Jason sat at the table, with Sister Mildred and Maureen eagerly watching as he examined the long box in front of him. He lifted the lid, and spied a shillelagh, which was black, a yard long, ending in a rubber knob at the distaff end. “Wow, that is beautiful.”

He removed the shillelagh and held it in his hands. If he looked closely, he could see the fine wood grain, and ran his hands along the smooth knots that lined it. The knob of the cane felt reassuringly heavy on his hand, no doubt because it had been weighted, by adding nails or lead.

“It was my father’s, who always carried it when he was hired ta guard whiskey stills,” Sister Mildred explained. “It’s black ‘cause he put it up the chimney so’s ta cure it. It’s got a pretty bit a lead in the knob should some fella need a bit a suasion. We were daughters all ‘round, so I inherited it. I thought ya should have it.”

“Sister Mildred, I’m overwhelmed. This has to have great sentimental value for you.” Jason stood and felt the heft of the stick, then tapped his palm with it.

“That was really kind of you, Auntie,” Maureen added.

“When those mugs from the mayor barged into the dining hall yesterday, I thought maybe ya could a used a shillelagh, and given ‘em a crack er two on the noggin.” Sister Mildred swung an imaginary shillelagh in her hands to illustrate her point.

“Maybe you’re the one who should have the shillelagh,” Jason said with a laugh. “I just wish I knew how to use it, at least beyond something as simple as swing for the fences.”

“Yer in luck, Father Jason,” Sister Mildred beamed, and her joyous eyes were magnified by her thick glasses. “My father taught me the art a Irish stick fightin’.”

Jason gave her a puzzled look.

“Remember, my father—God rest his soul—hadn’t any sons, so I grew up as something of a tomboy, bein’ the son my dad wanted.” Sister Mildred got up and went to the corner, where she grabbed the broom. “Careful, lass, we’re gonna be swingin’ sticks.”

Maureen scooted her chair so that she sat behind the table, with her back to the wall.

The rotund nun held the broom parallel to the ground, at chin height, with both hands shoulder-width apart, palms down. “Like this. Ya pop it out, like a jab, only yer hittin’ with the knob end.”

Jason stood next to her and mirrored her, popping the stick out with his right hand, and whipping it back to catch it with his left. He followed as the nun scooted forward, snapping out the end of the broom stick with each bursting step, always keeping her right foot forward. Despite the nun’s weight and considerable belly, she was deceptively agile.

“Just when he thinks he’s got the measure of yer jab, ya switch it up.” The nun whipped out several jabs, then suddenly launched the right end of her broom, the straw whisk end, by using her left hand and extending her body.

Jason imitated her, twisting his body to get a little extra reach with his extended left hand.

Just as quickly, the nun retracted the broom, so that she returned to her starting position. “Let’s go upstairs,” Sister Mildred suggested.

“You know, Auntie, I had no idea you could swing a shillelagh like that,” Maureen said as she accompanied her aunt up the stairs.

“Me, too,” Jason added, closing the door and following the women.

Once the three of them arrived upstairs, the big-bellied nun positioned herself in front of the hanging heavy bag and spoke to it. “What’s yer beef, pal? How’s about a little chin music?”

The sister snapped out the broomstick, landing three quick jabs, all of which were precisely aimed at her imaginary opponent’s jawline. After each jab she retrieved the striking end and caught it with her left hand. She switched up, and threw the straw sweep-end forward, leaning out with her left hand, then quickly snapped it back. With a short hop she began unloading on the bag, only now she held the broom like a staff, holding it with both hands and striking with one end, then the other, or raking the ends across the bag. She lunged forward, causing her belly to swing upward, and slammed the portion of the broomstick between her hands into the bag, which folded inward from the impact.

A crack sounded in the terrace upstairs, and the sister looked in surprise at the two pieces of the broom she held in her hands. The slam with the shaft between her hands snapped the broomstick in two.

“I think ya get the idea.” Sister Mildred was winded by the exertion. “I served the men sandwiches while you two were out. I think I’ll just go back ta the basement and clean up.”

“I’ll join her,” Maureen offered.

“If it’s okay, I’ll just practice for a bit. You’ve given me lots to work on, Sister Mildred.” Jason nodded as the women left.

