Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Dad!”

Clay’s eyes snapped back into focus. The sunlight streaming into his office evaporated the looming black pines from his daydream. A bouquet of white roses and lilies sat daintily across the room. Clay gripped his mahogany desk, exhaling out of his nose. His first day back to work had been even worse than he dreaded. 

Of course, some kind of sympathetic response was to be expected due to the circumstances. He maybe could have even enjoyed that a little bit, if it weren’t so stifling. The pitiful greetings and condolences from subordinates, the deluge of cards and gifts, and those god-forsaken pathetic looks they had been shooting at him all morning. Why can’t people be more considerate? No one wants to be pitied, especially during a time like this. 

Clay’s eyes glazed over again. It wasn’t his fault, they all told him. It could have happened to anyone; it was just cruel chance. Boys are so impulsive when they’re as young as Orel. He must have been so excited to hold the gun. Mistakes happen, fingers slip. If only it had gone off a little to the left, or the right, or anywhere else. It must have been destined to happen. You know God works in mysterious ways. You weren’t doing anything but passing down family history. What a horrible, horrible accident.

Embroiled in his thoughts, Clay didn’t notice the door swing open until she walked in.

“Good morning, Mayor Puppington.” chirped the brunette. Her face shone brighter than the sun streaming in, and her youthful figure gave Clay a momentary distraction.

“Oh, good morning! You must be that new intern, yes? Intern… Something, or other…” Clay trailed off and his plastic smile slipped for a moment.

The brunette’s sunshine face kicked off a solar flare as she smiled with teeth. “You remembered my name! Sumtingo-Offer. It’s hyphenated.”

“Ah…” Clay blinked. “Of course, of course.” 

“I came to give you a summary of last week.” Intern Sumtingo-Offer laid a manilla folder on the desk. “Everything you missed is laid out, chronological order. Nothing unusual, although Censordoll will simply not stop petitioning us. Seems she was really angry about the book fair…”

Clay groaned. “Don’t remind me. One copy of Darwin’s Theory of Blasphemy or Whatever slips through the cracks… I will deal with her.” He took the folder and flipped through the monochrome pages. It almost felt okay to be back. Almost.

“Other than that, it’s just the usual affairs. The city budget revisions are due next month, the Children for Christ event is next Saturday, and election bid forms are due Wednesday. I’m sure I didn’t need to remind you of that one, though. The paperwork is all included.”

Clay snapped the folder closed. “Wonderful! I will be here.” He tossed her a smile that took everything in him to manifest.

Intern Sumtingo-Offer turned on her heel with a click and a grin, and made her way back to the door. Before she left, she tossed him one more glance with pity in her eyes. “We’re happy to have you back, Mayor Puppington. Let us know if you need anything from us.” With that, she stepped out and shut the door. 

The moment the door closed, Clay let a sigh rip through him and he dropped his perfect veneer. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers, brows furrowed. He pushed away the folder. With a slide of a desk drawer, Clay took out a shiny silver flask and took a sneaky swig. And another. 

“She always fools me, Orel… ‘I’ll make things better dear! Drink me! Put me inside you!’...”

He glanced into the flask. A small amount of liquid remained. Disappointing. He sat back in his chair and let the warmth flow down his throat and into his chest. How could anybody possibly focus on trifles at a time like this? He certainly couldn’t. He hadn’t been able to focus on anything since that night. Thinking hurt more than anything else. Thank God he could turn it off, all he needed was more to drink. That’s all he needed to be happy again. Right?

Clay looked back at the folder of obligations. Despite himself, it called to him. This may be a stinking dead-end job, but wasn’t it his stinking dead-end job? Familiarity breeds contempt, yet comfort as well. So much had been ripped away from him in the past few days, but at least, if nothing else, he had this. He must protect what he still has left. Clay opened the folder and rifled through it. Petitions, event flyers, angry letters, they all blended together. Then, his fingers rested on the election bid application form. Usually a tedious formality, the document almost glowed in a new light. He had nailed every election year since he became mayor, so there was no reason to think he may lose his post. Although, he thought the same about Orel, too. 

