Fiji folded her dish towel and hung it from its rack by the sink. On a whim, she walked into the front of her house. The large front room functioned as her shop and as the meeting place for the women’s group she led on Thursday nights. She crossed directly to the west window. Next door, the Reverend Emilio Sheehan’s chapel sat in pristine silence. She knew the Rev was there, even though it was later than he usually stayed, because the light inside was on.
While she watched, a tall man came out of the chapel. He was followed by a small, thin man wearing a big hat; this was the Rev, and he was holding the hand of a child. Fiji could not tell if the child was a boy or a girl, only that it was unhappy.
Mr. Snuggly was suddenly at her feet. “Outside,” he said urgently, and she picked him up and opened the front door. She stepped out onto her front porch. The lights at the intersection of the Davy road and Witch Light Road cast a glow over the scene.
Fiji had never seen the tall man before. He was beautifully put together: broad shoulders, narrow waist, tight ass, long legs. She was afraid her mouth would water. He was quite bald; she wondered if he was truly hairless or if he shaved his skull. As she watched, the tall man knelt, put his arms around the child, and kissed it, holding it close for a long moment.
A leave-taking, she thought, and felt sad. She could hear the child crying. The tall man, who’d stood to walk away, paused for a moment. She could almost feel his misery, his hesitation, his misgivings, in the droop of his massive shoulders.
He seemed to sense her presence, or perhaps he smelled her. He turned to look at her as she stood on her porch, holding the cat in her arms, the gusty wind blowing over her like a hair dryer on Warm. His eyes scanned the wooden sign in the front yard, which read THE INQUIRING MIND. She felt an impulse to call to him, to say, “I’ll help!” without knowing exactly what help she could provide. But Fiji had no doubt he sensed her benevolence, because he nodded at her. Then he stiffened himself and left, climbing into a compact rental car.
Fiji thought of walking over to the Rev and the crying child. She was as close to a friend as the Rev had, as far as she knew. But she hesitated. The child was already dealing with one stranger. Would another be any help? She shook her head. The Rev would ask for her assistance if he needed it. Where the Rev was concerned, she was very, very careful. She might not know all his secrets—she didn’t want to—but she knew it was wise to use the greatest restraint where he was concerned.
“I’m sleepy,” complained Mr. Snuggly, and she retreated inside her house.
From the window, she watched the Rev and the child walk out of sight, going west, presumably heading to the Rev’s cottage. Fiji couldn’t help but feel sad at the thought of a child in the sparsely furnished living room, which was the farthest she’d ever penetrated into the Rev’s domain.
She was left to wonder why the Rev had been chosen by the stranger as the caretaker of the child. She knew the Rev had not ever had a child of his own; he had told her that. The postman almost never stopped in front of his house, and Fiji could not remember ever seeing visitors there. At the chapel, yes; two or three times a month, people arranged for the interment of some beloved pet in the large fenced area behind the chapel, and every year four or five couples got married in the chapel proper. Occasionally, someone would stop in front and simply go inside to pray. But that was the extent of the Rev’s communication with anyone in the outside world, as far as Fiji knew.
Though Fiji had had some experience as a babysitter while she was in her teens, it had been years since she had dealt with children of any age. But she realized now she would have to step forward.
She fell asleep that night with Mr. Snuggly curled against her, thinking of Bobo, thinking of adding green onions to the roast the next time she cooked one, thinking of the child.