“Mama said it is. That’s why I’m here.”
Carlo, not unsurprisingly, doesn’t appreciate being dragged to church every time he misbehaves.
He’s only twelve, and his parents are older. He was a late baby, and they never seem to know what to do with him.
“Tell me. Let me decide,” I coax.
“It was an accident. I mean, I never meant for all the glue to get wasted.”
Glue? “Start at the beginning.”
“My teacher’s a bitch.”
That has me sitting up. “There’s a sin right there, Carlo. Did you just use profanity under God’s roof?”
He hisses, and mutters, “I just made it worse for myself, didn’t I?”
My lips twitch. “You did.”
But I make a mental note to talk to his father on Sunday. Evidently, Carlo, who’s always a cheerful boy even if he’s due confession, is having issues with his teacher.
“She was picking on me. Trying to make me look dumb in front of everyone. So I knocked over the glue on her seat, painted it so she wouldn’t notice and then let her sit on it.”
My brows lift as I try to ascertain what kind of testament that broke which required him being dragged to church on an afternoon, and then it clicks.
“You were suspended?” That’s the only reason I can think he’d be here at this time.
“Yes. For two days.” He huffs. “But she’s mean, Father.”
“I can imagine, but did that mean you had to be mean to her? Is that what you’ve been taught, Carlo?”
“No,” he mumbles, and as I peer through the grate that separates me from him, I shake my head.
“But it isn’t the end of the world, Carlo. Don’t tell your mother or father this, but I was suspended when I was a boy too.”
“You?” He sounds so stunned that I have to laugh.
“Yes, I wasn’t always a priest.”
“I mean, I knew that. But... what did you do?”
“I used to get into fights.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “Does there have to be a reason?”
He hums under his breath. “I think so. I mean, did you like fighting?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes I was very angry, and the only way I could stop feeling like that was if I hit something.” Sometimes I grew tired of being bullied, and had to defend myself…
“Why were you angry?”
“My teachers weren’t very nice to me either.” They never listened.
“Why not?”
I sigh. “They just weren’t. They thought I was the troublemaker because, in class, I got bored really quickly.”
“I know how that feels,” he says glumly. “I find it hard to concentrate.”
I could only imagine. “Maybe speak with your parents about it.” Surely then they’d realize that was why the doctors gave him medicine in the first place.
“I hate school,” he mutters.
“Only six more years of it,” I reply, trying to cheer him up.
“That’s a long time. I mean, I’m twelve. That means I have to do half my life again of school.” Another huff escapes him. “Life sucks.”
“It can suck sometimes, but I’m sure there’ll be a lot of times you actually have fun. You have friends there, don’t you?”
“Yes. But I can see them at home.”
I grin at the logic, and say, “Carlo?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why your parents brought you to me?”
“Because they say you’re the only one who’ll make me listen—”
My brows lift at that. I never expected him to say that, and despite myself, I’m actually touched.
And, God help me, a little choked up.
“Well, be that the case, you know why you have to atone, don’t you?”
“I guess.”
“That doesn’t sound very sure to me.”
“I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t lie in God’s house.” I purse my lips. “You know very well you meant to. Why would you do it if not?”
“I-I guess.” His voice is small now.
“Are you sorry for what you did?”
“I’m sorry I wasted all that glue,” he grouses. “And I’m sorry I’m here.”
“Well, that’s a start,” I retort, amused, and then, because I have others waiting outside, I give him his penance.
When he heaves a huge sigh, like I made him atone by walking the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, I have to smile again.
And, a little buoyed up, my mood soaring, I see the next two people and manage to forget about the woman and Lorenzo who’s waiting outside.
Until, of course, he enters, stinking of garlic and cheap wine.
Suddenly, she’s there. Right at the forefront of my mind, a better focus than Paulo Lorenzo and the shadow of sin around him.
Is Andrea Jura still out there?
Waiting for... Well, I have no idea what, but is she?
I rub my brow as Lorenzo whispers, “I did it again, Father.”
And just like that, my mood sinks.
Even as I cringe at what he says, at what he means, I know that my time to act is approaching.
Lorenzo just tugged on a tripwire, and he doesn’t even know it.
But he will.
Soon.
Five
Andrea
The church is smaller than I expected. Quaint and a little more comforting than I’m used to.
Sure, it’s old, and the pews make my butt ache after a while, but the way the sun shines through the window, and how the back of the church is tucked in shadow? It comforts the new me. All the stacks of candles are clustered around here, and while they’re electric, they add a soft glow.
My eyes don’t hurt here, and my head doesn’t ache. The scents are ones I’m familiar with, ones that represent childhood, if I’m honest. I used to sing in the choir, even though I hated singing in public—Mom always made me. Good thing I love her even though she can be a pain in my ass.
The scents of incense, and even the beeswax candles on the altar and polish on the pews, all represent a homecoming to me.
And that this is his church?
Well, it’s like a warm embrace.
Having seen him in the flesh?
I know this is meant to be.
He’s beautiful, but hard. Cold. His eyes are like stones, obsidian, where before they were like amber.
That first time I saw him, the picture of him fresh out of Seminary flashing onto the TV? He’d been warm. Open. Hopeful. Like he knew he could make a difference and, so badly, wanted to try.
Now, he’s the exact opposite.
Yet I know how it works. Have been to many churches where the priest didn’t give a shit, and after service, would just wander away and retreat to the confessional or to the back of the chapel where his office was. They didn’t engage with the parish, didn’t give a damn about the community.
Savio cares.
I can feel it, even though when he looked at me, it wasn’t with the link I’d hoped for.
My lip aches from where I’ve been nibbling on it, but the truth is, I’m nervous.