Yes, he must protect what he has left. Clay finished off the flask, grabbed a pen, and began to fill out the form. 

~~~~~~~~~

Bloberta raised her haggard head when she heard the front door slam. The noise only stopped her for a split second, then she went right back to her labors. She scrubbed the kitchen tile with the ferocity of a machine. Once, twice, thrice; it didn’t matter how many times she tried, nothing got clean. The swishing sound of her scrubbing brush, laden with chemicals, echoed throughout the house. She finally finished the tile she was on, moved to the next, and turned back to the first again. Nothing, nothing, nothing worked at all. First the table, then the sink, now the tiles, everything was dirty and disgusting and awful and if she didn’t clean it right now she was going to explode. Skritch, skritch, skritch, skritch, skritch, skri-

“What the hell are you doing?” 

She glanced up at Clay. She said nothing. Her hands did not stop.

Clay scoffed. He went over to their oven, only to open it and immediately slam it shut. “Where’s dinner?” he asked.

She only scrubbed faster.

Clay’s annoyance shifted into aggravation. “I should have known you would be neglecting your wifely duties again . How could you leave your family hungry? You should be ashamed.”

Bloberta felt her chest swell with thick black hatred. Her eyes began to water, but she blamed the fumes from the cleaner. She lifted her red, exhausted eyes at him and shot daggers across the kitchen. “There’s a platter from the Figurelli’s in the refrigerator,” Back to her scrubbing she went.

“Figurelli’s? We’ve been eating from that thing for days. I’m sick of it.”

“Well, if you’re so tired of it, why don’t you provide for your family and go get something for us?” Skritch. Skritch. Skritch.

“Like I would lower myself to a woman’s role,” he spat. “You need to do your job.”

“I am.” Skritch. Skritch. Skritch. Skritch.

Clay stared at her for a moment, fists balled and contempt oozing from every pore. “You are so useless, you know that? If I knew you could be this way, I never would have agreed to chain myself to you. I could have done so much better than you, I-”

Bloberta slammed her brush down on the floor as hard as she could, making a deafening crack. “Why don’t you, then? Why don’t you just fuck off?” Her shoulders shook. Tears blurred her vision, and she cursed herself for it. She got off her knees. “You know what, I’ll do it for you. Considering I do everything else, I might as well do that for you, too.” With that, she stomped out of the kitchen and let Clay stand there, mouth agape like a beached fish.

He ached to yell another cutting blow, but knew of nothing to say. He growled and slammed his fist on the table. “Women…” he muttered, anger dripping from each syllable like poison. “Useless, useless…” 

“They’re all worthless, kid. Every woman. Don’t let ‘em get you…”

Clay pulled a full bottle of vodka from the kitchen cabinet, flicked off the cap, and started chugging. Orel is gone, who was there to judge him? Bloberta? Who cared about what she thought? Finally, he could be happy with his true love. He pulled his lips away from the bottle with a guttural hiss and sigh. Just like heaven.

He cradled the bottle under his arm and left the kitchen. Already a bit unsteady, he meandered his way down the hallway. Shapey was there, playing with a fork and an electrical socket. Clay walked right by him. Shapey whined quietly. 

The study, once so safe and inviting, felt empty. Clay fell into his chair, practically throwing himself into the soft cushions. He gulped from the bottle again, letting drops dribble down the sides of his mouth. A smile was creeping onto his face, until his hand grazed the buckle of his belt. A sharp pang of anguish shot through him. He unclasped the belt, sliding it from his pant loops. He folded it over, feeling the texture of the leather, and he slapped it lightly into his hand. If only Orel was here now.

As he stared at the belt, a wave of muddled memories passed through him. So many times the belt had touched his son’s skin, never to do so again. He rubbed it over and over like a talisman, as if he could touch Orel one last time through it. Of course, the belt offered no such luxury. 

Clay sat and thought. So many lessons had been taught in this study, with this belt. He tried so hard and sacrificed everything. For him. And what did he have to show for it now? Nothing. The emptiness in Clay’s chest spread like the burn of the vodka as he drank. Nothing at all. 

Clay’s head spun, but he didn’t care. The taste, the smell, the feeling, there was nothing else. His stomach curdled and churned, but it didn’t stop him. Only a sudden retch and a brutal stinging stream of vomit broke his longing kiss with the bottle. Shuddering with a choking gasp, Clay dropped the bottle on the floor. It rolled, but spilled nothing. Clay tossed his swimming head back and let his vision spin and distort. “Damn, waste… it’s a sin…” he whispered to no one. Everything was wasted.

