Twenty
HELEN, BEING A WOMAN of her word, doesn’t call me until almost 10 a.m. the following morning. By this time, I’ve finished my homily for Sunday and am thinking about visiting the Conways to check on Catherine.
“I was a good girl, Tom,” Helen says. “I didn’t even wake up until almost 9 a.m. I’m just getting ready to leave for the office.”
“How do you feel?”
“Much better, thanks to you,” she says. “I really appreciate what you did.”
“Hey,” I say, “I can’t have you dropping dead from exhaustion or breaking your neck wearing uncomfortable shoes.”
“By the way, where are those medieval torture devices?”
“In the trash.”
“Good. Now, all I need to do is buy a new pair of pumps. I’ll wear my tennis shoes for the next couple of days.”
“If you like,” I say, “I can drive you to Hagerstow
