9. Matteo
NINE
MATTEO
This is ridiculous.
I stand in front of the mirror, collar in hand, trying to decide if I want to wear it or not. It’s the most ridiculous thing. Of course, I want to wear my collar, I’m a priest for Pete’s sake, but maybe that might be a bit too stuffy? Well, wearing all black is stuffy enough, and it doesn’t really fit without the collar. Jeans? Would that be appropriate?
I run a frustrated hand through my hair, spinning away from the mirror and sitting on my bed. I have no idea why I’m wound so tight right now. It’s not like I haven’t been out in the community already, not when Marcy dragged me out on my first day here. I came to know most of my parishioners at the soup kitchen yesterday, so why am I over here agonizing about my choice of clothes?
Marcy scheduled drop-ins today. It’s supposed to be a way to get myself more involved in the community, so they can come to recognize me as a constant figure in their day-to-day lives. It’s a simple door-to-door with some baked goods Marcy and I made this morning, but it speaks volumes about what Saint Lucy’s is. I speak no ill words toward Father Paul, but I’m getting the impression he wasn’t too big on community service, and I want to change the perception that priests are just here for Mass. We’re called to serve, no matter what it is.
“You still in here? Those muffins ain’t gonna deliver themselves.”
I flop on the bed, throwing an arm over my face. “Collar or no collar?”
“No collar? Father Matteo, what would the Pope think?” she jokes, sitting on the bed beside me. “Wear the collar, sugar. It’s who you are. Wouldn’t want to try and trick people, now would we? Thinkin’ we’re bringin’ them an eligible bachelor.”
This makes me sit up with a laugh. “An eligible bachelor? You’re as bad as Noah.”
“Well, I don’t know about Noah, but he seems like a smart boy for pointin’ out the obvious.” She shoves my shoulder. “Get up. Come on, we don’t want to be late.”
I begrudgingly get out of bed, tucking in my collar, and adjusting it in the mirror to make sure it’s straight. I give myself one last look over, smoothing my hands down my collared shirt, and turn to Marcy. “Good?”
“Very holy,” she tells me, grabbing my shoulders and steering me out of the rectory. “Now, let’s go. Chop chop. We’re burnin’ daylight.”
I don’t dare argue with her. Maybe it’s been less than a week, but when Marcy wants something, she gets it, and you better not be standing in her way.
We walk out of the church and veer over to the small houses off Main Street. Door-to-door isn’t always the best. The first couple of doors we get are young couples I don’t recognize but are nice enough to accept our muffins and let us talk a little bit about Saint Lucy’s. We hit some dead-ends when some people don’t answer, and we have a few that just slam the door in our faces. Either way, we’re not deterred. We’re not in the business of conversion, just trying to drop by and do something nice for the people of Smallville.
After another hour of mixed responses, we hit the end of our walk. We still have at least half a dozen muffins and a quick glance at my watch tells me I have some time before meeting Theo. “Where else should we go?”
Marcy shrugs. “We’ve got downtown covered. The rest are scattered around out in the country.” She frowns at the muffin tin in her hands. “Guess you and I will be having a big breakfast.”
I shake my head. “Nonsense.”
Smallville is, as the name implies, a small rural community but has a decently sized downtown. We’ve just reached the end of the block that runs parallel behind Main Street. In front of us is a set of railroad tracks, which I know are still functional, thanks to being woken up at three in the morning several times. On the other side, I see some trailers and gesture at them. “Should we try there?”
Marcy shakes her head quickly, already grabbing my arm as if to tug me away. “I don’t think so, Father. Not many God-fearin’ people on the wrong side of the tracks.”
“Wait, seriously?” I deadpan, tilting my head at her. “The wrong side of the tracks? Marcy…”
“I’m not bein’ elitist,” she argues, raising her hands in surrender. “You got to remember; I’ve lived here a very long time. I’ve been over this way before. You won’t find nothin’ on that side but people who’d rather spend their last dollar on a fix than eat.”
I’ve grown to become very fond of Marcy, but her comment rubs me the wrong way. “So? Are you saying those people are less deserving of the Lord’s grace? That they don’t like muffins?”
That’s the perception addicts and alcoholics have in society, and I hate it. Addiction is a real struggle, and I’ll die on that hill. Just because someone is hit with that illness doesn’t mean they’re not generous. Just because someone’s glued to a bottle of gin doesn’t mean they’re not kind. I should know. Jim Beam was my best friend for a long time.
I drowned away the pain and confusion with my vices, doing anything I could to simply escape the monstrosity that was being awake and conscious. I found God or He found me, and I became a changed man. Sometimes, someone has to reach out and make the first move. Everyone deserves to be shown compassion and kindness.
“Well, when you put it like that,” Marcy huffs, shoving the muffin tin in my hands. “Fine but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She makes it sound so ominous, but as we cross the railroad tracks, I feel no fear. We decide to start at the beginning of the trailer park and work our way back. The first two doors are the same—confused faces that hesitantly accept our muffins—but nothing bad happens. A skinny young guy comes out of the second trailer, his bloodshot eyes wide as he takes us in. He accepts a muffin, asks us what we’re doing, and happily listens to us tell him about Saint Lucy’s. He even tells us he’ll try making it to Mass on Sunday, and even if he doesn’t, at least we have him thinking about it. Doors four and five garner the same reaction, startle but then intrigue. I decide around then the next time we do drop-ins, we’re starting in this neighborhood because I serve the entire community, not just my current congregation.