As the alcohol finally claimed Clay’s consciousness, his thoughts mercifully ceased. He let his heavy eyelids close. His breathing slowed and transformed into long droning snores. The belt fell from his grasp. 

Clay had taught him so many lessons. The last one he ever taught didn’t just claim his boy’s innocence, but his life as well. He never fathomed that this could be, but it was. Now, Orel will never learn again. Even as the gallons of alcohol over the past week had numbed and rotted his brain, Clay could not burn the memories away. As hard as he tried, one of his own lessons was seared into his broken mind like a scarlet letter.

There are no accidents.

Chapter Text

Sunday morning. Clay dragged himself through the doors of the church, following Bloberta and Shapey with a sluggish step. Every eye in the building was on the small family as they entered. They took a seat at their usual spots in their usual pew. Clay tried not to notice the empty space at the end of it. He felt a cold tremor shake through his chest.

The gentle white air of the church attempted to soothe, but it didn’t reach Clay. Too many people, sounds, expectations. He felt himself reach for a flask that wasn’t there. To drink in the house of God? Clay wondered if he could really do something like that. His desires writhed inside him and told him if God did not want wine, why would he make grapes? He leaned back in the pew and waited, discomfort settling in his stomach like a brick.

After a few more minutes of murmuring from the congregation, Reverend Putty stepped up to the pulpit. The congregation quieted down as he assumed his position. Putty shuffled papers, cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses. His face was blank, almost frustrated. He looked out on the congregation, keeping his eyes as far as he could from the Puppington’s pew.

“Good morning to you all,” Putty started. His fingers tapped gently against the bottom lip of the pulpit. He inhaled to speak again, but found the breath quailed in his throat. He cleared his throat and exhaled through his nose. 

“Friends, what is the worst feeling a human being can experience? Maybe you’re thinking unemployment. Failing a huge test. Calling the cute blonde at the church luncheon the wrong name by accident and missing your chance to make another attempt at suppressing your stubborn, stubborn loneliness. Or maybe something else! But, what do all these things have in common?”

Silence.

“I’ll tell you. Loss. Every one of these situations leads to you missing out on something you desperately want, which can test the faith of even the most God-fearing among us. Think about Job. The gold, the houses, the women! Oh, the women ! He had it all! But God, well, He knows that us humans are prone to a bit of righteous anger now and then. So, to test if Job was truly a believer, He took everything away from him.”

Clay twitched. He readjusted.

“Not even one camel to his name. But did Job get angry and flip the proverbial bird to our Almighty Creator? No! Because even though he lost every thing , every material possession and earthly attachment he had, his spiritual attachment to God was stronger than ever before! Job stayed strong in his faith, and in turn God rewarded him. So, that’s what we’ve got to remember, people. Especially when we lose something, or someone, that may be very precious to us.”

Putty paused. He took a little breath in.

“We have to remember that God always has a plan. Even if we don’t understand it, or it hurts us, or it feels completely wrong and miserable. Even if it results in loss. Because whatever we lose here on Earth, we will regain it and more when we ascend to the Kingdom of Heaven. And when we get there, we will see that the lost will be found again. Amen.”

“Amen.” echoed the congregation. A holy chord sung in the air. 

Clay sat, thinking. He looked blankly into the crowd as people started to stand up and grab their things to leave. A fine crop of sweat beaded on his forehead. He snapped back in as Bloberta shuffled her way out of the pew, Shapey in her arms. Bloberta half-turned as she sidled out, her eyes meeting his. She stopped. 

“Are you coming?” she asked.

Clay clenched the fabric of his pants. He forced a brief smile that came out like a lopsided grimace. Normally, he would be the first one out the church door. But today?

“I think… I think I need to stay. Pray a while. I don’t know. For… Orel.”

Bloberta stared at him. Then, she said, “Alright.” With that, she took Shapey and walked out of the church. 

Clay turned to face forward in the pew. He wasn’t quite sure what he was still doing here. Still, here he was. He clasped his hands together, elbows on the pew in front of him, and leaned his chin on his hands. He swallowed. His thoughts swirled listlessly around his head like fallen leaves floating in the puddle of a clogged storm drain. He looked up. On the wall in front of him hung the golden cross.

