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For the DWC Word Counts |
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This starts my DWC 2026 journey |
| I waited for something else to follow—an update, a question, the small conversational bridge she used to offer without thinking. Nothing did. I returned to my office and closed the door, the click louder than I intended. For the first time that morning, it occurred to me that there was nothing left to adjust. Mrs. O’Brien. I touched my collar. What more could I offer her? Realizing I had said that aloud, I picked up the office phone. With lly. “Father Pete, I need a favor,” the words coming just a little quick, almost forced. “Yes?” he replied. “Mrs. O’Brien, she is having a rough time since her sister died. Can you give her some time this week? I’ve met with her twice already, but maybe…” I stopped. “Maybe?” he asked. Inhaling deeply before speaking. “Maybe she needs an elder priest’s guidance.” There was a long silence. Father Pete spoke in a steady voice. Well, if that’s your evaluation, I definitely will make time for her. Have Bernice call me to set it up.” “I will. And thank you, Father Pete.” Another long pause “Fine.” The line went dead. Using the interoffice line, I dialed the outer office. Felicia picked up. “Yes, Father?” Expecting Bernice, I felt the words stick briefly in my throat. “Uh, can you give Mrs. O’Brien’s phone number to Father Pete, uh, please? He’ll arrange to meet with her.” “Certainly Father,” she said. And again the line went silent before I could respond. First Father Pete, now Felicia. Later that afternoon, I heard Father Pete’s office door open. His voice carried briefly—low, steady, the cadence he used when he was listening rather than instructing. Another voice answered, softer, edged with fatigue. Mrs. O’Brien. I remained at my desk, the door closed, hands resting flat on the blotter. The sound didn’t intrude. That was the problem. I told myself it was good. Appropriate. This was how parish life was meant to work—shared responsibility, care distributed rather than concentrated. Still, when their voices moved farther down the hall and then disappeared, the office felt oddly thinned, like a space that had been cleared too quickly. That evening, the office emptied out in its usual order. Felicia shut down her computer, gathered her things, and said good night without looking back. The door closed softly behind her. I stayed where I was, the calendar open in front of me, aware of the empty space where her voice usually settled at the end of the day. That night, after Nate was asleep, Felicia stood at the kitchen sink longer than necessary, watching the last plate dry. The apartment was quiet in the way it only ever was after everything had been put away. She thought of the office that morning—how easily she had let the moment pass, how natural it had felt to hold back. The realization surprised her, not with its intensity, but with its clarity. I want that back. The thought arrived whole and unmistakable, and for the first time she didn’t push it away or soften it into something else. At the end of the day, I closed my office door and stood there a moment before turning the lock. By the time the day settled into evening, the parish offices had already gone dark. The phone on my desk lit briefly, then went dark again. I didn’t reach for it. For the first time, the quiet didn’t feel chosen. Paulie didn’t call this time. He showed up. I had just stepped out of the rectory when I saw Paulie. He was standing near the low stone wall that separated the residence from the parish offices, hands in his jacket pockets, looking down at his phone as if he hadn’t been waiting long. Or as if he had, and didn’t want to show it. “Hey,” he said, looking up. I stopped. “What are you doing here?” “You weren’t returning my calls,” he said. No accusation. Just fact. “I’ve been busy.” “I know.” He nodded toward the office building. “I won’t keep you.” That was new. I shifted my bag on my shoulder. “Then what?” Paulie studied me for a moment. “I want you to tell me the truth before you go in there.” I exhaled slowly. “About what?” “About what’s been happening since Wednesday,” he said. “Since you missed Dad. Since you started finishing everything and disappearing from it.” “That’s not—” “Don’t,” Paulie said gently. “Don’t make this about scheduling.” I looked past him, toward the office door. “You talked to Father Pete,” he said. I snapped my gaze back. “What?” He shrugged. “Dad mentioned it. And I ran into Pete yesterday. He asked how you were. He doesn’t usually ask that.” My jaw tightened. Paulie waited, then said, “If Father Pete is carrying something you normally carry, it means you already know you can’t.” “That’s not fair.” “No,” he agreed. “But it’s accurate.” The path between us felt narrower than it had a moment before. “What do you want me to say?” I asked. Paulie didn’t raise his voice. “I want you to stop pretending this is just a hard week.” I opened my mouth, then closed it again. The explanations lined up easily—work, fatigue, the sermon, grief counseling. Any of them would have sounded plausible. None of them would have been true. Paulie didn’t move. The name surfaced before I could decide whether to stop it. “Felicia,” I said. It wasn’t a confession. It wasn’t even an explanation. It was simply the first word that didn’t lie. Paulie nodded once, as if something had finally clicked into place. “Okay,” he said. My chest tightened. “I haven’t—” “I didn’t ask what you’ve done,” Paulie said. “I asked what’s happening.” I looked at the office door again, then back at him. “I don’t know how to keep this contained,” I said quietly. “And I don’t know what happens if I don’t.” Paulie’s voice stayed even. “Then we’re finally talking about the right thing.” Paulie did not say anything else. He didn’t need to. I stood there a moment longer than necessary, aware that the office door was only a few steps away and that whatever waited on the other side of it would not be the same now that I had spoken her name. When I finally moved, it was with the unsettling knowledge that silence was no longer something I could return to. Felicia made the decision before she said anything out loud. It came to her while she was waiting for the copier to finish warming up, the low hum filling the space where her thoughts usually stayed ordered. When Bernice looked up from her desk, Felicia spoke before she could second guess herself. “I won’t be able to help in the office for a while,” she said. “Not permanently. Just for a bit . A few weeks, maybe. I can still help with events if you need me to. I just—” She stopped.” Bernice looked up. “Is everything alright?” “Yes,” Felicia said. Then, because Bernice had earned more than a deflection, she added, “I started coming in to fill the hours during Nate’s school day. I thought keeping busy would help.” Bernice studied her, the way she did when something didn’t quite fit the schedule but wasn’t wrong either. “Of course,” she said finally. “You’ve given a lot of time here.” “And It did,” Felicia said. “But I think I need to use that time differently now.” Bernice nodded slowly. “That makes sense.” Relief moved through Felicia, followed by the quieter awareness that the choice was real. “I’ll let Father Jason know,” Bernice said. “That’s fine,” Felicia replied. I found out an hour later. Bernice stood in my doorway with a clipboard tucked under her arm. “Just so you know,” she said, “Felicia won’t be in the office for a bit.” I looked up. “Why?” “She didn’t say,” Bernice replied. “Only that she needed to step back.” “When?” “Starting tomorrow.” The room went still. “Is something wrong?” I asked. Bernice hesitated, then shook her head. “She didn’t say that either.” She waited a beat, then added, “She was very calm about it.” After she left, I sat there longer than I meant to, the absence settling in the room like a missing sound. I saw her at the front door, her bag already over her shoulder. “Felicia,” I said, and the name landed differently now that it was no longer internal. She stopped and turned. “I heard you’re stepping back,” I said. “Yes.” “For how long?” She considered the question, then shook her head. “I don’t know yet.” A pause settled between us. “I thought you were helping,” I said. “I was,” she replied. “And now?” She hesitated — not as if choosing words, but as if deciding whether to answer at all. |
| I walked down the hallway toward my rooms without turning back. I reached into my pocket for my keys and felt the phone there instead. Taking it out and glancing at the screen, I slid it back without unlocking it. I sat on the edge of the bed with the phone in my hand before pressing call. Paulie answered on the second ring. “Hey,” he said, like we’d talked earlier. “Hey.” A pause settled between us, familiar. “You got my message,” he said. “Yes.” “And you still didn’t call back.” “That’s right.” He didn’t rush to fill the silence. “Where were you on Wednesday?” Paulie asked. I leaned back against the dresser. “What do you mean?” “You missed the game,” he said. “Dad asked about you.” The words were plain. They didn’t ask for explanation. “It’s been a busy week,” I said. “Figured,” Paulie replied. “That’s why I let it go.” I closed my eyes once. “I’m not calling because you missed a game,” he said. “I’m calling because you missed it and didn’t say anything.” I ran my hand through my hair and let it fall back to my side. “I didn’t want to make it a bigger thing than it was.” Paulie was quiet. Then, “You’ve always been good at deciding what counts.” The words landed without accusation. “So what counts now?” he asked . I leaned my forehead briefly against my fist. “I’m still doing everything I’m supposed to do,” I said. “Nothing’s falling apart.” “I didn’t say it was.” Another pause. “You’ve been finishing things,” Paulie said. “You’ve just stopped showing up to them.” I straightened. “That’s not fair.” He exhaled slowly. “Maybe. But it’s what I’m seeing.” “Dad worries,” Paulie said. “He doesn’t say it out loud, but I can hear it.” “I don’t want him worrying.” “Then talk to me,” Paulie said. Not louder. Just closer. I didn’t answer. He waited. “I don’t know how to be present without letting something go,” I said. Paulie didn’t respond right away. “Let what go?” he asked. I ran my hand through my hair and stopped myself from doing it again. “I don’t know,” I said. “That’s the problem.” He was quiet, the way he gets when he’s listening past the words. “You’ve always been willing to give things up,” Paulie said. “You just usually know why.” “I thought I did,” I said. Another pause. “And now?” he asked. I stared at the floor, at the scuffed place near the dresser where the finish had worn thin. “Now it feels like if I name it,” I said slowly, “I won’t be able to decide what it costs.” Paulie let that sit. “That sounds like you’re closer than you think,” he said. “I don’t want to be,” I said. “I know,” he replied. He didn’t say anything else. Neither did I.“I need to go, Paulie,” the silence broken, my throat dry. “Ok,” he said and before he could say anything else, I ended the call. After we hung up, I stayed where I was, the phone still in my hand. The room felt smaller than it had a moment before. I set the phone face down on the dresser and sat there until the quiet sounding like a drum beat in my ears. Sunday morning arrived without asking anything of me. The readings were already marked. The sacristy smelled of polish and wax. I wore the proper vestments as always. Looking at the altar servers, I gave last instructions. I heard the congregation gathering, voices greeting each other. Familiar faces settling into familiar places. Everything was where it was supposed to be. I wasn’t. I took my place and waited for organist and the choir to begin. Felicia sat with Nate beside her, his feet swinging just above the floor, his fingers busy with the edge of the children’s prayer. She rested her hand on his knee without looking at him, a habit so practiced it barely registered. Father Jason’s voice filled the church, steady and familiar. The words were clear. Measured. The kind that settled easily into the space. Still, she found herself listening for something else. She couldn’t have said what it was, only that when he didn’t look up, when his gaze passed over the congregation without catching, it left her with the uneasy sense that something had moved just out of reach. Nate leaned into her side, warm and solid. She told herself that was enough. The last hymn ended and people began to stand, the familiar shuffle of coats and programs filling the space. Felicia waited for Nate to slide down from the pew before standing. He tugged at her hand, already distracted by the promise of donuts in the hall. “Slow down,” she said. And she smiled despite herself. They joined the line forming near the aisle. Father Jason stood at the church door as he always did, hands folded, nodding, speaking quietly to each person who approached him. Thank you. Good to see you. I’ll keep you in my prayers. When it was their turn, Nate stepped forward first. “Good morning, Father,” he said, solemn in his way. “Good morning, Nate,” Father Jason replied. His voice softened just enough to register. He bent down to meet Nate’s eyes. “You did a good job listening today.” Nate beamed at him. Felicia waited for him to look up. He didn’t. Instead he stood. “Good morning,” she said. “Good morning,” he answered, already turning to the next parishioner. It was nothing. The exchange was clean, appropriate, exactly what it should have been. Still, as she stepped aside to make room for the woman behind her, Felicia felt the absence land with more weight than she expected. She had thought—without ever quite admitting it—that when he finished preaching, something would return to its proper place. That whatever distance had settled between them would loosen on its own, the way things sometimes did after a difficult week. Instead, the space remained. Walking toward the street with Nate tugging her along, Felicia realized, with a quiet certainty that startled her, that she was no longer waiting for things to go back to how they had been. She was waiting to see what came next. After the last parishioner drifted away, I went back through the sacristy and closed the door. The sermon pages returned to the folder. The vestments came off in the right order. The stole folded. I reached for the hanger, then stopped, my hand hovering as if I’d misplaced something. Felicia. The name registered and was gone, leaving behind a faint sense of error, like setting something down in the wrong place and not yet knowing where it belonged. Felicia noticed it when she didn’t reach for the calendar. Father Jason was already moving toward his office, his bag over one shoulder, the door half open behind him. There was a meeting later that morning—one she would normally have reminded him about, casually, as they passed. For the first time, she did not try to correct anything. She let him go. I stopped short of the door when the office didn’t adjust itself. Bernice was on the phone, her voice lowered. Papers were stacked where they should be. Felicia sat at her desk, typing. I waited for the moment I usually didn’t notice—the glance up, the quiet “You’re late,” or “Good morning, Father;” the small correction offered without ceremony. It didn’t come. “Did you move the meeting with the Mrs. Donnelly?” I asked, keeping my voice even. Felicia looked up. “No. It’s still at ten.” I nodded. That was right. I knew that. She returned to her screen. Something tightened in my chest, sharp and brief, like a misstep I couldn’t quite place. I told myself it was nothing. Just a morning that needed settling. I crossed to my office and set my bag down harder than I meant to. A folder slid slightly out of alignment. I pushed it back. Bernice appeared in the doorway, phone tucked against her shoulder. “Father, Mrs. O’Brien called again. She wanted to know if you had a moment this week.” “Tell her I’ll get back to her,” I said. She nodded once and went back to her desk. I reached for my planner, then stopped. The week was already full in the way weeks tended to be lately—correct, accounted for, immovable. Still, the sense of being behind didn’t lift. I stepped into the outer office. Felicia was typing, posture unchanged, attention steady. “Did Father Pete call this morning?” I asked. She shook her head without looking up. “Not yet.” “That’s fine,” I said. She paused, fingers hovering briefly above the keys, then continued. |
