was about to do, and Paulo is only alive because she stopped me.
The second I make it across the river, I find myself braking to a halt. A tourist screeches, “Whoa!” at me, like he thinks I’m going to crash into him, but I’m always aware of my surroundings. Always.
Except where she’s concerned.
I didn’t hear her.
Didn’t feel her.
The hair on the back of my neck didn’t stand on edge at her presence, making me aware she was in the alley with me.
My throat tightens at what that might mean. Hell, I don’t even know.
I shoot them an apologetic, “Sorry,” before swerving around the irate tourist, who’s glowering at me like I tried to do to him what I was about to do to Paulo, and start to head for my church.
I have service to attend. But she saw me there, she knows me. She’ll know where I’ll be.
Will the police come for me?
There’s no proof.
There never is.
She saw me, but it’s my word against hers, isn’t it?
She just had brain surgery. Who are the cops going to believe? Me? A priest? Or a...
I feel guilty even thinking it.
Just because she was sick doesn’t mean she’s addled, or that her wits aren’t there.
I scrub a hand over my face, somehow finding myself in the middle of a crowd and feeling utterly isolated.
But then, there’s no real difference, I suppose. Aren’t I always alone?
No one sees the real me.
No one wants to.
And even as the melancholic thought crosses my mind, I recognize how things were different when she looked at me after this afternoon’s service.
Somehow, she didn’t see me as a priest.
She saw me as a man.
God, it’s been such a long time since that happened.
I pass one of the smaller stores where a homeless guy lives—his name is Gianni. He refuses to wear shoes, has feet blacker than soot, stinks worse than a sewer, but his smile?
Genuine.
Honest.
I always slip him five euros whenever I see him, and he’s there, touting for coffee.
It’s frigid in the shadows, and I’m not even sure why he refuses the boots I offer him, but even though I’m in the middle of a crisis, I hover by his side.
“Gianni, come to the church. I have another pair of boots for you.”
He grins at me, and his teeth are somehow perfect. In stark contrast to the mouth of the wealthy parishioner, Lara.
Isn’t fate strange sometimes?
“My feet are fine, Father.”
I scowl down at them. “How they’re still attached to your legs, I don’t know.”
He winks. “Never had a Father been so concerned about my feet before.”
“That’s me, I have a fetish,” I tell him dryly, making him cackle.
The homeless around here aren’t used to me or my humor. They laugh, but they’re always taken aback, and I can’t blame them.
The last Father needs shooting for the state he’d left the soup kitchen in. It was critically underfunded, and the food bank was just as sparse. I’ve spent most of the past twelve months seeking ways to improve both, but it’s hard going.
I might be at the center of the Catholic world, but somehow, these people are more forgotten than most, and I’m only one person. I can only do so much.
Giving Gianni five euros, I tell him, “You’d better come by later. That coat is threadbare.”
“I don’t feel the cold, Father. I told you.”
I’m not sure how he doesn’t, but he’s always perpetually cheerful, so I figure he isn’t lying. I’m miserable when I’m cold. Could he be so cheery if he wasn’t telling me the truth?
“If you say so,” I say dubiously.
“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