Page 19 of Steadfast
Ah, and that was where our stories parted. Robby’s mom sat there beaming, tears in her eyes. My mom ran off with another man when I was eight. My father got drunk the night she left and never really sobered up.
Sometimes these stories really buoyed me. But today wasn’t one of those times. Robby’s beaming mother just grated on me. She reminded me of the stage mothers that Sophie used to have to deal with.Isn’t my kid great? Listen to the way she hits those high notes in Ave Maria!
I didn’t begrudge Robby his success, though. I really didn’t. I’d give my left nut to have three years clean.
Before the meeting ended, we went around the circle. Most people gave a little update about how their week had been.
“Would you like to say anything?” the librarian lady asked.
I just shook my head.
When it was over, I sprinted into a bathroom I’d seen on my way into the room, mostly because I didn’t want to chat with anyone. I didn’t want to be greeted, hugged or asked whether I would come back next week.
My tactic worked. The meeting room was empty when I passed through again. I made it all the way up and onto the darkened sidewalk before I saw another human. He was seventy-five years old if he was a day, and slowly shoveling an inch of slippery snow off of the sidewalk. But he had on the wrong kicks for the job—black dress shoes. And I could tell that he was trying hard not to slip.
“Let me get that,” I said. My voice was rough from underuse.
He looked up, and I noticed that he had a priest’s collar on under his coat. “Am I doing that poor of a job at it?” His eyes twinkled with the question.
“No, um, father. But I think I have better traction.” I pointed at my work boots.
With a smile, he handed over the shovel. “I’d appreciate that, son.” He stood there, watching as I began to strip the slush off the walk in long sweeps of the shovel. “Of course the snow held off until our facilities person went home for the day,” he said, conversationally.
“That’s usually how life works,” I said.
“True. And we have many people coming to dine this evening, so I can’t have them sliding around everywhere.”
This wasn’t going to be a big job. It would only take a couple of minutes. “You don’t have to freeze,” I said. “Just tell me where the shovel goes, and I’ll put it away when I’m done.” Or maybe he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t steal the shovel. It was easy to guess that I’d just come from the NA meeting.
“Bring it inside when you’re through,” he said. “One of my parishioners has gifted me with an apple pie. It’s only fair that I should cut you a slice as payment for your labors. Do you like apple pie?”
I grinned down at the sidewalk. “There are very few things that I like better.” The first three that came to mind were heroin, sex and punk rock. But I kept that to myself.
“I’m glad to hear you say that. Because if you didn’t like apple pie, I’m not sure we could be friends.”
I barked out a laugh. “That’s not a very Christian attitude, father. What would Jesus say?”
“He’d say, ‘more for me.’ My office is at the end of the hallway. Will I see you inside?”
“Five minutes,” I agreed.
The main level of the church building was much nicer than the basement. After shoveling the sidewalk, I leaned the shovel just inside the door and walked down a brick-lined hallway to an elaborate wooden door that stood ajar. The office had a thick oriental rug on the floor and a giant walnut desk.
But nobody was inside.
“There you are,” the priest said, coming up behind me. In his hands he held a wooden tray. I moved into the room, where he set it down on the desk. There were two thick slices of pie and two cups. “Coffee?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “Smells good, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”
“Ah,” he said wanly. “I’m familiar with the problem. But on Wednesdays my day is long, so I indulge. How about milk, then?” He lifted the generously sized creamer and held it over one empty teacup, waiting for my answer.
Was I really sitting down with a priest for pie and milk? It seemed that I was. “Yes, please.”
“Have a seat,” he said, pouring.
I took one of the cushioned chairs and sat, folding my hands in my lap. The old man was nice enough, but it was still a bit like getting called to the principal’s office. He passed me a plate and a fork and set the cup on the desk close enough for me to reach. “Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t know there would be pie in my day.”
He picked up his coffee cup. “To pie. May we have it every day.”
