Wheeling Gull Isle The Apocryphon of John

He only perceived her answer by the movement of her mouth.

Does a man by the name of Bartholomew—

and to call his father by that name felt so wrong; he repressed a grimace but its waylaid tension flickered across his forehead; he tried to finish his question but his voice failed him again and again, a car engine in midwinter. Does—Does he—

He laughed, sheepish, an excuse for him to breathe slowly.

I'm sorry, I meant to ask—does he still live there?

Why did he ask her, when he could go to see for himself?

The dissonance was unbearable. Here he stood as a so-called learned man, a man of letters, a man of God, unable to utter his own father's name. For a moment he thought he glimpsed a lanky shadow ghosting the edge of the island, and he could not help but avert his gaze, heart pounding.