Page 39 of Broken

She saw me as a man.

God, it’s been such a long time since that’s happened.

When I pass the doorway of a small store where one of my flock lives, I cling to Gianni’s familiar face. He refuses to wear shoes, has feet blacker than soot, and stinks worse than a sewer, but his smile is genuine.

Honest.

As usual, he’s there, touting for a coffee.

It’s frigid in the shadows, and I’m not even sure why he refuses the boots I offer him, but despite being in the middle of a crisis, I hover by his side.

“Gianni, come to the church. I have another pair of boots for you.”

He grins at me, and his teeth are somehow perfect. In stark contrast to the mouth of the wealthy parishioner, Lara.

Odd how life works sometimes.

“My feet are fine, Father.”

I scowl at them. “How they’re still attached to your legs, I don’t know.”

He winks. “Never had a Father be so concerned about my feet before.”

“That’s me, I have a fetish,” I tell him dryly, making him cackle.

The homeless around here aren’t used to me or my humor. They laugh, but they’re always taken aback, and I can’t blame them.

The last priest was severely lacking a personality. He also needed shooting for the state he’d left the soup kitchen in. It was critically underfunded, and the food bank was just as sparse. I’ve spent most of my days here seeking ways to improve both, but it’s hard going.

I might be at the center of the Catholic world, but somehow, these people are more forgotten than most, and I’m only one person. I can only do so much.

Giving Gianni five euros, I tell him, “You’d better come by later. That coat is threadbare.”

“I don’t feel the cold, Father. I told you.”

I’m not sure how he doesn’t, but he’s always perpetually cheerful, so I figure he isn’t lying. I’m miserable when I’m cold. Would he be so cheery if he weren’t telling me the truth?

“If you say so,” is my dubious retort.

“Give it to someone who needs it.”

He shoves the note back at me, pushing it into my hands when I don’t take it. I know he’s involved with some shady dealings that I don’t approve of and would prefer to give him honest money than have him rely on the criminals who take advantage of the homeless.

“It’s okay, Father,” he reassures me, but he fails when he lies, his eyes flashing with the mistruth that has him avoiding my gaze for a second. “I got enough from another tourist. You give it to someone who needs it. I heard Riccardo lost his tent last night—someone tore it and kicked the sh… I mean, beat him. Pretty badly, too.”

“Let me at least buy you a coffee,” I argue, knowing there’s no point in wasting my time convincing him to keep the money.

The irony is, that these men and women are more generous than most priests I know.

Gianni’s eyes sparkle. “I can never refuse a coffee.”

“The usual?”

He nods, and even though I need to oversee Vespers, I head into the small coffee shop and grab him an espresso.

“Father,” the waitress greets. “I have some spare rolls from this morning for you.”

“Thank you, Elisa.” I accept the bag she hands over the counter, as well as the coffee. “I kept a book bag back for Adriano.”

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