| When it didn’t, she nodded. “I didn’t want to take more of your time,” she said. “I just didn’t want to disappear.” “No,” I said, too quickly. Then I steadied my voice. “You don’t have to.” She stood, gathering her coat. “I’ll see you on Sunday, then.” “Yes.” At the door, she paused. “Thank you for listening.” I nodded. When she left, the room returned to its earlier shape. The chair sat where she’d pushed it back, careful not to scrape the floor. I didn’t move it. After classes, I came back to the rectory. Before entering the office, I heard Bernice and Felicia talking, and I paused at the door for a moment before opening it. The chatter between them stopped and the silence was loud. Felicia reached over and handed me the folder with the sermon. “All done, Father. I can stay a little longer if you need me to make changes once you go over it.’ “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure it’s fine.” She met my eyes briefly — just long enough for me to register it — then looked away and gathered her things. “Then I’ll be going home. See you both tomorrow.” “Uh, I’ll leave the lesson plan on your desk for the morning. And, uh, thank you again for today.” Both women looked at me---Bernice’s eyes narrowing a bit; Felicia just searching. Neither woman said a word and after a moment, Felicia left the office. I went into mine and closed the door. Sitting at the desk, I opened the folder, the typed pages inside clean and ordered. I opened to the middle first, then the end, reading for sequence rather than sense. The paragraphs held together. The transitions did what they were meant to do. I read the opening once, quietly. That was enough. I slid the pages back into the folder then reached for the phone. “Father Pete,” I said when he answered. “I’ve finished the homily.” “Good,” he said. “I was hoping you would.” “I’ll bring it by later for you to review.” “That’ll work,” he said. “Thank you, Jason.” After I hung up, I set the phone back in its place and tapped the edge of the folder against the desk. The sermon was done. I stayed seated a moment longer than necessary, my hand removing my collar and putting it in my bag with the folder. Then I stood and headed toward the court. I found Father Pete in his office after practice, his door half open, the light already on though the hallway was dimming. “Jason,” he said, looking up from the papers on his desk. “Come in.” I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. He gestured to the chair across from him. I sat. The vinyl seat stuck slightly before releasing. “You have the homily for me?” “Yes.” Handing him the folder, I waited. The only sound was the rustling of the pages. Father Pete looked up after closing the folder. “It’s solid.” I nodded. “Careful,” he added. “Thoughtful.” “Thank you.” He leaned back slightly, studying me in a way that felt familiar and newly exacting at the same time. “You’ve tightened your language,” he said. “There’s less room for wandering.” “That seemed appropriate.” “For this week, perhaps.” He paused. “But it also reads like you’re holding something back.” My hand went through my hair before I could stop it. I lowered it to my lap. “I wanted to be precise,” I said. “I know.” He watched me a moment longer. “We discussed this. Precision isn’t the same as clarity.” He glanced down at the folder again. “People don’t just want to understand what you’re saying, Jason. They want to feel met by it.” “Yes,” I said. The answer came too quickly. He smiled faintly. “You’ve always been good at that.” The silence stretched. He didn’t fill it. “I’ve noticed you’ve been quieter,” he said at last. “Not absent. Just… less available.” I shifted in the chair. “It’s been a full week.” “It usually is.” He folded his hands on the desk. “This feels different.” I met his gaze and held it. “I’m fine,” I said. He nodded, accepting the words without agreeing with them. “Alright,” he said. “We’ll leave it there for now.” I stood. He did not. “Jason,” he added as I reached the door. “Yes, Father?” “Take care that steadiness doesn’t become distance.” He said it gently. “They can look very similar from the outside.” “Yes, Father,” I said. I left his office and walked down the hallway toward my rooms without turning back. I reached into my pocket for my keys and felt the phone there instead. Taking it out and glancing at the screen, I slid it back without unlocking it. The chatter between them stopped and the silence was loud. Felicia reached over and handed me the folder with the sermon. “All done, Father. I can stay a little longer if you need me to make changes once you go over it.’ “That won’t be necessary. I’m sure it’s fine.” She met my eyes briefly — just long enough for me to register it — then looked away and gathered her things. “Then I’ll be going home. See you both tomorrow.” “Uh, I’ll leave the lesson plan on your desk for the morning. And, uh, thank you again for today.” Both women looked at me---Bernice’s eyes narrowing a bit; Felicia just searching. Neither woman said a word and after a moment, Felicia left the office. I went into mine and closed the door. Sitting at the desk, I opened the folder, the typed pages inside clean and ordered. I opened to the middle first, then the end, reading for sequence rather than sense. The paragraphs held together. The transitions did what they were meant to do. I read the opening once, quietly. That was enough. I slid the pages back into the folder then reached for the phone. “Father Pete,” I said when he answered. “I’ve finished the homily.” “Good,” he said. “I was hoping you would.” “I’ll bring it by later for you to review.” “That’ll work,” he said. “Thank you, Jason.” After I hung up, I set the phone back in its place and tapped the edge of the folder against the desk. The sermon was done. I stayed seated a moment longer than necessary, my hand removing my collar and putting it in my bag with the folder. Then I stood and headed toward the court. I found Father Pete in his office after practice, his door half open, the light already on though the hallway was dimming. “Jason,” he said, looking up from the papers on his desk. “Come in.” I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. He gestured to the chair across from him. I sat. The vinyl seat stuck slightly before releasing. “You have the homily for me?” “Yes.” Handing him the folder, I waited. The only sound was the rustling of the pages. Father Pete looked up after closing the folder. “It’s solid.” I nodded. “Careful,” he added. “Thoughtful.” “Thank you.” He leaned back slightly, studying me in a way that felt familiar and newly exacting at the same time. “You’ve tightened your language,” he said. “There’s less room for wandering.” “That seemed appropriate.” “For this week, perhaps.” He paused. “But it also reads like you’re holding something back.” My hand went through my hair before I could stop it. I lowered it to my lap. “I wanted to be precise,” I said. “I know.” He watched me a moment longer. “We discussed this. Precision isn’t the same as clarity.” He glanced down at the folder again. “People don’t just want to understand what you’re saying, Jason. They want to feel met by it.” “Yes,” I said. The answer came too quickly. He smiled faintly. “You’ve always been good at that.” The silence stretched. He didn’t fill it. “I’ve noticed you’ve been quieter,” he said at last. “Not absent. Just… less available.” I shifted in the chair. “It’s been a full week.” “It usually is.” He folded his hands on the desk. “This feels different.” I met his gaze and held it. “I’m fine,” I said. He nodded, accepting the words without agreeing with them. “Alright,” he said. “We’ll leave it there for now.” I stood. He did not. “Jason,” he added as I reached the door. “Yes, Father?” “Take care that steadiness doesn’t become distance.” He said it gently. “They can look very similar from the outside.” “Yes, Father,” I said. I left his office. |
| I stayed there until the sense of being unsettled dulled into something I could mistake for fatigue. I arrived later than I had intended. Bernice was already on the phone when I came in, one hand covering the receiver as she nodded at me. I returned the nod and went straight to my office. The desk was clear. I adjusted the chair before sitting, then stood again to straighten the folders with the revisions to the sermon for Sunday and the lesson plans I’d left stacked the night before. I stepped back into the outer office and glanced toward Felicia’s desk. Her computer was dark. The chair was pushed in, the surface cleared except for the neat stack of folders she always aligned before starting the day. “Is Felicia in yet?” I asked. Bernice lowered her voice. “She’ll be in shortly. I nodded. “Alright. Let me know when she’s in.” Bernice nodded. “I will.” She continued with the phone call. I turned back toward my office, leaving the door opened behind me. Sitting at my desk, I opened my planner, scanning the page, then flipping back to the previous day. I drew a line through one appointment and rewrote it below, then paused and straightened the line. A moment later Felicia’s footsteps sounded in the hallway. She appeared at her desk, set her bag down, and nodded once before waking the computer. “Morning Bernice,” I heard her say. “Morning, dear,” Bernice responded. “Everything all right with Nate?” “Oh yes. He’s okay today.” I heard steps toward coming my way and a moment later Felicia tapped lightly on the doorframe. “Good morning, Father,” she said in almost a whisper. “Morning, Felicia”. She paused for a moment. “Do you have anything for me today?” I looked over to the folders with the revised sermon and the lesson plan. Picking them up, I put them near the edge of the desk. Keeping my eyes on the planner, I answered, “The lesson plan for tomorrow I’ll need by lunch; the sermon, after practice this afternoon.” I saw her hands reach for the folders. She picked them up. “I’ll take care of this right away, Father. They’ll be ready when you need them.” “Thank you,” and this time I looked at her and then back to the planner. She turned and went back to her desk. The soft rhythm of keys filled the office, familiar and contained. Bernice stepped into my doorway. “Mrs. O’Brien confirmed Thursday instead of today.” “Good.” “She sounded relieved.” “That’s good.” Bernice waited a moment, then returned to her desk. I picked up my pen and rewrote the first line of a note I’d already written twice, then checked my watch. Too early for the call I wasn’t making yet. Too late to feel ahead of anything. Outside, Felicia’s typing continued, steady, unhurried. When I returned to the office after basketball practice, neither Bernice nor Felicia were present. Earlier I sent one of my students to the office to retrieve the lesson plan I’d left with Felicia, and it was ready as I asked. Neat. Again just what I had given her. The sermon was left in the folder on my desk. No notations in the margins. Upon intial scanning, nothing extra on the page. My phone had been buzzing in my pocket all through practice. I didn’t look at it. Before reading the sermon for revisions, I checked it. There was a voicemail when I checked the phone later. “Call me when you get a minute,” Paulie said. I saved it and returned the phone to my pocket. I stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind me. The latch caught with a sound that felt too final for something I had not finished. The church was dark except for the small sanctuary light, the one that always stayed on. I could see it through the side window like a steady eye that didn’t blink. I paused near the spot where Mrs. O’Brien had stopped me yesterday. The memory of her purse held tight against her ribs came back with uncomfortable clarity—not her words, exactly, but the way she had listened as if accuracy might become comfort if she held it long enough. I put my keys in my pocket and started toward the rectory steps, but my hand moved up to my collar again, loosening it as if breath were the problem. Tomorrow would be better, I told myself. The same sentence, used the same way—like a closing prayer spoken too quickly. Halfway up the steps I felt, irrationally, that someone was behind me. I turned. No one. Just the streetlight and the quiet and the shape of the church door in the dark. I went inside and didn’t turn on the hallway light. I moved by habit, careful not to make noise, careful as if carefulness itself counted for something. In my room, I set my bag down and took out the messages again, as if looking at them a second time could make them more manageable. Mrs. Donnelly’s name sat under the star I’d drawn. The star looked too small for what it was trying to hold. I put the paper back in the bag and sat on the edge of the bed. Felicia did not ask again that morning. She sat at her desk with her hands folded, listening to the sounds of the office settle into their familiar pattern: Bernice having her coffee and eating a muffin, Felicia brought in. The computer on but asleep, screen dark. Father Jason’s door remained shut. She waited, not because she didn’t know what to do, but because whatever had shifted between her and Father Jason could not be reached through work. “These muffins are delicious, Felicia, Bernice said, between sips of coffee. “If I’m not careful, I’ll have to buy new clothes.” Smiling, then her teeth sunk into the soft cake. She kept her hands folded until she felt them go numb, then unfolded them and rested them on the keyboard without typing. Her throat tightened once, surprising her. She swallowed and looked back at the screen. She moved the mouse and the screen came to life. The sermon pages lay spread across my desk beside the readings for Sunday. The pen hovered over the page and didn’t land. Outside my office, Bernice laughed at something small, and the sound cut cleanly through the quiet. I crossed out the last sentence and rewrote it with fewer words. The margin narrowed. The page looked cleaner. A chair scraped softly in the outer office. Keys clicked once, then stopped. Silence again. I stood and paced once along the length of the room. My hand went through my hair again, then dropped. Sweeping the folder off the desk, I went to the door. “Felicia,” he said. “Could you come in for a moment?” She rose and crossed the short distance. I didn’t sit. Neither did she. Before I spoke again, a hand went through my hair and dropped to the folder on my desk. “Here’s the work for today,” She took the folder. “Yes, Father.” A pause hung between us—brief, contained. My hand went through my hair again. “Thank you,” I said, and meant more than the words could hold. She nodded once and said, “Bernice asked me to tell you Mrs. O’Brien is here.” The name landed like a held note. A hand went to the collar again. It lowered. The motion ended without solving anything “Father?.” “Oh, yes. Can you show her in please? Thank you.” I watched her walk the few steps to the door. Greeting the woman, Felicia ushered her into the room, then turned. The door shut. The latch clicked. Mrs. O’Brien spoke at the same time she was sitting. “Father Jason,” “Thank you for seeing me.” “Yes,” I said. “Of course.” “I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she began. “About the silence.” I nodded. “I keep noticing how loud everything else gets when I try to listen,” she said. “The house, the clock, my own thoughts.” “That’s not unusual,” I said. The answer came easily. She smiled faintly. “I know. I just wanted to say—I’m still trying.” The words were not a question. They didn’t ask anything of me. “That matters,” I said. “More than you think.” She looked at me for a moment longer, as if waiting for something. |
