shady spot between the overhang and the guinep tree, then brought out the chairs and the box
of dominoes. He was dumping them out when Joe finally came out of the house.
“Father Bolling.”
Nick straightened at the unfa miliar address and smiled at his friend. “That’s me? Why
so formal?”
Joe shrugged, took his seat and began turning and mixing the tiles.
Nick sat. “Well, then, Mister Parker.” He lifted a domino. “Eight.”
Joe lifted another for a five. They mixed again. “I’m just messing with you,” Joe said.
“You know you don’t have to be a priest here.”
“And you know I’m always a priest. I play dominoes just to save your soul.”
“The hell you do.”
Both men wore this conversation like favorite tattered hats, Joe’s a fraying straw with
deep crown and broad rim, Nick’s the Toronto Blue Jays cap he’d brought to the island years
ago. The weekly domino game allowed them their differences and found safe and easy talk
among the pips. White, black, believer, skeptic … but the re were ends that matched. Nick
slapped down his double five.
Joe quickly flipped out a tile and slid the matching side into position. Theirs was a
simple and friendly game, unlike the serious competitions of the younger men at the bar. They
didn’t bet or keep track of how many games each had won.
Old Wheeler ambled across the yard and wheezed himself under the domino table. The
chunky mutt rarely missed a game.
“So you still believe in dog?” Nick asked.
21
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