Free Blameless in Abaddon by James Morrow Page B

that the Eternal Life Temple at Nineteenth and Tioga had formerly housed dozens of looms. It was the melancholy of such places that moved Martin, the exquisite loneliness of broken windows and shredded conveyor belts, the sublime sorrow of a rusting caboose sitting on a spur.
    He told his secretary to contact the relevant parties in the three cases on the calendar—a bait-and-switch appliance store in South Hills, a rent-control squabble between a Kingsley landlord and his deranged tenant, and a mixed-faith couple (he a Roman Catholic, she a Buddhist) who wanted to marry despite massive parental disapproval—and inform them he was indisposed. At 1:20 P.M. he boarded a SEPTA train out of Perkinsville and headed into the city.
    A castoff
Philadelphia Inquirer
lay on the seat. Out of habit he perused the articles pertaining to justice. A woman in Prescott, Arizona, was suing to retrieve her biological son from his adoptive parents. A doctor in Little Falls, Minnesota, had been convicted of murdering an eighty-year-old Alzheimer’s patient in the name of compassion. As the train pulled into Wayne Junction, Martin read how the United Nations, seeking to crack a white slavery ring operating out of Singapore, had after much debate amended the statutes of the International Court of Justice, giving its nine judges jurisdiction over individuals and the authority to try “crimes against humanity.”
    He got off the train and started his explorations.
    Poking around an abandoned Schlitz brewery on Clarissa Street, a fire-gutted cavern reeking of mildew and pigeon dung, Martin inevitably began meditating on the drunk drivers who filed through his courtroom. From his attempts to point these offenders toward the AA way of life, he had come to understand that an alcoholic’s convoluted psychological makeup could ultimately be grasped only by another alcoholic. Was the same true of grief? Did it take a mourner to know a mourner? One thing was certain: he wasn’t supposed to be in a defunct Schlitz brewery right now. He belonged in the company of the bereaved.
    A battered phone booth rose from the corner of Clarissa and Juniata. He lifted the receiver and, much to his surprise, heard a dial tone. For twenty-five cents he obtained the number of a P. Zabor in Deer Haven. Hunger pangs assaulted him, competing for his attention with the ache in his hip. He slipped the AT&T card from his wallet, punched in the appropriate digits, and connected with Brandon Appleyard’s mother.
    â€œHello?”
    A mere two syllables, but he recognized her voice. “Is this Patricia Zabor?”
    â€œWhat do you want?” she asked suspiciously.
    â€œWe met two weeks ago. In the cemetery. Martin Candle.”
    â€œOh, yes . . . I’ve been thinking about you.”
    â€œYou have?”
    â€œYes, I should’ve offered you my condolences.”
    â€œThat’s why I called.”
    â€œFor my condolences?”
    â€œTo offer mine. I’ve never been a parent, but I can imagine . . . anyway, I’m terribly sorry—that’s all. I’m so sorry.”
    â€œI talked to your mother.”
    â€œMy
mother
?”
    â€œAt your wife’s funeral. She told me I should be taking calcium supplements so I won’t get osteoporosis.”
    â€œPatricia, I was wondering—would you like to grab some dinner, maybe? There’s a Greek restaurant in your neighborhood, the Athenian Corner.”
    â€œI don’t want to go out tonight.”
    â€œNot hungry?”
    â€œYou kidding? I’ve been eating like a pig all day, and I’m still famished. Grief sharpens the appetite, have you noticed that? I’m in no condition. You understand?”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œI’m a wreck.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œAnother time, maybe.”
    â€œSure.”
    â€œIf you wanted to drop by, I could make us some spaghetti.”
    â€œNo, that’s too much