| “There were a few calls.” “I’ll get to them.” “One of them came back,” she said. I paused. “Came back?” “Mrs. O’Brien.” Bernice checked the clock on the wall. “She stopped by earlier. Then again about an hour ago.” “I wasn’t here.” “I know.” She hesitated, then added, “She waited the second time.” “Didn’t you tell her I had practice today,” I heard the irritation in my voice and she looked at me. Concerned. “I did,” she said quietly. “But she was insistent. Said she spoke with you yesterday at the church.” I picked up the messages she handed me. My throat was dry. I said nothing. Opening my office door, I stepped inside. The desk was just as I’d left it. I loosened my collar and crossed to the desk. Bernice followed me only as far as the doorway. “She asked if you were busy and if tomorrow would be better.” “I can call her tomorrow,” I said. Bernice nodded once, as if she’d expected that answer. “I told her you’d get back to her.” “That’s fine.” She watched me a moment longer. Not critically. Just attentively. “I’ll finish up and lock the front,” she said. “Ok,” I said, already opening my planner. She left my office gathered her belongings and called from the intercom. “See you in the morning.” “Good night, Bernice.” After she left, I read through the stack of messages. One reminding me of Mrs. Donnelly and her son about his test grades. I put a star on that message; I was reminded about that before. Another message, Mrs. O’Brien’s name was there, written in the same careful hand as the others. I paused, then set the paper back down. I picked them up again and put them back in my bag. I turned off the light and locked the office. I stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind me and headed for the residence. My hand went to my collar. I loosened it and left it that way. In my room, I set my bag down and took out the messages again. I laid them on the nightstand instead of sorting them, folded them once more, then slid them back into the bag. Sitting on the edge of the bed without taking off my shoes, I ran my hand through my hair. After a moment, I stood again and crossed to the window, then back to the bed, and finally sat. I checked my watch. Too late now to return a call without it seeming intrusive. I opened the bag again, took out the planner, and moved Mrs. Donnelly’s name to the following day, drawing a firmer line beneath it than before. Mrs. O’Brien’s name I left where it was. Leaving my room, I went to the bathroom, washed my face changed for bed. When I turned off the light, I did not lie down. I stood for a moment in the dark, then sat again and opened the planner once more, as if one more adjustment might settle something that had not yet found its place. I arrived later than I had intended. Bernice was already on the phone when I came in, one hand covering the receiver as she nodded at me. I returned the nod and went straight to my office. The desk was clear. I adjusted the chair before sitting, then stood again to straighten the folders with the revisions to the sermon for Sunday and the lesson plans I’d left stacked the night before. I stepped back into the outer office and glanced toward Felicia’s desk. Her computer was dark. The chair was pushed in, the surface cleared except for the neat stack of folders she always aligned before starting the day. “Is Felicia in yet?” I asked. Bernice lowered her voice. “She’ll be in shortly. I nodded. “Alright. Let me know when she comes in.” Bernice nodded. “I will.” She continued with the phone call. I turned back toward my office, leaving the door opened behind me. Sitting at my desk, I opened my planner, scanning the page, then flipping back to the previous day. I drew a line through one appointment and rewrote it below, then paused and straightened the line. A moment later Felicia’s footsteps sounded in the hallway. She appeared at her desk, set her bag down, and nodded once before waking the computer. “Morning Bernice,” I heard her say. “Morning, dear,” Bernice responded. “Everything all right with Nate?” “Oh yes. He’s okay today.” I heard steps toward coming my way and a moment later Felicia tapped lightly on the doorframe. “Good morning, Father,” she said in almost a whisper. “Morning, Felicia”. She paused for a moment. “Do you have anything for me today?” I looked over to the folders with the revised sermon and the lesson plan. Picking them up, I put them near the edge of the desk. Keeping my eyes on the planner, I answered, “The lesson plan for tomorrow I’ll need by lunch; the sermon, after practice this afternoon.” I saw her hands reach for the folders. She picked them up. “I’ll take care of this right away, Father. They’ll be ready when you need them.” “Thank you,” and this time I looked at her and then back to the planner. She turned and went back to her desk. The soft rhythm of keys filled the office, familiar and contained. Bernice stepped into my doorway. “Mrs. O’Brien confirmed Thursday instead of today.” “Good.” “She sounded relieved.” “That’s good.” Bernice waited a moment, then returned to her desk. I picked up my pen and rewrote the first line of a note I’d already written twice, then checked my watch. Too early for the call I wasn’t making yet. Too late to feel ahead of anything. Outside, Felicia’s typing continued, steady, unhurried. When I returned to the office after basketball practice, neither Bernice nor Felicia were present. Earlier I sent one of my students to the office to retrieve the lesson plan I’d left with Felicia, and it was ready as I asked. Neat. Again just what I had given her. The sermon was left in the folder on my desk. No notations in the margins. Upon intial scanning, nothing extra on the page. My phone had been buzzing in my pocket all through practice. I didn’t look at it. Before reading the sermon for revisions, I checked it. There was a voicemail when I checked the phone later. “Call me when you get a minute,” Paulie said. I saved it and returned the phone to my pocket. I stepped outside and pulled the door shut behind me. The latch caught with a sound that felt too final for something I had not finished. The church was dark except for the small sanctuary light, the one that always stayed on. I could see it through the side window like a steady eye that didn’t blink. I paused near the spot where Mrs. O’Brien had stopped me yesterday. The memory of her purse held tight against her ribs came back with uncomfortable clarity—not her words, exactly, but the way she had listened as if accuracy might become comfort if she held it long enough. I put my keys in my pocket and started toward the rectory steps, but my hand moved up to my collar again, loosening it as if breath were the problem. Tomorrow would be better, I told myself. The same sentence, used the same way—like a closing prayer spoken too quickly. Halfway up the steps I felt, irrationally, that someone was behind me. I turned. No one. Just the streetlight and the quiet and the shape of the church door in the dark. I went inside and didn’t turn on the hallway light. I moved by habit, careful not to make noise, careful as if carefulness itself counted for something. In my room, I set my bag down and took out the messages again, as if looking at them a second time could make them more manageable. Mrs. Donnelly’s name sat under the star I’d drawn. The star looked too small for what it was trying to hold. I put the paper back in the bag and sat on the edge of the bed. |
| Something accurate and left her carrying the rest alone. “Father?” I turned. Bernice stood a few steps away, her expression apologetic. “Father Pete’s waiting for you.” I nodded and followed her, again in silence. Father Pete read without speaking. I sat across from him, hands folded, watching the small movements of his face—the narrowing of his eyes, the slight tilt of his head as he reached the end of a paragraph and went back again. He didn’t rush. He never did. When he finished, he set the pages down and rested his palm on them. “This is solid,” he said. “Careful.” I nodded. The word felt earned. He glanced at me. “You’ve circled the same point a few times.” “Yes,” I said. The answer came automatically. “Not in a bad way,” he added. “But it reads like you’re approaching something from the side.” I waited. “You don’t usually do that,” he continued. “You’re clearer when you trust yourself to say the thing outright.” There it was again. Clear. “I wanted to be precise,” I said. “I can see that.” He paused. “But precision and clarity aren’t always the same.” He tapped the page lightly. “What are you trying to say here, Jason?” The question was gentle. That’s what made it difficult. “I’m trying to offer something people can hold onto,” I said. It was true. It was also incomplete. Father Pete studied me for a moment, then nodded. “They will. You always do.” He hesitated. “Still—this feels… restrained.” I met his gaze, aware of how much effort it took to keep my expression neutral. “Is that a problem?” I asked. “No,” he said. “Not necessarily.” Then, after a beat: “But it is--different.” He gathered the pages together and slid them back across the desk. “Take another look,” he said. “See if there’s a place where you’re holding back.” Holding back. “Yes, Father,” I said. When he left, I had the uneasy sense that nothing had been said that couldn’t be justified—and that everything important had been noticed anyway. Running my hand through my hair and checking my watch, I rose and left by the side door to the school, already moving too fast. By late afternoon, the announcements still weren’t ready. I checked the time again, then stood, already reaching for the folder as I stepped into the hallway. Felicia’s desk was empty. Her chair was pushed in. The lamp was off. The surface cleared except for the small stack of folders she always aligned before leaving. I hesitated, then checked the clock mounted near the copier Too late in the day for her usual routine. Back in my office, I sat until the lights dimmed automatically. The folder lay where I’d set it down, the pages inside marked and waiting. I pulled them toward me, then stopped. There was no one left to hand them to. I arrived earlier than I needed to. The office was quiet, the surfaces orderly, the kind of stillness that suggested nothing had gone wrong. I set my bag down carefully and took out the folder, straightening the pages before opening it, as if precision alone might correct whatever had felt slightly off the day before. When I finished reading, I closed it again and carried it with me. Father Pete read more slowly than he had the day before. That, in itself, felt like information. I sat across from him, my hands folded, watching the way his thumb held the corner of the page as he moved through the draft. He didn’t look up. He didn’t rush. He reached the end, turned back, then continued on as if confirming something rather than searching for it. When he finally set the pages down, he didn’t slide them away. “This is good work,” he said. “Thoughtful. Careful.” I nodded, the familiar response arriving on time. He tapped the margin lightly. “You’ve tightened your language here.” “Yes,” I said. “I wanted to be precise.” “I know.” He paused. “But you’ve also narrowed it.” I waited. “There’s a difference,” he went on, “between focus and avoidance. They can look similar on the page.” The word landed quietly. Avoidance. He didn’t say it as a diagnosis. Just an observation. “I wasn’t trying to avoid anything,” I said. “I didn’t say you were.” He looked at me then, not unkindly. “I’m asking whether you’re saying what you mean, or what you know how to say.” I held his gaze, aware of how thin the distinction felt. “The readings this week ask for clarity,” he continued. “Not certainty. Those aren’t the same thing either.” I nodded again. Too quickly. “You usually trust yourself more than this,” he said. “You don’t circle. You don’t hedge.” “I thought people might need something steady,” I said. “Something they can hold onto.” “They will,” he said. “But steadiness doesn’t always come from restraint.” He leaned back slightly, considering me now rather than the pages. “Has something changed?” The question was simple. That was what made the answer difficult. “No,” I said. The word came out cleanly. “Nothing has changed.” Father Pete studied me over his glasses for a moment longer than was comfortable, then nodded as if he’d heard exactly what he expected. “Alright,” he said. “Take another pass. See if there’s a place where you can let the language breathe.” Breathe. He gathered the pages and handed them back to me. “You have a gift for helping people feel less alone,” he added. “Don’t lose that by being careful in the wrong places.” “Yes, Father,” I said. As I stood to leave, he spoke again. “And Jason?” I paused. “This isn’t a criticism,” he said. “It’s a question. Answer it honestly on the page.” I nodded once more and left with the draft in my hand, aware that what he was asking for wasn’t more polish—but more presence. “Father, what happens on offense?” I looked at the play in my hand and realized I’d only diagramed defense plays. Looking up, I saw the faces of the children on the team, eyes searching for answers I didn’t have handy. They waited. Watching. “Uh, show me the last play again. Um..Cal, you bring out the ball and Sebastian you cover him on defense.” They continued with defensive drills. I corrected Cal’s stance, I told Sebastian to stay closer. I reminded them to keep their hands up, to watch the ball, to anticipate the pass. They did what I asked. They always did. When practice ended, I blew the whistle and gathered them in a circle with me in the middle. “Great work, guys. Next time we’ll concentrate on offensive plays.” A few of them nodded. One of them asked when next time was. I told him the schedule was the same as always. They packed up and left the court in pairs, calling to each other, the sound of the ball fading as it bounced farther away. I stayed where I was, holding the clipboard against my chest, the paper bent slightly where my fingers had pressed too long. I waited until the last of them was gone before moving. I stacked the cones, one inside the next, straightened the pinnies, counted the balls before putting them back in the bag. I checked the bench for anything left behind, even though there never was. The court lights shut off row by row, leaving the far end dark first. I walked the length of it alone, my footsteps louder than they should have been. At the gate, I paused, looking back over the court, as if there were something I was supposed to finish. There wasn’t. I locked up and started home, already thinking about what to adjust next time. Bernice was still at her desk when I came in, her purse tucked beneath her chair, her coat folded beside it as if she hadn’t yet decided whether she was staying. “Practice ran a bit late today, Father,” she said. “Yes,” I said, setting my bag down. She slid the phone log closer to her and tapped it with her pen. |
| The collar at my throat suddenly felt less like clothing and more like a question I didn’t know how to answer. The main office door was half open. I saw Bernice first, mail in hand, coffee steaming beside her, and I stepped in as if I’d meant to all along. “Morning, Father,” she said. “Morning.” My voice landed in the right place. Ordinary. “Father Pete called earlier,” she added. “Just to make sure you got the readings. He said Sunday will be… busy.” “Saw him already. I’ve got it,” I said, then belatedly said, “Thank you.” She nodded toward the calendar book beside her. “You’ve got the school assembly at ten, and Mrs. Donnelly called to confirm her son’s meeting next week. I wrote it down.” “Good,” I said. “Thank you.” I reached for the stack of messages and slid them into my bag without reading them. My hand found the edge of the folder again—felt the paper’s firmness through canvas—then let go. “Everything alright?” Bernice asked, not prying, only noticing the way people notice when you’ve been in the same building long enough. “Just the homily,” I said, and heard how quickly the explanation arrived, how ready it was. “It’s one of those weeks.” She smiled as if that answered everything. “Well, you always pull it together.” And then I heard footsteps behind me, softer than Bernice’s, and my body registered them before my mind decided what to do with them. Felicia crossed the doorway with a folder tucked against her chest, her coat still on, as if she had just arrived. She didn’t stop. She didn’t linger. “Good morning, Father, Bernice” she said, polite and clean. Bernice smiled and nodded, continuing to sort the mail as though nothing had happened. “Good morning,” I answered, equally clean. Our eyes didn’t meet for long enough to be called a moment. That was the mercy of it. Felicia disappeared into her space. I realized my hand had tightened around my bag strap, and I forced it to loosen. “Bernice, could you print two copies of the readings for me?” I asked, too quickly. “One for the sacristy, one for my desk.” “Of course,” she said, still looking at the envelopes in her hand “And if they’re not there by lunch…” I started then stopped, my throat as tight as the grip on my bag had been. “And if they’re not there by lunch, just let me know,” I finished, and made it sound like routine. She turned, blinked once—just a flicker of surprise—then said gently, “Sure, Father.” Felicia looked up briefly, then answered the phone as it rang. Checking my watch, I took that opportunity to go into my office. After closing the door, I leaned against it, remaining where I was. Listening to the muffled sounds of the office beyond it, I didn’t move until they faded. I sat back and pressed my palms flat against the desk. The room was quiet enough that I could hear my own breathing, shallow and quick. Within the safety of my office, I exhaled. Alone. I told myself that was the only reason my shoulders rel. Though it felt less like relief than admission. After classes, but before basketball practice, I sat in my office with the drafted pages of my sermon sitting on my desk. I still couldn't fix that paragraph, nor could I pinpoint why the words were right, but the tone still sounded off. My cellphone vibrated on the desk; it was Paulie. I ignored it. It buzzed again, persistent in a way that wasn’t accidental. I let it ring one more time before answering. “Hey,” I said. “Hey,” Paulie returned. No small talk. He never wasted it when my voice sounded like this. “You okay?” “Yeah.” I flipped a page as I spoke, as if paper could prove it. “I’m in the middle of the homily.” “It’s Tuesday,” he said. “It’s one of those weeks.” I kept my tone light. I tried to make it familiar. A pause. Then, carefully: “You didn’t call last night.” “I fell asleep early,” I said. The lie was easy because it was plausible. “Long day.” Paulie exhaled—quietly, like he was deciding what not to say. “Alright. Just… don’t disappear on me, Jase.” “I’m fine,” I said again, and hated how efficient the sentence sounded. “Okay,” he said, Unconvinced. “I’ve got to finish this,” I added, already moving toward the end of the call. “Friday deadline.” “Yeah,” Paulie said. “Call me when you’re done hiding behind it.” I held the phone for a beat after he hung