The Trinity Read Online Free PDF Page A

seat at the table with the two young sailors, both with nearly empty pint glasses in front of them.
    They nod. “Hello, sir.” They sit more erectly.
    Crowley notices their tenseness. Their discomfort makes him feel smug, secure, powerful.
    “Relax, fellows,” says Crowley, scanning the pub, making sure there are no other Americans. There aren’t. “I’m not here to lecture you about drinking or try to get you to come to church. I’m out for a pint, myself. Even priests need to have a drink now and then.”
    And Crowley looks more relaxed, like a person who belongs in a pub. Wearing a tartan tam that he purchased in a shop in Dundee, a dark blue wool sweater on top of a white collared shirt and khaki trousers, he looks almost Scottish.
    “What are you boys drinking? Lager?”
    They nod in affirmation, glad someone is buying them beer, as their funds are running low and payday is a good week away.
    Crowley walks to the bar and comes back clutching three pint glasses, dripping beer as he deposits the glasses on the table.
    The priest produces a pack of cigarettes and offers one to each of the young sailors. The heavier one, Brad Hinckley, is shocked. He was raised around a Catholic grandmother, and the sight of a priest smoking and drinking surprises him. He also thinks it’s cool. All three light their cigarettes and exhale simultaneously.
    “So, how long you boys been here, been in this country?” Crowley asks.
    Hinckley has been in Scotland six months. The other sailor, Lee Rodgers, just a bit longer. Crowley asks them if they like being there. They both hate it. They hate the weather, which is continually cold and damp, and they hate the people with the stupid accents. The Scottish people are referred to as “blokes” by the Americans, a term that the Scots find offensive. The two refer to everything Scottish as “bloke.”
    “This bloke money is too big for your wallet.”
    “The bloke beer is horrible,” they both claim while quickly drinking their pints.
    “The bloke music is weird. No good country stations on the radio,” says Rodgers. He hails from southern Missouri, just outside of Cape Girardeau.
    “The bloke T.V. only has four channels, with weird shows and sheep herding contests, and cricket is the most boring sport I ever saw and soccer is stupid and I can’t see any football,” says Hinckley, who constantly recalls the glory of watching college football in his native Nebraska. Nothing else in his life matters as much.
    Crowley sees potential in these two young men. They are slightly bitter for no good reason.
    “Will I ever see either of you in church?” Crowley asks.
    They both lie and say yes.
    “Better yet, screw church—come to my house, I insist. A sort of Bible study, free food and beer. How’s that?”
    It is the week preceding Christmas and a priest is usually absorbed in church related duties, but not Crowley. There are things he can do, Masses to prepare, homilies to write, but he is not interested. He will wing it for his Christmas Eve Mass, as he does all Masses. Maybe he’ll put up a box for canned goods for the poor. Which poor? The poor on base or the poor Scots? He does not know. Maybe (and most probably) he will throw the cans away.
    Yet he may keep them for himself, he decides, as the three unusual friends leave the pub and pile into Crowley’s Austin and drive the few miles to the priest’s farmhouse.
    The priest’s cupboards, small refrigerator, and liquor cabinet are stocked for an occasion such as this. He knew it would only be a matter of time before he found some potential recruits; he just didn’t expect them to be American. He felt the choice was made by the gods, and he wasn’t going to tempt fate and contradict them. He feels their presence in his cold sitting room and looks for the white lights as he shovels coal into his fireplace and strikes a match.
    Hinckley and Rodgers stand around awkwardly, staring at the walls in the dimly lit room. Father