Steadfast (True North #2) Read online

  By far my biggest accomplishment of the week was staying silent while he wrote it out. I wanted to rage at him and argue that his own vehicle was presently obstructing far more of the sidewalk than my freaking sign.

  I didn’t say a word, though. Anyone with a felony record cannot talk back to a cop. It’s just a fact of life, and one that I’d be living with forever. And the seventy bucks? Just the cost of doing business, I told myself. The police chief had probably noticed I’d come back to town and declared it open season to harass me.

  After he left, I dragged my sign inside the garage. That meant more days working with the doors open, in the hopes that people could even see the damn sign. My hands were red and numb by noon every day.

  Also in the minus column—my cravings were pretty fierce. I hadn’t been to a NA meeting since coming back to Colebury. Before I left the Shipley Farm May had printed out a list of nearby meetings. The only one in Colebury was on Wednesday afternoons at four o’clock.

  That was a working hour for me. And when Wednesday rolled around, I was doing actual bodywork—fixing a dent in somebody’s Highlander. But I made myself close the garage down at three thirty. My father hadn’t made an appearance for several hours. I locked up, then knocked on the front door of my childhood home, which was always weird. He came to the door looking glassy-eyed.

  “I shut ’er down,” I said. “Got somewhere I have to be.”

  “What if somebody comes?” he asked.

  I just stared at him for a second, waiting for the logic of the question to kick in for him. In other words—what the fuck would you do without your slave boy? But no light shone in my old man’s eyes. “Guess you’ll have to deal with them,” I said, finally.

  Then I turned and left him there, puzzling over it.

  After a quick shower, I walked to the church instead of driving. It was only about four blocks, and I told myself that I needed the exercise. But really, I just wanted to walk through the first snowflakes of the year. They were thick and wet, landing on my face and in my hair. The sidewalk began to turn white, and my feet made tracks on the pavement.

  Up ahead, the stone church fit in with this pretty picture, too. It was the same Catholic church that Sophie’s parents had dragged her to every Sunday during high school. She wasn’t a big churchgoer, my Sophie. She hated sitting through the service, and she avoided it every chance she got.

  I knew I shouldn’t be thinking of her as my Sophie. But at the time it had been true.

  The door handle was wrought iron—the kind they don’t make anymore. I gave it a yank. Inside, a hand-lettered sign on the wall read “NA Meetin Downstairs.” The missing G could have been a mistake, or it could have been ironic. Either way, I found myself descending into a far less picturesque part of the building. There were fluorescent lights and dinged-up old plastered walls.

  I knew I was in the right place when I saw the carafe of coffee and the cheap paper cups sitting beside a powdered creamer. (There must be a law on the books somewhere that you couldn’t bring a bunch of addicts together into a room without offering them some really bad coffee.) They also had the regulation metal folding chairs, just three rows of them.

  A small meeting for a small town.

  There were half a dozen people in attendance already. I took a seat on the end of the second row and waited. Addicts came in all shapes and sizes. The guy who sat down next to me looked like he’d stepped out of an ad for Harley-Davidson. But the woman who seemed to be hosting the meeting looked like a librarian.

  When the room was full(ish), the librarian opened the meeting. “Hi, I’m Linda, and I’m an addict. Thank you for coming to the Colebury Narcotics Anonymous meeting. This is meant to be a safe place for all, so I must insist that no drugs be on your person at our meetings. If you are carrying anything please remove it from the room at this time. Although drugs are not welcome in this room, users are. Membership to this fellowship is free, and you are a member when you say you are.”

  She paused to take a breath, and then she asked someone to read the Why We Are Here passage from the handbook.

  The Harley dude volunteered. He took the dog-eared book, flipped to the text and began reading.

  The words were soothing in their familiarity. The message was a simple one, but there was power in hearing it as a group. We were all here because we couldn’t manage ourselves on drugs. We put our habits ahead of all else. Because we did harm to ourselves and others, and because we needed to change our ways in order to survive.

  Sitting in a meeting always reminded me that the problem was bigger than a few bad decisions or shitty willpower. It wasn’t just me.

