by Lynne Hinton
I cannot change the outcomes or the movement of will. I cannot create the choices or dismiss the consequences once those choices have been made. And I cannot change what will happen even if I see it coming, even if I try stepping in its way.
And yet, today I do not think of these things, these things I cannot push away or cast aside. Today I cannot carry the burden of sorrow or the weight of grief. For today is a party, a gift of birth to be celebrated, the gift of life to be honored and enjoyed. There is no time or space for the suffering of tomorrow. Today we sing and we eat too much cake. Today we joke and make music and count the blessings and revel in what we do not know.
I watch from a distance, but I am there. I dance right beside them.
Chapter Twelve
You drive that station wagon?” Oris had not seen the priest since he had made his way into Pie Town. The old man was Catholic, but he rarely attended Mass. He and Father Joseph and a few members of the congregation had a falling-out when Oris tried to hang lights on the rectory to decorate it for Christmas. The priest and the Altar Guild had taken them down because they all said it wasn’t respectable for a parsonage to be covered in colored lights. Oris had gotten angry at the rejection of his gift and quit the church, so he wasn’t paying much attention to the arrival of Father George. He did, however, notice the station wagon around town and knew right away that it was the car that almost forced him off the road earlier in the week.
Father George followed Oris’s glance out to the school parking lot where he had parked his car. “Yes,” he replied. “It’s on loan from the diocese,” he explained, sounding proud. He turned back to look at Oris. “It’s not real pretty, but it gets me where I need to go.”
“You get your driver’s license from the diocese too?” he asked.
Father George appeared confused.
“You almost ran me off the road a few days ago. I remember what your car looked like,” Oris said.
“Oh my,” Father George responded, recalling the incident that happened just as he was making his way into Pie Town. “I am so sorry. I had glanced down at a map to figure out where I was and I just wasn’t paying attention. I’m so sorry. You weren’t hurt, were you?”
Oris grunted and waved off the apology and the question. “Don’t matter. Oris Whitsett,” he introduced himself. “Alex’s great-grandfather.” He had walked out to his car to get ice from the trunk.
“Father George Morris,” the priest responded. “Looks like a nice day for a party,” he added, trying to sound cheerful.
“Party’s been started,” Oris barked. “You’re late. But wait a minute before you go out there. Let me give you a bag of ice to carry.” He peered at the priest. “Don’t you guys have comfortable clothes for outside events?”
Father George glanced down at his clergy uniform, recalling what Trina had said to him on the drive into town. He was wearing the same black shirt, black pants, white collar, black belt, and black dress shoes. He did bring a straw hat for the afternoon gathering and was wearing short sleeves. But the young priest didn’t own anything other than a few sets of running clothes, pajamas and a robe, one suit coat (black of course), and the four black shirts and four pairs of black pants he had bought when he finished seminary. He thought priests, and especially the new ones, needed to stay in the appropriate attire at every community event. He was hot, but he liked wearing the uniform. “I’ll be fine,” he responded.
Oris opened the trunk and turned to the priest. “Take a look at that,” he said, pointing to the back of the car. “Have you ever seen a trunk that big?” he asked. Then he reached inside a cooler and pulled out two bags of ice. He pitched one to the priest, who stumbled but was able to hold on to it. Oris pulled down the trunk hood and winked at Father George. “Nice catch.”
Father George managed a smile, appearing surprised that he had caught the ice. “It’s a big trunk,” he agreed.
“Holds every suitcase I’ve got plus a couple bushels of Hatch green chile.”
The priest nodded. “So, are you expecting a lot of people?” he asked as the two moved away from the car. He had seen a number of cars on the street and in the parking lot, but he figured they belonged to people using the ball fields and picnic tables behind the elementary school. He wasn’t sure how many people would be at an eleven-year-old boy’s birthday party in the middle of the afternoon on a Saturday in the middle of summer, but he didn’t expect very many. Since he knew he had Mass at five P.M., he figured he would just say a blessing over the meal and then slip out.
As soon as he walked around the corner he realized there were more than just a few family members at this event. Behind the school it looked as if the entire town was present. There were at least a hundred people sitting around tables and under trees, even a big group playing a game of softball. Father George assumed that a lot of people knew Alex and his family, but he had no idea that the boy’s birthday was an event the entire town celebrated.
“It’s everybody,” Father George said, sounding surprised as he stopped to look at the crowd.
“Yep,” Oris responded. “Somebody should have told you to cancel Mass tonight,” he commented. “Or maybe you’d prefer to do it here? There’s enough of us Catholics to be able to follow you from the prayer book. Probably take up a better collection.” He kept walking toward the gathering.
Father George suddenly realized that in stopping to glance around he had fallen behind the older man, and he hurried to catch up. “Should I have brought something?” he asked, still cradling the bag of ice.
“Nope, you’re a guest the first year. Next year you’ll have to make the stew,” Oris teased him.
The two of them arrived at the long picnic shelter just as everyone was running out to the ball field. “Alex is up!” Someone shouted.
