A half hour passed. Sam readied a new keg for the tap. He wiped down the bar and made a few swipes at the dusty floorboards with his broom. He took out the trash and burned it. When he returned, Donnie was absently whistling as he filled another cup.
“All right, then,” said Sam, “let me ask you one more time. If Wesley Wilding and that church bunch of his is so all-fired important to you, then what do you get from hanging out with ‘em?”
Donnie sniffed, worked his mouth back and forth as if chewing. “I like singing. I get to sing a little bit.”
“That ain’t much of a answer,” said Sam.
Donnie began an awkward shuffling.
Sam smirked. “That’s what I thought. You just hide out there when you think them sins’ve been mounting up and they about to tumble all over you.”
Donnie stomped a boot, sending a thunderclap through the rafters. “Dang it, Sam, what’s crawled up your ass this morning?”
Sam leaned, arms braced on the bar. “Just tell me, has all that done you any good?”
Donnie sighed. “Not according to Mama.”
“And she should know,” Sam said, as if it were a question.
Donnie nodded. “She’s the smartest person I ever knowed.”