Chapter 2
How bad would it be, Clare wondered, to sneak a pair of mittens meant for charity?
It was the kickoff to the ecumenical Abundance Rejoices, a program where the churches in the Washington County area collected food, winter clothing, gift cards, and what Dr. McFeely, the Presbyterian minister, called “the necessities and pleasures of the season.”
Unfortunately, Clare had forgotten to stuff her lined gloves into her parka pocket before heading out from St. Alban’s, and after two hours accepting and sorting donations in the IGA parking lot, she was frankly coveting the insulated mittens sitting atop the nearest box of clothing.
“Go ahead, take them.” Father St. Laurent, the Roman Catholic priest who had been packing food donations across the table from her, nodded toward the mittens.
“I can’t. They’re for the underprivileged.” Her mouth quirked a little. “Or as my grandmother would have said, ‘the poor.’” She exaggerated her Southern accent until the word “poor” had two long syllables.
St. Laurent laughed. “My mémé would have said ‘the deserving, catholic poor.’” He snagged the pair and tossed them to Clare. “If you promise to put them back, I won’t tell.”
“Okay.” She slid them on, flexing her fingers inside to warm them.
“How are you doing?” St. Laurent’s voice changed, became more, well, pastoral. She recognized it because she used the same tone herself.
“With sobriety, you mean?” Clare sighed. “Not going to lie. It’s hard. I seriously backslid around the time my husband quit his job and the police force was on the chopping block. So much pain and fear and I couldn’t…” She didn’t know how to complete the sentence.
“You want to help everyone, and when you can’t, you don’t know how to deal with it.” St. Laurent tugged on his knit toque. “I’ve been there myself, more than once. What got you out of it?”
“The next morning, the baby was fussy, so I brought him into bed with us.” She smiled at the memory.
“I looked at him and my husband, all drowsy together, and I thought, I can have this, or I can have those pain pills hidden in my glove compartment.” She shrugged.
“I walked to the car in my PJs and slippers, flushed the pills down the toilet, and went to my first AA meeting that night.” She ducked her head.
“I get my thirty-day chip this Wednesday.”
St. Laurent pushed aside his parka and reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out what looked like a large gold coin, gleaming in the waning winter light. “Five years.”
“Does it get any easier?”
“It does, yes. It’s also been an unexpected way to deepen my faith. To better see the face of Christ in others, no matter what they’ve done.” He reached out and squeezed her hand inside its illicit mitten. “I pray it does that for you as well.”
“Father! We caught you!” The accented voice caused her to drop her colleague’s hand.
A short, dark man in a heavy barn coat crossed the parking lot, a toddler perched on his hip.
A visibly pregnant blonde was at his side.
“We wanted to make a donation.” The man noticed Clare and smiled broadly. “La Reverenda!”
“Amado! Isabel!” Clare and Fr. St. Laurent had married Amado Esfuntes and Isabel Christie two—no, three—years ago. “Is this Octavia? She’s so big.”
“I’m two.” The girl held up two fingers, just to make it clear. “I’m going to be a big sister.”
Clare laughed. “I can see that. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” The girl’s grave demeanor and dark coat made her look like the world’s tiniest Supreme Court judge.
Her father slid her off his hip and handed her an envelope. “Do you want to give the gift to Father?”
“Yes, please.”
St. Laurent squatted down. “Mil gracias, Octavia.”
“El placer es mío, Padre.”
Clare raised her eyebrows. “Polite in two languages. I’m impressed. My son is still at the babbling stage.”
“She was late at first, but then her talking really took off after her second birthday,” Isabel said. “Our pediatrician thinks it’s because we’re raising her with both Spanish and English.”
“Or it might be because she’s a genius!” Amado held his arms out and Octavia let herself be hoisted back into the seat of honor.
“Amado.” St. Laurent looked up from the envelope. “This is too much.”
Amado shook his head. “What we have to share, we share. The farm has run a good profit this year, thanks to God—”
“Thanks to hard work,” Isabel amended.
“—and I know this helps those who need help. Including other immigrants.”
“Although Amado’s not an immigrant anymore. He’s an American citizen.”
The smile Amado gave his wife was slanted. “In some people’s eyes, I will never not be an immigrant.”
Isabel sniffed. “Well, those people are assholes. Sorry, Father. Reverend.”
St. Laurent coughed to cover a laugh. “Thank you, my friends. We’ll put your offering to good use. Que tengas una feliz Navidad.”
“Merry Christmas!” Clare added. As the family left, St. Laurent showed her the check they had left. She whistled. “That will help pay a lot of heating bills.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” He tucked the envelope in his coat pocket.
“How are you doing? With the immigrant outreach?” St. Laurent’s church had a strong connection to the mostly Catholic migrant community in the area.
He seesawed his hand. “Attendance at the Spanish-language masses has been down. I try to find out who needs help and meet them where I can, but there are a lot of people going to ground.”
“Because of Immigration and Customs Enforcement?” The agency had been active in their area in the past, with chilling effects on the community.
“ICE has switched most of its attentions toward the southern border now. It’s more the homegrown, do-it-yourself anti-immigration types that are making life hard for the population.
There has been graffiti at some farms, signs on people’s land, a couple threats …
nothing large or overt, you understand—”
“But enough to send the message that you’re not wanted here.” Clare shook her head. “I guess that doesn’t surprise me, after the Greenwich Tractor Parade.” She described the float, the horrifying handouts, the combativeness of the men on the tractor.
St. Laurent sighed. “It’s been here before. My grandfather’s brother came down from Quebec to work in the mills; he sent home stories of marches through the quartier francais. Men with torches, throwing rocks.”
“Yeah, but I always thought that was history. You don’t expect to see it hung around with twinkle lights and paraded through the middle of town.
I mean, I’m not naive. I know we don’t live in a ‘post-racial society.’” She made finger quotes for the phrase; in the thick mittens, it looked like a baby’s good-bye wave.
“I just thought there was enough public shame to keep it behind closed doors.”
“You need to study up on your Saint Augustine. Always expect the worst of people, and you’ll never be disappointed.”