DO I MAKE YOU NERVOUS?
It was a pale, overcast morning, with clouds lingering low, as if reluctant to leave the earth behind.
A cool breeze stirred the budding trees, carrying with it the faint scent of damp soil and early blossoms. In the town square, life moved with purpose, women in light shawls and men in threadbare jackets gathered near St. Ann’s, their chatter mingling with birdsong as they waited for the start of the monthly food and clothing drive.
The heavy church doors creaked open, and volunteers and families began filing in.
A few local children played near the entrance, laughing and chasing each other around the churchyard.
The wind howled above, but inside St. Ann’s, it was warm and filled with the quiet buzz of chatter.
The small congregation of townsfolk was a mix of regulars, all familiar to me to one extent or another.
These were the same faces I saw every week in passing, whether they knew me from The Oily Cat or not.
But today I wasn’t the subject of their scrutiny; today, I was merely another hand offering help.
The church was slowly filling with baskets brimming with fresh bread, jars of preserves, and bundles of root vegetables and potatoes tied with twine: the humble harvest of nearby farms. Alongside the food, racks of clothing stood neatly arranged: worn but mended coats, sturdy shoes patched and polished, and dresses of varying finery.
Some were plain cotton or wool, practical for everyday wear, others were more striking: a deep emerald silk that caught the light just so, or a cream-colored lace dress with delicate beadwork.
I adjusted the shawl over my shoulders, the faint smell of lavender soap clinging to my fingers from hours spent sorting through my own cupboards.
Spring cleaning had taken on new meaning this year.
I had pulled from the back of my wardrobe several gowns no longer suited to my tastes, each carefully folded and packed with care.
The girls had contributed as well: Maeve’s soft rose-colored dress, Elona’s warm mustard-hued coat, and Violet’s pale blue frock with silk ribbon trim, all items once cherished, but now relinquished with the hope that they would provide joy or comfort for another.
My eyes scanned the room, lingering for a moment on Father Frederick, who stood near the altar, greeting parishioners with that practiced, insincere smile of his.
When our gazes met, I caught a trace of unease in his eyes, quickly swallowed by a mask of self-righteousness.
He didn’t come any closer; these days, he avoided me as if I were a stain on his spotless reputation.
I loathed him fiercely, and the further away he stayed from me the better.
“Here, you can take these.” I said, handing over a small bundle of well-worn dresses and coats, the ones Maeve, Elona, and Violet had offered up without hesitation, to a frazzled volunteer.
In exchange, they passed me a neat stack of blankets and asked if I would take them to be sorted with the other linens.
As I carried the blankets across the room, I couldn’t help but think of the girls, how easily they had parted with their finest things.
Their generosity was both touching and bittersweet.
In this place, among the worn pews and restless candlelight, I saw a glimmer of something rare: hope.
Despite Father Frederick’s sermons and the whispers that followed me, these small acts of kindness were a quiet rebellion.
They were a reminder that even in the margins of this town, life and compassion still found a way to bloom.
Father Frederick lingered in the corner of the room, casting furtive glances in my direction.
I noticed how he flinched whenever our eyes met.
He was a man of hidden contradictions, a holy figure in public and a darker presence in private.
I had seen enough of his sermons to know he was playing a dangerous game.
There was something dark there and while he could fool the town, he couldn’t fool me.
“Is something bothering you, Father?” I had asked weeks ago, when we’d shared an uncomfortable interaction in the back pew after Mass.
Just days before, I had seen Father Frederick walking through town with Father Cyrus.
Their conversation had been low but tense, and I’d noticed how Father Frederick’s jaw tightened every time Father Cyrus spoke.
He simply smiled that strange, hollow smile of his, and made some vague excuse about the rigors of his work.
But I knew better. His reason for loathing me was that I wasn’t like him, that I didn’t hide behind a mask of purity.
He hated that I could do what I pleased, that I lived without shame, without the fear of being caught or condemned for indulging in my desires.