“Hm.” Clay muttered. He interlaced his fingers and stared straight ahead. Just a week prior, his son had been up on the platform with that cross. Was it really only one week ago? There, in his little blue suit. The casket, smaller than he thought it could ever be, an eternal cradle. Sunlight streaming in and caressing his face like the hand of a benevolent angel. 

He had stepped onto the platform with him, heart banging in his chest. He struggled to catch a labored breath. His wife wailed beside him, but his own tears couldn’t come. The mortician had treated him so beautifully, it was almost like he was still alive. Just sleeping. Unable to stop himself, his hand reached out, longing to touch his face where the sunbeam lay, to feel his skin beneath his hand, just one more time, just one more-

A hand clapped onto Clay’s shoulder. Gasping, Clay whirled around.

“Oh, Clay! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” Reverend Putty backed up a step, hands raised, an awkward but apologetic smile wrapped around his face. “I didn’t realize you were so deep in thought.”

“Well! Reverend,” Clay started, scrambling to collect himself as fast as he could. “No need to apologize. I was just so deep in the rapture of the Lord, I didn’t hear you behind me!” Clay straightened his tie. 

“I’ll admit it’s a bit unusual to see you here after services. Not unwelcome though, of course. I just wanted to check in and make sure everything was alright.”

“How… gracious of you, Reverend. I’m just taking a moment. You know.” 

Putty nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

A brief tense silence made them both break eye contact. Putty inhaled. “You know, Clay. He was a good kid. A real good kid.”

Clay felt a cold drop of sweat run down his temple. “Yes…”

“He may have had his moments, Lord knows. But, he was one of the good ones. So innocent, so malleable, so… pious. It’s such a terrible shame, really, what happened.”

Aggravation and anxiety bred in Clay’s stomach. Why can’t he just shut up? Clay hid himself with a sage nod and downcast eyes.

“He’s probably looking down on Moralton right now, praying for all of us. What a kid…” Putty trailed off. “I don’t mean to keep you. Stay as long as you need to. I’m going to a bake sale at the school, but the house of God is always open.” Putty smiled toothily, but stopped as he noticed Clay wasn’t looking. “Take care, Clay.”

“Thank you, Reverend.” Clay returned, eyes glued to the floorboards. Putty stepped away without another word, the large church doors sliding shut silently behind him. 

An exhale ripped through Clay. His head fell into his hands. After a few moments, he picked himself up and looked around. He was alone. His eyes fell back on the cross. The ultimate symbol of Jesus, the ultimate symbol of His suffering. Something inside Clay yearned for it.

“Oh, God…” he mumbled. “You know what pain is. You know so much about it.” His gaze rolled heavenward. “I know a lot about pain, too.” 

He paused. “Why… Why do you keep giving it to me? Why?” He felt his face contort into some ugly wrinkled display of sadness. “What did I do to deserve…” He let his words die on his tongue. The sun shone stronger. 

“Am I meant to be in pain? Forever?” Forever. The word lingered in his throat. He thought of his son. His wife. His other… child. “Until I’m dead.”

Clay unfolded his hands and held the pew in front of him. He breathed. 

All at once, like a bolt of white lightning, a divinely vicious thought overtook him and shocked him to his core. He seized up like a wild animal caught in a trap, limbs and mind frozen in icy fear. He tried to speak again, but his tongue was rendered dumb. 

“N-... No…” he whimpered. He stood up. Despite himself, his knees were weak and he shook. He stared at the cross like he was staring down the barrel of a gun. He hadn’t thought of this yet.

“You can’t… not to me!” Clay’s voice rose with a crack. “Please, I can’t take any more pain, I just can’t!” His breathing picked up and the black pit of despair in his gut spread through him. “Jesus, please, I can’t take it any more…” Without warning, the tears that he’d been waiting for all week began to run down his cheeks. His breath quickened to a panicked pace. He could feel wrathful eyes boring down into his mortal face.

“Please, Jesus. Don’t send me to hell. Don’t, I can’t! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t! I swear.” His knees gave up on him and he collapsed back down into the pew. “I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry. What do you want from me?” A sob rocked him. Gritting his teeth, he sucked a breath through, drowning. 

“Fine! I did it. I did it! I shot him. I… killed him!” He choked. “He died, right there, in front of me, because of me! I watched him… I watched it… it was me! Is that what you wanted? Please, don’t hurt me anymore!”

The sobs he had been holding back broke through. He covered his face, unable to muffle himself. “Please, I can’t take it… Will you help me?” His green cardigan sleeves grew wet with tears and his cries permeated through the room. No one answered.

