Alone On A Bench

The parson sat on the bench in the park listening to the band’s rendition of “Stranger In the Night.” The crowd was decent but not enough to crowd the little park. The head of the day was giving way to the cool of night but the weight of Georgia humidity remained. The parson felt for the band members whose foreheads sparkled from the beads of sweat.

Vera Huddlemann approached. “Parson, I didn’t expect to see you out tonight. Where’s Ms. Parson?”

“Ms. Parson is creating some stained glass artistic masterpiece, Vera. What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was shopping at the Little Ones Boutique and heard the music so I decided to come on over. I don’t usually come out to these things.” Vera sat down on the bench beside the parson. “The band seems to be quite good.”

“They are, Vera,” said the parson. “I’m particularly fond of the trumpet player. Jim Lester told me they’re going to play “Stardust” in a few. I’m hanging around for that.”

The band played two more pieces as Vera and the parson sat listening, nodding occasionally to the people who walked by. After that Vera turned to face the parson.

“Parson, I drove past the church today and noticed Cynthia Ryder’s car was there.”

“Was it?”

“It was. I was just wondering what she might have been doing at the church.”

“Why don’t you ask her?” the parson suggested.

“I thought I’d ask you, Parson, since your car was there, too.”

“Was it?”

“It was. So I suppose you’d know what Cynthia was doing there.”

“That’s possible, Vera.”

“Well, Parson, I mean, do you think it’s proper for you and Cynthia to be at the church together?”

“Vera, did it ever occur to you Cynthia parked her car at the church to car pool with someone?”

“Is that why her car was there?”

“I’d ask Cynthia about that Vera, if you have to know.”

“Well, I’m asking you, Parson.”

“Before I answer that, Vera, can I ask you a personal question?”

“I guess so.”

“Was there some reason you decided to come sit with me on this bench when Ms. Parson’s not around?”

It was but a few minutes after that the considerably talented trumpet player pealed forth the smooth notes of Hoagy Carmichael’s “Stardust” and the parson sat back, alone, on the bench, eyes closed, to enjoy the classic.

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