“Well, I can’t miss that!” Oris yelled. He threw the bag of ice on top of a cooler and hurried out to the field with everyone else.
Father George stood alone at a picnic table, still holding the bag of ice. He turned to watch what everyone else was running to see. Alex was sitting at home base, in his wheelchair, holding a bat, awaiting a pitch. The priest glanced around and noticed that he was completely alone. He opened the cooler, put the bag of ice inside, and walked to the edge of the shelter just as Alex took his first swing. An older man was pitching slowly to him. It looked like the sheriff, his grandfather, the one George had met when he met Alex.
Everyone seemed to be cheering for the boy. There was a second pitch, and Alex swung at that one too. More cheers of encouragement erupted. The ball was returned to the pitcher, and he wound up and threw the ball again. This time Alex connected and the ball went over second base, landing just short of center field. Alex started moving down that first base line, his chair in high gear. He ran over the corner of the bag and rounded to second. The teenager playing in center field threw the ball over the head of the pitcher, and Alex wheeled on to third. Everyone was cheering for him to keep going. He was heading to home base when the catcher, a girl who looked to be about twelve or thirteen, retrieved the ball and ran to home to tag him out. When she saw Alex coming in her direction, the wheelchair barreling at high speed, she dropped the ball to her side and watched as Alex made it to home base and was called by the volunteer umpire, Fred, the owner of the diner, loud enough for everyone to hear, “Safe!”
Father George smiled as he watched everyone run to Alex. The boy had hit a home run.
“Kinda reminds me of how I used to think about heaven.” A voice spoke from behind the priest.
Father George turned around. Trina was standing there. She was wearing a different pair of shorts and a different tight T-shirt, but she looked about the same as the day they met. “You just get here?” he asked, feeling his face reddening. She had some hold over him.
“I had to walk,” she replied. “Couldn’t find a priest in a station wagon anywhere,” she added.
He nodded, turned to watch the crowd still congratulating Alex, then b
ack again to Trina. “What do you mean it’s how you used to think of heaven?” he asked.
She headed over to stand next to him. “All those people out there doing something as simple and easy as playing a game of ball. Kids, old people, all of them wanting the same thing at exactly the same time. All their minds together like that, wanting something pure and wonderful, like seeing a little boy hit a ball and be the hero.” She shrugged. “Just seems like what heaven ought to be.”
Father George looked over at the first person he had met in Pie Town. He felt connected to her in some troublesome way. She reminded him of the things he was trying to forget.
“What about you, Father George?” she asked.
“What about me?” he asked, surprised by the question, worried about what she was asking.
“What do you think heaven will look like?” She had jumped up and was sitting on the picnic table.
“Oh,” he replied, and then considered the question. “Pearly gates, streets of gold.” He paused. “I haven’t really thought much about it, since I spend most of my time just trying to make sure I get there.” He turned to Trina.
“Well, it seems to me like you want to make sure it’s a place you want to go before you waste your life trying to earn a trip inside.” She pulled her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees.
The priest turned away from the young woman sitting on the table and back to watch the group on the softball field. Someone else was up to bat, and a few people were heading back to the tables.
“Look, a feather,” she announced, jumping down from the table and picking up a small white feather. “My grandfather used to tell me that when you found a feather it meant an angel had passed by.” She held it in her hand, sliding it through her fingers, remembering her mother’s father, his kindness, the one bright spot in her otherwise dim childhood. “You believe in angels?” she asked as she stuck the feather behind her ear.
Father George glanced down. “I believe in the saints,” he answered. “The apostles, Peter, Paul, James, the mother of our Lord, Mary, of course. And I do believe the scriptures make reference to a number of angels who assist our Heavenly Father, Michael and Gabriel being the most familiar.”
“I’m not talking about those big scary ones from the Bible who came down in their long white robes, making some grand announcement. I’m talking about now. Don’t you have a guardian angel?” Trina asked.
Father George cleared his throat. He placed his arms across his waist and then dropped them by his side. He cleared his throat again.
“It’s not a test, George,” Trina said, noticing his discomfort. “I just figured with you being a priest and all, you’d have your own by now.” She sat back down on the table.
“I have a guardian angel,” she explained. “I call her Miss Teresa.”
“Like Saint Therese, the Carmelite,” the priest acknowledged.
“Who?” Trina asked.
“Saint Therese, the Little Flower,” he replied. “She believed that she was like a flower with a mission of bringing glory to God. She was known for her great spirituality. I studied her during a retreat I took in seminary. She brings many believers a sense of peace and serenity.”
Trina shook her head. “No, I named her Teresa because that was the name of my best friend’s mother when I was a little girl. Miss Teresa Lawson. I called her Miss Teresa. And she was as close to an angel as anybody I ever met.”
“And your Miss Teresa died when you were a child?” the priest asked, trying to sound concerned. “So she became an angel?”
Trina glanced up at the priest. “I don’t think she died,” she answered. “She just moved away.” She looked over at the coolers. “Do you think it would be all right if I got a drink?” she asked. She jumped down and walked over to one of the coolers and opened it. “You want a soda?”
