“Larry Sussman with The Tidbit,” the man introduced himself to Jason at the table, speaking through a face mask. The reporter had a large, boxy camera with a cylindrical rod at the side holding a flash, consisting of a bulb in a reflective silver dish. “Care to explain why a priest is out with a minor, holding hands at an ice cream parlor?”

“It’s not my job to explain myself to nosy busybodies,” Jason explained and swiveled on his stool to face the man. “But if you must know, she’s not a minor. She’s been staying at the shelter with her aunt, who knows that I took her to visit her sister, who is hospitalized. This young lady felt sad afterwards, so I suggested we get a sundae to cheer her up. If there was something funny going on, we wouldn’t be so public.”

Jason thought back to when his put his hand on Maureen’s. That had been entirely innocent, right? Every time Jason and Maureen touched, however casually, he could feel a current flow between them. Yet when he recalled placing his hand on hers, he remembered feeling nothing other than a sense of compassion for Maureen, a sadness at the hardships she’d experienced, and concern for her well-being. Jason’s conscience was clear, to his relief.

There was the issue of the picture, though. Jason couldn’t see the picture, because this was an era long before digital cameras, when a picture could be taken and instantly reviewed. Instead, in this era, a roll of cellulose film had to be removed in a dark room, then placed in a variety of chemical baths and rinses before forming a print, which was hung up to dry. But Jason was sure the picture was sensational, and although Jason placing his hand on Maureen’s hand was entirely pure, there was no way to explain that in a picture, which would tell an entirely different story.

And there was Maureen herself, who if she were plain looking, flat-chested or even had average breasts, might pass as a young lady on an innocent outing, but she was gorgeous, and her huge breasts sexualized her. Jason remembered Jessica Simpson, who started her career as a Christian singer. For publicity photos, Jessica’s mother and agent did everything they could to conceal Jessica’s very large and noticeable breasts, resorting to jackets, bulky sweaters, vests, but to no avail. If Jessica Simpson was born with large breasts, then why did she need to hide them? The answer was that huge breasts seemed inappropriate for a Christian singer, because they sexualized her.

The tabloid journalist had just taken a picture depicting a young priest who was also a fit boxer, fresh off a huge upset victory, placing his hand on the hand of a young, attractive redhead with massive breasts. That picture was gold, telling a compelling story that would sell stacks and stacks of tabloid papers.

Maureen was still in high school. What would happen when her classmates saw that picture? Because it was a parochial school, there was the possibility of Maureen getting punished or expelled. What would Sister Mildred think? The nun might trust Jason, although Jason hardly trusted himself, but the journalist had photographic evidence.

Jason decided he had to get that picture, but how?

“Do you think you could do me a favor and not publish that picture?” Jason asked. “I’ve agreed to step into the limelight, but Susan here hasn’t. And I don’t know how her aunt is going to react.”

The photographer’s laugh, coming through a facemask, sounded hollow and mocking. “Are you kidding me? If they gave a Pulitzer for tabloids, this picture would be it. Why don’t you tell me about your fight last night?”

“I’m not going to monkey around. I don’t want any part of any monkey business.” Jason raised his voice. “We were having more fun than a barrel of monkeys until you showed up.”

“Okay, okay, I got it.” The capuchin monkey sat on the counter next to Jason. The room was still, with other customers frozen in place, and a spoon that had fallen off of the table hung suspended in midair. The reporter’s mouth remained open a fraction, indicating he had just started to speak. Maureen sat stock still in her stool beside him, holding a napkin at the corner of her mouth.

“Great! I was just going to ask you for a freeze frame.” Jason looked at the monkey with an expression of distaste. “I don’t think it’s very hygienic for you to be sitting on the counter.”

“No problem. I’m wearing a diaper.” The monkey adjusted the little red fez on his head.

“I don’t think a diaper on a food counter is very hygienic, either.” Jason shook his head sadly.

