crucifixion scene above the altar. But the rectory
across the street, and the school next to that, might as well have been
military bunkers.
    When Thomas pulled the Volvo into the lot behind St.
Bridget's, it was twenty minutes past five o'clock. Sister Margaret was on the
rear steps watching Nathan clap erasers, a beatific smile on her face. As
Thomas slammed the car door, she shot him a stern glance. It occurred to him
that nuns just weren't as imposing now that contemporary thinking had allowed
most of them to wear civilian clothes rather than the traditional
black-and-white habit. Still, Sister Margaret was forbidding enough without the
penguin outfit. If you didn't know how sweet she was.
    "Hi, Daddy!" Nathan cried happily, all smiles,
though he squinted through a cloud of chalk dust. "I just have to finish
with these erasers, and then we can go!"
    "You got it, buddy," Thomas replied, chuckling to
himself. Nathan was a conscientious little boy. Truly a good kid. His eyes were
ice blue — Paul Newman blue, Emily had always said — and his hair a
sandy blond that could go either way, lighter or darker, as he grew. Bright,
healthy, handsome, gregarious. That was Nathan. The Randalls — back when
Thomas and Emily could still be collectively referred to as the Randalls
— had been extremely fortunate.
    But even the joy of Nathan's presence only delayed the
inevitable. Thoughts of Emily brought to mind one of Thomas's favorite songs
from the seventies. It was the Manhattans, he thought. "Some people are
made for each other, some people can love one another for life. How 'bout
us?"
    He'd always believed wholeheartedly in such romantic drivel.
At least until real life had intruded on radio daydreams. It had been quite a
blow to him. The truth of the answer — which of course was "no"
— hurt him deeply.
    Entropy. Love fades. Nothing gold can stay. Time flies.
    Depressing shit, all of it. But at the end of the day, he
had a successful career, and he had Nathan. So in spite of the heartaches,
Thomas was a relatively happy man.
    "My apologies, Sister," he said as he mounted the
school steps, remembering quite well the respect drummed into him over the
years he'd spent at St. Bridget's.
    "I'll forgive you this time, Thomas," the nun
warned, though the smile had already returned to her face. "But only
because you're usually so early."
    "Thanks, Sister M. You're the best," Thomas said.
    He turned to call to Nathan, but paused as Sister Margaret's
hand rested lightly on his shoulder.
    "Thomas?" she asked, and he regarded her again,
puzzled by her tone.
    "Is everything all right between you and Emily, these
days?" the nun asked, then flushed slightly. "I mean, other than the
obvious. Has there been any additional stress or . . . or hostility, that
Nathan might have noticed?"
    There was genuine concern in her soft inquiry, and so Thomas
was unwilling to brush the Sister's questions away as he might have with anyone
else prying into his personal life.
    "Please understand, my interest is only in Nathan's
welfare," she continued, obviously worried that she might have offended
him.
    "I understand perfectly, Sister," he replied. "But
other than the stresses of the divorce itself, I don't know of anything . . . I
mean, Emily and I have been working hard at making it all as easy as we can on
Nathan. Has something been bothering him?"
    Sister Margaret frowned, then raised her eyebrows and
sighed.
    "It isn't any one thing, Thomas,"