The Redemptive Return

Two

Two

“I DON’T KNOW HOW MUCH more she can take, Father.”

I’m standing in Saint Clare’s attic, directly over the altar. I’m wearing a heavy coat, a scarf and matching ski hat crocheted by Anna, leather gloves, and fur-lined boots.

My teeth are still chattering.

I look where Rob MacMillan, parishioner and general contractor, points. Even I, whose knowledge of construction wouldn’t even allow me to build a birdhouse, can see what he’s talking about.

After three days of heavy, wet snow, Saint Clare’s roof is sagging, the trusses clearly straining to support the 150-year-old slate roof that’s covered by approximately five feet of snow dumped by a storm two days ago.

“So, it might collapse?” I ask.

“No, Father,” Rob says as he types something on his tablet. “There’s no might about it. It’s going to collapse. Frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t already. These trusses are the originals. You can see in a couple of places where they’ve been shored up over the years, but they’re rotting. It can barely support the weight of the slate alone. But a cubic foot of snow weighs about 20 pounds, and it’s five feet deep over the whole roof. I could do the math for you—”

“That’s okay, Rob,” I say. “Can you fix it?”

He sighs. “At this point the only thing I can do, Father, is replace everything—the trusses, the roof, the slate tile. That’s a lot of area to cover. It’s not going to be cheap.”

“I’m not worried about the money,” I say, shaking my head. Which is only partly true. Win Myer had left a sizable monetary donation to the Church in his will, in addition to the Myer Estate house and grounds—which I’m still not sure what to do with. The money should be enough to pay for the roof.

“Well,” I say, “when can you start?”

“I can start as soon as the snow melts and we have about a week to ten days of clear weather,” Rob says. “I’ll throw all my guys on the job to get it done as quickly as possible, but it will still take a while.”

He pauses and looks back at the trusses. “I just hope we don’t have any more snow before it melts. If we do, Father, I just hope you aren’t standing at the altar when it gives way.”

***

WE MAKE OUR WAY OUT of the attic after Rob promises to send me an estimate for my approval. The parish council already authorized the work, so I can go ahead without consulting them first. I watch him walk to his truck, then stare up at the roof.

White snow rises upward, meeting the sky. The sky itself is blue, not a cloud floating by. The sun is already doing its work; water drips from the snow-laden branches in the church yard, sounding like a spring shower. There’s melting on the roof as well, for water drips from the roof and I hear the sound of water moving through the downspouts.

“Lord,” I whisper. “Please don’t let me get any more bad news today.”

“Morning, Father!” I turn to see Alice, our letter carrier, making her way through the snow.

“Alice, you’re early today!” I say as I step towards her.

“Had to get an early start,” she says. Alice stops and looks through her bag, pulling out a large bundle of letters held together by a rubber band. “With all the snow the last couple of days, we couldn’t get out to deliver. That neither rain nor snow stuff is a bunch of crap, not with six feet of snow. So we have to make up for it.” She hands me the bundle. “Hope it’s nothing you’ve been waiting for.”

“No, I haven’t been waiting for anything to come,” I say, weighing the bundle in my hands. “Probably just bills and junk mail.”

She shrugs. “That and packages are about it anymore. No one sends letters. It’s all email.”

“I don’t think people write much by hand anymore,” I comment. “Not anything important, anyway.”

Alice tells me to have a good day and trudges off through the snow back to her mail truck. I go inside the toasty-warm Rectory, where I’m greeted with the smell of frying bacon and the sound of dishes clattering in the kitchen.

Anna’s fixing me breakfast, like she does every morning. She used to leave 8:00 a.m. Mass right after Communion so it would be ready for me when I got back to the Rectory. But since there is no 8:00 a.m. Mass anymore, she just arrives at 8:30.

Sometimes, I’m already at my desk.

Much of the time, I’m still in bed.

“Anna?” I call.

“In here, Tom.” I go into the kitchen and sit at the table, placing the stack of mail beside me.

“So what’s the verdict?” Anna asks from the counter.

“The patient is on life support,” I say as I unbundle and begin to go through the stack of envelopes, circulars, and catalogs. Most, as I suspected, are bills, the remainder junk mail.

Anna places a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and whole wheat toast in front of me and sets a glass of orange juice alongside.

“Thanks,” I mutter. I pick up my fork and dig into the offerings, eating silently for a while.

“Tom,” Anna says, finally, “I hate to keep nagging you, but there are several things that we really need to talk about. We have to go over the year-end financials, for one thing. The Parish Council wants to meet with you. You haven’t sat down with them for months, and there are several pressing issues—”

I dismiss that statement with a wave of my hand. “Just tell them I’m busy.”

“Why would I lie to them?”

I stop in mid chew and look at Anna, leaning against the counter with her arms crossed, a look of disapproval on her face.

I swallow my mouthful of food. “You have something to say, Anna?” I ask, evenly.

“Oh, a lot of things,” she says. “But let’s start with—”

At that moment, the doorbell rings.

“I wonder who that could be,” Anna says, walking to the door.

“It’s okay, Anna,” I say, scrambling to my feet. “I’ll get it.”

She turns to look at me. “Oh,” she says. “I see. Why don’t you just give her her own key, Tom? It’s almost like she lives here anyway.”

I glare at Anna. “Can you please handle any phone calls,” I say, “so I’m not disturbed?”

“Oh, of course,” Anna says, a trace of sarcasm in her voice. “Wouldn’t want you being disturbed during your meeting.”

Without another word, I leave the kitchen to get the door. I love Anna, and I’m lucky to have her as my secretary. But lately she’s been getting under my skin in a major way when I talk about her.

Especially when I talk about her.

By the time I’m at the door, butterflies flutter in my stomach. My heart beats a little faster. I take a deep breath and open the door.

I smile when I see her.

Helen Parr is waiting for me.