Heretics book 3 - The Apocryphile Press

58 :: JOHN R. MABRY
Although Brian was about Dylan’s own height, he seemed
larger, mostly because he was a hunchback—the large dromedarian
hump swelled from just behind his right shoulder,
stretching tight the fabric of his flannel shirt. It also forced
Brian’s head to cock to the left, creating an illusion of perpetual
inquiry. “Smells good, amigo,” Dylan said, swallowing
against the rush of saliva.
“You got a meeting?” Brian asked. “Now?”
“Yeah. Baptism.”
“You got grass in your hair.”
“Thanks, dude.” Dylan picked at what was left of his
unruly red mane.
“And you reek of marijuana. Altoids are on the fridge.”
“You are mah salvation,” Dylan responded almost liturgically,
shoving four of the mints into his mouth and crunching
them.
Brian looked up at the clock and shot him a look.
“Dinner’s at eight.” However unsettling his disfigurement
might seem to strangers, amongst the friars Brian was the
benevolent dictator of the household, a true Jewish mother
in all but genitalia.
“Ah’ll make it quick. Start without me if you need to.”
Brian didn’t say anything—a wordless reproach, which,
Dylan realized, was justified. An artist deserves to have his
friends show up on time to appreciate his art, after all, and
Brian’s cooking was high art indeed.
The foyer was at the foot of the chapel, and Tobias was
sniffing at the door and making rumbling sounds in his
throat. “It’s okay, big boy, they’re nice people.” Dylan realized
he had no evidence of this as he opened the door, and
then conceded to himself that, indeed, some things needed to
be taken on faith. He grinned, swung out the screen door
and offered his hand. “You must be the Swansons! Welcome
to the Friary, I’m Fr. Dylan.”