“Are you going to take advantage of the freeze frame,” the monkey asked, “or maybe you’d rather play a video game where you’re the health inspector? We could give you a tin badge and you travel around inspecting all the restaurants and hot dog carts, looking for cockroaches and undercooked food. That would be a blast.”

“All right,” Jason said with a dismissive wave of his hand and crouched under the photographer’s camera. He popped the latch on the bottom of the camera, which caused the film bay door to drop open. The roll of film on the take-up spool for exposed negatives was held in place by a spring latch, which Jason depressed to remove the cannister. “Here, take this.”

The monkey took the roll of film and scampered over the counter, trailing a black ribbon of cellulose film behind him.

Jason shook his finger as he pointed to a frozen man’s plate. “You just stepped in that guy’s pancakes.”

The little capuchin shrugged his furry shoulders, making his red and gray embroidered vest rise. “Are we playing The Midas Game, or The Anal Retentor?”

The monkey walked back with the roll of film, and Jason began the tedious process of rewinding it, using a fingernail.

The monkey picked up a bit of peanut covered in whip cream and ate it. “By the way, you’ve got a freeze frame coming to you because of your big payment against your student loan. In the future, we’re going to ration out your freeze frames, so use them carefully.”

“We need some kind of bat signal so I can contact you without resorting to monkey clichés,” Jason said without looking up from rewinding.

The monkey peered over Jason’s shoulder. “Something like a bat signal, but without the copyright infringement and sloppy plagiarism. We’re working on it.”

Jason placed the roll of film back into the camera, and carefully lined up the holes on the sides of the film with the sprockets. He tightened up the film between the two spools, and then closed the film bay door. “Where was I sitting?” he wondered and tried to move back to the same position and posture he assumed when the scenario was frozen. He gave the monkey a thumbs up, and the ice cream shop suddenly came to life a split second after the monkey disappeared.

Maureen wiped her mouth with her napkin, then turned to look where a spoon fell to the tiled floor with a clatter.

The tabloid reporter was startled and looked at Jason curiously. “It’s like you just jumped, but faster than the eye can see.”

“Hey!” the fat man said loudly enough to be heard by the cook behind the window. “There’s a hair in my pancakes!”

* * *

“Someone stole my High Point.” Randy rubbed a beer can over his forehead. He had managed to shower off and change into a pair of Real Tree camouflage pants.

“Anybody who stole your High Point is doing you a favor,” Jason said from the couch, sitting beside his grandfather.

“Don’t be a smartass,” Randy said, pointing a threatening finger at his son.

“Or what? You’ll punch me in the face? Well, you already did that last night.” Jason held his chin up and pointed to the red spot on his face.

“How much of last night do you remember?” Gramps asked, sitting with the Broncos blanket wrapped over his shoulders.

“Not much, maybe…” Randy was lost in thought, and took a swig of his beer. “Hey, wait a minute, what are you doing in my sweats? I recognize that mustard stain.”

“Your son and I left the Broncos game because we were worried about you—you’d been sending texts where you were talking about being tired and wanting it all to end. When we got here you had the gun in your hand, and tried to shoot yourself…”

“But couldn’t work the safety on your gun,” Jason interjected.

Gramps pointed to the TV tray, which was twisted. “Jason got a hold of the gun, taking you both to the floor, right through that TV tray, and you punched him. I had to choke you out, which made you shit yourself. It got all over me, so I had to shower and change. We would have stayed in here to keep an eye on you, but this place is a filthy mess, and it stinks, so we slept in the car.”

Randy glanced at his father and son on the couch, but quickly looked down. He let out a long breath while rubbing the beer can over his forehead. “I sure could use a couple Tylenol right now.”

“How many times have I told you about Tylenol, dad? You drank so much last night that you nearly committed suicide, and you can’t remember anything this morning.” Jason folded his arms over his chest because the trailer was too cold. His voice took on a softer tone. “Tylenol isn’t good for your liver, especially not when you’re popping them like candy and drinking too much.”