He didn’t notice at all as Reverend Putty, silent as a grave, slipped out of the church and shut the door behind him, stifling the empty sobs that echoed in the house of God.

Chapter Text

“So, that’s what I heard.”

Bloberta held her face steady as she could, but her fist had clenched so hard on her fork that it dug into her flesh, cold and unforgiving. Teeth clenched hard as steel against each other. Putty cleared his throat, adjusting his collar in the process.

"I figured it would be a good idea to let you know. I've seen and heard a lot in that church, but I've never seen something like that before…" he trailed off as Bloberta sat, still as stone, pulsing with dark and deadly energy just under her veneer. Putty couldn't help but grimace. Thank God they had decided, after a brief and awkward exchange, to come here to Cheeses of Nazareth. Hokey, gimmicky, and remarkably pretentious. Charcuterie just did that to people, it seemed. Despite pretensions, the seats were never filled with much more than the odd family or couple on a mediocre night out. No one worth their salt in Moralton would ever be here. Which, of course, made it the perfect place for this. No one to hear them, but just enough to keep emotion locked tight below propriety.

After a few heavy blinks of silence, Bloberta took a deep breath. She locked eyes with him.

"Thank you for telling me, Reverend."

"Yeah, well, don't mention it. Seemed like the kind of thing that really needed to be told. I'm not one to get involved with family business, you know. Lord knows I get myself into enough trouble without the help of other people. But, it's… different." Putty cleared his throat again, picking at the Holy Swiss Platter he had ordered. Bile rose in Bloberta's throat. "Hungry?" he asked as he waved a little white cube on a toothpick in front of her. She shook her head. He half-shrugged and popped it in his mouth.

"Mmm," he started, still chewing. "You know, I never thought that I would ever be going out to dinner with you like this. It's been a long time since I've been out to dinner with a woman, any woman really, but especially a married woman, the wife of the mayor-" Putty cut himself off with high-pitched giggly scoffs. "Pretty sure there's a proverb or two against that one. Then again, it didn't seem to hinder you much-"

When he felt her eyes cut into him, he stopped in his tracks. "I mean. Um. I mean, just, when you came to see me-"

Bloberta's cheeks flushed red and a frustrated sigh escaped her pursed lips. "This isn't that kind of dinner, Reverend."

"Oh, no, of course not, I didn't expect-"

"Going to your house was a mistake." Bloberta found the words to shut him up. "I was sure that this dinner would be a mistake as well. However… I think I do need to thank you. For this. Genuinely." Bloberta stared down at her hands. "You know, as unreliable as Clay is, I never could have believed he would do something so horrible to his own son. I, somehow, had more faith in him than that." Bloberta looked back up, studying Putty's face like it would reveal more secrets to her if she looked close enough. "If what you're saying is true, he has completely failed. As a husband, as a father, as a man. I don't know what to do from here. I don't know what to do."

Bloberta rested her chin in her hand, eyes averted and tipping towards tears. Putty floundered like a beached fish. "Uh, well, maybe, the police? You should call the police."

Bloberta's face twisted. "Me? Call the police? Reverend," she put her elbows down on the table, eyes boring into him. "Who are they going to believe? The long-standing mayor of Moralton? Or his hysterical, grief-stricken, delusional wife?" She let out a cold laugh. "I'd be lucky if the only thing they did was tip Clay off to what we know. What if you told them what you heard? They would be more likely to listen to you."

Putty sputtered like a bad engine. "I can't get wrapped up in this, Bloberta. A tenuous murder accusation against the mayor?" He guffawed. "I'm a holy man, my reputation in this town is at stake! Relations could dissolve in an instant, I could be ousted completely. Not to mention how quickly the funding for the church would be slashed."

Bloberta laughed her same cold laugh again. "Figures. A man murders my son, and all anyone can think about is how their own lives are affected. My son will never live again, Putty. Never." Her eyes revealed the fire blazing beneath her face.

Putty's face got red. "Look, Bloberta," he cut with a whisper. "You have got to understand that we have nothing but a story here. I believe it, and I think you do, too. That's why I told you. For you. For Orel." Bloberta tore her eyes away and stared at the table. "But, we can't just rush into something rash here! Clay, he is good at this. Manipulating the truth. Model politician. If we go after him head-on, he's just going to twist the narrative."

"Which means he could easily twist it to the police, as well."

"Frankly, I'm not sure what else you can do. I can't guarantee any safety for you, or your other child, now."