up, then set it face down beside the draft. The announcements were due by noon. I realized this when I reached my office and found the folder still where I had left it the night before, the pages inside neatly ordered but untouched. I checked my watch, then checked it again, as if the second look might revise the day. The office beyond my door was already moving—phones ringing, drawers opening. I opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Bernice looked up from the counter. “Morning, Father.” “Morning.” I kept walking. “Is Felicia in yet?” She glanced toward the desk, then back at me. “She was here but had to leave early today. Nate’s school called. She said she’d be back tomorrow.” Tomorrow. I nodded as if this were information I could use. “Alright.” Bernice hesitated. “Did you need something?” “Yes. The announcements. I was hoping to have them revised and copied before lunch.” The word came too quickly. She smiled apologetically. “I can do it, but it won’t be until after one. We’re short this morning.” After one was too late. I knew that immediately, though I couldn’t have said why. “That’s fine,” I said anyway. “I’ll manage.” I turned back toward my office, already calculating—what could wait, what couldn’t, what I could do myself without drawing attention to the fact that I had assumed help would be there. Behind me, Bernice said, gently, “Father?” “Yes?” “You alright?” “Yes,” I said. The word sounded familiar now. Useful. “You’re needed at the church. Father Pete called, told me to tell you when you came in. Father Baxter’s going to cover your morning class.” I turned and made my way there without another word. Almost running. Mrs. O’Brien stopped me just outside the side entrance to the church, her coat still unbuttoned, her purse held tight against her ribs. “Father Jason?” she said, already apologetic. “I won’t take much of your time.” “That’s alright,” I said, though I felt the familiar calculation begin—what I could afford to give, what I couldn’t. She nodded, relieved, and then seemed to hesitate, as if deciding how much of herself to set down at once. “My sister passed last month,” she said. “Unexpectedly. We were close.” She paused. “I keep thinking I’m doing better, and then it comes back. The quiet is the worst.” I waited. I knew how to do this. “I don’t need answers,” she added quickly. “I just… I don’t know how to sit with it. Everyone keeps telling me to be strong.” I nodded. “Grief isn’t something you move through on a schedule,” I said. “It comes in waves. Quiet doesn’t mean you’re failing. It just means you’re listening.” She watched me carefully, as if weighing the words. “And what if all I hear is how alone I am?” she asked. The question landed cleanly. Too cleanly. I felt the answer rise—the right one, the one I’d given before. I spoke it anyway. “Even in that,” I said, “you’re not abandoned. God is present in the silence as much as in the noise.” “Yes,” she said, nodding. Slowly. “That’s what I thought.” Not comforted, exactly—more like instructed. She thanked me, gathered her coat more tightly around herself, and walked away. I stood there longer than necessary, aware I had given her something. |
| It was only when I reached the end of the hallway and saw Father Pete standing outside the conference room, watch in hand, that the omission surfaced fully. The look on his face wasn’t irritated—just surprised. “Jason,” he said. “We were expecting you.” “I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I thought it was tomorrow.” He frowned slightly. “No. This afternoon after classes. We moved it earlier.” Earlier. Of course. I nodded, already apologizing again as I stepped into the room, aware of how thin the excuse sounded even to my own ears. I took a seat and opened my notebook, flipping past pages I hadn’t meant to skip. Normally, Felicia would have reminded me. A note on my desk. A quiet mention in passing. She was meticulous about calendars, about small shifts that could easily be missed. I had relied on that more than I realized. The meeting proceeded without incident, but I spoke less than usual, careful now, measuring each comment. When it ended, Father Pete lingered. “You alright?” he asked, not unkindly. “You seem distracted.” “I’m fine,” I said. The reflexive answer came easily. Too easily. He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Don’t forget—I’ll need a draft of the homily by Friday.” “I won’t,” I said. Back in my office, I sat down harder than I meant to. The folder for Felicia was still in my bag, unopened. I pulled it out and set it on the desk, staring at it without moving. It occurred to me then—not as a certainty, but as a sharp, unwelcome possibility—that she hadn’t simply stepped back. That she had noticed. That she had seen the same strain Father Pete had just named, the same distraction I could no longer fully contain. The thought tightened my chest. She hadn’t asked any questions. She hadn’t offered concern. She had done something far more precise: she had removed herself from the space where she might have had to cover for me. That wasn’t indifference. That was recognition. I closed the folder again and pushed it aside. For the first time since the conversation with Paulie, the fear sharpened—not of wanting, not of choosing, but of being known. And of having nothing left to hide behind. I slipped out again through the side office to catch some air. When I returned, I stayed at my desk until the light outside the window thinned and the office noise settled into evening quiet. That evening, as I reread the sermon draft, I stumbled over a paragraph I couldn’t quite resolve. In the past, I would have circled it lightly, left it on her desk, trusted the conversation that followed. Instead, I stared at the sentence until it blurred, then crossed it out and started again. In the past, I would have carried it out to Felicia’s desk without thinking—trusted the small exchange that made rough sentences workable. Now the doorway felt like a line I had drawn and couldn’t pretend I hadn’t. I picked up my pen and wrote the date at the top of a fresh page. Friday. Father Pete’s deadline. The word clarity came back to me, uninvited, and I hated it for how clean it sounded. Clarity was what people wanted from me. It was what they believed I carried like a lantern into their darkness. It was what I had believed about myself. I began to rewrite anyway. A few sentences came—competent, polished, familiar. They sat on the page like well-practiced gestures. I read them back and felt nothing loosen in my chest. The words were correct, but they didn’t touch the thing underneath them. They skimmed the surface, careful not to break it. I pressed the pen hard enough that the ink bled slightly. Then I set it down. Through the thin wall of my office, I heard the outer door open and close. Voices—Bernice’s, then Felicia’s. A laugh, softer than I expected. Chairs shifting. Papers being stacked. Ordinary life, continuing. I didn’t move. I didn’t call out. I didn’t even turn on the desk lamp. When the office finally quieted again, I stood and slipped the sermon pages into the folder, as if containment were the same thing as control. I held the folder a moment before putting it in my bag. My hand tightened reflexively around the edges—an old urge to grip harder when I couldn’t steady myself any other way. At the door, I hesitated. Not because I feared what I might see in the hallway, but because I feared what Felicia had already seen in me. I left my office and walked out through the side door again, the night air sharp against my face. I told myself it was temporary. Just until the sermon was done. Just until I felt like myself again. But as I headed toward the residence, I knew the lie for what it was: I wasn’t avoiding her anymore. I was avoiding being known. Father Pete called me into his office the next morning before the school bell rang, before I reached my office. The rectory smelled faintly of coffee brewing in the main office. The air cool and dim, the hallway quiet in that brief stretch before the day came into focus—urgent, demanding. “Jason,” he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. His tone was casual, but his eyes were already assessing, already reading the small signs I had been trying to erase. I sat in the chair, and placed my bag on the floor beside me, careful, as if noise itself might betray me. My fingers went to the top of the bag without thinking—toward the folder—then stopped. Father Pete didn’t mention the missed meeting. He didn’t mention the way I’d been moving, half a beat behind myself. He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and tapped it lightly with his finger. “Sunday,” he said. “The readings are going to land hard for people. They need something steady. They need to walk out feeling anchored.” Anchored. Another clean word. Another expectation disguised as comfort. “I’ll have something,” I said. “I know you will.” He leaned back slightly. “That is why I asked you. You have a way of grounding things when people need clarity.” I heard it again—clarity—and this time it didn’t echo. It lodged. I nodded, too quickly. Father Pete’s gaze sharpened, just a fraction. “How’s it coming?” There it was: the moment where I could have told the truth in a harmless way. I’m working on it. I’m behind. I’m tired. A dozen acceptable answers. Instead I heard myself say, “Fine.” And my hand, reaching toward my hair, paused as I forced it to the edge of the desk. The syllable dropped between us, flat and absolute. Father Pete watched me for a long beat, then stood and moved to the window, looking out at the schoolyard as if giving me space. His voice softened when he spoke again. “Jason,” he said, his back facing me, “you don’t have to be brilliant. You just have to be clear.” Clear. Clarity. As if the two were the same. My throat tightened, and I felt the old instinct rise—to smooth, to perform, to deliver what was expected and leave no trace of the effort it cost. “Yes, Father,” I said. When I stood to leave, I realized my hands were damp. I wiped them once against my trousers and reached for the doorknob. Behind me, Father Pete said quietly, “And Jason?” I paused. He turned from the window at last, his expression unreadable—neither kind nor harsh, simply attentive. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “You seem to be carrying more than usual.” I managed a nod and stepped into the hallway. |
| That next morning Felicia went to the kitchen, put the kettle on the stove, and turned the fire on underneath it. Taking a packet of chamomile tea and a mug from the adjoining cabinet, she sat the table and waited for the water to boil. While she sat at the table, she replayed the exchange with the notes twice now, wondering what she had done. Felicia knew something had shifted before she had words for it. It wasn’t anything Father Jason had said—he hadn’t said much at all—but the careful distance he kept, the way his eyes no longer settled on her when she spoke. She had been careful. She always was. Careful with tone, with timing, with not taking up more space than she was meant to. The work mattered to her. The parish mattered. And Father Jason had always been steady—approachable, attentive, kind. Whatever it had simply arrived and rearranged the air between them. The teapot whistle brought her into the present and after turning off the kettle, she called Nate to come downstairs for breakfast before school. They sat at the table her sipping her tea, him eating his cereal. “Mami, I love school!” he said excitedly between spoonfuls. “Baby, slow down,” she said, smiling at him over the steam from her mug. “I can’t help it, Mami. Ms. Candy is so nice and the kids in the class..we have so much fun.” Felicia looked at him, his face so like his dad, and she bit her lip to stop the trembling. Touching his face lightly, she said, “I’m glad, Nate.” They finished and while Nate was putting on his coat, Felicia wrapped the cookies she had made for the office, and they walked to the school. Kissing him goodbye, he waved to her as he ran into the building and she stayed a beat longer than necessary, then walked to the rectory. At the office, she set her bag down and shrugged out of her coat, smoothing it over the back of her chair. Bernice was already there, humming softly as she sorted mail. “Morning,” Bernice said, peering over her glasses. “Morning. I brought some cookies today,” Felicia answered. Putting the plate on the table next to the coffee maker, she went to her desk and saw that he hadn’t left anything for her to type again today. She hesitated. “Did Father Jason… mention anything yesterday? About being busy, I mean?” Bernice paused, considering. “Well, he’s got the homily this Sunday. Father Pete asked him last minute.” She smiled, as if that explained everything. “You know how he gets when there’s a sermon on his mind.” Felicia nodded, though the explanation didn’t quite settle. Busy didn’t account for the stiffness, or the way he had pointed to the desk instead of taking the folder from her hand. Busy didn’t sound like that clipped “No thank you.” Or the lack of work for her. Still, she said nothing more. Bernice had enough to do without her questions. Later, when Felicia passed Father Jason’s closed office door, she slowed without meaning to. The light was off. She told herself she was relieved. Felicia did not ask again that morning. Instead, she waited. By midafternoon, the office had fallen into its quieter rhythm. Bernice was on the phone, her voice lowered, and the hum of the copy machine filled the small space between tasks. Felicia straightened a stack of papers on her desk that did not need straightening and checked the time twice before admitting to herself what she was waiting for. When Father Jason finally appeared in the doorway, she felt it before she saw him—the shift in the air, the way her shoulders tensed slightly without permission. He held a thin folder in one hand, his grip firmer than necessary. “I’ve got something for you,” he said, already moving toward her desk. She stood, more quickly than she meant to. “Of course.” He set the folder down beside her keyboard, careful not to let their hands touch. The pages inside were uneven, some handwritten, others typed, the margins crowded with notes. Not his usual order. “I’ll need this back by tomorrow,” he added. His voice was even, professional. Too even. Felicia nodded. “That shouldn’t be a problem.” For a moment, neither of them moved. She waited for him to say more—to explain the rush, to soften the exchange with something ordinary. He didn’t. Instead, his gaze slid past her, already searching for the door. “If you need anything clarified,” she said, gently, “just let me know.” He hesitated. It was brief, almost imperceptible, but she saw it. Then he shook his head. “No. It’s fine.” And with that, he was gone. Felicia sat back down slowly. She opened the folder and scanned the first page, then the second. The words were good—thoughtful, careful—but they circled their subject, skirting something she couldn’t quite name. She marked a few spots where the phrasing tightened abruptly, where a thought seemed to stop short of its own conclusion. She closed the folder again without typing a word. Across the room, Bernice glanced up. “Everything okay?” “Yes,” Felicia said, after a beat. “He’s just… pressed for time.” Bernice smiled sympathetically. “That sermon will do that to him.” . Felicia returned the smile, but it didn’t settle. The interoffice phone rang and Felicia reached for it. Father Pete’s voice was brisk, apologetic. A small change to the afternoon meeting—moved up, not tomorrow after all. Felicia said she understood, noted it on Father Jason’s calendar and hung up. When she turned back to the folder, she began typing, keeping strictly to what was on the page resisting the familiar impulse to smooth, to anticipate, to help beyond what had been asked. She left the rough edges intact. It felt, she realized, like stepping back from a conversation that was no longer hers to guide I realized something was different when I reached for help and found none. The sermon draft notes sat on my desk in a clean, neatly stacked pile, exactly where Felicia always left finished work. The pages were typed carefully, formatted just as I preferred, but the margins were bare. No questions. No small suggestions in the corner. No quiet smoothing of phrases that hadn’t quite settled. I flipped through them once, then again, as if I might have missed something. I hadn’t. They were exactly what I had given her—no more, no less. For a moment, I told myself this was good. Professional. Appropriate. This was what I had wanted, after all: distance, clarity of role, no unnecessary overlap. I sat back in my chair and placed the pages neatly into the folder. Still, when I looked up, my eyes went instinctively to the doorway. She wasn’t there. The rest of the day was hazy. Meetings. A phone call from Father Pete. A brief conversation with a parent in the hallway. Each exchange went as it always had, and I moved through them with mechanically. But more than once, I caught myself turning toward Felicia’s desk—once to ask if she had seen a particular memo, another time to confirm a time I should have known already. Each time, I stopped myself. When I did speak to her later, it was only to say, “Thank you for getting that done so quickly.” “You’re welcome, Father,” she replied, already looking back at her screen. That was all. No follow up. No warmth. No pause. I walked away with the uneasy sense that I had arrived late to something already decided. I didn’t realize I had forgotten the meeting until I was already late. |
