“Hm. Well, I guess that makes me the asshole,” I say, flashing my pearly whites. Celia whisks away the dirty bowls to the kitchenette without another word.
“I’m also glad you came in again because I wanted to apologize,” the priest continues. “I didn’t mean to scare you the other day.”
I stare him straight in the face. “Oh, I wasn’t scared.”
Aidan glances over to where Marco is sitting, and Marco actually lifts a hand in greeting. Traitor!
“So, Priest Boy,” I say loudly, “I’d be happy to help you fold that boring newsletter again or whatever. Celia said she wants to wash everything by hand and she doesn’t trust me to dry up without breaking shit.”
Aidan raises his eyebrows, but nods. “That would be very helpful. Would Marco like to join us?”
Since when are this guy and my bodyguard on first name terms?
“Marco can dry for Celia,” I say, because apparently I haven’t learned my lesson from last time I made Marco sit and wait.
But I’ll be damned if I let some priest think I’m scared of him.
* * *
Scared,no.
Bored as fuck, that’s a different story.
We’ve been sitting and folding in near silence for about twenty minutes before I finally give in. “How come you know Marco?” I ask abruptly, when I can’t stand the silence a second longer.
Aidan leans over to take another pile of newsletters. This week there are no baking competitions, but the Ladies’ Committee had a lovely time cooking meatloaf with the local kids. Good thing nothing bad happened this afternoon, or they’d have to scrap the platitudes and redo the whole newsletter.
“Marco attends Our Lady of Mercy every Sunday.”
“Huh.” Sothat’swhy I never see him Sunday mornings.
“I meant what I said out there, by the way.” I’m not sure what he’s talking about, so I just say nothing and wait for him to continue. “About your father. I was sorry to hear of his passing. I’d like to pray for his soul in my evening prayers, if you don’t object.”
I snort. “He could use all the prayers he can get. My Pops wasn’t a good man, Father. I don’t know how much praying it would take to get him out of the fiery lake. More than you have breath for, I’m guessing.”
“Still, I’d like to. If you don’t object.”
“Free country.” I fold on, my mind wandering back to the wake. But I don’t want to think about Pops right now. Something weird is welling up in me, and I’m worried it might be tears. “Those kids enjoyed the cooking today.”
Aidan nods, stacking his now-folded pile together neatly. “Celia’s very good with them. And it allows their mothers to have some time alone. I think that’s important for their mental health. It’s something we’ll have to help Celia with, when the baby comes. She seems the type to really throw herself into motherhood.”
“She’s looking forward to it,” I say neutrally. Celia’s fake pregnancy is just another thing I don’t want to think about right now. “How come it’s only once a month, the cooking?”
“We do our best to run a number of programs, but our budget is tight. Even here in Manhattan, people aren’t as generous as they once were. Church attendance is way down.”
“Yeah, yeah. Listen, if the budget’s so tight, why not appeal for donations?”
“We have,” he says simply. “But these small local programs aren’t as popular as the bigger national or international causes, even though they have direct and immediate impacts here.”
I think about my Mom, and about sharing with thedisadvantaged. About the big chunk of change I have coming my way from Pops that I neither need nor want. “Shit,I’lldonate,” I say. “How about that? As long as it all goes direct to the programs and not lining the pockets of priests.”
Aidan’s face falls, and he looks down at the newsletter rather than at me. “That’s very generous, Finch,” he says quietly, “but we couldn’t possibly accept.”
Always looking to discriminate, the Catholic Church. “Just because I’m gay, huh? That’s some straight up bullshit right there—”
“No, of course not,” he says, looking even more distraught.
“Then what is it? Why isn’t my money good enough?”
