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           Judlitacigarettewithawoodenkitchenmatch,shookitout,andtossedthestubintoatinashtraywithabarelyreadableJimBeamadvertisementpaintedonitsbottom.

           "Ayuh,itwasStanleyBouchardwhotoldmeabouttheplace."Hepaused,thinking.

           Barelytouchedglassesofbeerstoodbeforethemonthecheckedoilcloththatcoveredthekitchentable.Behindthem,thebarrelofrangeoilclampedtothewallgurgledthreetimes,deliberately,andwasstill.Louishadcaughtapick-upsupperwithStevesubmarinesandwichesinthemostlydesertedBear’sDen.HehadfoundoutearlythatifyouaskedforahoagieoragrinderoragyroinMaine,theydidn’tknowwhatyouweretalkingabout.AskforasuboraWop-burger,andyouwereinbusiness.Withsomefoodinhim,LouisbegantofeelbetteraboutChurch’sreturn,feltthathehadthingsmoreinperspective,buthewasstillnotanxioustoreturntohisdark,emptyhousewherethecatcouldbelet’sfaceit,ganganywhereatall.

           Normasatwiththemforquiteawhile,watchingTVandworkingonasamplerthatshowedthesungoingdownbehindasmallcountymeetinghouse.Thecrossontherooftreewassilhouettedblackagainstthesettingsun.Somethingtosell,shesaid,atthechurchsaletheweekbeforeChristmas.Alwaysabigevent.Herfingersmovedwell,pushingtheneedlethroughthecloth,pullingitupthroughthesteelcircle.Herarthritiswasbarelynoticeabletonight.

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