| “I’m not hearing you say you want out,” he continued. “I’m hearing you say you didn’t think there was another way to imagine your life. And now there is.” He glanced at me briefly, then back to the road. “That doesn’t undo what you’ve lived, Jase. It doesn’t erase the vows. But it does change the questions.” My chest tightened again. “That’s what scares me.” “I know,” he said. And because it was Paulie, because he had always known when to stop talking, he let that be enough. The car moved on through the dark, the space between us filled now with something heavier than silence. Not panic. Not clarity. Just the undeniable weight of having said what couldn’t be unsaid. The next morning, everything looked the same. The residence was quiet, the floor cool beneath my bare feet, the crucifix on the wall exactly where it had always been. I moved through my morning routine carefully, as if any sudden motion might disturb something newly set and fragile inside me. I looked at my face in the bathroom mirror as I shaved and it appeared unchanged. The truth I had spoken the night before did not fade with sleep. It followed me instead, altering nothing outwardly and yet changing the weight of every step, every familiar object, every word I had not yet said. Dressed, I made my way to the rectory, with the precision of habit, as if careful repetition might restore something that had slipped. In my office, the phone was already blinking. I set my bag down and listened to the message once, then again. “Jason,” Father Pete’s voice said, brisk and confident. “I’ve been thinking about Sunday’s readings. I’d like you to handle the homily this week. You have a way of grounding things when people need clarity.” I stood there with the receiver in my hand, the word “clarity” echoing longer than it should have. Outside my closed office door, I heard footsteps, the click of the light switch and Bernice humming. The day starting whether I was ready for it or not. I replaced the receiver carefully, already aware of the weight of what was being asked — not because it was difficult, but because it assumed a steadiness I no longer fully trusted. Knuckles rapped on the door; I jerked, startled. “Yes,” I said, sounding a bit to loud, looking at the phone on the desk. “Good morning, Father.” I looked up too quickly. I had expected Bernice; Felicia stood a few feet away, her coat still on, a folder tucked against her chest. She smiled, tentative, as if gauging the distance between us before deciding how to cross it. “Good morning,” I said, and heard the difference immediately — the formality where there hadn’t been one before. Her smile flickered, barely there. She adjusted the folder in her hands. “I finished typing the notes you left. I wasn’t sure if you needed them right away.” “Thank you,” I said. “That will be fine.” The silence stretched, brief but unmistakable. I pointed to the desk and she put it down where I indicated. “If there’s anything else you need,” she said carefully, “just let me know.” “Of course.” She nodded and stepped back through the door and closed it softly behind her. I watched her go, aware that nothing visible had changed — and that everything had. I picked up the folder, looked briefly at the neatly typed pages and put the folder into my bag. I stood up, and at the door, I paused before turning the knob because my hand was shaking. I shook my them and the trembling stopped. Opening the door, the two women looked up. Bernice said something---I saw her mouth move, but I didn’t hear what she said---and then she paused. “I’m sorry. What now?” I said, clipped, forced. I cleared my throat and waited. Bernice looked at me through her glasses. “Do you want a muffin? Felicia made some.” “No thank you. I’m running a bit behind. Not even time for coffee,” I said. Both women stared at me; both had questions they didn’t ask and I couldn’t answer. Felicia, particularly, had a look I didn’t recognize. “Father, you have no notes for me this morning?” she asked quietly as I walked quickly past her. I turned---after last night, I’d forgotten to prepare ahead. “No. But Father Pete wants me to do the sermon this Sunday. I’ll have something for you later.” Before she could answer, Bernice said, “Don’t worry, dear. I could use your help today.” Felicia’s eyes looked at her, grateful and I took the opportunity to escape. I took the long way to the school, cutting behind the gym instead of passing the parish office again. The air had warmed slightly since morning, the sun higher now, but I kept my jacket on, the familiar weight of it oddly comforting. The bell rang just as I reached the door, children spilling into the hallway in a rush of voices and movement. In the classroom, I stayed close to the board, my back half turned as I wrote out the day’s lesson. Chalk dust clung to my fingers. I wiped them on my trousers and began, keeping my eyes moving, never settling too long on any one face. The children noticed before I did; they always did. “Father,” a girl called out, her hand already raised. “You’re writing crooked.” A few of them laughed. I smiled, adjusted the line, and continued. The rhythm returned—questions, answers, the familiar exchange. I could still do this. That knowledge steadied me, even as something underneath it remained uneasy, like a floorboard that creaked when stepped on just right. After class, I lingered longer than necessary, gathering papers that didn’t need gathering, erasing the board slowly, deliberately. The hallway beyond the door grew quiet. When I finally stepped out, I checked the clock and turned toward the gym without thinking. When I got to the locker room, I noticed my clothes were unusually covered in chalk dust. I quickly changed into my sweats, making note of that. Practice was loud, physical, mercifully uncomplicated. I corrected footwork, blew the whistle, called out encouragement. The boys responded as they always had. Still, between drills, my attention drifted—once toward the office windows, then again toward the clock on the wall. I brought it back each time, sharply. When practice ended, I sent them off quickly and retreated to the locker room until the noise faded. When it was quiet, I went to change and tried as best I could to shake most of the chalk off of my clothes. I looked disordered—my outside now reflecting my inner turmoil. I head back toward the rectory. I paused at the end of the hallway that led to my office. From inside, I heard voices—Bernice’s, light and conversational, and beneath it, Felicia’s. She laughed at something, a soft sound, and then fell quiet as I entered the office. I walked quickly past them, mumbled a brusque “Hello” without looking at either of them, entered my office and closed the door. In my office, I shut the door and sat without turning on the light. The folder sat unopened in my bag, its weight unmistakable. I told myself I would look at it later, after dinner, after evening prayer. There was no reason to rush. Still, when the day finally ended, I left by the side door instead of the front. |
| My throat felt tight, like I’d swallowed something wrong. “I don’t know where to start,” I said. “That’s fine,” he said. “Start anywhere.” The silence returned, heavier this time. I shifted in my seat, then stilled myself. Outside the window, trees blurred into one another, dark shapes against darker sky. “I’m not..” I stopped. Tried again. “I haven’t done anything.” Paulie’s grip tightened slightly on the wheel. “Okay.” “And I don’t plan to,” I added, too quickly. The words sounded defensive even to me. He nodded once. “I hear you.” I rubbed my palms against my thighs, ran my fingers through my hair, then folded them together to keep them still. “It’s just… things feel different. Not wrong exactly. Just unfamiliar.” Paulie waited. “I keep catching myself,” I went on. “In moments where I should be focused.” I let out a breath. “I don’t like that.” “That’s new for you,” he said gently. “Yes.” The word came out sharper than I intended. I softened it. “Yes.” The car slowed at a light. Paulie glanced at me then—not for long, but long enough. Not judgmental. Only attention. “How long have you felt this way?” he asked. I shook my head. “I don’t know. That’s part of the problem.” The light changed. He drove on. “You sound scared,” he said. “I am.” I swallowed. “Not of doing something. Of not knowing myself the way I thought I did.” Paulie exhaled slowly, like he was considering something. “Jase,” he said, careful now, “is this about your work… or about a person?” The question landed between us and stayed there. I stared straight ahead, my chest tight, the answer pressing up against my ribs without forming words. The car kept moving. I opened my mouth, but the words stuck in my throat. Paulie’s eyes cut briefly to look at me then he concentrated on the street ahead. I looked out the passenger window and heard the brakes squeal as the car halted at a traffic light. There were no cars behind us and I felt rather than saw Paulie’s eyes in the back of my head. I waited for the car to continue, but it didn’t move and I forced myself to look at him. I held the gaze longer than was comfortable then I shifted in my seat and looked ahead through the windshield. “The light’s green, Paulie,” I said. My heart beating so hard I heard it my ears. “I know,” he responded, not moving, just staring at me. “Look, it’s not, uh, I mean-,” I tried to reach for the words; they wouldn’t come. Breathing heavily, I said, “It’s just been a lot lately.” Paulie nodded at me, quiet, the hum of the car the only sound and still he didn’t drive. “So much at the church,” I began. “School, basketball, counseling—everything. Just getting to me, I guess.” As I spoke, I didn’t believe those words myself. I waited for him to move, just drive us out of the moment. Instead he shifted slightly in his seat. “That’s nothing new for you, Jase,” he said. I pressed my lips together. The truth of that sat heavily between us. I had been proud of how much I could hold, how rarely I cracked. That had always felt like proof of something—discipline, calling, grace. Now it felt like evidence against me. “I know,” I said quietly. Paulie turned his head then, not fully, just enough that I could see the line of his jaw. “So that’s not it.” I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. My hands had curled into fists in my lap; I forced them open. “I’m distracted,” I said. “In ways I’m not used to.” I hesitated, then added, “In places where I’ve always been steady.” The car idled, the engine a low, patient sound. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once and fell silent. “Must be different, scary,” he said. “Yes.” I expected him to say more, to ask the next question, but he didn’t. The quiet stretched again, and this time I didn’t rush to fill it. The words were closer now—still out of reach, but nearer than before. I could feel them pressing, like something living under my ribs, waiting for the right opening. The light changed red then back to green. Paulie eased the car forward at last, and I felt the movement like permission and warning at the same time. “Well,” he said. “Is it the work itself or what the work is keeping you from?” I didn’t answer him right away. The question didn’t feel like something that could be answered quickly, or cleanly. I watched the road unfold in front of us, the dark broken now and then by passing streetlights, each one revealing and then hiding the same stretch of pavement. “It’s not the work,” I said finally. The words surprised me with how certain they sounded. “I mean—it is, but it isn’t.” Paulie kept his eyes on the road. He didn’t correct me. He didn’t ask for clarification. “I’ve never minded the work,” I went on, my voice quieter now. “I chose it because it gave shape to things. Because it asked something of me every day and told me where I belonged.” I paused, my throat tightening. “That hasn’t changed.” The car hummed beneath us, steady, contained. I rubbed my hands together once, brushed them through my hair once then let them rest, palms open on my thighs. “What’s changed,” I said, “is that I’m aware of what I’ve been setting aside.” Paulie’s jaw shifted, just slightly . “I didn’t think of it as sacrifice before because it’s my choice,” I continued. “It felt like clarity. Like knowing what mattered and what didn’t.” I shook my head. “Now it feels like… avoidance.” I swallowed, the word hanging there between us. “There are things I don’t let myself want,” I said. “Not because they’re wrong, exactly. But because once you admit them, they don’t stay quiet.” My chest felt tight again, the pressure is familiar now. “And I don’t know what happens if I stop keeping them quiet.” Paulie exhaled slowly. “That sounds like fear.” “Yes,” I said. The answer came too easily. “Of wanting something I can not fit into the life I’ve built.” I turned toward the window again, the truth settling in me with equal parts relief and dread. I still hadn’t named her. I didn’t need to. The shape of the thing was clear enough now. I spoke slowly, almost in a whisper. “I’m committed to the Church, Paulie. It’s my life. But I’ve seen the possibility of a different one.” Paulie didn’t answer right away. The road curved gently and he followed it, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting near the window. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost careful. “That’s not a small thing to see,” he said. “Especially after all this time.” I waited for more—for advice, for a warning, for something that sounded like direction. He gave none of it. “It’s harder for you, Jase. All your adult life, you’ve followed a path that while difficult, was your choice. No detours, no forks, no illusions. Now, you’ve come to the biggest, widest bend and you’re lost,” he said, again with no judgment. Just facts. |
| It did not completely stop. I slammed the cover of the book, causing the photos to shake on the dresser. Frustrated, I stood up and paced the floor. I stopped when I saw the basketball in the corner. I walked over and picked it up. Remembering that I had another date to play with my father and it further added to my irritation. But it also reminded me of plays for the school team. Sitting back at the desk, I reached for the pad and pencil and began sketching out moves for the team practice. The “x’s” and “o’s” made sense on the page; I could see how these worked with the kids’ expertise. As I continued to draw, I saw that one of the plays repeated itself. Running my fingers again through my hair, I stopped diagraming a stood up. I looked at my watch and showed it was late. Turning off the lamp, the darkness enveloped the room. I went to the bed, knelt and said a short prayer. I got into bed and shivered, the sheets, crisp and cool against my feet, hands and face, the mattress, firm under my body. I took deep breath but still could not relax, the dull pressure in my chest returning. I closed my eyes, changed position, but couldn’t get comfortable; my shoulders tight against the mattress as if bracing for something. The feeling persistent, urgent and immovable by the surrounding silence. I woke before the alarm went off which was unusual, but not unexpected, considering the restless night. Getting out of bed, kneeling and praying as normal, yet something felt off and I couldn’t place it. “Good morning,” Father Pete said as I left my room and entered the hallway on my way to the bathroom. I responded in kind, my voice sounding a little strained to me, but he didn’t seem to notice. I shaved, showered and went back to my room. Putting on my collar, I left the rectory and walked to the parish office. I arrived earlier than usual and went straight to the main office. The stack of notes sat where she left it the night before, squared neatly on the corner of the desk. I slid them into my bag without sitting down, without reading them and left the next day’s notes for her to type up on her desk outside. The relief came too quickly, and I didn’t trust it. I checked my watch. There was still time before she usually arrived. I closed the office door more firmly than necessary, telling myself there was nothing unusual about wanting to be prepared. I walked the short distance to the school. In the hallway, the sounds of the school were already rising—lockers, voices, the uneven rhythm of footsteps. The children were restless, already halfway out of their seats before the bell finished ringing. I waited until they settled, until the room returned to its familiar shape. Sunlight slanted through the tall windows, dust hanging in the air like something