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of hypocrites. Believe me, God is more afraid of Fleeta than the other way around.”
    “Not for nothin’, Preacher and Mrs. Mutter made a stop over there one day when they was collecting cans for the food bank. And they got to talking. Fleeta ain’t been in church since she was a girl, and Otto never went at all. Evidently, the singing convention and revivals don’t count as churchgoing. Who knew? Anyhow, as they was loading cans into the truck, some sort of conversion took place, and Preacher Mutter convinced them that they should honor their love with a proper ceremony, set a decent example for their children, and simultaneously become members of the United Methodist Church.”
    “So Fleeta had an epiphany.”
    “Truth be told, she was humiliated. She couldn’t believe a preacher would actually have the guts to say anything to her about her private life. For the record, Otto’s the one who’s afraid of hell.”
    “Is he gonna be baptized?”
    “Oh yeah. I’m buying front-row seats to that shindig. Wait till you see old Otto dunked in the Powell River like an old tire. That right there is reason number one I leave my donated cans on the porch when the Methodists come collectin’. I don’t need to be saved, I have no interest in it. Here’s a tip for you: never get into a conversation with a preacher on a weekday. It starts out as idle chitchat, then next thing you know, they got you volunteering to do God knows what and agreeing to things you’re dead set against.”
    “When’s the wedding?”
    “Soon. You’re in charge of the decorations, and I’m doing the food.”
    “What is Fleeta doing?”
    Iva Lou dabs the last bit of jam from the corner of her mouth with a napkin. “She’s gonna show up.”
             
    When Jack and I head up to the hospital later in the day, the road to Norton is slick in spots from the frost. Jack drives as though it’s the middle of summer, taking the truck around the curves like he’s Dale Earnhardt. I hold on to the handle over the window. “Slow down, would you, please? I want to live.”
    “I don’t have time for this.”
    “You have to make the time. It’s your health.” What is it with men, anyway? Why do they hate going to the doctor? As a pharmacist, I’ve seen it all—I even knew a wife who mashed up pills and put them in a pie to get her husband to take his meds. When a husband comes to the Mutual’s to pick up a prescription, he carries the sack out of the store like he’s holding a dead rat. I don’t get it.
    “I don’t need a lecture.”
    “I’m not lecturing.”
    “The last thing I need is to take a morning off to run up to St. Mary’s. The trip to Italy really messed me up. We were gone for three weeks, and I’m backed up through the new year now.”
    “That’s enough, Jack. It’s not like I posted your name on the online Baptist prayer wheel. It’s a checkup. That’s all. Let’s not argue. It’s not good for you to get upset.”
    “Why? Because I’ll have a heart attack?”
    “Now you’re just sniping. Knock it off,” I tell him.
    We pull in to the parking lot at St. Mary’s Hospital in Norton. I reach over and pat my husband on the leg and then climb out of the cab. “Well, come on,” I tell him. He sits staring straight ahead. “We’ll be late,” I say. He doesn’t move, so I climb back into the cab. “Please. They squeezed you in. I begged. Let’s go.” I look at my husband’s profile; it’s every bit as strong as the day I married him. The set of his jaw is still like stone, his nose as regal and straight. Most of the light brown hair is gone, but he’s not one bit less handsome without it. Sometimes I feel I know everything about him, and other times I think I’ll never crack him. I put my hand on his face. When I do, he breaks his faraway stare and looks at me. When I look into his eyes, I know. “You’re scared.”
    “Wouldn’t you be?”
    “I guess I would,” I answer. “You know, Jack,