48 It ain’t no need to hide, ain’t no use to run

His attention span was short, of course. Baby Drew was just two years, ten months old. But instead of fidgeting in line, he worked out his infantile jitters through practicing The Madison. A twist after a handclap caught the attention of Monsignor Quinn, who was not the heppest cat on earth. He couldn’t distinguish The Madison from chorus dancing by The Ikettes. But quite astutely he opined that baby Drew danced rather well.
Aunt Kar had gently placed him back onto the hardwood floor, and perhaps her quiet singing, which faintly reached the monsignor’s sharp ears, influenced his classification of little Andrew’s moves. Kar had had enough of singing “Madison Time” earlier and switched to uptempo rhythm and blues.
“And when I pull my trigger
There won’t be no misses.
It ain’t no need to hide
Ain’t no use to run . . .”
Little Drew bobbed, dipped, and swung in place, just as Tina Turner did in a documentary he’d enjoyed watching with Granny Guss.
“Ow!” Granny Guss shouted at the time, along with Ms. Turner’s musical exclamation.
“Ow!” shouted baby Drew now, a syllable he’d mastered through song.
That too caught the attention of Monsignor Quinn, who suddenly was possessed of a happy thought, a bit of salvation.
“I botched the little chap’s baptism today. Perhaps . . .”
He availed himself of a Jew’s harp he carried in his satchel. While it was incapable of chord changes, it was remarkably proficient at matching the beat of the Ike and Tina Turner Review rhythm section.
He was sorry for his failure to facilitate little Drew’s scheduled entrance into the Communion of Saints. Backing the innocent now, orchestrally, was a first step to his own redemption, an act of contrition for the sin of not showing up. Nor did it transpire without peril. A prominent donor in the parish looked askance at the Jew’s harp, recalling ancient uneasiness between two great faiths.
Monsignor Quinn didn’t cower, but managed to be fully ingratiating.
“Ecumenism,” he said brightly.
(“But,” he shuddered, “the specter of stealth anti-Semitism shan’t go uncautioned in my homily for little Andrew’s baptism. Might I not give it a title, moreover? Certainly nothing in Church law or Her traditional practice prohibits. Therefore, ‘Julius Streicher, Mountain Biker’ to give baby Andrew the right footing, to be mindful of wolves in sheep’s clothes, bigots in bicycle finery.”)
” . . . ow! ain’t he sweet . . .” he heard dimly, and almost by instinct gave the Jew’s harp another correlative twang.


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