  “We have a speaker today,” Librarian Linda said. “Robby has brought his mother to celebrate three years clean.”

  There was polite applause, which I joined. Three years. I didn’t know Robby’s story, not yet. But even if he’d only given up pot and Doritos, I was still jealous.

  Robby himself looked to be about my age or maybe a few years older. It was hard to say. But he had a nice tight haircut and healthy glow.

  He began to tell his story, and it was one I’d heard many times. Boy steals his father’s prescription painkillers. Boy’s friends teach him to snort them. Boy can’t give up the habit and begins to steal from his parents.

  Change a detail here and there, and you’d have my story, too. I’d stolen petty cash from my father’s till. I’d started with oxys, too. When my habit got too expensive, I took to stealing parts from a junkyard owner who’d trusted me. I sold them on eBay and snorted the proceeds.

  Robby hit bottom by ODing. He was lucky to be alive. I hit bottom by killing someone and was also lucky to be alive.

  “I know I’m always going to be fighting this disease,” he said. “But I know that I can win, and that my family is here to help me.”

  Ah, and that was where our stories parted. Robby’s mom sat there beaming, tears in her eyes. My mom ran off with another man when I was eight. My father got drunk the night she left and never really sobered up.

  Sometimes these stories really buoyed me. But today wasn’t one of those times. Robby’s beaming mother just grated on me. She reminded me of the stage mothers that Sophie used to have to deal with. Isn’t my kid great? Listen to the way she hits those high notes in Ave Maria!

  I didn’t begrudge Robby his success, though. I really didn’t. I’d give my left nut to have three years clean.

  Before the meeting ended, we went around the circle. Most people gave a little update about how their week had been.

  “Would you like to say anything?” the librarian lady asked.

  I just shook my head.

  When it was over, I sprinted into a bathroom I’d seen on my way into the room, mostly because I didn’t want to chat with anyone. I didn’t want to be greeted, hugged or asked whether I would come back next week.

  My tactic worked. The meeting room was empty when I passed through again. I made it all the way up and onto the darkened sidewalk before I saw another human. He was seventy-five years old if he was a day, and slowly shoveling an inch of slippery snow off of the sidewalk. But he had on the wrong kicks for the job—black dress shoes. And I could tell that he was trying hard not to slip.

  “Let me get that,” I said. My voice was rough from underuse.

  He looked up, and I noticed that he had a priest’s collar on under his coat. “Am I doing that poor of a job at it?” His eyes twinkled with the question.

  “No, um, father. But I think I have better traction.” I pointed at my work boots.

  With a smile, he handed over the shovel. “I’d appreciate that, son.” He stood there, watching as I began to strip the slush off the walk in long sweeps of the shovel. “Of course the snow held off until our facilities person went home for the day,” he said, conversationally.

  “That’s usually how life works,” I said.

  “True. And we have many people coming to dine this evening, so I can’t have them sliding around everywher
e.”

  This wasn’t going to be a big job. It would only take a couple of minutes. “You don’t have to freeze,” I said. “Just tell me where the shovel goes, and I’ll put it away when I’m done.” Or maybe he wanted to make sure I wouldn’t steal the shovel. It was easy to guess that I’d just come from the NA meeting.

  “Bring it inside when you’re through,” he said. “One of my parishioners has gifted me with an apple pie. It’s only fair that I should cut you a slice as payment for your labors. Do you like apple pie?”

  I grinned down at the sidewalk. “There are very few things that I like better.” The first three that came to mind were heroin, sex and punk rock. But I kept that to myself.

  “I’m glad to hear you say that. Because if you didn’t like apple pie, I’m not sure we could be friends.”

  I barked out a laugh. “That’s not a very Christian attitude, father. What would Jesus say?”

  “He’d say, ‘more for me.’ My office is at the end of the hallway. Will I see you inside?”

  “Five minutes,” I agreed.