"Oh, and they can? We are talking about Clay, Reverend. For all intents and purposes, he owns this town. He wouldn't even have to order them off, their fear for their own careers will keep them all silent. He's just too powerful. Like you said, we have nothing but a story."

Putty leaned back in his chair, at a loss. "But, what about you? And Shapey? Don't you think you should have somewhere to go?"

"I don't know where I could go." She breathed out. Though, of course, there is a dream.

Something about a convertible. Hot red, like an autumn apple. Four doors, and a coal black drop-top. Silver hubcaps, plate-sized mirrors polished to perfection, spinning as fast and gaily as her hair whipping around behind her in brown billows. Black cat-eye sunglasses sitting pretty, and a silk scarf fluttering in the wind. Shapey laughing in the backseat, grabbing at air, both of them flying down the highway like birds on a jet stream. Where could they go? Anywhere but here.

She could drive past the Moralton sign, through Sinville, past every city and town deep into the Midwestern plains, the land stretching on so far and flat the horizon blurs into it and the sun can only hide at night. Only a few trees and buildings dot the gentle swaths of grassland, whizzing past as the convertible purrs onward. Maybe they would see a bison. Maybe they would see it standing on the plain bathed in the deepest reds and purples of early sunrise, bovine breaths visible in the chill, sharp horns ebony black, eclipsing the fresh sun. They could breathe along with it, three animals together.

Soon the plains would yawn and lumber up into slopes, hills, mountains. God crinkling the pages of the landscape around them, raising them just a little closer to the sky. And one day those mountains would flatten and sidle into the coast, the huge rocks cradling the smooth blue shore. White sand would warm their toes, cool Pacific water would pool around their ankles during high tide. Holding her hand up to her face, she could see her son smile toothily and she could smile back with her mouth and her eyes.

Maybe, just maybe, there could be someone there one gentle night. Waiting for her, looking for her. Long black hair, pear cheeks, soft hands. Brown eyes that glittered like sunlight chopped against the surf, open as seaside poppies. She would be there, clad in muslin, on the beach with her.

"I've missed you so dearly, Bloberta."

She welcomes her into her arms. Her vanilla smell would intoxicate her. The weight could fall off her shoulders now. This could be home.

"It wasn't your fault. You know that, right?"

The words would fade, their arms around each other with fingers interlaced. The gentle rise and fall of their chests sync in tandem as they watch the sleepy yellow sun dip below the ocean. Another day would come, and it would bring what it will. But there, on that beach, with her, there is nowhere else on Earth that could be closer to Heaven itself.

"Bloberta?"

All at once, Bloberta snapped back into focus.

"Are you… okay?"

Silence.

"Yes."

Putty let out a whooshing breath and slapped his thighs. "Oh, thank God." His gruesome half-smile, half-grimace made her exhale from her nose softly. She squared her jaw, set her eyes, relaxed her mouth. The slightest smile played on the corners of her lips. Maintain propriety.

"So, do you know what you're going to do?"

"Not at all. But, I know I'm going to have to do something, anything, to make this even a little bit right. I just have to figure out what that is."

With a silent flourish, a waitress slid a plastic receipt tray across their table. The end was in sight. Putty laid a few bills on the tray. Bloberta ran her fingers over the hem of her skirt. Putty sat back into his seat once more.

"You know, I'm sure I don't have to tell you this," he started. "But whenever, if ever, this comes out, I had nothing to do with it. Wasn't there. We never spoke."

Bloberta nodded. "Of course."

Putty sighed a little. His eyes rested on Bloberta. "He would be proud of you, you know."

"What?" she replied, off guard.

He almost lost his nerve. "Orel. He would want you to be happy." Almost.

The tears Bloberta had been suppressing the whole meeting threatened to spill again. She passed a gaunt hand over her eyes and lips, clinging tight to a tiny smile that glowed with a stoked ember of warmth. After collecting herself, she allowed him to see it too.

"I think you're right."

The pair sat together for a moment, wishing more than anything that they weren't having this conversation at all. Sunlight spilled through the venetian blinds and dappled them in white light.

"Well, I would say to call me if you need anything else. But, honestly, I'm not very good at this so… don't do that, actually."

Bloberta all but snorted. "You won't have to worry, Reverend. I think I have exactly what I need."

They looked at each other, grief and pain and awkwardness and deep unwavering gratefulness passed between them like a spirit. They stood up and walked out of the restaurant.