alive. “Good morning, Father Jason,” they said, mostly in unison. “Good morning,” I answered, my voice steady. It sounded right to my ears. We began as we always did. A short prayer. A reading. I heard myself speaking, explaining, asking questions. The words came easily, like normal. Yet as I talked, I was aware of a thinness beneath them, like stepping onto ice that looked solid but wasn’t. A hand went up in the second row. “Father,” a boy asked, “how come God doesn’t always answer prayers?” The room stilled. I felt it before I saw it—the collective leaning forward, the waiting. I didn’t hesitate. I gave the answer I had given before, the one I believed, the one that had always made sense. I spoke about patience, about listening, about answers that didn’t come the way we expected. They nodded. One girl frowned thoughtfully. Another raised her hand. “So how do you know that He answered?” I smiled at her, grateful for the question, and answered again. The explanation was sound. I knew that. Still, as I spoke, I noticed my fingers worrying the edge of the desk. I stopped them and folded my hands instead. The bell rang too soon. As the children filed out, I gathered my papers more slowly than necessary. My chest felt tight again like it did last night, though nothing had happened. I told myself I didn’t sleep well, that I was tired. It will pass. I stayed in the classroom instead of returning to the office to write my lesson plan. My mind wandered, I jerked it back to the task at hand with difficulty and finally got it down on paper. In the gym later that afternoon, the boys were already warming up, the sound of the ball against the floor echoing sharply. I called out instructions, clapped my hands, corrected a stance here, a pass there. It all came back to me easily. Too easily. My mind drifted once, then again, and I brought it back with effort. “Focus,” I said, and wasn’t sure who I meant it for. Before going to the residence, I stopped at the empty parish office, dropped off the pages I had written and quickly picked up the pages for tomorrow. I locked the door. That evening, as I changed out of my sweats, the thought came uninvited and unwelcome: I can’t keep pretending this is nothing. I picked up the phone before I could reconsider. That dull thud in my chest again. “Paulie?” I said when he picked up but before he spoke, my voice raspy, impatient. “Jase,” he said. Simple. Only my name. I heard him breathing, waiting. The pause allowed me to clear my throat. “How’s the family? I said through gritted teeth. I relaxed my mouth a bit, releasing the tension in my jaw. I heard him inhale, then exhale slowly before he said, “All’s well, Jase. You?” “OK, I guess. I didn’t sleep well last night, but I got through the day alright.” I paused slightly. Paulie didn’t speak; again he just waited. “I need to talk,” I said at last. “Got it. I’ll come pick you up and we’ll take a drive,” he suggested. “I’ll wait outside the residence. See you soon.” After the call ended, I grabbed my jacket and headed for the stairs to the front door. Paulie pulled up to the curb, briefly put the car in park, opened the window and said, “Hey, get in.” I opened the door and he pulled into the street. Paulie, concentrating on the road, said nothing. I reached for the radio to break the silence but stopped. The car moved through the neighborhood streets without direction. Storefronts slid past, then houses, then longer stretches of road where the streetlights were farther apart. Paulie drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on the door. He didn’t look at me. I watched the dashboard lights instead. The steady glow felt easier than meeting his eyes. “You don’t have to say anything yet,” he said finally, still watching the road. “Just tell me when.” I nodded, though he could not see it. |
| I heard her call his name. A pause. Footsteps. “Hello, Jase, “I heard him say. ”Hi, Paulie. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” “No interruption. So what’s up?” “Available to talk? I’d rather do it away from the house. Can we meet for coffee, in about, say fifteen minutes?” “Sure, no problem,” he said without hesitation, but I did hear a bit of concern in his voice. “I’ll see you at Prevo’s in fifteen minutes.” I stayed seated for another moment, the phone still in my hand, then pushed myself to my feet. I needed to get out of these clothes and back into my collar—back into something familiar, something that fit. Once I did that, things would settle. I was sure of it. I started back toward the rectory. Prevo’s was a family-style diner, the kind of place where people came to be seen and known. The windows were bright against the dark street, and I could already hear the low hum of voices as I pushed the door open. Paulie was seated in a booth by the window, his jacket still on, his hands wrapped around a coffee mug that had gone untouched. He looked up when he saw me, his expression changing quickly—something tightening, then easing into a grin that didn’t quite settle. “Hey,” he said, standing. He clapped a hand on my shoulder, solid and familiar, then pulled back to look at me more closely. “You look like hell.” “Nice to see you too,” I said. Emil was already there, his hand extended. “Father. Glad you could make it.” “Coffee,” I said. “Just coffee.” I slid into the booth across from my brother. The vinyl seat was cold through my coat. Paulie didn’t say anything at first. He just watched me, the way he used to when we were kids and he was waiting to see what I’d broken. Brenda brought the mugs and poured without asking. The smell rose between us, sharp and bitter. “So,” Paulie said at last. “What’s going on?” I swallowed hard, my jaw clenched, uncertain what to say or how to say it. Paulie saw my hand hesitatingly start to raise to my hair; I stopped myself and took a sip of coffee instead “There’s a situation developing at the church between two parishioners that shouldn’t be happening. I can’t tell you who they are without betraying my vow, a confidence, but I’m terribly concerned about what’s occurring and I need your opinion. It’s a secular matter.” I hated myself a little for the pretense. Paulie took a sip of his coffee and looked over the cup into my eyes. I felt those blue orbs, like my fathers, piercing through the façade. “Go on, Jason. Tell me the story.” “Well, these two people work together, and their working relationship is very beneficial. But one of them, uh, the party that came to me, uh, is starting to be confused, uh, I mean about feelings that are more serious than they should be and this person doesn’t know what to do about those feelings. If they develop, it could endanger the working rapport they’ve developed and...” I stopped because I noticed that Paulie was watching me closely. I know he didn’t miss the telltale sign of my nervousness–my hand was going to my head and rumpling my hair, my hesitation. I kept fidgeting with my glasses, my eyes finding it difficult to meet his. Paulie broke the silence. ‘Endanger their working relationship’, and?” “Well, that’s it. He wants to know how he should deal with his feelings without ruining a perfectly sound professional rapport.” I realized, belatedly, this was a poor ending to the question. Paulie was still staring, eyes steady on my face. Neither one of us spoke. I took another sip and realized my coffee was cold. “What did you say?” Paulie asked, finally breaking the silence. Catching Brenda’s eye, I waved her over, lifting my mug. She came over and refilled the mugs. “Thanks,” I said softly; Paulie nodded. Brenda walked away. “Jase?” “Uh, sorry. Well, it’s complicated...” “O.K. Complicated for who?” My eyes shifted around the room, landing on my hands which I moved from the table and put in my lap so he couldn’t see they were in tight fists. The question was innocent enough but still I didn’t answer. Paulie stayed quiet waiting for my answer. “Suppose he’s her boss. Doesn’t that make a difference?” Paulie shifted a bit. “So it he came to you with this. Why, do you think?” My throat was dry and Paulie’s question hung in the air between us. My nails pressed into the palms of my hands. “He’s, I mean, they uh, are my parishioners. He asked for guidance, um, nothing’s strange about that.” The words came out too fast; I heard a tinge of desperation and I took a breath. Paulie’s head tilted and his eyes narrowed. I started sweating and I wiped my forehead with a napkin. “Maybe I’m missing something here,” Paulie said. “From what I hear, this is really affecting you” He stopped, his voice quiet, controlled but questioning. “O.K. what if...?” I started. Paulie held up his hand, stopping me mid-sentence. “Jase, stop with the ‘what ifs’. I can’t help with all this mysterious talk. What exactly is going on here?” “O.K., Paulie. He’s not her boss, but he does have a supervisory position regarding her.” I lowered Paulie did not break his gaze. “That’s evasive, Jase.” He asked again, “What’s going on here?” “He simply doesn’t want to mess up the professional relationship.” I answered weakly, concentrating on the napkin in my hand. Paulie said nothing and I felt his gaze. I looked up and our eyes met. “This is about something else,” Paulie said softly. This time, I said nothing. I left Prevo’s without looking back. The cold hit me as soon as I stepped outside, sharp and clean, and I welcomed it. By the time I reached the rectory, my hands were numb and my jaw ached from how tightly I had been holding it. Inside, the hallway was quiet, the lights low. I hung my coat, straightened it, then straightened it again. In my room, I changed carefully, folding each piece of clothing as I went, lining them up on the chair the way I always did. Changing into my pajamas, I paused, waiting for the familiar settling that usually followed. It didn’t come. I knelt beside my bed, performing the nightly ritual of prayer. Though the words were familiar, the usual relief did not come. And neither did sleep. I went to the desk and as I passed the dresser, my eyes briefly saw the pictures of my family. The anxious feeling I had earlier at the diner would not disappear. At the desk, I opened my calendar--- sermon scheduled for this Sunday, basketball practice tomorrow afternoon, Monday religious class to teach. My schedule was full and looking at it, the thumping in my chest and the churning in my stomach quieted. |
| “Buenos noches, pequenito.” I was embarrassed to have witnessed this intimate ritual between mother and son. I couldn’t turn away, though. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t experienced a mother’s love. My mother read me stories and tucked me in at night; kissed my scrapes and cuddled me close. So why this feeling of longing? Felicia got up, turned and walked toward the door. I stepped back to let her pass and we went downstairs. Suddenly the silence that engulfed us was no longer comfortable. The air felt charged to me. I broke the stillness by asking about the ceiling in Nate’s room. “Isn’t it spectacular? Dwayne did it. The actual painting. I have a deep interest in astronomy.” She stopped speaking for a moment and shook her head. I ran my fingers through my hair, nervous. “I wouldn’t call it deep,” she continued. “I like to watch the sky change during the seasons. I researched the internet and was able to find where some of my favorite constellations and the planets were on the day Nate was born. Dwayne did the rest.” “Felicia, I...” the words I wanted to say wouldn’t come. I wanted to tell her about my confusion; was it because I wasn’t wearing my religious collar? “I think it’s time for me to get going. See you tomorrow.” I finished lamely, giving away nothing. She looked quizzically at me, though, as if she were trying to read my face if not my thoughts. I hoped I had my cleric’s look on once again, but I wasn’t sure. She put her palms together, laced her fingers and dropped her hands in front of her. She opened her mouth, to speak, but thinking better of it, closed her lips and they turned into a smile. “Certainly, Father Jason. Bright and early. I’ll have everything ready for you as usual.” She walked over to the front door, and it seemed to me she was especially careful to avoid any physical contact with me. She opened it and held it for me, waiting for me to pass through it. As I reached the threshold, she said, “Oh Father?” Before I turned, I resisted the urge to run my fingers in my hair again. “Yes?” “Thank you, for walking me home and carrying Nate. It was awful kind of you to go out of your way like that for us.” “Felicia, don’t mention it. It was no trouble at all.” As I walked through the door and turned, I saw her stand there for a moment, then wave and the door closed with a soft click. I walked back to the rectory carrying more than I had when I arrived. After I left Felicia’s home, I didn’t go back to the rectory. I kept walking, past the last row of houses and into the colder stretch of street where the lamps were spaced farther apart. My breath came out white in the air. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and picked up my pace, as if speed alone might shake loose the weight I’d carried out of her doorway. At the corner, I turned without thinking. The park lights were glowing dully through the trees, and my feet took me there before I’d decided to go. Ahead, under the park lamp, two teenagers moved in and out of the light like they couldn’t decide whether to be seen or hidden. Their fingers were laced, then unlaced. She shoved him with her shoulder; he caught her hand and pulled her back, laughing. “Elliot—stop,” she whispered, but she didn’t let go. “It’s late,” he said. “I’m walking you home.” “I know.” She tilted her head, teasing. “I’ve got—what—six minutes?” “Five,” he corrected. “And you’re going to make me the villain when your mom looks at the clock.” She smiled at that, the kind of smile that was meant for one person only. Then she stepped closer and lowered her voice. “You’re acting weird.” “I’m not.” He was, though. He glanced down, then back up at her face like he was bracing for impact. “I just—Claire, I don’t want to do that thing anymore.” “What thing?” “The thing where we pretend we don’t care.” He swallowed. His free hand rose, hovered, then landed lightly at her elbow as if he wasn’t sure he had the right. “I don’t want to be one of your options.” For a second she didn’t answer. The breeze pushed a strand of hair across her cheek, and she didn’t bother to fix it. She just watched him, smiling in a way that made my chest tighten for reasons I didn’t want to name. “You’re not,” she said softly. “You’re just—Elliot.” He let out a breath like he’d been holding it all evening. “So…?” “So,” she said, and her fingers tightened around his. “Walk me home.” They stood there for another beat, too close, too quiet. I shifted my weight. The bench was cold beneath me, and I became suddenly aware of my own stillness—of how long I’d been watching. Elliot turned his head and saw me. His face changed instantly, embarrassment flashing hot across it. “Oh—Father Jason.” He tried to sound casual and failed. “Didn’t see you there.” Claire’s cheeks went pink. She took a half-step back, caught herself and stood her ground. “It’s cold to be sittin’ out here,” Elliot added, too loud now. “You okay?” “I’m fine,” I said, and the words came out sharper than I meant them to. I forced my voice into something lighter. “Claire, isn’t near your curfew ?” She glanced toward the path like she’d been pulled by a string. “Yeah.” Then, to Elliot, quieter: “Run.” He grinned, returning as quickly as it had vanished. “You’re gonna lose.” They took off together, feet thudding on the path, laughter breaking behind them as they disappeared. I stayed seated a moment longer than I needed to. The air felt thinner now, as if the park had become too small. When I stood, my legs felt stiff, and I didn’t look back toward the path. Sitting again, I reached into my pocket for my phone before I’d fully decided to. “Hello.” “Hello, Cynthia, it’s Jason. “ ” Hi, Jase,” her voice brightened immediately. “It’s good to hear your voice. How have you been?” “Couldn’t be better. Are the kids ok?” “You know, teenage stuff. Andy says he can’t find a girl I would approve; all the guys are falling over Kyra. But other than that, they’re doing fine.” “That’s great. Listen, is Paulie around?” “Sure, he’s outside tinkering with the car, as usual. Hold on, and I’ll go get him for you.” I stood there with the phone pressed to my ear, the silence combined with the sound of the wind rustling through the trees. The metal casing of the phone was cold against my palm. |
