24. IF YOU DON’T HAVE ANYTHING NICE TO SAY.
IF YOU DON'T HAVE ANYTHING NICE TO SAY...
As I made my way to St. Ann’s, the wind clawed at my coat, dragging dust and sleet through the streets of Butte like it was trying to skim the town clean.
Spring didn’t come easy to this place; it scraped its way in, rough-edged and stubborn, just like the rest of us.
The sharp tap of my heels on the cobblestones announced my arrival long before I reached the side door that doubled as the entrance to the shelter.
The humble offering of St. Ann’s to the unwanted misfits of the town only opened once a month and was always packed with unclaimed mothers and the children born out of season and out of wedlock.
These were people that polite society named in their prayers, but never invited to dinner.
Inside, the sounds of sighs and shifting feet filled the room, mingling with the steam and weariness, carrying the scent of overcooked potatoes and weak broth.
I paused just inside, letting the warmth lick my frozen skin and allowing the silence that followed my entrance to settle like dust. Every woman in the room went still.
Some dropped their eyes and some didn’t bother.
I briefly scanned the room until my eyes fell on her, Mrs. Henderson, standing ramrod straight by the fire, gripping her ladle like a weapon, jaw set so tight I could practically hear her molars grind.
I offered her my slowest, most deliberate smile, making certain I showed my teeth. “Mrs. Henderson,” I purred. “How’s the soup today? Still taste like penance?”
Her eyes narrowed into slits, mouth curling like she was deciding whether to scold me or summon God Himself. “Bernadette.” She spat my name like a curse. “You shouldn’t be here.”
I stepped further into the room, brushing snowflakes from my shoulders. “Well, that’s funny, I thought this was a place for the forgotten, the fallen, and the barely hanging on. You sure I’m not exactly where I belong?”
A few of the women looked away, but I read it in their expressions.
Some smirked, some winced, and some wanted to applaud.
That was always the game in these places; some loved to hate me, some hated to love me, and most weren’t brave enough to admit they’d ever darkened my doorway when the world got cold.
“You think feeding the poor absolves you?” Mrs. Henderson hissed.
I let my smile widen. “Oh honey, I don’t need absolution. I’m not here to be saved, I’m here because I remember what it was like to be hungry and scared and invisible. You think I do this for atonement?” I edged nearer. “I do it because hardly anyone else does.” That shut her up.
I turned away before she could sharpen her tongue again and spotted the reasons I kept coming back to this godforsaken place: the kids.
They were huddled near the hearth, knees drawn to chests, hands wrapped around chipped mugs of broth.
One little boy caught my eye, his big brown eyes too large for his pale, pinched face.
I walked over and crouched beside him. “What’s your name, sweetheart? ”
He clutched the mug tighter, his small fingers white around the handle. He looked to his mother, the question already in his eyes. At her slight nod, he turned back to me and whispered, “Samuel.”
“Samuel,” I repeated, like it was the most important name in the world. “You look like a man who can handle some responsibility. How’d you like to be in charge of the bread today?”
His eyes lit up like I’d offered him gold. “Really?”
“Really,” I said, handing him a small basket.
“Just one piece per person.” I winked, and that was all it took, his little chest puffed up with pride, and he marched off like I’d knighted him.
Behind me, I could hear Mrs. Henderson grumble something into her apron, but I didn’t bother to turn around. She didn’t scare me.
“You don’t belong here,” she repeated, louder this time, her voice slicing through the room.
I straightened, turned on my heel, and gave her a look like I was measuring her for a casket.
“You know, it’s almost cute, how you parade around with a ladle like it’s a sword, thinking soup makes you a saint.
But let’s not pretend your charity isn’t just a polished mirror for your own self-righteousness.
” I took a step closer, lowering my voice just enough to make her lean in.
“You’re not saving souls, Mrs. Henderson, you’re feeding them just enough for you to feel superior.
” My smile fell. “You’d rather damn a drowning woman for the way she swims than admit you never threw her a rope. ”
The other women shifted, uncomfortably. It wasn’t just about me, it was about them, all the women who lived between two kinds of shame.
Too poor to be respectable, too proud to beg.
I didn’t fit into their idea of redemption because I wasn’t trying to be redeemed, and that’s what really scared them.
I moved past the soup line and toward the back, where the tired ones sat.
