Sanctuary Read Free Page A

wadded bar towel at him. He nodded and draped the towel around his neck, holding the short end with his left hand. Grasping the long end of the towel with his right hand stopped the shaking, and he was able to pick up the glass. He pulled the towel slowly around his neck, the tension keeping his hand steady until the glass was at his lips.
    He took a deep sip, and for a moment it appeared that the old man’s knees would buckle. He waited until the alcohol seeped into his system and then dropped the towel, his hands steady. He took another sip.
    â€œSweet Mary,” one of the men whispered reverently. “There is a man who loves good whiskey.”
    The preacher set his glass down on the bar. “Have any port?” he asked Johnson.
    Johnson nodded.
    â€œAnd some glasses—eight.”
    Johnson walked down the bar to collect the order, and Mordecai slipped off the bar stool.
    â€œI want to buy a drink for the house!” the preacher announced, and all eyes turned to him. “Over here by the window.”
    Raised eyebrows and shrugs circled the tables, but the Silver Dollar regulars clumped across the hard oak floor and settled into the two tables by the door. Maybe they would get two shows this morning.
    â€œFirst,” the preacher said, “we’ll bow our heads.”
    Some of the men were digging I-told-you-so elbows into their neighbors’ ribs. But they all bowed their heads, some necks creaking like rusty pump handles with the effort.
    â€œ Our Father who art in heaven …”
    Most of the men mumbled along, memories of their youth tumbling into their minds as the prayer continued. And some were silent, afraid of being branded as religious by their friends.
    Doc was hanging at the back of the group, and the preacher said, “Come on, Doc, have a glass of wine with us.”
    But Doc shook his head. “That wine’s too bitter for me.”
    The preacher walked around the two tables, passing out crackers he had taken from the bar.
    â€œâ€˜Take and eat: This is my Body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’”
    And then he passed out glasses of wine.
    â€œâ€˜This is the Blood of the new Covenant, which is shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Whenever you drink it, do this for the remembrance of me.’”
    The preacher was almost at the end of the line when a loud chorus of mismatched voices accompanied by a bass drum broke in on the simple ceremony. “Onward Christian Soldiers” filled the bar with sanctimony.
    â€œGuess it’s our turn,” one of the regulars said, and the others guessed he was right. The preacher caught his eye, and the man explained.
    â€œWell, the Reverend Eli gets the good folk of Sanctuary up to church on Sunday and gets them all riled up about us sinners. Then he picks the sinner of the week, and the Christian soldiers march onward. Sometimes they roost down here; sometimes over at the—uh, cribs; sometimes at one sinner’s house or another.”
    â€œThe Reverend’ll start yelling at us pretty quick, and after he’s told everybody what he thinks of us, they’ll all march back to the church feeling real good about themselves. I guess you might say that us sinners do those folks a real service.” Nods followed that observation.
    â€œLet’s celebrate that,” the preacher said, moving down the line, continuing to pass out the glasses of wine.
    Just as Mordecai was serving the last man, the door to the Silver Dollar opened and the Reverend Eli Timpkins poked into the bar. The Reverend was tall, skinny, and hard, the heat of his passions having burned away all softness long ago. His righteousness raged and blazed within him, and sweat ran down his face as though to cool the furnace within. His brows were bushy and pulled down tight over eyes burning with righteousness. Those eyes blazed through the room before settling on