He practiced with the shillelagh, whipping out jabs, switching up with the left, and then moving in for two-handed power strikes with both ends of the stick. The lead in the knob end gave a comforting and resounding thwack on the heavy bag each time it landed. Although he’d planned to take the day off, he found he had worked up a sweat, so he retired to his room, where he showered off and changed into his pajamas, or Father Milligan’s pajamas, which were now his, as was the rest of the priest’s wardrobe.

Remembering he had a message, he checked his watch, and saw that the message icon was blinking. He pressed the watch stem several times until the message screen appeared.

Jason knew that the late father’s shillelagh was out there somewhere, and now that he knew it was a talisman, he was more determined than ever to get his hands on it.

There is something about boxing, and the tension that goes into the buildup to the fight, coupled with the physical demands on a fighter’s body, that is utterly exhausting. If you added a physical beating like the one Jason received, a fighter experienced a deep fatigue. Jason slept soundly, until he was awakened by a knocking at his door. Jason had no idea what time it was, but he knew it was late.

Jason got up and shuffled to the door. When he opened it, he saw Maureen standing in her nightgown, and it seemed that two zeppelins floated in front of her chest, pointing at him.

The redhead pulled her hair back over her shoulders, and stepped to the side so that she could more easily be seen through the slight opening in the doorway.

“Remember that drink you promised?”

* * *

The hardest part about sleeping in the car last night was missing out on the Midas Game. Since the first night Jason finally relented to his grandfather’s crazy idea and tried the game, he hadn’t missed a night where he entered the dream world of New York City in the roaring twenties. It was a sign of how much Jason cared about his dad that he was willing to go a night without playing the game.

After Jason returned from Wal-Mart with cleaning supplies and a box of trash bags, he, his father, and his grandfather began cleaning the trailer. Because of his father’s back, his dad worked for short periods of time, mainly using the duster to sweep the cobwebs from the walls and ceiling, as well as the layer of dust that sat thickly on top of everything. Jason and his father each were forced to dash outside to throw up.

Cleaning the refrigerator was nearly as bad as cleaning the toilet. Jason removed green cheese, and something fuzzy and green in a sealed Tupperware. He was tempted to use whatever was in the Tupperware as a stink bait, but didn’t think he could do so without throwing up or killing any catfish that ate it. He removed the drawers and the shelves, and had to go outside a couple of times to get some fresh air. Fortunately, there were more cans of beer than rotten food to clean up, and Jason was surprised to find an empty beer can sitting in the shelf among the other beers. How exactly did that happen? Why would his dad drink a beer and put an empty can back in the fridge?

Jason went out and got burgers for lunch, although Jason’s order was a patty without the bun, with extra lettuce, tomato, onion, cheese, and pickles.

“I went through three bags on the vacuum cleaner today,” his grandfather announced as they sat in the living room eating. Gramps had sprinkled a vanilla-scented deodorant powder on the carpet, which smelled nice, but clashed with the chemical scents of cleaners they had used on the walls, windows, TV, cabinet, and every surface of the house.

“Want a beer?” Randy asked as he got up and went to the fridge.

“No thanks.” Jason held up his bottled water. “I’ve been on a diet and trying to get into shape.”

“I’ll have one,” Gramps shouted from the couch.

“Wow, son, you really cleaned up the fridge,” his father exclaimed. “Looks like new. Even smells nice.”

Randy came back into the living room and handed a beer to Gramps, then sat down in his chair to eat the burger on his twisted TV tray.

“I’ll be back.’ Jason got up and threw his carboard meal box in the trash on his way out. He returned from his car and popped open a new TV tray, which he set in front of his father, who transferred his burger and his beer to the new tray. “It’s an early Christmas present.”

“Thank you.” His dad picked up his hamburger to take a bite, but set it back down. “I’m sorry about last night. I wasn’t in my right mind. I shouldn’t have hit you, and no amount of liquor is an excuse.”

“It’s okay,” Jason assured him. “As long as you get better, and we go chukar hunting again, I’ll be happy.”

“What do you say we go into the doctor on Monday and see when we can get that operation scheduled?” Gramps suggested.