  The main level of the church building was much nicer than the basement. After shoveling the sidewalk, I leaned the shovel just inside the door and walked down a brick-lined hallway to an elaborate wooden door that stood ajar. The office had a thick oriental rug on the floor and a giant walnut desk.

  But nobody was inside.

  “There you are,” the priest said, coming up behind me. In his hands he held a wooden tray. I moved into the room, where he set it down on the desk. There were two thick slices of pie and two cups. “Coffee?” he asked me.

  I shook my head. “Smells good, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep.”

  “Ah,” he said wanly. “I’m familiar with the problem. But on Wednesdays my day is long, so I indulge. How about milk, then?” He lifted the generously sized creamer and held it over one empty teacup, waiting for my answer.

  Was I really sitting down with a priest for pie and milk? It seemed that I was. “Yes, please.”

  “Have a seat,” he said, pouring.

  I took one of the cushioned chairs and sat, folding my hands in my lap. The old man was nice enough, but it was still a bit like getting called to the principal’s office. He passed me a plate and a fork and set the cup on the desk close enough for me to reach. “Thank you,” I said. “I didn’t know there would be pie in my day.”

  He picked up his coffee cup. “To pie. May we have it every day.”

  I reached forward until our cups touched. “Amen.”

  Chuckling, he picked up his fork. “This is a very special apple pie, I’ll have you know.”

  “I can see that.” It had cranberries, and a crumb topping. I broke off a chunk with my fork and took a bite. A very familiar bite.

  Across from me, the priest did the same, and then groaned in what I’d describe as a very non-priestly way. “Exquisite,” he said.

  I stifled my smile. “Can I ask you a crazy question?”

  “Yes. And whatever it is, I can guarantee you that this office has heard a crazier one.”

  “Okay, it’s not that crazy. I was wondering if Ruthie Shipley made this pie.”

  He looked up in astonishment. “A boy of exceptional talent! He names the piemaker in just one bite! There should be a game show for your talent.”

  Now he had me laughing. “She’s the only piemaker I could identify. I just spent several months working on the Shipley farm. We had pie most nights after dinner. I probably picked these apples.”

  “You are a very lucky man.” He beamed at me. “A priest would never compare his parishioner’s baking talents aloud, but I will say that whenever Ruthie Shipley or one of her daughters approaches with a box, I am careful to carry it directly to my office.”

  “You’d be crazy not to.”

  “What did you say your name was, son?”

  For a moment, I actually considered lying. To a priest, no less. “It’s, um, Jude Nickel.” I just did three years for killing one of your former parishioners.

  Either he didn’t recognize the name from the news, or he was a very even-keeled host. “Nice to meet you, Jude. You can call me Father Peters.”

  “Thank you for the pie, Father Peters. I really miss Mrs. Shipley’s cooking. The canned soup I’ve been eating the past couple weeks just isn’t the same.”

  He peered at me thoughtfully. “Like I said, Wednesdays are busy around here. Perhaps you should stay for dinner…”

  I opened my mouth to make an excuse. This was just about the nicest five minutes I’d had all week, but I didn’t want to overstay my welcome.

  He held up a hand, as if to preempt my argument. “Before you refuse, let me finish. We usually have about a hundred and twenty-five guests, and they come for all different reasons. Some are elderly, and just need a reason to leave the house. Many are food insecure. Not only do I think you should dine with us tonight, my friends in the kitchen could use your help.”

  “You mean, like, I could volunteer?”

  “That is precisely what I mean. Do you peel potatoes?”

  “Sure.”

  “Is there somewhere else you need to be right now?”

  I pictured my empty, darkened room over the garage. The evenings I spent there were torture. “No, sir.”

  He beamed again. “Finish your pie. The volunteers need you.”

  The milk in my cup was sweet and cold. I drank it down, then chased the last crumbs of Mrs. Shipley’s pie around on my plate. It wasn’t like me to volunteer at a church dinner. I wasn’t a joiner. But food was an excellent motivating factor. And every hour I spent away from my old life, the better.

  I was sitting there thinking unusually positive thoughts when someone knocked on the doorframe. “Father Peters?”

  “Come in, my dear.”