He left with a half-wave and a brisk step towards the church. Bloberta stood there on the curb, knowing where she needed to go but with muscles unwilling to begin the journey. She looked out onto the street. No one there. Slowly, she reached into her purse. A cigarette, and a matchbook. After tossing her head to the side looking for eavesdroppers, she cupped her hands and lit one. The smoke clouds hung around her, and she breathed.

After a few puffs, she stubbed the cigarette and crushed it with her outsole into the cement. She sighed. No use prolonging the inevitable.

Chapter Text

Clay faltered down the sidewalk. His eyes were tender, forehead throbbing, hands shaking. He wasn't sure if it was from the crying, or the lack of alcohol. How long had it been since he had had even a breath of sobriety? The memories were too foggy to discern it. Not that it even mattered, really. The only thing that mattered now was drowning it, drowning his thoughts, drowning everything. So, off he went.

The sidewalk led him throughout the town. A gentle breeze swept through his hair, and the sun smiled kisses down onto his skin. The occasional townsperson passed him by or lingered in the peripherals of his vision, but everyone was too busy with their afternoon to pay him much mind. As the steps and time passed on, Clay's breathing steadied and he covered his pain and withdrawal with a neutral face.

The power of catharsis pulsed inside him. He couldn't remember the last time he was so honest. It felt like a great ripping exhale after diving under a peaking wave. Talking to God, telling him the truth. Ascertaining forgiveness. Why hadn't he done it before? If he had known how freeing it would be, he would have done it the moment he pulled the trigger.

The sidewalk rolled on. The bar approached him with each step. Endorphins mingled in his brain as the flashing halogen sign beckoned him in like a moth's flame. He picked up his pace a bit, anticipating the relief of the first swig. He swung open the bar doors, and a true smile graced his plastic face.

Forghetty's was dim as always, even with the sun shining outside. The dark oak walls were lit by a few dirty bulbs, the frosted window, and the cheery glow of the jukebox and pinball machine. A few anonymous bodies hunched over the tables with their glasses. Dolly turned as the door swung open.

"Oh, hi Clay! Welcome back!"

"Dolly," he returned in greeting. He sidled into a bar stool as Dolly clinked a tumbler down. She smiled warmly as she poured for him.

"Good to see you again. It isn't the same Forghetty's without you here."

Clay scoffed. "Of course it isn't, who else could be keeping the lights on?" Clay swirled his glass deftly and knocked it back with a gulp. The ice chattered. "A couple more of these, and maybe you'll be able to buy a higher-shelf scotch."

Dolly rolled her eyes, but her smile remained. "Yeah, Clay, not much has changed, huh?"

The flash of pity in her eyes and the subtle drop of her smile showed she didn't believe that for a second. Clay narrowed his eyes and distracted himself with another swig of the glass. Dolly didn't hesitate with refilling it.

It didn't take long at all for the intoxication to take hold in Clay's body. The heat of the whiskey coursed through his veins, clasping his soul in a fuzzy embrace. Tension gently ebbed away. Clay felt his face soften as he clinked the tumbler to the bar again, gently passing it back to Dolly. She pondered him as she kept the amber liquid flowing fast. "So, how have you been doing, Clay?" she said before she could even stop herself.

Clay chuckled without humor. He picked up the glass again, swirled it, set it down. "How have I been doing, huh?" He drank again. "Dolly, have you ever been forgiven?"

Dolly cocked her head to the side. "Forgiven?"

"Yeah," he continued. "Like the whole world has been taken off your shoulders and nothing is your fault anymore?"

"Uh, I mean, I guess so-"

"I feel forgiven today, Dolly." Clay swallowed. Dolly took a rag and started to run it in circles on the bar top. She gave him space to continue.

"You know, I'm really starting to think that I need to be happy now. I was at church today. Started to think about… lots of things. And I realized, well, Orel is with God now. He's in Heaven! Singing and dancing around with all of the angels, and Jesus too. You know how much Orel loved Jesus."

Dolly continued to polish the bar top in silence, but she nodded with a terse but professional smile.

"He sure did. And now he gets to be with him, every day, forever." He knocked back another swig, and Dolly dutifully kept him topped up. "Orel must be so happy in Heaven. So, I think he would want me to be happy too."

Dolly nodded again.

"So, I went to church. I stayed after everyone left, and I just prayed and prayed. I asked God, 'why?' Then, I realized. God works in mysterious ways. He isn't going to explain anything to me, even though I am the mayor. When I saw the sun shining in through the windows, I just…" He paused for another swig and a moment to collect his thoughts. "I just knew that Orel was there. Smiling down on me, happy. He must be happy."

