Faith

“For now.” Her eyes darted around the room. They were arresting eyes, pale gray, startled and startling, ringed with black liner. Her left foot tapped briskly in its high-heeled sandal. “Hey, have you seen a kid running around?”

“He’s out there.” Art put out his cigarette and nodded toward the courtyard, now a riot of seagulls. The boy stood with his back to the rectory wall.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Excuse me, Father.” Fran rushed out of the room and down the hallway, her tread heavy on the wood floor.

“What’s he doing, feeding the gulls?” Kath went to the window. “Jesus, will you look? They’re everywhere.” She let out a sharp laugh. “He has a thing for birds.”

They stood watching as Fran appeared in the courtyard. “Honey, don’t feed them! They’re dirty birds.” She stooped and knelt stiffly. “Help your mimi pick up these chips.”

“Fran, don’t worry about it,” Art called out the window. “Joe can clean up later.”

“Thanks, Father, but he needs to learn. He can’t be making a mess at other people’s houses. Come on, Aidan.”

It was an awkward moment, Art and Kath standing at the window, watching the little boy and his grandmother, with her two knees that needed replacing, gathering Ruffles from the parish lawn.

“Fran, be careful,” Art called.

“Don’t worry about her. She lives for this stuff.” Kath turned her back to the window. “She’s driving me crazy, I swear to God. Following me around the house with a broom.”

“How old is your son?” Art asked.

“Seven. Eight in August.”

“Is he enrolled in school yet?”

Kath shrugged. “It’s almost summer. What’s the point?”