“How long are you going to live like this?” Gramps asked.

Jason recognized the question as the same one that his grandfather asked him.

“There’s nothing I can change.” Randy slumped into his chair. “It’s out of my hands.”

“You can start by cleaning the place up,” Gramps countered. “If you’re willing to start, your son and I would be glad to help you.”

“Maybe not glad, but we’d do it anyway,” Jason added.

Randy sat silently in his chair, looking down at the floor. “I guess I could do that.”

Gramps leaned forward in his urgency. “But the bigger issue is the operation. Until you get your back fixed, you won’t climb out of the hole you’re in.”

“I could get paralyzed,” Randy shot back. “Is that what you want?”

Gramps refused to get baited but responded calmly. “If you were paralyzed, it would be from the lower back down. You could still watch TV, drink beer, and pop pills while sitting in the trailer feeling miserable. How would your life be any different?”

“I’d be impotent, for one. I can’t let them start cutting on me.” Randy finished the last of his beer and crushed the empty can in his hand.

“So you won’t be able to jerk off. Big deal.” Gramps fixed his eyes on his son.

“Ouch,” Jason thought. That was brutal only because it was true. He remembered his grandfather asking him, “How long do you want to be a broke jerkoff?” It was harsh, but the question cut through the bullshit, highlighting Jason’s failure with money and women.

Randy didn’t know how to respond, so he rose from his chair and went to the fridge to get a beer.

Gramps waited for his son to return to his seat. “Getting the operation and getting your back fixed is the only way to get your life back.”

“And if I’m paralyzed?” Randy asked, popping the tab on his beer.

“You’ll still be able to shoot yourself,” Gramps said pointedly.

“Hopefully with a better-quality gun,” Jason added.

* * *

“Thanks for the sundae.” Maureen said with a smile. “And thanks for taking me to see my sister, even though I know that had to be depressing.”

Jason and Maureen walked from the garage to the rectory as the sun was setting.

“You’re welcome. It was good to be able to meet your sister—I just wish it wasn’t under such bad circumstances.” Jason looked up to the men’s dormitory and saw a mandrill sitting on the roof, watching them approach the rectory. Apparently, the mandrill he shot to death at the speakeasy wasn’t the only one in the city.

“What are we going to do when that picture comes out?” Maureen asked, nervously gnawing at her lip. “My aunt will throw a fit.”

“I’ve got a feeling that picture won’t make the newspaper.” Jason wanted to tell her why, but she wouldn’t believe him if he said a capuchin monkey stripped out the film while time was frozen.

“What makes you so sure?” Maureen brushed back her wavy red hair from her face to give herself a clear view of him as he walked at her side.

“I believe in divine intervention.” Jason answered with a smile. That bastard tabloid journalist had not only lost the pic of Jason and Maureen, but all the other pictures he’d taken too. “You said that if I boxed it would create publicity for the shelter, which is true. I think that we have to be careful that publicity doesn’t backfire on us. We got caught off guard today.”

“Yeah, it looked like we were holding hands.” Maureen looked at him to gauge his reaction.

Jason kept a poker face as he knocked at Sister Mildred’s door.

“Ah, you’re back!” The sister poked her chubby face through the open door and studied them both through the thick lenses of her glasses. “Come in, Father Jason, I got somethin’ fer ya.” Jason let Maureen in first, holding the door for her, and then followed, closing the door behind him.

“It’s such a shame what happened ta my niece Laura,” the sister said as she went to the closet. “She was the brightest young lady, could sing like a canary. Then she got sick, couldn’t hardly stay awake a’tall. And there’s nothin’ the doctors can do. Anyways, I got somethin’ here.”

The nun returned from the closet and set a box on the table in front of Jason. It was a little longer than a yard, and maybe six inches wide, smelling of pipe tobacco.

Both Maureen and Sister Mildred looked at him expectantly.

A quick glance at his watch held down below the edge of the table revealed that the prize icon was flashing. But what was in the box?