3. Matteo
THREE
MATTEO
Saint Lucy’s Catholic Church is bigger than I thought it would be.
As I bring in the last box from the van, I’m filled with confused surprise. Bishop Ellis made it sound like the church was going to be as lackluster as their congregation, but the floor-to-ceiling mosaic windows and hand-crafted arches make the church look like it was taken right out of an editorial. I set my box down and admire the pews, running my hand along the sturdy polished oak. There must be room for hundreds of parishioners here, and I wonder how crowded it’ll be at tomorrow’s Mass.
“There you are!”
I whip my head around at the voice I recognize just as Marcy comes rushing to me. As the church’s secretary, she’s been consistently calling me throughout my trip here, making sure I would arrive on time. I smile warmly because she looks like the typical storybook grandma with a messy head of gray hair and a frilly dress.
“Father Matteo,” she beams, slightly out of breath from crossing the entire span of the church to get to me. “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here. We need to get to work.”
I wrinkle my brow and watch as she begins to move a box. “Marcy, let me?—”
“No, no,” she fusses, hefting the box on her hip with one hand, as she shoos me away with the other. “There’s too much to do to be goin’ all big strong man on me. Now, grab a box and get movin’.”
Flustered, I hurry to do as she says because when Grandma Marcy tells you to get moving, you get moving. I take a box and follow her, legs stretching to try and match her pace. “It’s good to put a face to the name, Marcy. It feels like we’ve been in contact for years, not months with how you’re ordering me around,” I joke.
She throws her head back with a laugh, weaving around the altar to the backroom. “I admit, I can be a bit tenacious. Here, you’re right, put that down and let me get a proper look at you.”
I drop my box by the hanging vestments just as she pinches my cheeks and tips my head to the side. “Oh my, you’re just a stunner, ain’t you?”
“That’s very kind of you, Marcy?—”
“Darn shame you’re a priest,” she continues, tilting my head to the other side. “Got a niece who you’d be perfect for.”
I laugh, lightly batting her hands away. “Yes, a shame. Can you tell me all about this work we have to do? I thought I’d settle in before tomorrow’s Mass if that’s alright?”
“No can do, Father,” she says, shaking her head. She leaves the room for a second and comes back holding a clipboard, shoving it into my hands. “Old Man Crafter needs his prized mare blessed before she’s due to give birth tonight, Simon, over on Huxley Street, is down with a nasty flu, and you’ve got a batch of holy water to bless and bottle before tomorrow’s service. That’s just the start of it.”
My eyes widen as I look down through her list. While I’ve been a priest for the last ten years, working at the camp meant my duties were very light. I almost forgot that being in a real parish comes with a tremendous number of responsibilities and tasks I wasn’t prepared for.
“I—”
“Don’t you worry,” she tells me, squeezing my arm reassuringly. “Bishop Ellis warned me you’d be a bit overwhelmed but that’s why you have me. I’ll keep track of all this background noise for you, so you don’t even have to think of it.”
It’s at this moment I’m eternally grateful churches have secretaries because I don’t know how I’d do half the things on this list without any help. The longing to be back at Camp Acceptance hits me like a freight train, making my heartbeat quicken as I think about what I was forced to leave behind.
No . Positive thoughts only from here on out. This is a new opportunity for me to create some real change. I helped Camp Acceptance through their transition, but my work there was done. This is just another challenge, and I plan on making Saint Lucy’s Church one of the most thriving and dedicated parishes in Wyoming.
With a smile on my face and my resilience renewed, I hand the clipboard back over to Marcy.
“Where do we start?”
After five grueling hours of ticking off the things on Marcy’s list, I’m dead on my feet.
Marcy snickers behind me as I hobble into the church, clutching the pews for support the second they’re in reach. “Oh, come on now. You’re exaggeratin’.”
“I didn’t realize Old Man Crafter would put us to work,” I say, my legs screaming at me as I sit. “I’ve never lifted hay bales before.”
She smiles as she sits beside me and pats my thigh. “Oh, sugar. It shows.”
“Think we got enough done on your list that I deserve to be fed?” I ask, stomach grumbling at the thought. “I don’t think I have any food.”
She waves her hand. “I stocked the rectory for you this mornin’. Couldn’t have my new priest starvin’ now, so I’ll whip you up somethin’ before I go.”
I thank her as we both stand and head to the rectory. Conveniently, my new home is connected to the church via the backroom, so after only a couple of steps, we’re there.
I turn to take it all in and chuckle breathlessly. “This is?—”
“Fancy, ain’t it?” Marcy asks as she makes her way past me to what I assume is the kitchen. “Everythin’ is all original construction. You won’t find nothin’ like this nowadays.”
You sure don’t. The rectory is just as grand as the church itself. Mosaic windows line the wall of the circular living room with vines, and flowers carved into the stone walls beside them. My shoes click against the marble floor as I wander over to what I assume is my bedroom, my breath hitching when I see that one entire wall is the same stunning window as the living room, with a sliver of clear glass that peeks out to the night sky and the mountains in the distance. The room is a bit cramped and the bed a bit small, but the carvings of biblical passages in the ceiling make up for it.
