Free The Sun Gods by Jay Rubin Page B

passion with which he delivered it brought numerous compliments from the departing worshippers the following morning. His heart still seemed to echo with the strains of the choir as he watched the last of his congregation file out into the soft February sunlight.
    It was one of those glorious, cool, spring-like days, the kind that occurred with increasing frequency once the gray pall of the Seattle winter had broken. Taking advantage of the weather, the three of them had walked to church this morning, bundled up, cheeks glowing, breath white in the chilly air, he and Mitsuko taking turns carrying Billy whenever his little legs became tired.
    Now, bundled less tightly under the noonday sun, Pastor Tom and Mitsuko and Billy retraced their steps up Broadway, pausing to admire the crocus shoots in one front yard, stopping to examine the buds of a plum tree and trade guesses on when it would burst into bloom, praising the dome of blue that arched over the city and the delicate wisps of white cloud floating within it. The street was quiet today without the long lines of chugging automobiles.
    As they neared the corner of Cherry Street, Tom noticed a man lurking in the shadowy entrance of a furniture store. He moved away from the curb side of the sidewalk to place himself between the man and Mitsuko and Billy. He pointed to the fresh spring green of a willow tree on the other side of the street to distract their attention.
    Surrounded on three sides by store windows, the black and white tile floor of the entrance was littered with newspapers. The man wore a tattered brown overcoat and black felt hat that had long since lost its shape, as had his gray, grimy face. He clutched a bottle to his chest and stood glaring out at the world through bloodshot eyes. He seemed ancient, but the closer Tom studied him, the more he realized the man could not be much older than himself, certainly no more than forty. Then it struck him who this was: Manfredo, the farmer who used to park his horse wagon on Summit Avenue each week to sell vegetables and fruit until two summers ago, when he had been replaced by Noboru Shimozato from Tom’s own congregation.
    Tom felt moved to speak to the poor fellow, but just as they approached the entrance, the man fixed his wild eyes on them and released a foaming, white gob of spit that grazed Tom’s pant leg and dribbled onto his shoe.
    â€œJap bitch!” he yelled hoarsely. “Go back to Japan, bitch! And take your white Jap husband with you!”
    Suddenly Tom was a seventeen-year-old Kansas farm boy again, and he whirled around to confront his attacker.
    â€œWhat are you gonna do?” the man sneered, “hit me with your Bible? Goddam white Jap, I’ll kill ya!”
    â€œPastor Tom! No!” cried Mitsuko, and Billy started to shriek. Mitsuko pulled on his arm, and he backed away from the man, who laughed with flaring nostrils and spit on the ground again.
    Mitsuko grabbed Billy and hurried on ahead. The man’s derisive laughter echoed from his glass cage as Tom followed after her, feeling angry but also disappointed in himself for having forgotten the lessons of the Gospel so easily, if only for a moment.
    â€œMitsuko, wait,” he called to her. They had put a block or more between themselves and the drunkard. Holding Billy, she whirled around to face him, and when he came up to her, their clouds of steamy breath mingled in the chill air.
    â€œWe shouldn’t let a poor soul like that ruin everything,” Tom said. “It’s still a lovely day.”
    She glanced back down the street, and Billy began to struggle in her grasp. He wanted to walk again.
    They resumed their leisurely pace, but Mitsuko was no longer smiling. “On this day of all days,” Tom said, “we must try to understand the suffering of a poor man like that. The evil words he speaks are not directed at us; they echo from the pain he feels in his own heart. These are the times when we