I opened up my fingers and let the coins ring inside the box and I drew out my hand. The bill stuck to the sweat on my fingers and slid out along with the digits. A one, I decided. I had got into trouble for a grubby single. It wasn't any century. I had been kidding myself.
I unfolded the note. Sure enough, it wasn't a hundred-dollar bill, but it was a twenty, and that was almost the same thing to me. I creased it and put it back into the slot.
As long as it stalled off the cops, I'd talk to Partridge.
We took a couple of camp chairs and I told him the story of my life, or most of it. It was hard work on an empty stomach; I wished I'd had some of that turkey soup. Then again I was glad I hadn't. Something always happened to me when I thought back over my life. The same thing.
The men filed out of the kitchen, wiping their chins, and I went right on talking.
After some time Sister Partridge bustled in and snapped on the overhead lights and I kept talking. The brother still hadn't used the phone to call the cops.
"Remarkable," Partridge finally said when I got so hoarse I had to take a break. "One is almost—almost—reminded of Job. William, you are being punished for some great sin. Of that, I'm sure."
"Punished for a sin? But, Brother, I've always had it like this, as long as I can remember. What kind of a sin could I have committed when I was fresh out of my crib?"
"William, all I can tell you is that time means nothing in Heaven. Do you deny the transmigration of souls?"
"Well," I said, "I've had no personal experience—"