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… Three hours on a July Saturday, from receiving line to reception—and as the back of the line had snaked farther down the sidewalk without the front ever seeming to get any closer to the church-front’s big red doors and Old Joe’s big red-haired, so-called widow, more than a few prayers had been murmured to Dear God about getting out of there in time to head down to Judith Point, change into bathing suits in the car, hit the hot dog cart, and get these swollen feet into the bay—and can you believe how fucking hot it is? Leave it to Old Joe to ruin a whole goddamn Saturday for the whole goddamn parish.

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