Hot Under His Collar - Andie J. Christopher Page 0,3

the fate of all the parish’s programs in a language of chicken-scratched numbers that he would never be able to decipher if something—God forbid—happened to Sister Cortona. “I’m afraid not, Father.”

Then she did the thing where she somehow flattened and pursed her lips at the same time, and he knew that he would have to double up on his heartburn meds that night or be breathing into a paper bag by the end of the meeting.

He’d expected to feel like he was in the world and not of the world when he’d become the pastor of St. Bartholomew’s a few years ago. He’d been almost fresh out of seminary, but the Church was so starved for priests—see the vow of celibacy—that he’d gotten his own parish much sooner than he would have in decades past.

And he was lucky. He was in his neighborhood and could see his family whenever he wanted. Being close to his dad and brother eased just a bit of the loneliness that he could never admit to anyone. The loneliness that he felt whenever he wasn’t saying Mass or ministering to someone.

The administrivia and the feeling that he was never quite a part of real life were a complete drag, though. And somehow, the administrivia made his ever-present loneliness worse.

As Sister Cortona started to speak, he forced himself outside his head and back into the gloomy office. “The budget shortfall will force us to shut down the pre-K program—”

If anything could yank his brain back from his maudlin thoughts about how he should be content but wasn’t, it was hearing that they would have to shut down the pre-K program.

He’d taken ownership—even the Catholic Church employed consultants who said things like “taking ownership”—of creating the program for low-income children when he’d started at St. Bartholomew’s. It was open to all the neighborhood kids, regardless of whether they were members of the parish, with tuition on a sliding scale. And it had been a resounding success. Kids who had spent two years with them were reading earlier and seeing higher math test scores in the first and second grades. The program had done more to burnish the Church’s reputation locally and bring parishioners back to services than anything the diocese had done over the past few years.

Decades of scandalous, harmful, traumatizing behavior by priests had thinned out the ranks of the faithful and those who answered the call to minister. Patrick believed that initiatives like the pre-K program, things that actually helped people in the community, could turn the ship around. The fact that people in the neighborhood surrounding St. Bart’s now knew a priest who wasn’t a total creep was actually getting butts in pews. The pre-K program was a more important part of his ministry than saying Mass.

Losing it would be devastating, and he couldn’t let it stand. “How much do we need?”

“We’re twenty-five thousand dollars short when it comes to paying for the teacher’s salary and the necessary supplies.”

“Shit,” he said quietly.

“Language, Father.” Sister Cortona gave him the same look that Sister Antoninus used to give him and his best friend, Jack, when they threw spitballs during class. It was withering.

“We can’t lose this program.” He was adamant about that. He would do whatever it took to keep the pre-K kids learning. He was so agitated that he stood up and started pacing. “There has to be something that we can do.”

“We could start charging a larger fee.” When Patrick threw her a look that he hoped was just a little bit as withering as hers about his language, she added, “Just a small amount of a larger fee.”

“None of the kids could afford it.” Well, virtually none. All the public schools in the neighborhood were Title I schools—low income. The families that sent their kids to the pre-K program needed to save their money for food. If St. Bart’s started charging higher tuition, their enrollment would drop almost immediately. “Could we hit up the Dioceses for more money?”

That elicited a snort from the good sister. “You could try, but the archbishop isn’t as susceptible to those pretty fuckin’ green eyes as the silver hair brigade at daily Mass is.”

Patrick ran his hand through his hair, which also elicited a snort from Sister Cortona. He didn’t think she actually thought that he was a useless pretty boy, but she liked to deploy any weapons at her disposal to keep him in line. Making derisive noises about his good looks helped her do that. In