“Yes,” he said thoughtfully, turning to stand next to her and looking up at the church as well, “if I recall correctly, I first saw you run past a few weeks ago. I took notice only because I’d never seen you before in the eight years I’ve been assigned here. ‘You must be new in town,’ I thought to myself.”
“Yeah,” she said, not bothering to look at him, “my car broke down three weeks ago.”
“I see!” he returned, seemingly delighted at the information. “So you didn’t intend to come here, but fate had other plans and now, here you and I are, having a nice little chat that we wouldn’t have had otherwise. The small miracles of life!”
This was getting a bit too strange for her. Maureen turned to face him. “Yeah, well, not to be rude, uh . . . Father, but I kind of have some things on my mind, and I’d really like to get home.” She tried again to get past him, but he stood fast.
“Oh, how rude of me,” he replied. “Of course, of course.” She nodded and began to leave once again when he stuck out his hand to shake. “I’m Father Patrick, Father Patrick McGill.” The man was obviously not going to let her go until she acquiesced.
She shook his hand but remained silent.
“You seemed to be in a hurry,” he continued, as if he didn’t care that she didn’t introduce herself. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t inquire as to what was troubling you. As I’ve said, I’ve seen you run by the church a few times before, but never in such a rush. If I may be so bold, I should say that something has just happened that troubled you deeply.”
“You haven’t seen the crime scene over in the subdivision?” she asked, surprised by her own quick response.
“That would explain the flood of people I saw heading in that direction earlier this morning,” he mused. His smiling face suddenly gave way to a more serious expression. “It is a sad thing that so many should want to be on hand to witness tragedy.” He shook his head.
“I think someone’s dead,” Maureen found herself responding. Something about Father Patrick just drew it out of her.
“Tragic,” he said, “simply tragic. I’m forced to ask, though, why is it that a scene like that, which made so many people flock to look on, made you run in the other direction?” He looked at her steadily, and it was as if he could see all her secrets.
She had no idea how she was going to answer, and her feet felt bolted to the ground.
“Father Patrick,” a voice interrupted from the direction of the church, much to Maureen’s relief. A younger, brown-haired man dressed much like Father Patrick came walking across the front lawn of the church and stopped a few feet away. “Father, I thought you were going to be in your office. I’d hoped to go over the parish budget for next quarter, as well as my sermon for this Sunday.”
“Just taking out the garbage,” he answered coolly.
“Is the custodian busy with something else, Father?”
“Father Preston Lane,” Father Patrick said to Maureen gesturing to the young man. “My junior priest. A very devout man, a little too obsessed with propriety if you ask me, but surely that will be what raises him to Bishop before he turns forty.” He smiled as he clapped the younger man on the shoulder and shook him like a man gently chastising a little brother. “What of our custodian, Preston? Haven’t I always said that we’re custodians ourselves? A priest shouldn’t mind using his hands. After all, didn’t our own Savior know His way around tools and labor? But, then, if it weren’t for you, maybe I’d lose sight of the bureaucratic side of things that keeps the Church operating. Bless you for reminding me. I’ll be there in just a moment to handle our business.”
Father Preston nodded, turned, and headed back into the church. Father Patrick watched him go before turning back to Maureen, shaking his head and chuckling.
“What I said was true,” he said to her. “St. Mary’s might have gone bankrupt if it wasn’t for him. It’s likely why they sent him to me. The Diocese has always said that my flock adores me, but the accountants despise me.” He paused to look at her for a moment, the smile on his lips amused and sad at the same time. “Well, I’ve detained you long enough. I’m sorry to hear about the tragedy you have witnessed, and more sorry that you can’t stay to talk. If you ever need an ear, the church door is always open. Literally.” He laughed. “I don’t allow the doors to be locked, much to the chagrin of some. It was a pleasure to meet you, Ms. . . .” He looked at her inquisitively and stuck out his hand for another shake.
“Allen,” Maureen said, eyeing him carefully and shaking his hand one more time.
He tilted his head, beckoning her to offer just a little more.
“Maureen,” she conceded.
“Maureen,” he repeated, giving her hand a final shake and releasing her. “Until our next meeting, I’ll pray for you and anyone who may have been hurt today.” His eyes became grave despite the smile on his face. He nodded a farewell and turned to walk back toward the front door of the church, waving his hand back at her as he went.
Maureen stood frozen on the sidewalk until the church’s door shut behind Father Patrick and exhaled with relief. She could not put her finger on what bolted down her feet, what made her legs inoperable, or what caused her to stay and talk to the man. She never talked to priests. It was a hard and fast rule ever since
