He’d labored since before dawn this morning and was eager to sit and relax . . . and eat. Looking at the wall clock, he calculated how much time remained before supper. It was clear by the looks of things that he’d have to wait awhile. Rubbing his beard, he was glad to be by himself. He reached for the cupboard and removed the first large plastic glass his callused fingers touched and turned on the faucet, letting it run. He filled the tumbler to the brim and gulped down the cold water. Then yet another full glass, straight down. He held it in his hand for a second or two, then set the glass down and went to the sitting room. He eyed Lettie’s corner cupboard, with its string of teacups and saucers, and turned away. The light from the front room windows beckoned him, and he peered out, wincing at the sight of her porch swing. The bishop’s words at last Tuesday’s meeting played over in his memory. “Your wife’s leaving is becoming a predicament for the People,” Bishop had voiced sternly.