| Where hers were black like coal, his were amber brown. Watching the two of them now, unaware of my scrutiny. I felt sad that this little boy would grow up with just a memory of his father. I wondered how he would know what being a man was about without seeing one in action firsthand. I imagined him growing up, questioning his own life, wondering what kind of man his father had been, and why he had to die. I knew, too, my longing was not just about how this child would grow up, but how I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to BE his father. I couldn't understand this feeling. I am around children all day; I have a niece and a nephew. I am actively participating in their coming of age. Why did I feel drawn to this child? Suddenly it came to me, as the first half was drawing to a close--I was drawn to his mother and naturally I gravitated toward him. I tried to shake the thought, but it stayed with me. Was it simply coincidence that my thoughts involved my decision to enter the priesthood? Was my mother right after all? Could she have foreseen this situation unfolding? One of the boys was tugging at my shirt. “Father Jason, they’re beating us badly! You’ve got to give us some better plays!” Here was something I could control. I decided to put all those other thoughts out of mind for the time being. “Boys, gather around! We’re not down for the count. We can still win this game. Pay attention–here’s what you’ve got to do.” The final buzzer rang and the ball sailed through the air, completely missing the basket. Our team lost, but not by very much. “We’ll get ‘em next time, Father Jason,” I heard, excitement in the boy’s voice. “Sure Terry. Now boys, everyone got rides, right? No one leaves until an adult comes to get them.” Twenty minutes later, all the boys were paired with corresponding adults. I looked across the gym and saw Felicia at the door, carrying Nate’s small, limp body. Apparently, he had fallen asleep and she was waiting until the crowd thinned before leaving. I walked quickly across the gym floor to catch up with her before she left. Simultaneously reaching the door, I opened it for her. “Hi Felicia. Looks like Nate couldn’t hold out tonight.” Felicia looked at me with a smile. “He tried very hard to stay awake. Not even all the cheering could do it. School tires him out. He likes learning so much, his little brain never shuts off.” She shifted him from her left shoulder to her right and Nate made a small whimper of protest for the change in position. “You look beat yourself. Is it a far walk to your car?” Oh, we didn’t drive. We don’t live far from here; we walked.” “You can’t possibly carry that sleeping child all the way home by yourself. Here, I’ll take him.” I reached for Nate and scooped him easily from his mother’s arms. Touching momentarily, I felt the same electric spark I sensed when I touched her on that first day. My instinct to avoid her company was right; however it didn’t stop the thoughts I had of wanting to be closer to this tiny family. I should have called her a taxi or found someone to drive her. But I didn’t. Instead I took the child from her arms. I saw her relieved look when she handed the child to me and she smiled again. “Father Logan, I really appreciate the offer. But after running around all evening, you must be tired. Nate and I can get home just fine.” “Felicia, it’s no problem.” I should have handed her back the child. I didn’t. “Just show me the way,” I said instead. The evening was cool and we walked side by side in silence. I sensed she wanted to talk with me but was afraid to break the silence between us. After about a block and a half, she spoke. “Father, remember when I first came to your office and I told you I heard your lecture on Mary Magdalene?” “Sure, I remember.” “Well, just how much more could you tell me? About her life, or why the church is so conflicted about who she was and what she stands for?” I was taken aback; I didn’t speak. “Father?” “Oh, I’m sorry. Sure, is there anything specifically you want to know?” Before she could answer, we stopped in front of a two-storied brick building with a narrow walkway flanked by miniature rose bushes. There was a wide, white door with a brass knocker. Underneath the knocker was flowered wreath and on the floor in front of the door was a welcome mat. She put her key in the lock and said, “Here’s where we live, Father.” I entered her apartment and felt the tranquility. Here was a home devoted to coziness and family. The foyer was small, and as I entered, I immediately saw the soft pastel colors of the living room. In one corner was an old-fashioned rocking chair. I noticed several paintings on the walls, although one wall was totally devoted to a bookcase and wall unit. I noticed the bookcase was filled with a selection of books and framed photographs. I wasn’t able to get a detailed look at the case or the photos, but the room was enchanting. “Follow me and I’ll put Nate to bed.” She took off her coat and dropped it carelessly on a chair close to the staircase separating the living room from the dining room. Apparently, she had forgotten her inquiry regarding Mary Magdalene. We went upstairs to Nate’s room, a typical little boy’s room furnished with Ninja Turtle posters, Harry Potter books, and stuffed animals. There were toy trucks and building blocks, all neatly put away. A globe was on a desk in the corner and on the wall was a world map with push pins in various places. I laid the still sleeping boy on his bed and stepped back into the doorway. As I walked back toward the door, my eyes were drawn upward. I gasped with wonder. The most amazing part of his room was the ceiling. It looked like a clear night sky. Lots of tiny stars dotted the dark blue background. I recognized several constellations—Orion, the Big Dipper—some planets, was that Mars? Who had done this, I marveled. It was exquisite! Felicia removed Nate’s coat, hat and shoes, slipped on an oversized t-shirt; tucked him in bed. She brushed his hair off of his brow, leaned over and kissed his forehead. |
| Felicia’s eyes darting around the room and the smile disappeared. “Where can I put these things? I brought muffins for the office.” Felicia asked, her dismissive tone matching Beatrice’s. Beatrice pointed to a table on the other side of the room which held a coffee maker and some mugs. Felicia walked over and put the muffins on the table. “Is there a vase here? The flowers need water. If not, I’ll bring one from home tomorrow.” Beatrice grunted and went to a cabinet near Felicia, opened it, took out a plastic vase, and handed it to her. “No need, we’ve had flowers here before. Your desk is over there.” She pointed to a desk next to the window, a stack of papers, a computer and a cup of pens and pencils near it and went back to her desk and continued to type. “Oh. Thank you.” Felicia took the vase and smiled uncomfortably again at the woman, confused by this exchange. After she arranged the flowers, she sat down on and looked at the pages. Father Logan was right–he did have the worst handwriting she’d ever seen! She chuckled out loud and Beatrice looked up. “Did you say something, dear?” she inquired. Looking at her and holding up a sheet of paper, Felicia said. “This looks like a chicken stepped in ink and walked across the page!” Beatrice’s face relaxed into a smile and she nodded. “True. He’s not the worst, but he is pretty bad.” Felicia rose from her seat. “I’m gonna need some coffee to get through this. Would you like a cup?” Beatrice nodded and Felicia prepared two cups of coffee and brought one to Beatrice with a muffin on a napkin. “Thank you, dear.” She took a bite of the muffin, her eyes widening and smiling said, “This is delicious! Where did you buy this?” “I made them at home. My son loves these,” Felicia answered. “Delicious,” Beatrice repeated. And this time the smile was deep, friendly. They worked in a comfortable silence for the rest of the morning, breaking when Felicia asked where the bathroom was, or where the mailboxes were for priests. When it was time for her to finish that afternoon, Felicia got her things and said, “See you tomorrow.” Beatrice, with a smile that reached her eyes this time said, “Certainly. Enjoy your day.” They fell into a routine. When she arrived in the morning, a stack of papers from Father Logan was waiting on her desk. She’d make a pot of coffee for the office staff; most mornings she’d bring in homemade muffins or cookies for the other people in the office. Beatrice’s initial resentment slowly disappeared, and Beatrice even allowed her to answer the phones. They made a good team, especially when it was hectic. By noon, Felicia was done with the typing. If there were any exams to grade, she’d take care of those, or any other errands, such as scheduling student meetings. Soon the other priests would ask Felicia if she wasn’t busy to type for them as well. Before she realized it, the day was gone and it was time to pick Nate up from school. The strange thing about the arrangement was that she hardly came in contact with Father Logan. At first, she thought he was avoiding her, but after a while she realized he just didn’t have the time. He was, by far, the most popular priest in the parish. He spent all day at the school–teaching in the morning, counseling in the afternoon and then more religious education in the evening. The two other priests, Father Petrocelli and Father Baxter, seemed to have an older generation following, but were well loved and respected in the neighborhood. Ms. Pratt, with Father Logan, ran the music ministry and the young people’s choir. He also coached the basketball team. Sometimes, Felicia would walk over to the church and sit and listen to the youth choir in the loft sing the familiar hymns for the mass. Their young, innocent voices transported her to places that calmed her troubled spirit. The singing reminded her of her own youth and days in the choir. Her parents sitting in the same pew, week after week, beaming with pride as she sang her solos. Or at Christmas when she sang “Ave Maria.” So many times Felicia wanted to call her parents and talk to them, remember with them, tell them all about their grandson and how bright, warm, and funny he was. She’d dial her parents’ phone number. Hearing her mother say “Hello,” Felicia said nothing; but simply enjoyed the sweet sound of the woman who once sang lullabies to her. “Hello, who is this?” Again Felicia said nothing and she waited for the dial tone, before replacing the receiver in its cradle. Her parents had never forgiven her for the premarital pregnancy and deciding to marry a man they did not approve. When Dwayne was alive, though it hurt, she had come to terms with their cruelty; now it was harder. Ever since that morning she had the vision in the church, Felicia avoided sacristy, except when the choir practiced. She felt isolated and alone. Alive in the flesh but deceased in spirit. I was sitting in the residential dining room going over some plays for the basketball game scheduled with a neighboring school for later this afternoon. Looking at the drawings in my notebook, I realized I needed to change a play which wasn’t going to work, since one of our players was benched this week. The door opened and Beatrice came into the room interrupting my thoughts. “Father, they’re waiting for you at the gym. The other school’s arrived.” “O.K. Beatrice. I’m just going upstairs to change, then I’m going over to the gym.” I closed the book, gathered my papers, pushed back from the table, rose and went to my quarters. I put on blue sweatpants and a T-shirt that said, "Born to serve God". This afternoon, I walked to the gym. It was unseasonably cold, a great day for an indoor game. When I arrived, I saw a large crowd in the stands. These intermural games are popular and many of the parishioners come to cheer the kids on. On the sidelines, high in the stands, I saw Felicia with her arms around her son, Nate. Last month she introduced me to him, and I told him next year, he'd probably be in my First Communion preparation class. He shyly smiled at me, his lashes framing eyes so like his mother's except in color. |
| Right before her eyes now, she saw them picking it out: Dwayne, telling her he wanted her to feel like the princess he knew she was. The scene shifted, like a scene in a stage play to their home. She, Dwayne, and Nate were in the hallway by the door. Dwayne, in his uniform, put his arms around her, kissed her, and said, “See ya tomorrow, Princess.” He turned, picked up Nate, and said, “Bye, little man. Take care of Mami, eh?” He put Nate down on the floor, picked up his bag from the table and walked out the door, waving goodbye as they watched. Another scene shift. The “Felicia” in the pew heard a phone ring and watched in horror as she saw herself in her kitchen even later that day. She followed with her eyes and saw her image dry her hands, reach for the receiver, and heard her voice as she spoke. She recognized the other voice on the line. It was Peter Campbell, Dwayne's partner, calling from his cell. “Something’s happened to Dwayne, Felicia. He’s not coming home.” “What’s happened? What’s going on?” she demanded, her voice trembling. “I’m coming right over,” Peter said, disconnecting the call. When he arrived, Felicia opened the door. “Dwayne’s dead,” she said, knowing what he was going to say before he said it. Ushering her inside to the sofa, he sat her down and told her something. All she heard was a bullet ended both Dwayne’s life and their life together. Closing her eyes, wishing for a miracle, she re-opened them. The images were gone; she was still in the church alone. Horror was replaced by outrage. For the first time, in her entire life, she cursed God. She felt He didn't deserve her faithfulness, love and obedience. He wasn't worthy of HER and never would she come here again- -at least not to pray. But then, what would keep her grounded? Without God, she’d be completely alone. I’m alone already though, she thought to herself; Dwayne wasn’t coming back, there’ d be no wedding, no marriage, no happily ever after. She stood up, her knees rebelling at the sudden movement after so long in one position. Leaving the pew, she practically ran toward the back of the church. She glanced back and saw the altar still there. She turned and as she reached the door, she ran into Father Logan “Felicia, I mean, Ms. Guzman, are you ok?” The last person I’d thought I’d run into this morning was the young woman I met yesterday. After that strange dream last night, I needed fresh air to clear my head. I’d just been out for my morning run and was sweating. But here, while the sweat continued to bead on my forehead, my heart beating wildly, now more from excitement than exertion, stood the reason for my distress. I looked at her—she seemed to be flustered, as if something had frightened her. I repeated my question, searching her face for an answer. “Oh, Father Logan. I didn’t see you standing there. No, everything’s fine. I just came in here...” The words trailed off for a moment. I watched her straighten her shoulders and the cloud I first noticed seemed to lift a bit. “I won’t keep you, Father. I’m leaving now. Go take care of yourself before you catch a cold. I’m still starting to work with you next week, right?” The swift change in subject confused me for a minute and in my dazed state, I almost forgot where I was and who I was talking to. “Oh, sure, Ms. Guzman. Next week...right. See you then.” I opened the door and she passed through it. I walked down the center aisle and up to the altar. Bowing before the crucifix, I looked at the solemn figure of Jesus. “Father,” I began. “I need your guidance. My mind and heart are troubled...troubled in a way I’ve never experienced. My soul is tormented by thoughts, carnal in nature, but innocent.” I needed to talk to someone about Felicia. If she was going to spend time here, I’d have to find her something to do which would keep her out of my general proximity. But how? She was supposed to help me–personally–with my notes and class prep. Why am I getting so bent out of shape? Perhaps this is something that simply would pass with time. She wasn’t the first attractive woman I’d come across in the parish. The church was full of pretty women, the high school, too. A test, I thought. This is God’s way of testing my steadfastness. I should be able to minister to all my flock. Before I bring unnecessary scrutiny, I decided to see how the situation progressed. Ms. Guzman (to begin with, I’ll think of her formally) needs my assistance and it’s my job to help her. The wild heartbeats stopped and I felt calmer and more controlled. I left the church and went upstairs to my rooms to take a shower and change for my morning religious class. ** “Ms. Guzman, I need Father Jason to get this book. Can you give it to him?” Felicia looked up and saw Jessica Felder, a smart nine-year old in Father Logan’s class. “Jessica, sure, I’ll see that he gets it. Can I tell him it helped you?” “It sure did. Now I understand the difference between the Immaculate Conception and the Virgin Birth. I’m sure to get a great grade now!” Felicia watched the youngster as she left the office. Putting the book in Father Logan’s inbox, she sat at the computer, and it had taken her almost two weeks to figure out his individual shorthand. Now, a month later, she was proficient and could get his notes typed in plenty of time for his classes the next day. Felicia arrived at nine in the morning on that first day, carrying flowers and corn muffins. Standing in the doorway, she met the parish secretary, Beatrice Cooke, a woman in her late fifties, with glasses on a chain around her neck. “Can I help you, miss?” she said as she stopped typing. “I’m the new office volunteer, Felicia Guzman.,” she said softly, with a slight smile. Beatrice looked at her over her glasses. “Hmm. Oh right. Father Logan mentioned that you would be starting here. I didn’t know you were starting today.” The words were abrupt, clipped, uninviting. |