“Okay, so, you might have had a point,” Marcy concedes under her breath as we make our way to the next trailer. “I may have been a bit judgmental.”
“A bit?” I snort. Instead of giving her grief, I choose the higher path. “We’re people, Marcy. We pass judgment, but you must remember there’s only one person who may judge us, and He sees more than the surface.”
She laughs. “Amen, Father.” When we’re ready to walk up to the next door, she holds me back. “Wait, not this one.”
“Marcy, we just talked about this?—”
“Not bein’ judgy, Father. Just don’t want us to get hurt.” She takes the muffin tin from me. “Let’s go to the next one.”
“Hurt?” I say, stuck on her words. “What do you mean?”
She sighs, realizing that I won’t follow until she spills. “Merv is a mean son of a bitch—forgive me, Lord—who’s got a nasty right hook. It’s best if we don't bother him.”
I want to argue but don’t want to put Marcy in an uncomfortable or dangerous situation. I’m not scared of Merv or his right hook, so I’ll come back on my own another day. We go to turn away from the trailer, but a quick movement made me look back at it. I have to squint, but through the ratty torn curtain, I could swear I see a pair of familiar eyes and a small hand trying to wave.
I try to push aside something that feels like discomfort settling in my chest. It was just a little hand, a small greeting, but something about that stuck with me.
We move to the last trailer and a mother answers, a crying baby clinging to her chest as she shoots us daggers. “What do you want?”
“Selene,” Marcy begins, clicking her tongue at her. “You mind your manners, child.”
Selene scowls. “You woke the damn baby.”
“We apologize for that. We thought you might be interested in a muffin,” I say, watching as the fussy baby continues to cry. I notice that Selene looks worn down and exhausted, as she can barely keep herself standing. I gesture to the baby. “May I help so you can enjoy a quick breakfast?”
Selene tightens her hold onto the baby and looks at Marcy. “Who’s this?”
“You mean the collar didn’t give it away?” Marcy snorts, taking the baby without even asking. “If you’d come to church every now and then, you’d know Saint Lucy’s has a new priest.”
Selene groans, rubbing her hand over her eyes. “Marcy, I’m busy.”
“Doin’ what?” Marcy counters, rocking the baby side-to-side until he stops crying. “You don’t want Jimmy to have some Jesus in his life? You’d rather he sits in this meth den than be around good people?”
I open my mouth to tell her that good people is a bit of a gray area, but Selene beats me to it. She snatches the baby back, angrily staring down Marcy. “It’s my fucking life. If I want Jimmy to go to church, he’ll go.” She looks at me with softness in her eyes as she sighs. “Sorry, Father. Thank you for the muffin, but I got to see if I can put him back down.”
“Wait, Selene,” I say before she can escape. “If you ever wish to return to church, we’ll embrace you with both arms open, but there’s no rush.” I shoot Marcy a look. “And no judgment .”
Selene actually smiles although it seems tense. “Thank you, Father.”
Selene closes the door behind her, and I resist the urge to yell at Marcy. Without speaking, I start walking back the way we came, hoping she’ll know what she did wrong.
And two seconds later she does.
“Father—”
“What happened to having an open mind?” I ask, shaking my head. “We don’t act in hate, and we don’t pretend to be better than others. He sees us all as equals, Marcy. Love thy neighbor . Does that sound familiar?”
Marcy stops and I turn to see she has tears in her eyes. I open my mouth to apologize, suddenly feeling like I was a bit too harsh when she raises her hand to cut me off. “I apologize, Father. That wasn’t very Christian of me, but I know Selene. I helped her grow up. To see the path she’s taken in life, it hurts.”
Compassion rushes through me and I bring Marcy into a hug. I rub circles on her back, letting her get it all out. “I understand. I’m sorry if I was a bit harsh. But you must have faith that God’s love will bring her back. All we can do is hope.”
“She’s why I stopped,” she sniffles, pulling back to wipe her eyes. “I used to foster kids from neighboring towns. Selene was my last one. The girl damn near broke my heart when she left.”
“That’s a very generous thing for you to do,” I tell her, reaching into my shirt pocket to hand her a handkerchief. “What Selene needs is acceptance and love. Perhaps we can try coming back another day to talk? I can help mediate whatever caused a rift between you.”
“That sounds wonderful, Father. Thank you.” She shoves my handkerchief in her pocket, smiling past her watery eyes. “I’ll wash this and get it back to you.”
“There’s no rush,” I say, offering her my arm. “Let’s just enjoy the beautiful weather.”
The walk back to the church is peaceful. She offers to whip me up some lunch, but I kindly turn down her offer. While I’ve learned Marcy’s cooking is excellent, I already have lunchtime plans with a certain auburn-haired man whom I can’t wait to see.
As I sit on my bed, staring at my reflection, I frown.
Collar or not?