Faith. Jennifer Haigh

his desk, Art butted a cigarette and lit another. He was aware of the hot breeze through the open window, the green smell of cut grass. That, at least, was good news: Joe Veltri had managed to get the old mower running, and petty cash would cover the gas and parts. A new tractor would have meant more begging, a longer and far more obsequious letter that would have taken all morning to compose.

      He stared out the window feeling like a restless schoolboy, trapped in the classroom on the first, long-awaited day of spring. Fran had filled the feeder in the courtyard, and a flock of small birds—robins? wrens?—had descended, trilling rapidly. In one corner stood a waist-high statue of St. Francis, arms outstretched in welcome. Birds lit briefly on its hands and head. Art closed his eyes, feeling pleasantly drowsy. For a minute or two he drifted. He was roused by a sudden brutal squawking, an airy rush of wings.

      Blinking, he saw that the courtyard had been invaded by seagulls, gray and white and insistently cawing. They were a chronic nuisance, persistent as pigeons, large as cats. Every few weeks Joe Veltri cleaned their droppings from St. Francis’s tonsured head.

      “Fran?” Art called absently. “They’re back again.”

      Then he went to the window and saw the cause of the commotion: a small, dark-haired boy stood in the courtyard with a bag of potato chips. He wore shorts and a Red Sox T-shirt and was, Art noted, the exact height of St. Francis. His expression was rapt, his eyes wide.

      Art watched, fascinated, as the boy doled out the potato chips. The gulls swarmed around him, squawking madly: six, ten, a dozen, more. Finally the boy threw down his bag and backed away from the mass of shrieking birds. He looked both delighted and terrified.

      Art was standing at the window when he heard a knock at the door.

      “Father?” Fran opened the door a crack. “Can I bother you a minute?”

      He turned. She stood in the doorway, a young woman behind her. “I’d like you to meet my daughter, Kathleen.”

      Art blinked, confused. Fran had been at Sacred Heart longer than he had. He’d met her two sons, their wives and children; but she had never mentioned a daughter.

      “Hey. Hi.” The girl was young and slight, half as wide as her mother. She wore tight blue jeans and an abbreviated pink T-shirt; a diamond stud twinkled in her navel. Her hair was dark at the roots, the ends streaked platinum blonde.

      “She’s back from California,” Fran said.

      “For now.” Her eyes darted around the room. They were arresting eyes, pale gray, startled and startling, ringed with black liner. Her left foot tapped briskly in its high-heeled sandal. “Hey, have you seen a kid running around?”

      “He’s out there.” Art put out his cigarette and nodded toward the courtyard, now a riot of seagulls. The boy stood with his back to the rectory wall.

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake. Excuse me, Father.” Fran rushed out of the room and down the hallway, her tread heavy on the wood floor.

      “What’s he doing, feeding the gulls?” Kath went to the window. “Jesus, will you look? They’re everywhere.” She let out a sharp laugh. “He has a thing for birds.”

      They stood watching as Fran appeared in the courtyard. “Honey, don’t feed them! They’re dirty birds.” She stooped and knelt stiffly. “Help your mimi pick up these chips.”

      “Fran, don’t worry about it,” Art called out the window. “Joe can clean up later.”

      “Thanks, Father, but he needs to learn. He can’t be making a mess at other people’s houses. Come on, Aidan.”

      It was an awkward moment, Art and Kath standing at the window, watching the little boy and his grandmother, with her two knees that needed replacing, gathering Ruffles from the parish lawn.

      “Fran, be careful,” Art called.

      “Don’t worry about her. She lives for this stuff.” Kath turned her back to the window. “She’s driving me crazy, I swear to God. Following me around the house with a broom.”

      “How old is your son?” Art asked.

      “Seven. Eight in August.”

      “Is he enrolled in school yet?”

      Kath shrugged. “It’s almost summer. What’s the point?”