Father George turned in her direction. “Thank you, yes,” he replied.
Trina reached in and got two sodas. She threw one to the priest, who was not prepared to catch it, and immediately it fell to the ground. “Looks like you could use a bit of Alex’s heaven too,” she said, smiling. “You were right when you told Alex about your athletic abilities. You’re not much of a ballplayer, huh?” she asked.
Father George bent down and picked up the can that had landed near his feet. As he did so, he noticed another feather and picked it up. “Looks like there were two angels here today,” he noted, holding the feather out to Trina.
She reached for it as she opened her drink. “Teresa must have brought along a friend,” she said. She stuck it behind the other ear. “Maybe yours finally showed up,” she added.
“Maybe,” he replied, not sounding very convinced. He opened his can, which immediately spewed its contents all over his clothes.
Trina hurried over with a handful of napkins and was wiping them across his shirt, trying to help clean up the mess, just as the crowd of people were making their way back to the tables.
“Well, you two just seem to show up everywhere together.” It was Bernie, the rancher who had met the priest and the young woman in the diner parking lot when they came into town. He was leading the group from the field back to the tables under the picnic shelter.
“I know,” Trina responded. “It’s like we just can’t stand being apart.”
Father George pulled away from the girl, yanking the napkins from her. Trina seemed surprised at such a sharp response. There was an awkward pause in the conversation.
“Well, I guess that’s my cue to leave. I’ll go down to the field,” she commented and backed away. It was clear that the priest didn’t want her around.
“Alex just hit a home run,” the rancher commented, aware of the awkwardness between the two newcomers.
“I know. I saw it from here,” Trina said. “Pretty sweet.” She turned and headed to the field, throwing her hand up in the air to wave good-bye.
The two men watched as she stopped and spoke to the few others heading back to the tables. It looked as if introductions were being made.
“I reckon she’s a mess of trouble,” Bernie commented. “A girl like that.” Father George didn’t respond. “You know anything about her?” Bernie asked.
Father George shook his head. “She said she came here because she liked the name of the town,” he replied. “I picked her up on Highway 60,” he explained, glad for the chance to tell somebody how they met, glad for the opportunity to clear up any ideas about their association. “She was hitchhiking,” he added, wanting to make sure the old man heard the entire truth and was able to make a fair judgment.
Bernie walked over to the cooler and took out a soda. “Crazy kids.” He opened the can. “What kind of girl hitchhikes in today’s world?”
Father George shook his head. “I wouldn’t have an answer for that,” he replied. “It’s not something I know anything about.”
Bernie studied the young priest. “Yeah, I reckon that’s probably the truth.”
Blushing without completely knowing why, Father George took the wad of wet napkins and threw them in the trash can at the edge of the shelter.
“Well, I just hope she ain’t got trouble coming with her or after her.” Bernie sat back down at a table.
Father George hadn’t considered that Trina might have friends who would join her.
“We don’t need no more drugs being peddled through here. We had enough of that with the sheriff’s daughter and her crew. Thank God they all left or got locked up.” He was watching the group of people coming in his direction.
Father George turned to study the rancher. The news of drugs in his parish, in this sleepy little town, surprised him, especially in reference to the sheriff’s family. He cleared his throat, not knowing what to say. “It seems like everybody from town is here at the party,” he finally said, changing the subject.
“Yep, it’s about the only thing this town can agree on, celebrating Alex, having his birthday party out here. I figure you’ll learn about our disagreeing ways
before long,” Bernie commented with a grin. “We ain’t an easy town to motivate or resuscitate.”
George was about to ask for an explanation, but before he could ask the question the others had made their way into the picnic shelter.
“Father George,” called out one of the women, the first one to enter the shelter. She was older, thick around the waist, and hunched over. She pulled herself up to make the introduction. “Good to see you.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Fedora Snow,” she announced. “I’m in charge of the Altar Guild,” she added. “I’m sure you’ve seen my name on the programs. I had planned to drive out to the parish to introduce myself earlier this week when I had heard you arrived, but I figured you needed a few days to get settled. I expect I’ll have a chance to come by in the next few days to fill you in on how our Guild works here in Pie Town.”
Father George smiled and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Snow.”
“It’s Miss Snow.” Oris had made his way back to the shelter too. “She’s never married, although I suspect she’s spied enough on other folks’ marriages to know what she’s missing.” He pinched her on the behind as he walked past the two of them, making his way to the coolers.
“Oris Whitsett!” Fedora yelled out, falling into the priest. “You are a sorry son of a bitch!” She suddenly realized what she had said, and in what company, and she immediately turned a bright shade of red. “I’m so sorry,” she sputtered. “I, he, I …” She struggled with her words. She backed away from Father George.
“Oh, hush up, Fedora,” Oris called out. “You might as well let the good father know who he’s dealing with. No need trying to act like the saint everybody here knows you ain’t.” He laughed a bit and took a soda from the cooler. He sat down at one of the tables.