Page 7 of The Reaper

“Well, that’s lovely, Father.” Her enthusiasm was back. “Check out the farmers’ market between Dartmouth and Montgomery. It starts today and will last until fall.”

“I might do that. Thanks again for all your help these past few days.” Perhaps I could get her a small gift as a token of my appreciation. It wouldn’t hurt to have an ally. God knew I could use one.

I stared at my phone after Jessica said goodbye, fighting an urge gnawing at the back of my mind. A burden I’d imposed on myself since I could remember.

Seconds passed and my thumb dialed a set of numbers I knew by heart, belonging to my older brother, Andrew. I hovered over the green call button. It had been a while since I’d called him, and my arrival in Boston brought to the surface a maelstrom of emotions I thought I’d buried in the darkest corner of my mind, a place where not even my heart could find.

Beep.

As expected, the call went straight to voice mail before the first ring. Out of habit, I cleared my throat and left a message. “It’s me … again,” I began, taking in a lungful of cool spring air to calm my shaking voice. “I’m back in Boston. I’m …” I paused, pinching the bridge of my nose. Images of him teaching me how to fight when I told him about the bully in grade school, of him guiding me while I navigated the ins and outs of the church flooded my brain like a reel on a loop. He was more than just my brother. He was my mentor. “I’m going to make you proud.”

Andrew’s mission in the Cathedral of Holy Cross had been cut short, only lasting a couple of years. He was given a more challenging mission after impressing his superiors and the Vatican. He left big shoes for me to fill. “I miss you.”

I ended the message and stood. The weight I thought would’ve been lifted after the call never came. I was on my own. Perhaps they were right. Maybe I was too inexperienced for this mission. The voice in my head planted seeds of doubt, but I drowned it with Andrew’s words: You are made for this, he used to say.

“Good morning, Father Saint James,” Tim, the parish courier, greeted. He was distributing packages when I passed by him on my way to the bishop’s house. Like me, he’d just moved to the city a few months ago and had only been with the church for three weeks.

“Good morning! Anything for me?” I asked.

Tim fingered through the stacks of envelopes painstakingly slowly before shaking his head. “Nothing yet, Father,” he said. “Are you expecting something?”

“Nothing in particular,” I answered, shaking my head.

“Maybe tomorrow.”

I nodded and made my way inside the house. Strolling the city was sounding better and better by the minute. This could be good for me. After grabbing a light black jacket from the closet, I headed out and traveled by foot to the center of the city. Cherry blossoms were in bloom, their branches covered in pink cotton.

Two blocks into my walk, a young couple pushing a baby carriage stopped me. “Hi, Father,” the woman greeted. “Aren’t you Father Oller’s replacement?” She pulled the cloth canopy open, revealing a newborn child.

“I am,” I replied, offering my hand for a handshake. “Who do we have here?” I directed my attention to the baby swaddled in the carriage.

“This is our baby girl, Zoe. She was just baptized two weeks ago,” the man answered, running his hand across Zoe’s palm-sized head. Zoe wiggled at her dad’s touch. Her eyes were closed and her cheeks were red.

“Hello, Zoe,” I cooed to the sleeping child. “You have a beautiful family,” I said to the couple.

“Thank you, Father. We’ll see you on Sunday,” the woman said, closing the carriage before walking away.

“Have a blessed day,” I called. That encounter wasn’t so bad, I thought, considering I was the replacement for the much-loved Father Oller.

“He’s so young,” the man whispered. He glanced back but immediately looked away when he met my eyes.

I spoke too soon. Somehow, I expected that comment before I heard it. Remarks like that were going to be part of my days going forward, and I had to get used to it. It was nothing personal, my age defied a tradition well established in our practice and custom.

I hadn’t yet made my next step when an older lady stood in front of me, blocking my progress. “Is what I heard true? Are you the new bishop?” she asked.

“Yes, I’m Father Saint James.”

She opened her mouth to say something when her cell phone rang. She frowned at the screen. The wrinkles on her face deepened. “I have to get this,” she said before taking the call.

“Oh, please.” I took it as a welcome opportunity to exit. A few more blocks in and several more interruptions later, I zipped my jacket all the way up to cover my black button-up shirt and white clerical collar, a neon sign advertising who I was and my role in the community. I didn’t have a problem with crowds, nor engaging in conversation, but I wanted to explore the city and had a very limited time to do it.

The trick worked, since no one stopped me again. “Enjoy this,” I murmured. These moments were numbered.

My eyes caught a glimpse of a dark shadow moving in my periphery, but it was gone the moment I looked. I searched around to see where it went, with no luck. I took a deep breath and relaxed the tension building on my shoulders, then continued perusing the city and getting lost in its beauty.

Aside from a couple of new modern skyscrapers, Boston appeared to be how I remembered it. Historic, colonial, brick-clad structures partially covered with ivies found harmony with contemporary glass buildings. Narrow cobblestone alleyways were steeped and preserved in their rich history. Copper sculptures stood in the middle of dozens of parks peppered throughout the city. Boston was stunning.

Rows of white tents greeted me when I cornered Montgomery Street. Jessica was right: this place was buzzing with activity. Stalls with products ranging from homemade candles and soaps to exotic spices lined three city blocks while people were engaged in conversations between the vendors.

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