by Lane Olinghouse

Created on: July 26, 2010   Last Updated: March 02, 2011

Work must have gone on a couple of weeks in the lot next door before I noticed the little guy with the board. Naturally, Marge gave me the usual guff about the unobservant male.

"All right." I said from the living room window. "No cracks. What's he building? A barn?"

"No." Marge came in from the kitchen where she'd been rattling supper dishes. "A church."

I thought she was pulling my leg. She often does this. "A church!"

"Yes. The members of the Community Church pooled their resources and bought the lot next door. That's their new preacher, Mr. Downe. He's ... "

"Wait a minute," I interrupted. "Are you serious?"

"Yes. If you'd just read the local newspaper ... "

"A church!" I yelped. "Building a church right next door?" I shook my head. "I don't think so! After a hard day's work, I don't plan to come home to all that racket."

"Racket?"

"Singing. Praying. Psalm shouting till midnight. No, thank you. I'll put a stop to this right now."

I wheeled from the window. Marge followed me, a puzzled frown marring her pretty features. She grabbed my coat sleeve as I took my hat down from a peg behind the kitchen door.

"Jack, wait a minute. What do you think you're going to do?"

"I told you. I'm putting a stop to this church-building. You can't go putting up a church just any old place. Especially not on my lawn."

"But, Jack, honey. They've bought the lot. It's ... "

"I don't care if they have," I almost shouted.

I should have known better. Every time I get steamed up this plate in my head gives me fits. This time it put me flat out on the floor.

When I woke up, I was on the sofa. Marge was bathing my forehead with a damp rag.

"How's the pain?"

"Guess I slept it off," I said. "It's nearly gone." I gritted my teeth. "I hope the next time they have a war they use padded poles instead of heat-seeking rockets."

"Yes," she agreed. "And," she added, "you've got to learn to control that temper."

I grinned sheepishly. "Yeah." Then I remembered what I'd been so upset about: the church. I sat up, groaning.

Marge pushed at me. "You stay right there until you're over this spell."

"I'm all right," I said. "It's over. I just remembered what got me steamed up."

"Oh, no. I thought maybe ... "

"I'd just forget about it? Not me. I'm not taking this lying down."

I went to the window again. I hadn't been out very long. Preacher Downe was still packing boards, lugging them from a diminishing pile near the road back closer to what appeared to be a foundation. I noticed he was favoring his right leg, as though he'd twisted his ankle swinging those boards around. Too bad.

I turned from the window and got my hat again. Marge didn't say anything or try to stop me. She just watched me quietly with those big brown eyes.

I closed the door softly and went around the house.

The little guy didn't hear me coming. He sat resting on the pile of boards, his back toward me. He was bent over, examining his right leg.

"Look, man," I growled.

He jumped and hastily dropped his pants leg. But before he had it covered, I got a glimpse of the leg. He turned toward me, smiling.

I felt my head beginning to throb.

An hour later Marge met me at the kitchen door.

"All right," I said. "No cracks. Just see if you can bandage this finger. I whacked it good, trying to make like a carpenter."

Marge smiled up at me. "I'm glad you changed your mind," she said. "But what made you"

I hesitated. "You noticed Preach limping?"

She nodded. "Yes."

I touched my head. "He saw the sandy plains of Iraq, too."

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