boys were an elite group, handpicked and given special rewards. Rewards like the upcoming camping trip.
Timmy knocked on the ornate door to the church vestibule. When no one answered, he opened it slowly and peeked in before entering. He found a cassock in his size among those hanging in the closet, and he ripped it from the hanger, trying to make up for lost time. He threw his jacket to a chair across the room, then jumped, startled by the priest kneeling quietly next to the chair. His rod-straight back was to Timmy, but he recognized Father Keller’s dark hair curling over his collar. His thin frame towered over the chair, though he was on his knees. Despite Timmy’s jacket almost hitting him, the priest remained still and quiet.
Timmy stared, holding his breath, waiting for the priest to flinch, to move, to breathe. Finally, his elbow lifted to make the sign of the cross. He stood without effort and turned to Timmy, taking the jacket and draping it carefully over the chair’s arm.
“Does your mom know you throw around your Sunday clothes?” He smiled with white, even teeth and bright blue eyes.
“Sorry, Father. I didn’t see you when I came in. I was afraid I was late.”
“No problem. We have plenty of time.” He tousled Timmy’s hair, his hand lingering on his head. It was something Timmy’s dad used to do.
At first, Timmy had been uncomfortable when Father Keller touched him. Now, instead of tensing up, he found himself feeling safe. Though he couldn’t admit it out loud, he liked Father Keller way better than he liked his dad. Father Keller never yelled; instead, his voice was soft and soothing, low and powerful. His large hands patted and caressed—never hit. When Father Keller talked to him, Timmy felt as if he was the most important person in Father Keller’s life. He made Timmy feel special, and in return, Timmy wanted to please him, though he still messed up some of the mass stuff. Last Sunday, Timmy brought the water to the altar but forgot the wine. Father Keller had just smiled, whispered to him and waited patiently. No one else even suspected his mistake.
No, Father Keller was nothing like his dad, who had spent most of his time at work, even when the three of them had been a family. Father Keller seemed like a best friend instead of a priest. Sometimes on Saturdays, he played football with the boys down at the park, allowing himself to be tackled and getting just as muddy as the rest of them. At camp, he told gory ghost stories—the kind parents forbid. Sometimes after mass, Father Keller traded baseball cards. He had some of the best ones, really old ones like Jackie Robinson and Joe DiMaggio. No, Father Keller was too cool to be like his dad.
Timmy finished and waited for Father Keller to put on the last of his garments. The priest checked his image in the floor-length mirror, then turned to Timmy.
“Ready?”
“Yes, Father,” he said and followed the priest through the small hallway to the altar.
Timmy couldn’t help smiling at the bright white Nikes peeking out from under the priest’s long, black cassock.
CHAPTER 10
P latte City reminded Maggie of the fictional Mayberry R.F.D. She’d never understood the appeal of small towns. Quaint and friendly usually meant boring and nosy. Assignments in small towns made her cranky and edgy. She hated the presumed intimacy that found its way into “how are you?” and “good morning.” Immediately, she missed the irritating but familiar sounds of honking taxis and six-lane traffic. Worse yet was settling for Chinese takeout from places called Big Fred’s and watered-down cappuccino from convenience-store vending machines.
She had to admit, though, the drive from Omaha had been a scenic one. The foliage along the Platte River put on a show of spectacular colors: bright oranges and flaming reds mixed with green and gold. The overpowering scent of evergreens and impending rain filled the air with an annoyingly pleasant aroma. She
Timmy knocked on the ornate door to the church vestibule. When no one answered, he opened it slowly and peeked in before entering. He found a cassock in his size among those hanging in the closet, and he ripped it from the hanger, trying to make up for lost time. He threw his jacket to a chair across the room, then jumped, startled by the priest kneeling quietly next to the chair. His rod-straight back was to Timmy, but he recognized Father Keller’s dark hair curling over his collar. His thin frame towered over the chair, though he was on his knees. Despite Timmy’s jacket almost hitting him, the priest remained still and quiet.
Timmy stared, holding his breath, waiting for the priest to flinch, to move, to breathe. Finally, his elbow lifted to make the sign of the cross. He stood without effort and turned to Timmy, taking the jacket and draping it carefully over the chair’s arm.
“Does your mom know you throw around your Sunday clothes?” He smiled with white, even teeth and bright blue eyes.
“Sorry, Father. I didn’t see you when I came in. I was afraid I was late.”
“No problem. We have plenty of time.” He tousled Timmy’s hair, his hand lingering on his head. It was something Timmy’s dad used to do.
At first, Timmy had been uncomfortable when Father Keller touched him. Now, instead of tensing up, he found himself feeling safe. Though he couldn’t admit it out loud, he liked Father Keller way better than he liked his dad. Father Keller never yelled; instead, his voice was soft and soothing, low and powerful. His large hands patted and caressed—never hit. When Father Keller talked to him, Timmy felt as if he was the most important person in Father Keller’s life. He made Timmy feel special, and in return, Timmy wanted to please him, though he still messed up some of the mass stuff. Last Sunday, Timmy brought the water to the altar but forgot the wine. Father Keller had just smiled, whispered to him and waited patiently. No one else even suspected his mistake.
No, Father Keller was nothing like his dad, who had spent most of his time at work, even when the three of them had been a family. Father Keller seemed like a best friend instead of a priest. Sometimes on Saturdays, he played football with the boys down at the park, allowing himself to be tackled and getting just as muddy as the rest of them. At camp, he told gory ghost stories—the kind parents forbid. Sometimes after mass, Father Keller traded baseball cards. He had some of the best ones, really old ones like Jackie Robinson and Joe DiMaggio. No, Father Keller was too cool to be like his dad.
Timmy finished and waited for Father Keller to put on the last of his garments. The priest checked his image in the floor-length mirror, then turned to Timmy.
“Ready?”
“Yes, Father,” he said and followed the priest through the small hallway to the altar.
Timmy couldn’t help smiling at the bright white Nikes peeking out from under the priest’s long, black cassock.
CHAPTER 10
P latte City reminded Maggie of the fictional Mayberry R.F.D. She’d never understood the appeal of small towns. Quaint and friendly usually meant boring and nosy. Assignments in small towns made her cranky and edgy. She hated the presumed intimacy that found its way into “how are you?” and “good morning.” Immediately, she missed the irritating but familiar sounds of honking taxis and six-lane traffic. Worse yet was settling for Chinese takeout from places called Big Fred’s and watered-down cappuccino from convenience-store vending machines.
She had to admit, though, the drive from Omaha had been a scenic one. The foliage along the Platte River put on a show of spectacular colors: bright oranges and flaming reds mixed with green and gold. The overpowering scent of evergreens and impending rain filled the air with an annoyingly pleasant aroma. She
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