the bag lady at large in the friary. He could hear Brother Herman giving her an impromptu tour and ushering her back down the corridor.
“Interesting place,” she was saying as he guided her back to the front door, now holding her bag of food. “Like those stained glass windows—Carry on.”
At last the front door shut behind their visitor, and all the novices breathed a sigh of relief. Father Bernard turned the page of his book with a wry smile.
“According to the saints, the vow of poverty involves the surrender of our time,” he said, a faint smile on his face. “St. Thérèse of Lisieux in particular believed ‘a willingness to be interrupted’ was necessary to the devout soul.”
“Could you come up with any examples?” Brother Leon asked innocently, and Matt threw a pencil at him while the others chuckled.
III
Less than a month after being released from prison, circumstances had found Arthur standing on the streets of Manhattan at midnight, holding all his belongings in a pillowcase. He was still dealing with the realization that he and Ben had been disowned and thrown out of their father’s house, and that there was no other home for them to go to. His brother, who had missed the entire scene with Dad, was shivering and coughing, having been woken out of a sound sleep to be informed that he was suddenly homeless.
“So, where are we going to go, since you’ve burned all our proverbial bridges?” he had asked, a bit peevishly. It was starting to snow.
“Let’s go to St. Lawrence,” Arthur had said at last.
“Father Raymond is dead,” Ben had said flatly. “That new priest is never going to let us in.”
“He doesn’t have to know we’re there,” Arthur had said, and made himself walk, to push aside the feeling of desolation. “Come on.”
Since they hadn’t had any money and weren’t yet streetwise enough to do otherwise, they had walked from upper Manhattan to the South Bronx. It took them hours in the cold wind and snow. When they reached St. Lawrence, Arthur had let himself in with the keys Father Raymond had once entrusted to him, and the two brothers had huddled in a corner of the vestibule.
“We have to get out before anyone comes—or they’ll know we have keys—” his younger brother had mumbled before falling asleep. Simply glad to be out of the wind, Arthur slept.
They awoke early and quietly slipped out of the church onto the streets. A few moments later, a vision from their past life appeared in the form of their buddy Stephen Foster getting off of the subway, backpack on his shoulders, on his way to school. His dark brown face lit up when he saw them. “Hey Arthur! You got out, man! What gives?”
There wasn’t much they wanted to say, but Stephen guessed more than they told him, because after he had heard their answers, he said, “You come home with me tonight. My mom won’t mind.”
And that was how the brothers first met Mrs. Foster.
* * *
So it was that when Bear found himself in trouble again, he had no problem with calling Stephen’s mother. The heavyset black woman had accepted the boys as two more sons, and became a sturdy ally. He knew that she, shrewd but solidly certain of his character, would help him without doubting him. And she wouldn’t ask any pointed questions until they were in private.
“My, you boys have a way of getting yourselves into trouble,” was her understated reaction when he had called her from the jail last night and explained their situation. “I’ll be right over to get the keys and go over to the Briers’ house for you. Don’t you fret, Arthur. God’ll take care of your girl. You’ll see.”
The next morning, as soon as they were let out of their cells, Bear found the phones that the prisoners were allowed to use, and called Mrs. Foster back.
“What did you find?” he asked her, after they had exchanged greetings.
She paused. “Blanche is not there,” she stated. “I don’t think she’s been there since
“Interesting place,” she was saying as he guided her back to the front door, now holding her bag of food. “Like those stained glass windows—Carry on.”
At last the front door shut behind their visitor, and all the novices breathed a sigh of relief. Father Bernard turned the page of his book with a wry smile.
“According to the saints, the vow of poverty involves the surrender of our time,” he said, a faint smile on his face. “St. Thérèse of Lisieux in particular believed ‘a willingness to be interrupted’ was necessary to the devout soul.”
“Could you come up with any examples?” Brother Leon asked innocently, and Matt threw a pencil at him while the others chuckled.
III
Less than a month after being released from prison, circumstances had found Arthur standing on the streets of Manhattan at midnight, holding all his belongings in a pillowcase. He was still dealing with the realization that he and Ben had been disowned and thrown out of their father’s house, and that there was no other home for them to go to. His brother, who had missed the entire scene with Dad, was shivering and coughing, having been woken out of a sound sleep to be informed that he was suddenly homeless.
“So, where are we going to go, since you’ve burned all our proverbial bridges?” he had asked, a bit peevishly. It was starting to snow.
“Let’s go to St. Lawrence,” Arthur had said at last.
“Father Raymond is dead,” Ben had said flatly. “That new priest is never going to let us in.”
“He doesn’t have to know we’re there,” Arthur had said, and made himself walk, to push aside the feeling of desolation. “Come on.”
Since they hadn’t had any money and weren’t yet streetwise enough to do otherwise, they had walked from upper Manhattan to the South Bronx. It took them hours in the cold wind and snow. When they reached St. Lawrence, Arthur had let himself in with the keys Father Raymond had once entrusted to him, and the two brothers had huddled in a corner of the vestibule.
“We have to get out before anyone comes—or they’ll know we have keys—” his younger brother had mumbled before falling asleep. Simply glad to be out of the wind, Arthur slept.
They awoke early and quietly slipped out of the church onto the streets. A few moments later, a vision from their past life appeared in the form of their buddy Stephen Foster getting off of the subway, backpack on his shoulders, on his way to school. His dark brown face lit up when he saw them. “Hey Arthur! You got out, man! What gives?”
There wasn’t much they wanted to say, but Stephen guessed more than they told him, because after he had heard their answers, he said, “You come home with me tonight. My mom won’t mind.”
And that was how the brothers first met Mrs. Foster.
* * *
So it was that when Bear found himself in trouble again, he had no problem with calling Stephen’s mother. The heavyset black woman had accepted the boys as two more sons, and became a sturdy ally. He knew that she, shrewd but solidly certain of his character, would help him without doubting him. And she wouldn’t ask any pointed questions until they were in private.
“My, you boys have a way of getting yourselves into trouble,” was her understated reaction when he had called her from the jail last night and explained their situation. “I’ll be right over to get the keys and go over to the Briers’ house for you. Don’t you fret, Arthur. God’ll take care of your girl. You’ll see.”
The next morning, as soon as they were let out of their cells, Bear found the phones that the prisoners were allowed to use, and called Mrs. Foster back.
“What did you find?” he asked her, after they had exchanged greetings.
She paused. “Blanche is not there,” she stated. “I don’t think she’s been there since
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