Father Shepherd pulled me aside at my grandfather’s funeral. He wrapped his arms around me, so that my face pressed against the wool of his vestments. It was a not a warm hug; it felt stiff and distant despite the physical proximity to each other. Shep, as everyone called him, nodded his head and smiled. His mouth looked wide and his teeth too big.
He said, “I wasn’t sure you would come.”
“It’s my grandfather’s funeral. You think I wouldn’t show up?”
“When have you done what everyone said to do?” He squeezed my shoulders and said, “He talked about you, you know?”
I stepped out of his embrace and smiled. I had watched him during mass, wondering what I owed to this priest who, I imagined, still thought of me as an insensitive and rebellious child, though I am now forty years old and have not seen him for half of my life. Now I looked at his face up close, a stark contrast to the Polaroid image in my parents’ photo album―a picture of him with a wild-haired little girl. It is a snapshot taken the Christmas that my sister and my parents went away.
That year, Fr. Shep said mass in our living room. We passed a pewter plate with “Our Daily Bread” engraved into the bottom, ripping the bread right from the loaf, its chewy texture so unlike the foamy wafers that melted and stuck to the roof of my mouth. We followed the mass with dinner and dessert—my mother’s German chocolate cake.
In the photograph I am wearing a long red velvet dress with a fake pinafore on the front. He is bouncing me on his knee, and I am laughing, with my head thrown back. I can still hear my own laughter, little girls giggles that made my belly hurt. My mother had gotten the camera as an early Christmas gift that year; my dress had been another. Time passes differently when you are seven, anxious to open presents. The photos developed right before my eyes, and I remember being able to admire myself within minutes.
– J.S., Forgiveness – Short Story Submission
Reader: Maybe its just because Tuscany is a publisher of Catholic fiction, but I’m in on this rainy, windy afternoon. Sometimes stories catch you at the right moment: a cup of aromatic tea, a stale biscuit (not so bad if dunked) and this possibly intriguing and (equally) possibly surprising story. It helps that the writing flows smoothly, helping me to move ahead. Let’s see what you have brought us, author.