His hypocrisy was glaring, and I had no patience for men like him.
I pushed the thought aside as I turned my attention back to the task at hand.
A few women arrived with their children in tow, and the room became busier.
I moved among them, offering comfort to those who needed it and assistance to those who didn’t know where to start.
As I worked, my attention settled on a woman and her young boy.
The woman wore a light shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, the fabric thin, but enough to shield against the lingering chill of early spring.
There was a sadness in her eyes, a weariness that showed in the way she held her son close, as if afraid he might vanish if she let go for even a moment.
The child, no older than five, looked confused, his cheeks still flushed from the crisp air, and his small hands tucked inside the folds of her shawl.
My heart tightened at the sight, the look on her face so achingly familiar, reminding me of myself years ago, when Ray was still young, still alive.
I didn’t approach them immediately; I moved carefully, calculating my steps.
I knew the delicate balance of helping and giving without crossing a line.
Finally, I made my way over to the woman, bending down to the little boy’s level, offering him a soft smile.
“Hello there, sweetheart. I think this might be close to your size,” I said, picking up a bundle of clothes that were meant for children.
They were slightly oversized, but they were in far better shape than the rags the boy was currently wearing.
The boy blinked at me, his blue eyes wide and uncertain.
After a long moment, he gave a shy nod. His mother looked at me with grateful but hesitant eyes.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, clutching the bundle of clothes tightly.
“It’s been a hard few months. I—” She paused, looking down at her son, her voice catching.
“I don’t know what we’d do without this.
It’s been so hard since . . . since he passed. ”
My chest tightened at the mention of their loss.
I hadn’t expected the words to land so heavily on my heart, but they did.
My own grief came rushing back in a wave that left me breathless.
I could see the same pain I carried reflected in the eyes of the boy and his mother.
The kind of ache that never fully went away, the type of loss that carved out parts of your soul.
“I understand,” I said softly, my voice cracking.
The words tasted like ashes in my mouth.
I wanted to tell the woman I was sorry for her grief, but I also wanted to tell her that she didn’t have to carry it alone.
That her son reminded me of my boy, my ray of sunshine, so full of promise and energy, before he was taken from me.
“My son . . . his name was Ray. He was a little older than your boy when he passed,” I said, my voice was barely a whisper.
I hated that I had to say it, but it felt like a confession, a piece of myself I had to offer in exchange for a moment of connection.
The woman looked up at me then, her features softening, and for a moment, we were both just mothers, both just people in mourning, lost in the shared silence of our sorrow.
I offered her a small, tired smile. “There’s plenty of food here today.
If you want, take a basket and make the rounds.
We’ve got bread, vegetables, and blankets to keep warm.
You don’t have to go without.” The woman nodded, hope briefly brightening the contours of her face.
I gave her hand a firm squeeze and gently sent them on their way, watching as the mother gathered her son close and disappeared slowly into the crowd.
Turning back, I caught sight of Father Frederick, who was hovering near the back of the church.
His eyes were narrow, lips pursed, and at the look on his face, a chill swept through me.
He had been watching me for too long, watching me with that thinly veiled contempt, and I knew that the mask he wore, the mask of a man of God, was crumbling.
I could see it in his eyes. He couldn’t stand the fact that someone like me, someone who defied all the rules, was here offering help and charity, as if I were some saint, while he stood on his pulpit preaching against sin.
I smiled to myself, watching the way Father Frederick shifted uncomfortably in his seat as I walked back toward the tables.
He was trying to ignore me, trying to pretend like I didn’t exist. But I knew the truth: He couldn’t escape me.
I turned away from him, toward the table where the clothes were being sorted, my gaze lingering on the mother and child as they made their way from table to table.
I didn’t have the power to erase their pain, but I had the power to give them what little I could. That was something.
As for Father Frederick, he could continue trying to hide in plain sight, but I was going to keep my eye on him.