St. Michael’s overflowed with soup kitchen volunteers, bumping into each other, spilling things, trying to find something, anything to do.
Father Jerry tried every year to make it orderly, but simply had too many bodies because he had a difficult time saying no to people.
One couple argued in the corner.
By the glint of the man’s watch Father Jerry knew they were volunteers and not patrons.
“Everything okay?”
“Our daughter Jessica said she had to help someone out back and hasn’t returned,” the woman said. “ No one is out back. Roman, I think. Is there a Father Roman?”
Father Jerry swallowed.
Roman.
“He’s uhhh…not technically employed here…or whatsoever, but I know him. Let me see what I can do.” The priest headed for the door.
“I’m going to follow you,” the man said.
Father Jerry wanted to say “no, let me handle it,” but could not.
Waite Elliot followed the priest out the back door of the church community center, through the back yard, under a hole in the fence and out into the alley.
They made a right down a smaller alley.
“Is this church property?” Waite Elliot asked, as though he might be appraising the place.
Father Jerry shook his head no, and beyond the shake Waite Elliot saw the collar of his daughter’s cashmere coat.
She sat at a table with three much older, disheveled men.
“Roman,” the priest called out, a broth of admonishment in his voice.
At closer glance, they were not at a table but three oil barrels with a warped piece of plywood board on top.
A man next to Jessica sputtered out a warm laugh.
“Awww, Far, is young lady sposed to be workin’?”
Waite strode forward past the priest. There were playing cards on the table, well over a regulation deck.
Waite said “Jess,” softly, though Father Jerry heard an angry rumble behind it.
“Hey,” Jess said. Waite thought she looked embarrassed that he showed up.
“We’re supposed to be volunteering, Jess, not ummm, playing cards.”
One of the men looked at Waite and looked absolutely guilty of something. As Waite took a step forward the man scurried off like someone who had heard a stove timer.
“Bye Thiago,” Jessica called out.
The man waved with a gloved hand without turning.
Waite’s daughter was relaxed, seemed content.
Nothing nefarious had happened to her, Wait was certain. Still…
He motioned for his daughter with one finger.
“C’mon, we gotta go.”
“Roman, was our guest treated with respect?” Father Jerry asked.
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