| Ms. Guzman stood there, on the other side, carrying white roses and, on her back, papoose-style, was a baby. She walked toward me, and I toward her. As we got closer, the floral aroma was pungent, and it mingled with the subtle scent of vanilla. We came face to face; I smiled at her. She offered me a white rose which I unhesitatingly attempted to take from her outstretched hand. However before I could take it, the alarm woke me. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew I was in trouble. Big trouble. When Felicia dropped her son Nate Fielding at the door of his kindergarten class this morning, he gripped her hand tightly, afraid to let her out of his sight. He continued to press his slender form against her knees, but he didn’t cry, not even a whimper. She was thankful her little boy. What a treasure! He was only five years old, but he acted older. Those eyes of his, big and unusually amber colored, spoke of experiences beyond his years. The young teacher saw them at the door and quickly met them. She knelt to meet his eyes. “Hey, pretty eyes! My name’s Candide, but the children call me Candy.” She smiled at the boy and Nate eased the grip on his mother. “I like candy,” he whispered. He looked up at his mother and Felicia winked at him. “Gonna be O.K., nino? she asked softly. “Looks like it, Mami.” He turned his gaze back on the teacher. Her flaming red hair caught his attention, and he tentatively reached out toward her. He took her hand and she asked, “What’s your name sweetheart?” “Nathaniel Fielding. I’m five years old. This is my Mami, Felicia.” He pointed at her. “My daddy’s dead, though.” He said that last sentence simply, unemotionally. Candide stood up, still holding onto Nate’s hand and turned toward Felicia. A look of sympathy passed between the two women. Candide spoke first. “He’ll be fine, Ms. Fielding. You go on and we’ll get him settled in.” Felicia blew a kiss at her son. He put his palm to his lips and smacked one back to her. She turned and walked out the classroom, hearing small childish voices in unison saying, “Hi Nate!” Outside the air was cool and sunny with a crisp wind blowing. It was a typical autumn day. She pulled her jacket collar up a little higher on her neck. Suddenly unfettered by childcare responsibilities, she was at a loss as to what to do with her free time. Next week, she’d start her volunteer job with Father Logan, but until then, her time was her own. Felicia turned at the corner and continued walking until she came to a park not far from home. She walked across the grass, now covered with fallen dry leaves. Every now and then she’d see a pile made by the wind and she dragged her feet through it, strewing the leaves in the wind. The blue sky had puffy clouds, and she stopped along her walk to look up and imagine what the shapes formed. She kept walking and finally came upon a playground. At the swings, she sat down on one. Looking up, she noticed a cloud shaped like a chariot. Absently pushing her toe in the sand, she gently started the back-and-forth motion. The swing, squeaking as it rocked, sent Felicia higher and higher. Each time she soared to the sky, she reached out toward the coach shaped cloud. The sun dipped behind another cloud. Felicia shivered, not from the chill, but because she sensed her old friend, Sorrow, was nearby. Her face was contorted with inner heartbreak. Adversity followed Felicia like a shadow-always lurking about, showing up when the sun shines. Joy was elusive; but pain, however, hovered just below her life’s surface. She felt as suspended in life as if she was on the swing. Time always takes its time when you want it to speed up. That chariot cloud slowly drifted across the sky. As she watched it, her face relaxed a little and her lips curled into a smile. From a distance, she looked no older than her son. The swing slowed enough for her to jump off. She took one more look at the slow-moving cloud and walked out of the playground. With no destination in mind. Why hadn’t she corrected the teacher this morning when she called her ‘Ms. Fielding’? Perhaps the reason was because it sounded so wonderful and natural. More likely, she was still reeling from the talk with the priest and how evasive she had been with him. The mere mention of Dwayne’s murder two years ago still brought tears. Truthfully, tears constantly hovered. Her hanky came in handy. Just about everything brought back a picture, a slice of life with Dwayne always there–laughing, smiling, making goofy faces, being tender, loving. From the day they met until the day he died; Dwayne had given her a sense of security and wonder. In the distance, Felicia saw the church. She walked faster, now that she had a place to go, she wanted to get there quickly. Churches always gave her a sense of peace, but she avoided them when she felt undeserving of God’s love and protection. She opened the door, dipped her finger in the vessel holding the holy water and crossed herself. Walking down a side aisle, she stopped at a row near the center. She looked around–only a few people were here, taking solace in the peacefulness. Genuflecting before entering the pew, she put the kneeling bench down and prayed. On her knees, she felt Dwayne's presence. She could smell his cologne, feel the bristle from his mustache as his lips brushed against her ear. She could feel his warm breath as he spoke and the words were clear and, in his voice, "Fee, it's OK. Don't do this. I can't rest if you're not at peace in your soul. Nate needs your whole heart; don't bury it with me.” Opening her eyes, she looked around in amazement. Gone were the pews. the altar, all the trappings of the church. As part of their aborted wedding plans, Dwayne arranged for an open carriage to take her to the church. |
| I started bouncing the ball absentmindedly; my father repeated the question. “Dad, I'm sorry, but a parishioner came into my office with a particularly difficult dilemma, and I had to immediately address it," I said to him, as I took a shot and missed. "Jase, I know you can't talk about what goes on between you and the people you counsel, but you have the weirdest look on your face. What's going on?" "Dad", I said trying to hit the hoop again, but missing so wide I realized I wasn't seeing a basket. Instead I saw a pair of dark eyes, brimming with tears. My breath caught in my throat for a minute. The basket returned. I was myself again. "I really can't talk about it. Let’s say the person had an extraordinary problem and I'm still thinking about it. I started dribbling again. Hey, can I ask you a question?" "Sure but stop trying to hit that basket and give me the ball," my father said, and I tossed the orange orb in his direction. "When was the last time you saw someone using a cloth handkerchief?" “O.K. Jase, spill it. What’s the matter?” “Nothing, Dad, just answer the question.” Paul thought for a moment, then taking a shot at the basket, the ball flew and dropped in, barely touching the net. “See, son. THAT’S how you make a shot!” I was becoming impatient with my father and suddenly, I didn’t want to talk anymore about Felicia or her hanky. Not with him, anyway. Maybe Mama would be a better choice. “Never mind, Dad. Since you’re on such a hot streak, let’s play a game of HORSE. You can start.” As my father tossed the ball into the net, I was determined not to think about Ms. Guzman and concentrate on the matter at hand–beating my father into the ground in HORSE. “Aw, what an easy shot you missed there, Dad!” and I bounced the ball now with steely determination. This time, when I looked up at the basket, it was plainly a hoop and the ball sailed through the air and sank in with a WHOOSH. Four more times, and I spelled HORSE. We played a few more games. “No more baskets, Jase,” said my father. As we walked to the showers, towels draped across our shoulders, my father broke the silence. “Jase, the last time I saw a woman with a cloth handkerchief, I had to be in my twenties. In fact, it was your mom. Now, unless you’re planning to get her some for future use, and I seriously doubt it, why did you ask that question?” I stopped in my tracks, shoulders hunched over. I had successfully deflected all thoughts of that afternoon interview and now here it was staring me in the face. Realizing it was my own fault for asking him in the first place and more irritated at myself than him, I tried to switch the subject again. “Dad, I told you I couldn’t discuss it with you, and I wish you’d honor my situation. Really, every time we talk lately, you assume there’s some dire, urgent problem at hand. I happened to see a cloth hanky today and since I don’t see those anymore, I wanted to ask you. Don’t make me sorry I did.” He looked at his me, with the instinct born of many years dealing with my temperamental moods. He shrugged his shoulders and appeared to drop the matter. But something in the way I stood that made him realize there was more to it than a simple question. “O.K. Jase, sit...we’re going to talk now. I know there’s something bothering you. And I am sure a woman is involved.” I had to stop him right then. The earlier encounter was too close for comfort. Besides, I was not in the mood for another lecture about my vows, especially after the one given by the dueling priests. “Dad, it’s not about a woman, and I’m not thirteen anymore. I’m an ordained priest, have been one for years. You don’t have to worry that I’ve knocked up some girl and must get married. Gosh, every time we’re together, you’re talking about temptation and women, and I really would appreciate it if you’d drop this subject!” My father got to his feet and without a word walked past me to the locker room. While we changed, neither one of us spoke. Silence is supposed to be golden, but now it was positively tarnished My reaction to Dad’s query was troublesome. I should be used to his “woman worry” as I liked to call it. He’s been that way ever since I entered puberty. This evening, as I studied my reflection, I had a moment of self-discovery. This afternoon had changed me–imperceptibly, yet irreversibly. That woman touched a chord, long buried, never uncovered. No one else could see the change, either. There was no outward difference at all. It was more subtle. Only I was aware of the change. I knew then I wasn’t bothered by my father’s concern. It was that for the first time, I felt the temptation he was so worried about. And believe me, I was afraid. When I fall asleep, I’m like a coma victim. After all the excitement this afternoon, I thought I'd fall immediately into slumber. Dead to the world. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I set the alarm clock for my first morning class. I laid down on my firm mattress, but sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned and finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Normally, I don't even remember my dreams. The dreams the doctors say we all have. But when I woke the next morning, I could not help but remember the images. I dreamt I was walking in a field full of yellow, lavender, and red flowers. Odd, but all the other colors, while vibrant, were less bright than the yellow daffodils that surrounded them, I could smell the scent and it brought back childhood memories of my mother, my youth and of being carefree. Suddenly, the flowers parted. |
| She said in her frank manner, “Jason, I love you, but personally I don’t believe you have the temperament it takes to take the final vows.” As I began to interrupt her with protestations, she held her hand up. “Wait now, let me finish. I know you’re smart, dedicated and very studious. You’ll do the work. But Jase, you know you’re vain, dear. If you become a priest, how will you feel about being forced to wear the same style and color suit all the time?” I was appalled. I opened my mouth to speak, thought better of it, then closed it again. Part of me resented her description. To imagine that such a ridiculous reason would prevent me from giving my life to God. However, there was another part of me that knew what she said about my vanity was accurate. “My wardrobe will hold me back? Mom, it’s like you didn’t even hear me! I had a vision! God spoke to me. I don’t know what he has in store for me, but I think the least of my obstacles will be what clothes I’ll be allowed to wear.” I turned away from her in frustration, snatched a chair from under the table and sat down. “Besides,” I continued, “the purpose of going to the seminary is to learn what’s expected of me and to prepare me to meet those expectations.” She sat down next to me and said, "Jase, listen. Remember when you were starting confirmation preparation and you had to do a service project. We were sitting at this very table. Do you recall what you told me you wanted to do?” Sheepishly, I bowed my head. "Yeah, I wanted to go out in the park to play my saxophone and bring decent jazz to the uninitiated of the neighborhood." She grinned. "And what did Father Petrocelli tell you?" "He said that wasn't a proper service project but was simply my way of becoming famous. He believed my actions were more self-service than charitable because I was urging people not only to listen, but also to donate money if they enjoyed my performance. But Mom, you knew I was going to give the money I made for the homeless shelter! Father Pete was just too short-sighted!" She took a breath. "That's just my point, Jase. You have a problem with authority. Sometimes you’re so busy seeing the trees, you miss the forest. Father Pete wanted you to engage in an activity which would help others see the glory of God, not man’s glory in man. Sure you would have given the money to the shelter, but that wasn’t the issue; he wanted you to give of yourself. Otherwise, you could have just written a check and be done with it." My indignation reached the boiling point and anger took over. I found myself practically screaming at her. "So basically, what you're saying, Mom, is that Paulie was more giving and selfless than I! What a cosmic joke! Look at what's happened---all of Dad's hopes and dreams of having his older son exceed the family tradition of mere priesthood by becoming Pope was flushed down the toilet when Paulie met Cynthia." My mother's lips trembled at my statement, but I was too far gone emotionally to care about her feelings. "And where did he meet her--in church? No! He met her at the gas station. What lofty service was he performing? He charitably offered to fill her tank!! You think I can't change, but Paulie did. Why is it so impossible for you to believe I could become worthy of serving when Paulie, who was, as you guys liked to tell me all my life, 'born to priestly life' dropped out of the seminary and decided not to serve? At least in the way you had planned." Neither of my parents liked to discuss Paulie’s decision. They still loved him, but whenever I wanted to get them off my back, I just had to mention this sore spot. She never answered my question. She simply sighed, got up from the table and as she walked away, she muttered, “Man plans, God laughs." My relationship with my family changed forever that afternoon. Gone were the days when I could take my future goals lightly. I was under the microscope. I vowed to prove to my mother she was wrong in her assessment of my intention. Eventually she was convinced, but not without expressing serious reservations. My father, still stringing from the disappointment of Paulie’s defection three years earlier, was just as doubtful. But when he saw how determined and devoted, I was, he too, was won over. He still made his comments about all the female members of the parish coming to mass simply to look at me (both of my parents thought I was too handsome for the priestly vocation). While it irritated me, I enjoyed the new relationship between us. Soon I started having “wish conversations” with him, but instead of in the kitchen, we talked at the gym. It was thinking about the gym reference which forced me to stop playing and glance at my watch. Today was one of the days of our weekly workout sessions. And I was now going to be late for the first time. I put the instrument back in its place in the corner and quickly put on my warm-up suit. Grabbing my keys, I left my rooms, went down the stairs and out the front door to the street. Something in the way Jason crossed the floor made Paul stop pacing. I could feel my father’s eyes on me before he said a word. I knew that look. It was the one he got when he thought something had gone wrong and was bracing himself to hear what it was. "Why didn't you call and let me know what was going on, Jase?", asking as I approached with the basketball under my arm. I didn’t answer. |
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