  Looking up, I received the surprise of a lifetime. There in the doorway—wearing an apron, her hair in two pigtails—stood Sophie Haines. My ex-girlfriend, and the only person who’d ever loved me.

  The silence that followed was deafening. Looking down at me, Sophie’s mouth fell open. She put one hand on the doorjamb to steady herself.

  I’m sorry was my only thought. I had no idea she’d be here on a random Wednesday, working in the kitchen of the church that she’d never wanted to attend when we were together.

  “Sophie,” Father Peters said into the vacuum of our silence. “Do you need me in the kitchen?”

  She spoke to him without taking her eyes off me. “You, um, told me to tell you if Mrs. Walters came to take her shift. She’s here.”

  “Excellent!” The priest clapped his hands. “Mrs. Walters is ninety years old, and the only one brave enough to operate our old dishwashing machine,” he explained to me. “Thank you, Sophie.”

  After another pause, Sophie seemed to gather herself. She backed out of the doorway, then turned and walked quickly away.

  “I should go home,” I said.

  But Father Peters shook his head. “I don’t think that’s for the best.” His blue-eyed gaze pierced through me. I had a feeling that this man didn’t miss much. “My hungry parishioners will be needing their dinner no matter what once transpired between you and Miss Haines.”

  Yeah. He didn’t miss a damn thing.

  I was still formulating my argument when he stood up suddenly. “Follow me, young sir. I hear a sack of vegetables calling your name.”

  Chapter Six

  Sophie

  Internal DJ tuned to: a primal scream

  On my best night, managing the Community Dinner was like conducting Beethoven’s Fifth with a kazoo band. It was mayhem. But tonight? My mind was a speed-metal tune—all noise and no order.

  It was shocking enough to spot Jude in Father Peters’s office. But when the priest led my ex-boyfriend to the prep table in the back corner of the kitchen, my ability to concentrate was officially shattered.

  Jude was given a large stack of carrots to peel. While I stared, he took up the peeler and began shaving off th
eir orange skins in authoritative stripes.

  For the next hour, my eyes wouldn’t go where I wanted them to go. There was a ton of work to be done, yet I kept sneaking looks at Jude in the corner prepping vegetables like he was born to it. Before tonight, I’d never seen Jude touch a vegetable or even wash a dish.

  It was the weirdest damned thing I ever saw. He kept his head down and plowed through a mountain of carrots and potatoes. When they were peeled, old Mrs. Perkins brought him a cutting board and a chef’s knife, and he began quartering the potatoes like a man on a mission.

  “Sophie,” Denny said after he arrived and began to pitch in. “How many serving stations do you need? I count four dishes on the menu, but you only set up three stations.”

  “Oh.”

  “So which is it?”

  “Um…” I looked around at all the work getting done in the kitchen. “Four stations,” I said slowly.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Uh-huh,” I lied, my eyes flicking back over to Jude. I kept noticing strange details about him. He’d rolled the sleeves of his flannel shirt up, exposing muscular forearms that I did not want to notice. But they flexed with each strike of the cleaver.

  “Who is that, anyway?” Denny demanded.

  I dragged my eyes back to Denny. “It’s Jude.” Even as I said the words, I knew it was a mistake, because I really couldn’t let myself talk about it now. “Did Father Peters open the doors yet?”

  But Denny wasn’t going to let it go. “Whoa. That’s him? Seriously?” Denny stared at Jude in open fascination. “Why here?”

  My thoughts exactly. “Denny, could you set up another serving station?” Because I’m busy having a breakdown.

  He gave me a long, appraising look. “Sure.”

  Things got a little better when the diners began to show up. I put myself on the serving line, where it was more difficult to stare at the bulky, uncharacteristically helpful ghost of Jude. I was still trying to resolve all the strange little inconsistencies between my memory and the man at the prep table. His piercings were gone—the barbell from his eyebrow and the studs from his upper ear. And when Father Peters passed by saying something I couldn’t quite catch, Jude answered “Yessir,” in a quiet voice that lacked the edge I was so familiar with.