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Show 234 "Ribs or chicken," said Tia. "You know that when Philip barbecues it's always either ribs or chicken." "Not actually for the writing," explained Jonathan, "but for allowing it to be printed without the bishop's imprimatur." "Well, which one," demanded Paul, "ribs . . . or chicken?" "What's an im-printer?" asked Tia. "They were ready to try him for heresy," said Molly. "In this day and age, can you imagine?" "I wasn't actually kicked out," said Jonathan, "I quit before they got to the trial." "Chicken," said Philip, "we're having barbecued goddamn chicken, Paul. All right?" From the other side of the fire, Julia's concerned eyes fought to gain and hold his attention, convey some important message. Philip looked away, at the little country cemetery across the road and beyond, out into the desert where he saw . . . dust, rising in the east, mixing there with the thin atmosphere and the reflection of the sun to form a low-lying, salmon-colored cloud. "Christ," said Paul, "sorry I asked," and, turning to his own wife, to Tia, "what the hell got into him?" Tia shrugged. "The weather," said Julia, "he's just concerned about the weather." Desert distances were deceptive, the cloud could be fifty, seventy-five miles away. There was no way of knowing. But without wind to move it and make it dangerous, there was no reason to be concerned, no reason to be frightened. "Read in the paper today that this is the worst drought in Ohio |
