“Give it to someone who needs it.” He shoves the five euros back at me, pushing it into my hands when I don’t take it. I know he’s involved with some shady dealings, but I don’t approve, and would prefer to give him honest money than have him rely on the criminals who take advantage of the homeless. “It’s okay, Father,” he tries to reassure me, but he fails when he lies, his eyes flashing with the mistruth that has him avoiding my gaze a second, “I got enough from another tourist. You give it to someone who needs it. I heard Riccardo lost his tent last night—someone tore it or something.”
Or something.
Violence against the homeless is surprisingly high. Though they deserve charity, they often receive the exact opposite—disdain and hatred.
“Let me at least buy you a coffee,” I argue, knowing there’s no point in trying to convince him to keep the money.
The irony is, these guys are more generous than most priests I know.
I remember one time when I was with Gianni in one of the fast food joints just down the road, getting him some food, and a woman had stopped by a priest asking for help with a coffee.
He told her to wait while he sorted out his food, then, as she hovered, watching on, he took a bite of his burger.
Then never gave her money.
My mind still boggles at the memory.
A priest making a homeless woman watch him eat.
Is it any wonder I lost faith in the Church?
Gianni’s eyes sparkle. “You know I can never refuse a coffee.”
My lips twitch. “The usual?”
He nods, and even though I need to get to Vespers, I head into the small coffee shop and grab him an espresso.
“Father,” the waitress greets. “I have some spare rolls from this morning for you.”
“Thank you, Elisa.” I accept the bag she hands over the counter, as well as the coffee, and tell her, “I kept a book bag back for Adriano.” Along with re-stocking the food bank, I’ve worked on creating a bank of other things that people need—anything from clothes to old kitchen appliances.
Her eyes widen at my words. “You did?” She releases a sigh when I nod. “Thank you. This month is tight—”
I shake my head at her—she’d already told me as much during her confession, expressing her worries about not being able to afford the gear her son needed for school—and chide, “You don’t have to tell me that. I know you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t need it.” I smile at her to lessen her embarrassment, then, knowing the score, whisper, “Thank you for the bread.”
She wriggles her shoulders uneasily—peering behind her in case her boss sees. “They were just going to waste.”
“I know. Thank you.” Before, they’d have gone in the trash, because my predecessor had never thought to ask the local businesses to give us their perfectly comestible waste. Some do it willingly, Sandro Rosseti, Elisa’s boss, makes Scrooge look generous.
When I retreat from the counter, I hand Gianni his coffee and ask, “Want a roll?”
He grins—like usual. And his smile is always infectious. “Please.”
“Are you sure you did well today?” I ask, as I hand him some bread. “You don’t need—”
“I promise, Father. Give it to Riccardo. But thank you.”
Knowing not to press because his pride won’t let him accept the money, I nod. “How’s the head?”
Some bastard had hit him this past week. I didn’t think it was because of his ‘work’ but you never could tell.
“I get some pain every now and then.”
“Tell me if you need Ibuprofen or something.” Without waiting on him to reply, because I know he’ll dismiss me—he doesn’t approve of chemicals—I raise my hand in farewell, and head back to Santa Cecilia.
With the bread in my hand, it’s almost easy to forget what just happened, but I can’t.
I almost expected the police to be waiting on me when I arrive, but they aren’t.
No one is.
The church, though small, has a building behind it, a new annex. I go in there, pass the meager stores of food, and leave the bread in the industrial kitchen where volunteers shout me cheery greetings. The annex, which consists of a kitchen and a large pantry, joins the church to a community hall. It’s new, and I helped with the fundraiser for it.
Heading to my office, I quickly change after I wash up, knowing there’ll be questions if I appear different than usual, and head on out to the chapel.
Vespers is ridiculously quiet, but the evening services usually are. Lara and only a handful of others attend. We go through the motions in the deathly quiet church, and for once, the rigidity of the rites actually calms me down.
I didn’t expect that. But I suppose there’s comfort in repetition.
When Lara hobbles from the church, her chauffeur propping her up, I watch her go, then glance about the pews.
I almost expect her to be there, waiting on me. Except, she isn’t.
Why isn’t she?
And why didn’t she call the cops?
Why aren’t they here? Sirens blaring, flashing fireworks through the stained-glass windows?
The question plagues me as I start to close down the church. I’m supposed to lock the doors, and I do, but it’s always begrudgingly.
What’s the point in locking down a church that’s supposed to be open at all times? The hearth of faith beckoning and welcoming any lost soul in the night? Still, there’s a lot of wealth in the relics, a lot of them are gold, so I understand even if I dislike having to do it.
I lock the doors myself and wander over to the rectory where I live. It’s right beside Santa Cecilia, and the thin, narrow building houses only four rooms—a kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms.
I currently live alone, but visiting priests sometimes lodge with me.
I hate it when they do. I like being alone, prefer the isolation over being with another who may have expectations of me. I hate limiting my behavior, and I prefer the freedom that comes with solitude.
When I finally make it into the rectory, I head straight for the kitchen.
Making myself some tea, I ponder my next move, but even though the tea is supposed to be cathartic, a means of calming me down, the edginess of being denied is there.
Although it’s at war with the surprise of being caught, the part of me who needs to make people pay for their sins has not been nourished tonight.
I close my eyes as the kettle hisses out the warning that it’s boiling. The sharp sound pierces me to the quick, but I let it.
Paulo is getting worse.
I sense it.
He won’t stop. His sobs told me that. His shame and his pity intertwine because he knows he’s weak—that he’ll fall into temptation.
Now, however, my hands are tied.
He’ll be wary of me now. When he wakes up where he did? He’ll question why he was there, why I took him to that alley. If he remembers my presence at all, that is. But he’ll know when he wakes up, won’t he? He’ll know I joined him at Carlucci’s.
I can shove aside the questions with answers that will appease, but will he trust me again?
Doubt spears me, and I regret being caught before I managed to do the deed.
The notion surprises me.
As it stands, I’m not in trouble. It’s her word against mine, but if there’d been a body? Then that would have changed things dramatically.