In the Still of the Night by Dorothy Salisbury Davis Read Free Book Online Page B

wafer, his lips, too, tightly closed against it. The boy’s mother prodded and scolded him from behind. He had come to the table but he would not partake. His eyes were coals of defiance. Father Morrissey moved to the nearest server and changed places with him. There was only a small disruption until José’s mother grabbed her son’s arm and flung him away, crying out, “Perdido! Perdido!” Lost: it had the ring of a flamenco lament, and it carried through the church. José spat in the direction of the altar and ran from the steps.
    Kate could not see what had happened at the altar steps, but those who had seen it were calling out condemnation after the fleeing youngster. She would have been willing to swear that José Mercado was not a bad boy. Troubled, yes, and obviously now in trouble. She left the church, trying to draw as little attention as possible. She was well known as Martin’s wife and for her own outreach as well. She squeezed the numerous hands extended to her, and made it to the vestibule before the mass was finished. She ought not to have come to this mass. Besides her own unease, it was not fair to Dan, and encountering the monsignor on the church steps, she tried to think of an excuse for being there at that hour.
    The monsignor had something else on his mind. “Did you notice the youngster flying out of the church? I tried to lay hold of him. Slippery as an eel. Do you know what he did? He spat out the sacrament. They’re not being well taught, you know. That one should never have made his first communion.”
    Kate, not about to debate the boy’s demeanor with the monsignor, gave a nod to indicate concern and escaped. Someone was following her. She knew an instant of fear before she realized it was José. She waited for him and they walked in silence for almost another block before Kate finally said, “Do you want to tell me what’s the matter?”
    José shook his head and they walked on. He was wearing a fake leather jacket, frayed at the cuffs and at least two sizes too big for him; the T-shirt underneath was thin, the red apple on its front badly faded. His jeans were clean and his sneakers had been new at the start of the school year. His dark hair rose and fell as the wind tossed through it.
    “Aren’t you cold?” Kate asked. She was wishing herself that she had worn a sweater beneath her coat.
    Again he shook his head. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand. They walked on.
    They had almost reached Kate’s building. She wondered if it was wise to let him know where she lived, and then decided, wise or not, it showed some respect for his fiery young person. Once in class she had boosted his ego by calling him a young Matisse and showing him pictures of the artist’s windows. He took everything he did in class home with him after that. Or said he did. He liked to please her. He spoke English as well as any of the children. His mother spoke Spanish. His older brother spoke both languages, but beat José if he did not speak English. José loved him, anyway.
    Reaching the entryway to the townhouse where she and Martin lived, she told the boy that this was where she must leave him and proposed to shake his hand. “Where do you live, José?”
    He jerked his head toward the north, and ignored the hand she offered him so that Kate quickly withdrew it. “You should go home now and not catch cold,” she said.
    “Why you don’t go to communion this morning?” he blurted out, the first words he had spoken to her all the way home.
    Kate was stunned. When she was his age, the lie would have been so simple: I broke my fast. That didn’t matter any more. Now all she could do was fall back on authority. “You don’t ask questions like that of older people, José. Go home now.” As though he were a stray dog. When she turned from him, she saw Martin watching from the window of his study. She waved. He nodded appreciatively, as though he took for granted she would be accompanied by a child