“Supper’s ready!”
I’m reluctant to leave my room at Marcy’s call, but my hungry stomach decides for me. I join her in the kitchen, which is a little less stunning than the rest of the place and sit at the spot she made for me on the tiny table.
“Thank you,” I tell her, looking at the quick chopped salad she put together. “It looks delicious.”
She scoffs with a shake of her head. “It ain’t nothin’ special. You cook?”
I laugh as I take my first bite. “Hardly. The camp had a cook, so I haven’t had to worry about it for years.”
“A grown man who can’t make himself a salad?” She snorts, patting my shoulder. “Well, you just call me up any time, and I’ll rush over to make you somethin’.”
“Your accent,” I point out through a swallow. “You’re not originally from here.”
“Louisiana. I moved here for my late husband; God rest his soul.” Her eyes water just a tad before she laughs it away and sits. “And you? It ain’t thick, but you’ve got one. Where are you from?”
“Venezuela. I wasn’t born there but my parents were.”
“That’s wonderful. Most people in Smallville were born and raised here, so it’ll be nice to get a different perspective,” she beams.
I smile and shake my head. “I don’t know if I’d go that far. I’ve spent the last ten years up in the Carolina mountains. I might be a bit out of touch with today’s society.”
“Bleh, it’s fine,” she says. She leans back in her seat, a questioning look in her eyes as she watches me eat. “So, someone as young and good lookin’ as you, what made you want to be a priest?”
I clench my fork so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t break. Memories I’d rather forget flood me, images of the past I thought I’d left behind.
“Matteo, don’t leave me.”
“Don’t you love me too?”
“Please, don’t do this to us.”
“Sugar, you okay?”
My breaths are coming out in short little stutters, but I collect myself. I push it all away, all the bad and all the pain, and focus on God. I inhale deeply, letting His Grace wash over me and calm all the racing thoughts.
“I heard the calling,” I say, sidestepping what just happened. “The Lord called me, and I answered.”
She nibbles on her bottom lip, unsure if she believes me, but she drops the subject. “I’ve just been badgerin’ you, haven’t I? Do you have any questions for me?”
“Yes.” I shift in my seat, thinking through everything I’ve been dying to ask. “Tell me more about Smallville. What are the people like? Their faith?”
“You won’t find more dedicated people,” she tells me. “Sure, they might be a touch close-minded, but they’d give up their left foot if you asked.”
“And the size of the congregation?”
She shrugs her shoulder. “A bit on the small side. Maybe two dozen on a good Sunday? But Bishop Ellis tells me you can change that.”
I fight the urge to shudder at the responsibility being placed on my shoulders. As a priest, I’m someone people can rely on, someone they can look up to, someone who can guide them. When it was children that came and went, the burden of my position was easy to ignore. I was with them for two brief months, and they went back to their lives, hopefully changed for the better.
The thought that I’ll be with a set group of people for a prolonged period of time hits me with a stab of trepidation and fear. Fear I might not be good enough, might not be wise enough, and might not lead Saint Lucy’s where both Bishop Ellis and Marcy want it to go.
Just one sip .
I clear my throat, rubbing my hands on my thighs as I smile. “Thank you for the dinner, Marcy, but I think I’m going to head to bed. It’s been a long day.”
Her eyes widen, shooting out of her seat as she nods. “Oh, of course. Look at me keepin’ you from your sleep. You rest well, Father. We need you at your best for your first Mass tomorrow.”
“I’ll see you before the service?” I ask, standing so I can walk her out of the rectory to the front door.
She nods and leans in for a hug. “Bright and early to help you set up.”
“Perfect,” I return her embrace. I open the door and frown when I see no streetlights or any sort of traffic. “Where’s your car?”
“Car?” She scoffs, waving a hand in the air. “Sugar, we don’t drive here unless you live out by the pastures. I walked.”
“Let me walk you home?—”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She pats my cheek as she moves off the first step. “Nothin’ ever happens in Smallville. You’ve got nothin’ to worry about.”
I don’t like it, but Marcy continues to put up a fight, insisting she’s okay. I concede but make sure to watch her as long as I can before she disappears around the corner. I feel awful for letting a sweet grandma walk home by herself, but I don’t think Marcy would have let me walk her, even if I tried harder. Maybe tomorrow I’ll insist I take her home, for my sake rather than hers.
Alone and exhausted, I head back inside, not even bothering to shower as I collapse onto the small bed. I turn on my side and stare at the mosaic patterns on the window, the soft blue hues that match the glimmering stars they hide.
This is good. Smallville is good. Everything happens for a reason, and I need to believe the Lord brought me here for a purpose.
Even though I’m not quite sure what His purpose is yet, I have faith.