Free The Night Before by David Fulmer

mother’s melancholy smile and touched her arm. “We should go home and wait for him,” she said.
    The church was a converted storefront of concrete block with a flat roof upon which a sturdy cross had been erected and was now cast in the blue glow of a single spotlight.
    Reverend Callum unlocked the front door and held it wide. Joe stepped inside to find six pairs of pews arranged along either side of the small room and facing a low platform with a lectern at its center. The street windows had been covered with patches of colored plastic to emulate stained glass with the odd touch of heavy steel mesh affixed to the frames. A reed organ that appeared to be a relic from the 1960s had been pushed into the corner next to the door through which the reverend now led Joe.
    Joe gestured toward the windows. “You have to worry about break-ins?” he said.
    Reverend Callum said, “About what? Oh. Yes, sir. Desperate people will do wrong, even at a church. These things happen. But don’t worry. We’re safe here.”
    He led his guest into an office in the back of the building. It was as tidy as a space cramped with two desks, several sets of bookshelves, a credenza, a folding cot made up to military precision, and a trio of file cabinets could be. The lamps on each desk cast the room in shades of amber. A Christmas hymn played softly from an old radio in fake wood grain that was perched atop one of the file cabinets.
    Reverend Callum dropped his gloves and keys and waved a hand to the desk in the corner. “Have a seat,” he said. “Warm yourself.” He peered at the telephone. “No calls,” he murmured. “That’s good. Thank God.”
    He began puttering about his desk, shuffling papers. Joe settled into the chair and as the music whispered kindly from the radio, he rested his head on his folded arms and closed his eyes. An image of his house drifted into his mind, a postcard blown on a breeze, the outside lights glowing against the fallen snow and the tree that took up a whole corner of the front room visible through a misty window. Though a pleasant portrait, it seemed strange, as if from a foreign place. How odd it was that he would feel that way after so much time?
    In the next frame, his children’s sweet faces appeared at the window and he felt a dark chill run through his bones, a sudden sickening notion that one or both weren’t his. Whose, then? Don’s? Some other long ago lover’s? Who knew how many there had been over there twelve years? He felt panic rise in his chest, his heart thumping so hard that he could—
    â€œMister Joe?”
    Reverend Callum was standing before him, his brow stitched in concern. “You all right? You were making some noise over here.”
    Joe raised his head, blinking blearily. “Sorry. I dozed off.”
    The reverend was holding two butter cookies on a napkin in one hand and a cracked coffee cup in the other. “Thought you might like a little something,” he said.
    Joe stared at the offering for a long moment. “Thank you.” He accepted the snack and went about nibbling and sipping dutifully.
    The reverend stood back to regard him in a pensive way. He said, “You want me to call you a cab? Or you got some friend or family you want to come collect you?”
    Joe thought about it. Mariel had not left a message on his cell phone and he wasn’t ready to talk to her anyway. He could try Billy again, but phoning a noisy saloon from such a hallowed place seemed somehow profane. Also, he still wasn’t sure he wanted his best friend to know of this night’s shame. So he said, “I’ll just stay for a while, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œDon’t mind at all,” Reverend Callum said. “You’re welcome here.” He ambled to his desk, sat down, and opened an old Bible, its spine broken and pages frayed.
    Joe finished his cookies, aware of the reverend