Mr. Tom T. Trawley was the most punctual man I ever knew. Each Sunday, at noon precisely, he stood, hiked up his pants, and stepped out from the pew where he and his wife sat. He walked up the aisle toward the two doors at the back of the church and pushed them open, their pneumatic hinges sighing as they slowly closed. You could hear his footsteps as he shuffled across the small vestibule and pushed open the outer doors, escaping, I thought, to his light blue Ford Fairmont sitting along the curb out front.