The three people, the young man, his wife and Mrs. Grady, hurried along the empty dark street talking about God, his blessing and power. They had only met an hour ago through the mutual introduction of Mrs. Fletcher in her flat on Christopher Street but already they had established that curious bond that makes it possible for people to speak openly and honestly to one another.
“I get some holy water from the Father to put in the cupboard. What do you do?”
He didn’t know what “he did.” A hazy forced remembrance swept over him of friends and relatives and old neighbors invited to the new house, of people surging through inspecting all of the rooms, a great deal of drinking, big open cornbeef sandwiches, salami, pickles, cake, bread his mother had baked, cases of pop and beer cooling off in the bathtub, loud talk and dancing. “We have parties,” he told Mrs. Grady, “and the people all bring us gifts for the new house, stuff themselves with food, and get a little drunk.” Mrs. Grady laughed but that wasn’t a real answer for her.
“Don’t you do anything for good luck?”
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