Free Weeping Angel by Stef Ann Holm Page A

chest. The holier-than-thou position was wasted on Frank; he didn’t bow under scriptures anymore.
    Reverend Thorpe smiled, showing his mouthful of big teeth. He didn’t make a move to let Frank by, and kept on smiling until Frank got to feeling itchy under the collar.
    â€œAnything you want, Rev?” Frank asked too late. The parishioners had circled around like a wagon train—him and Pap in the middle as if they were Indians waiting to get shot at by a hundred primed rifles.
    â€œAs a matter of fact, I did want to extend an invitation to the Lord’s house.”
    Frank could feel the expectant gazes boring into him. “I don’t accept invitations to ice-cream socials, tea parties, or church. Especially not church.”
    â€œI hope you’ll change your mind, Mr. Brody. I do believe you are a Christian, despite your unsuitable occupation. After all, you’re sharing the piano with Miss Marshall.”
    Uncomfortable with the crowd, Frank needed breathing room. “It doesn’t take a Christian to do that. Now if—”
    â€œI don’t believe I’ve been introduced to your friend,” the preacher said in a rush.
    Pap shifted his feet. “O’Cleary. Pap O’Cleary.”
    The reverend kept his stronghold on the Good Book, aiming in Pap’s direction. June’s devouring sun reflected off the gold cross like a mirror and beamed a spiritual effulgence on Pap’s face, as if he were being baptized without water. Thorpe didn’t switch the angle of his Bible when he said, “I’d like to invite you to services as well, Mr. O’Cleary.”
    Squinting and trying to duck, Pap hastened to reply, “Go ahead.”
    â€œWould you come to next Sunday’s services, Mr. O’Cleary?”
    â€œHell, no.”
    A rolling gasp emanated from the crowd, only to be broken by a boy’s query near Frank’s trouser leg.
    â€œHey, Mr. Brody, is that a real Spalding baseball bat you’re holdin’?”
    Frank gazed at the bat in his left hand, then at the freckle-faced kid at his hip. “Yeah. A genuine league model.”
    â€œHoly smoke!”
    â€œDaniel Beamguard, you mind your phraseology!” clucked Mrs. Dorothea Beamguard. “Especially in the company of Reverend Thorpe.” She gave Pap a severe glare. “Unlike others who have no manners at all.”
    Pap took offense with a snort, then skewed up his face in a heated shade of bully red. Those standing at his right abruptly disbanded, and Pap took off before Frank could escape through the gap after him.
    Neither the disruption, nor the reprimanding from his mother, had any apparent effect on Daniel. He kept right after Frank. “Hey, Mr. Brody. Would you ever let me try it out? Huh? I’d be real careful. I ain’t never hit off a genuine Spalding. All my Pop sells at the mercantile are handmade bats out of maple.”
    â€œDon’t you downtalk your father’s merchandise, young man,” Mrs. Beamguard chastised, grabbing hold of her son’s broadcloth collar and giving him a firm yank toward her.
    â€œAh, gee!” Daniel squirmed away from his mother. “You’re embarrassin’ me, Ma!” He broke loose with a jerk and kept on after Frank. “Them maple ones are sissy bats, Mr. Brody. I can’t hit nothin’ but fly balls with ’em. Can I try it out, huh? Huh?”
    Frank felt extremely uncomfortable. All eyes were on him. If he told the kid to get lost, he’d look like a spoilsport. On the other hand, if he promised the kid, he was certain there’d be a good number who’d takeoffense over a bartender teaching an impressionable boy the fine art of baseball hitting.
    Either way, he’d lose.
    â€œWell, boy,” Frank mused aloud, “I’ll have to think on it.”
    There. No commitment in any direction.
    â€œThink long, Mr. Brody,” Daniel pleaded. “Drink a lot of