Jon fidgeted uneasily in the pew, tugging at the collar and tie confining his neck. In truth, it was the pew itself that felt confining, being a bit too small for his long legs and massive back. “I think they purposely make these things uncomfortable,” he said.
     “Find a better tailor, then,” said his companion, misreading him.
     “It wouldn’t help. How long till the service starts, Rita?”
     She glanced at the small, glittering watch on her wrist. “We’re still early,” she said, “and they like to start a little later than announced, to let the place fill up. Could be ten minutes—maybe more.
     “Ah, here comes Jerry, finally. Why don’t you two talk books, if you’re bored?”
     “That’s what I’m here for,” Jon said, rising gratefully to his feet and extending his hand to the newcomer. “Good to see you, Jerry.”
     “Likewise,” Jerry told him, taking and squeezing it briefly. He peered uncertainly past Jon. “Is there room for the three of us?”
     “Hold on, we’ll move down,” said Rita. She scooted a little to her right. Jon, instead of following, moved into the aisle to let Jerry pass, resuming the end seat when his friend had settled himself. Rita made a sour face. “I’d counted on having both my men about me.”
     Jon grinned. “Sorry. I like to be in position for a quick getaway.”
     Jerry glanced from one to the other, a question in his look.
     “Jon’s a bad Catholic,” Rita explained. “Probably hasn’t been in church since confirmation.”
     Jon raised an eyebrow at his sudden adoption into her faith, but did not bother to correct it. “I’ve been to my share of weddings,” he said.
     “Not the one I’d like to get you to.”
     Jon colored a bit, but recovered quickly, and chuckled, digging his elbow into Jerry’s side. “Have I missed something? Are congratulations in order, Jerry?”
     The others laughed, but Jon caught a strained note in Jerry’s voice. From the corner of his eye, Jon examined him more closely. Oho, he thought. So that’s how it is, is it? He frowned, wondering how he felt about that.
     He turned to the front of the church, bringing his fingers together in front of him. His gaze passed scathingly over the altar and the somewhat crude wooden statuary behind it, gaudily painted by his ancestors at some point in the previous century. He shifted in disquiet, as always, a disquiet that felt curiously intensified this time. Why did they have to meet Jerry’s contacts here, of all places?
     “…don’t you agree, Jon?”
     “Sorry?”
     “He said he thought Jenkins’ offer was a good one, Jon,” Rita said sharply. “Haven’t you been hearing anything?”
     “Sorry, Jerry. Bit preoccupied. How long do you expect the services to go on, Rita?”
     “Well, since we’re staying for the funeral—”
     “The what?”
     “The funeral. Phil Palmer, Vince’s friend? You know, the reason we’re here in the first place?”
     Suddenly all the unease of the morning crystallized in Jon’s mind. That’s what’s wrong, he thought. Not Rita, not the church. It’s what I’ve been neglecting. He mumbled something.
     “Beg your pardon?” asked Rita.
     Jerry answered. “He said he needs to be by himself.”
     “No,” Jon corrected. “I need to be myself. Excuse me.” He got up.
     “Jon, what—?”
     “Give Vince and Jenkins my regrets, Jerry,” he said. “There’s someplace I have to be.”
     “What is it?” Jerry asked.
     “Jonathan Garber,” Rita said. “Don’t you dare walk out of here! Do you want to ruin everything?”
     “Sorry,” said Jon again, backing away. “Long term commitment—three years’ standing, actually. I’ll make it up to both of you.”
     “But we’re here on your business,” Jerry pointed out.
     Jon turned on his heels and strode quickly away. The tardy arrival of the priest cut off Rita’s angry protest.

     Outside the Old Santiago Church, Jon Garber breathed easier. Maybe it was partly the church, he conceded. He could never be fully comfortable in the old mission his Indian ancestors had been forced to build and ornament. Maybe it would be different if he were Catholic, like most Bellotas. “Yes,” he muttered, “and maybe pigs would fly.” Turning, he strode purposefully across the broad, badly cobbled expanse of the Great Plaza, skirting the potholes and piles of horse dung, and keeping a wary eye on the motorcars he was beginning to suspect existed solely to chase him onto the sidewalk. He knew what he had to do; what he had been avoiding ever since his return from the war. But first he had to go home.
     Near home, he reminded himself. By his own choice, the rancheria at Jimmy’s Hollow was closed to him. But not all of the Hollow was inside the boundaries of the rancheria. There were places where he might still find what he wanted. If he was careful, he slip in and out without attracting inconvenient attention.