The last time I’d gone to mass was Easter, and my mother had made me go. I heard people gasp when I walked into the church. I’m sure they were wondering what horrible thing I’d done that had driven me to attend mass. Fortunately or unfortunately, however you were looking at it, the horrible thing was all in my mind. I’d thrashed around all night in a sweat over Ranger. On the one hand I felt good that I’d done right by Morelli and sent Ranger home. It was the other hand that was giving me problems. The other hand wanted to wrap itself around Ranger’s most perfect body part and not let go. I stopped in at my parents’ house after mass. My grandmother was at the kitchen table doing a Jumble, and my mother was ironing. “Now what?” I asked my mother. “Why are you ironing?” “Since when can’t a person iron?” my mother said. “You iron on Thursdays after you do the laundry. Ironing on Sunday is mental health ironing. You probably ironed this same shirt ten times.”
