This wasn’t going to be a big job. It would only take a couple of minutes. “You don’t have to freeze,” I said. “Just tell me where the shovel goes, and I’ll put it away when I’m done.” Or maybe he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t steal the shovel. It was easy to guess that I’d just come from the NA meeting.
“Bring it inside when you’re through,” he said. “One of my parishioners has gifted me with an apple pie. It’s only fair that I should cut you a slice as payment for your labors. Do you like apple pie?”
I grinned down at the sidewalk. “There are very few things that I like better.” The first three that came to mind were heroin, sex and punk rock. But I kept that to myself.
“I’m glad to hear you say that. Because if you didn’t like apple pie, I’m not sure we could be friends.”
I barked out a laugh. “That’s not a very Christian attitude, father. What would Jesus say?”
“He’d say, ‘more for me.’ My office is at the end of the hallway. Will I see you inside?”
“Five minutes,” I agreed.
The main level of the church building was much nicer than the basement. After shoveling the sidewalk, I leaned the shovel just inside the door and walked down a brick-lined hallway to an elaborate wooden door that stood ajar. The office had a thick oriental rug on the floor and a giant walnut desk.
But nobody was inside.
“There you are,” the priest said, coming up behind me. In his hands he held a wooden tray. I moved into the room, where he set it down on the desk. There were two thick slices of pie and two cups. “Coffee?” he asked me.
I shook my head. “Smells good, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”
“Ah,” he said wanly. “I’m familiar with the problem. But on Wednesdays my day is long, so I indulge. How about milk, then?” He lifted the generously sized creamer and held it over one empty teacup, waiting for my answer.
Was I really sitting down with a priest for pie and milk? It seemed that I was. “Yes, please.”
“Have a seat,” he said, pouring.
I took one of the cushioned chairs and sat, folding my hands in my lap. The old man was nice enough, but it was still a bit like getting called to the principal’s office. He passed me a plate and a fork and set the cup on the desk close enough for me to reach. “Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t know there would be pie in my day.”
He picked up his coffee cup. “To pie. May we have it every day.”
I reached forward until our cups touched. “Amen.”
Chuckling, he picked up his fork. “This is a very special apple pie, I’ll have you know.”
“I can see that.” It had cranberries, and a crumb topping. I broke off a chunk with my fork and took a bite. A very familiar bite.
Across from me, the priest did the same, and then groaned in what I’d describe as a very non-priestly way. “Exquisite,” he said.
I stifled my smile. “Can I ask you a crazy question?”
“Yes. And whatever it is, I can guarantee you that this office has heard a crazier one.”
“Okay, it’s not that crazy. I was wondering if Ruthie Shipley made this pie.”
He looked up in astonishment. “A boy of exceptional talent! He names the piemaker in just one bite! There should be a game show for your talent.”
Now he had me laughing. “She’s the only piemaker I could identify. I just spent several months working on the Shipley farm. We had pie most nights after dinner. I probably picked these apples.”
“You are a very lucky man.” He beamed at me. “A priest would never compare his parishioner’s baking talents aloud, but I will say that whenever Ruthie Shipley or one of her daughters approaches with a box, I am careful to carry it directly to my office.”
“You’d be crazy not to.”
“What did you say your name was, son?”
For a moment, I actually considered lying. To a priest, no less. “It’s, um, Jude Nickel.” I just did three years for killing one of your former parishioners.
Either he didn’t recognize the name from the news, or he was a very even-keeled host. “Nice to meet you, Jude. You can call me Father Peters.”
“Thank you for the pie, Father Peters. I really miss Mrs. Shipley’s cooking. The canned soup I’ve been eating the past couple weeks just isn’t the same.”
He peered at me thoughtfully. “Like I said, Wednesdays are busy around here. Perhaps you should stay for dinner…”
I opened my mouth to make an excuse. This was just about the nicest five minutes I’d had all week, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome.
He held up a hand, as if to preempt my argument. “Before you refuse, let me finish. We usually have about a hundred and twenty-five guests, and they come for all different reasons. Some are elderly, and just need a reason to leave the house. Many are food insecure. Not only do I think you should dine with us tonight, my friends in the kitchen could use your help.”
“You mean, like, I could volunteer?”
“That is precisely what I mean. Do you peel potatoes?”
“Sure.”
“Is there somewhere else you need to be right now?”
I pictured my empty, darkened room over the garage. The evenings I spent there were torture. “No, sir.”