Randy had his mouth full, but nodded his head yes. When he finished the last of his burger and fries, which he washed down with a swig of beer, he got up with a groan and went to the cabinet. He grunted as he reached up into the cabinet and pulled down a decorative vase, which he turned upside down. A tiny automatic in a leather holster clunked against the side of the vase and dropped into his hand. He handed the gun to Jason. “Take it, son.”

Jason removed the gun from it holster and examined it. It was a “baby Colt” in .25 caliber. He shouldn’t have been surprised that his father had yet another gun stashed away: after all, this was Idaho, where a man could never have too many guns.

“It’s to make up for last night, even if it can’t make it right.” Randy pretended to look out the window, and wiped his eyes.

* * *

Maureen looked at Jason, waiting for his answer. She crossed her arms under her breasts, which only served to raise them up to view. “It’s chilly out here.”

Yes, he had told her that if she wanted to drink, he had liquor for her, but his intention was to keep her from going to rough places to get a drink, not for her to show up late at night at his door, wearing a flimsy nightgown. If Jason told her no, she couldn’t come in for a drink, then he looked like a liar, but if he let her in, he was inviting trouble. He thought that he could have her drink on the terrace outside, but it was too cold.

“Yeah, come in. It’s freezing out there.” Jason opened the door for Maureen. He was tempted to do like he did whenever he had a female student in his room before or after school, and leave the door open to show that everything was above board, but the cold prevented that. His room was already a bit colder from the brief time the door was open.

Maureen sat down on the bed, which caught Jason by surprise.

“When I said you could come to my room to drink, I hadn’t really intended for you to show up late at night wearing just a nightgown.”

“Why, is something wrong with this?” Maureen held out the sheer fabric, pulling it up as she spread it, unintentionally flaunting a bit of her bare legs .

“Well, it’s uh, kind of thin.” He realized that implied that he was looking at her body, which he was, but was trying to do so without looking like he was looking. He busied himself with pouring two glasses of Jameson’s into crystal glasses.

“I could have one of the Flannigan Boys pick me up if I’m inconveniencing you.” Maureen leaned back on the bed, propping herself up with her palms on the bed behind her, which raised her enormous breasts suggestively.

The Flannigan Boys were another notorious Irish gang. Jason handed her a drink, trying to be nonchalant, even though he was tempted to turn his head as if she’d just stepped out of the shower and he were handing her a towel. “What is it with you and Irish gangs?”

“I don’t know anybody in any of the Jewish gangs, and Italians are just not my type.” She took a sip, but didn’t react like a novice to drink.

Jason took a seat at the table, and sniffed his drink before taking a sip. He shouldn’t be drinking, but today was an off day, maybe tomorrow, too, and then he’d resume training. It would also look odd if he just watched Maureen drink.

“So why did you decide to become a priest?” Maureen asked.

“I didn’t decide to become a priest, so much as I wanted to help men at the shelters, and assuming the role of a priest was a necessary step.”

“And why did you want to work with winos?” Maureen looked at him over the rim of her glass, regarding him with her green eyes as she took a sip.

“My first night in the city, I had nothing, and slept in a cardboard box.” Jason recalled the bitter cold, and the bully who roughed him up. “When I found the rescue mission the next day, I was so happy. I wanted to help the men who lived like I did, and I realized that the men weren’t just winos, but were guys like me, who had the world collapse under their feet, and found themselves in a desperate situation.”

Maureen knocked back the rest of her drink and stood up. “I think you could use a massage.”

“Oh no, I’m fine,” Jason protested. If she started touching him, he was afraid he would lose control, and there was no telling where that might lead.

“Your face is swollen, and the newspaper said you took a beating.” Maureen said as she moved to his back. “A massage is exactly what you need.”

Jason melted at the sensation of her hands on his back. One unexpected aspect of boxing he discovered was the strain on his back, caused by throwing punches and the constant crouching. He took a drink, and couldn’t help but moan as her hands kneaded his shoulders, which felt both painful and relaxing. “Oooh, that feels great. Let’s not tell your aunt about this.”

“About the massage?” Maureen asked, and placed a fist into his spine, which she drove in small circles.

“About any of this.” Jason felt as if he were melting into his chair. “If you’re asked, tell the truth—don’t lie. But let’s not volunteer anything.”

A rapping sounded at the door. “Father Jason?”

Dammit. The voice was unmistakably Sister Mildred’s.