Dolly forced up a smile. "Yeah, Clay, he must be."

The alcohol buzzed in his head.. He smiled without his eyes. He drank again. "Y'know, he was so silly. I tried to tell him, Orel, be careful! Do you think he listened? No, he was a silly… silly boy." Clay laughed a little. "So silly." Clay let his mouth stop running to drink yet again. Oh, silly Orel. Going and dying like that, so inconsiderate! But of course, sweet Orel is rewarded. Rewarded by God in Heaven. Rewarded, just like Clay will be now for his great and terrible honesty.

"Forgiveness is so powerful, Dolly. So much." He let the ice shift in the glass as he gesticulated. "I feel like God is here now."

Dolly couldn't help but smirk a bit. "God, in Forghetty's? Well, we appreciate the compliment."

Clay snorted. "Maybe not in here, but in me? I don't know." He reined himself in as his self-awareness proved it wasn't gone yet.

She shrugged. "I'm glad to hear that, Clay." She kept on cleaning her bar top, eyes never meeting his. Clay turned his head and kept sipping away. 

A slurry of minutes melted into hours. Each swallow of whiskey brought him further away from himself. Eventually, his head grew too heavy to hold up in his hand at the bar. He stumbled up from the bar stool. 

"Put it on my tab, Dolly…" he slurred at her. "I left my wallet at the…" He slapped his pants pockets in vain. 

"Don't worry about it, Clay." Dolly replied, adding another number to Clay's evergreen tab. He cracked a big smile. With that, he stepped out the door.

What time was it? He knew he couldn't have entered the bar past noon, but the sun hung much lower in the pink-orange sky than he anticipated. He scoffed up at the sky. Not that it even mattered anyway. He started his journey home, ignoring how unstable his footing was. Square after square of white sidewalk passed underneath him. If anyone passed by him, Clay paid no attention. He didn't look up properly until he had to fish out his keys and attempt to unlock the front door.

The Puppington house was empty and still. Clay felt a sigh of relief pass through him when he entered, until the heavy silence reminded him of what was missing. He closed his eyes and tried to block himself out. He grasped at the brown banister, pulling himself up the stairs. His drunken body was craving the soft embrace of bed and sleep. Even as his vision swam and turned, he trailed his way down the hall, hands sliding over the walls. His hand brushed against a door handle. Orel's room. Clay froze for a moment, gripping the handle as he swayed. He swung the door open.

Neither of the adults in the house had dared to enter the room since it happened. Everything was exactly as Orel had left it, as if he had just gone out to play and would be home any moment. A shirt hung over the back of his chair; his toys sat neatly in their little piles on the floor. The curtains were open and the sunset threw its light on the walls. Clay felt an oppressive force on his throat. He stumbled in, sitting down on the edge of Orel's bed. As he ran his hands over the blanket, he couldn't stop the tears from springing into his eyes. He choked his emotions back hard with a swallow. He flopped down to the side, head hitting the soft pillow. As he turned, he felt a small warm lump stir next to him. "O-Orel?!" he cried out. With a flourish, he tore back the comforter. 

Only Shapey was there, instinctively curled into a fetal position with wide startled eyes. Clay's desperate expression decayed sharply into a scowl. "Get out." he growled. Shapey slid out of Orel's bed, scampering out onto the floor. He started shrilly screaming at no one in particular. "Get out!" yelled Clay, causing Shapey to hightail it out of the room with more screams. He only allowed himself to cry once Shapey's voice was muted by the drywall between them. 

When Clay came back to his senses, the sky was lit with the unmistakable sunny glory of daytime. Clay groaned as he turned over. '12:47 pm' reported the red digital clock. He picked himself up, head aching as his hangover revealed itself. Plodding down the hallway, he wondered for a moment where Bloberta might be. Perhaps she made herself useful and made him something to eat, he hoped.

When he rounded the corner after taking the stairs, he was surprised to see that Bloberta was there indeed. She was sitting at the kitchen table, fully dressed and sharp. She looked up at him, eyeing him up and down incredulously. Clay suddenly became conscious that he hadn't changed his clothes since church the day before. He looked away from her, trying and failing to come off aloof and unaffected. He shoved his hands in his pocket. "Where's breakfast?" he asked.

"A bit too late for that now, isn't it?" she replied coolly. He looked back at her again. His lips curled. A manilla folder sat plainly on the oak table. Bloberta didn't take her eyes off of him. 

"Clay, we need to talk."