These were the ones too worn to pretend they weren’t breaking, and I noticed a young mother, arms cradling a baby.
I sank beside her, my voice softer now. “You hangin’ in there?”
She nodded, eyes heavy, but grateful for the question.
I looked at the baby, a little girl, cheeks flushed from the heat of her mother’s skin.
“She’s beautiful,” I said, “and so fortunate to have you.” The woman blinked hard, and I let my hand rest gently over hers.
No speeches, no pity, just the quiet comfort of shared understanding.
A rustle of movement behind me signaled Maggie’s approach. Maggie was a fellow member of St. Ann’s and ran the shelter, she also had a knack for showing up just when the room’s tension began to settle in.
Her voice was thoughtful. “Didn’t think you’d come today.”
I stood, brushing my hands on my skirt as I straightened from where I had been crouched beside the young mother. I gave her a sideways grin. “You should know better by now. I’m not one to miss a good meal and a little righteous judgment.”
Her smile was faint, but warm. “Thank you, Bernadette, for showing up. Again.”
I tipped my head. “I show up for them, not for her,” I said, nodding toward Mrs. Henderson, who was now stirring the soup like she wished it were arsenic.
“You always do,” Maggie said simply, turning to walk away.
I reached out and gently caught her arm. “Can you grab some clean clothes and fresh diapers?” I asked softly, glancing toward the young mother and the baby at her breast. “And another bowl of soup—she’s still nursing. She could use the extra nutrients.”
The creak of the front door followed by a gust of wind announced the arrival of the next visitors. The shuffle of worn shoes and hushed voices told me it was more women in need. But beneath that came the familiar footfalls of Father Cyrus. I didn’t even need to turn around to know it was him.
“Evening, Birdie,” Father Cyrus called. “Tell me you didn’t start a riot without me.”
I didn’t turn right away, just let the corner of my mouth lift. “You’re late. I had to improvise.”
His laugh rolled through the room. “God help us all,” he said, shaking off his coat. “One of these days, you’re going to stir the pot so hard the whole town will boil over.”
I finally turned, catching the twinkle in his eye.
“And you’ll be right there with your spoon, old man.
” Next to him stood Father Frederick, all starch and silence, looking at me like I’d brought a plague into the room.
“Afternoon, Father Frederick,” I said, letting my voice stretch lazily over the words.
A small twitch in his jaw, just enough to betray him, told me he wasn’t exactly pleased to see me here today. “Miss Bernadette,” he stiffly returned my greeting.
“Oh, come now,” I said, stepping closer, letting my heel click sharply against the floor between us.
“Don’t go getting formal on me.” I let a slow, devious smile etch across my face.
“Don’t worry, Father, I don’t bite—unless someone asks real nice.
” He didn’t respond, but his eyes dropped for the briefest second, like he was trying not to flinch.
That was almost enough to make me smile. Almost.
Father Cyrus stepped between us. “We just came by to check in and offer a prayer. Maybe snag a bowl of whatever Mrs. Henderson’s boiling into submission over there.”
“You’re late,” I said, but my tone softened for him. “Next time, I’ll save you the crusty end of the bread.”
“Generous as ever.” He looked around the shelter, nodding to Maggie, then to the kids near the hearth. “You did good work today, Bernadette.”
Father Frederick made a faint noise that was almost a scoff, before he covered it with a cough. I turned to him fully now, letting him feel the strength in my presence. “Is there something you’d like to say, Father?”
His lips parted, but Father Cyrus stepped in again. “He’s still learning the ropes.”
“Are the ropes different here?” Father Frederick asked, too quick and too pointed. “Or do we just not tie them around sin the same way?”
The room went very still.
I tilted my head, my cold smile returning. “In Butte, Father Frederick, we’ve all got a little sin under our fingernails. The trick isn’t pretending it’s not there, it’s knowing whose blood it is.”
Father Cyrus made a low noise, something between a groan and a laugh. “That’s enough gospel for one day.”
I paused, my eyes steady on him, then stepped back, smoothing my coat with a flick of my fingers. “See you both Sunday.”
I was almost to the door when I stopped, half turned, and looked straight at Father Frederick.
“You still think I’m the wrong kind of woman doing the wrong kind of work in the wrong kind of place.
That’s fine. You’ll either get used to me, or you won’t.
” And I gave him my sweetest smile as I turned and left.