Come morning, he grabbed the phone and called Chloe.

“What, Jerry.” Her voice wobbled with morning stiffness.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Jerry, not today.”

“No, I’ve got to talk to you.”

 “Jesus, you’re pushing too hard.”

“Look, if we just talk, we’ll work this out.”

Big sigh on the other end, and after some silence, “All right.”

“Witherspoon’s, 6.”

“Yeah,” and she hung up.

He careened out of the house. On the landing, as if placed there, carefully, like a gift, lay a baby bird, dead. Jerry crouched down. He picked the bird up and placed it in the palm of his hand. Light as heaven, this bird, no more than a wisp of orchestrated air, yet all the parts were there, the head, the body, the wings, ready to fly, if only.

If only he had been there to help, but he wasn’t. There. In time. Time. That enemy. A crushing onslaught of ticking seconds going on and on into a forever of too late.

That damn abortion. 

He dropped onto the stoop, lowered his head into his hands and, too weakened to hold back, sobbed.

After awhile, he struggled to stand and walked into his garage. He reemerged with a trowel. Under a tree, he dug a hole. He carefully placed the bird in it, covered the hole with fresh dirt and patted it down. Then he stood back up.

“Forgive me.”

***

He made it to his office to work on his sermon. In the church parking lot, he ran into Phil coming out the door with a bag of food.

“Hey, Phil, where were you?” said Jerry. 

“What?”

“The job interview? Friday? 11am?”

“Oh…wow. I’m sorry…English muffin?” asked Phil.

Jerry took the muffin and leaned against the church.  “You gotta remember these things.”

“Jelly?”

Phil slathered on Smucker’s Strawberry Preserves. 

“Thanks,” said Jerry and wolfed it down without tasting a thing. He headed towards the bell tower.

“Quick question,” said a breathless Jerry.

“Yeah?” Thomas looked up from his book. He squatted on an upside down plastic bucket.

“What did it feel like when you left the church?”

He smiled. “Salvation. I saved myself. Get it? I mean, I saved my self from eternal sacrifice in the name of Jesus.

“I was happier. And you know what? God was happier too. He’s happy ‘cause I’m happy. Get it?”

“Huh.”

Jerry ran back down the stairs.

In his office, he stared at his desk clock: 12:27. A chasm of time before 6pm. He watched the second hand pull back then leap to the next second, pull back then leap to the next second. He marveled at how long one minute took. 

A bee buzzed about. He killed it.

Write the goddamn sermon. 

At 5:30 he arrived at Witherspoon’s and positioned himself at a sidewalk table with a cappuccino. 6:00, no Chloe; 6:15, no Chloe; 6:30, still no Chloe. Dusk descended. The table next to him erupted in laughter. Too loud; too much talking; too much noise. 

He grabbed a pay phone. She didn’t pick up. He knew damn well that even if she were home she wouldn’t pick up.

It was over.