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Their aimless wanderings take them all over the neighborhood, killing time before their six o’clock seminar. Sometimes they’re full of good-natured teasing, sometimes long discussions of philosophy and morality. Sometimes they don’t talk at all. That’s one of the most surprising discoveries that Billy has made so far about his friend: Charlie doesn’t actually have to talk all the time. Most of the time, yes. But he is capable of long, pensive silences that can stretch on for hours.
Today, they are silent. Billy is grateful, his nerves more frayed than usual, jumping at screeching tires and dropped books. Today is not one of the good days.
Their winding path takes them through streets lined with leafless trees past the cathedral. Billy stops suddenly.
“Hey, Charlie, I need to— Do you mind?”
Charlie follows him up the steps to the door without a word. When Billy holds the heavy door open for him, he shakes his head and steps to the side.
“I can’t go in there. I’ll wait out here.”
“Are you—”
“You go ahead. I’ll be out here.” He moves to lean against the stone railing, looking out across the church’s lawn to the street beyond.
Billy slips inside the welcoming dimness, quietly making his way into the sanctuary. It’s been a long time since he’s been to church, but he settles easily into the quiet, finding a pew near the middle and kneeling. He takes a long breath, the easiest breath he’s taken all day, and rests his forehead on his clasped hands, closing his eyes. There are about five other people in the sanctuary, each in their own world.
Billy doesn’t think in words, only images—a smooth and unmarked expanse of skin, the crinkle in the corner of an eye, a hoarse whisper trying to hide a laugh.
He breathes very calmly and remains completely still as he allows himself to unravel completely and put himself back together.
He stays inside for a long time.
When he emerges from the building, blinking in the unexpected brightness, he finds that Charlie has moved to stand by the stone wall at the bottom of the stairs, leaning his elbows on it and watching the street. The round boyishness of him contrasts almost comically with the severity of the stonework. Billy comes up to lean beside him, bumping his shoulder. Charlie gives him a small nod of recognition, not taking his eyes off the road.
“How’s God?” he asks lightly.
“Good. He’s good.”
Across the street a mother is herding a veritable army of children into a van. One small boy is escaping, running down the sidewalk in a flurry of leaves and waving an umbrella like a sword.
“He says hi,” Billy says, bumping Charlie again. Charlie grins. The boy is recaptured by an older sister and bundled into the back with the others, kicking and shouting. Billy chuckles quietly, and Charlie grins wider.
Charlie sighs and pushes himself back off the wall. He glances up at the building with an unreadable expression, then sticks his hands in his pockets and trudges down the lawn to the sidewalk. Billy watches the van pull away, leaving a small umbrella forgotten on the sidewalk. He squares his shoulders and heads off after his friend, kicking up the carpet of leaves as he goes.