Chapter 10
The twenty-three children returned to St. Catherine’s two days later.
Not permanently.
The building truly needed repairs.
That inconvenient fact remained.
But this time they returned to pack properly.
Eat properly.
Say goodbye if they needed to.
Choose what mattered.
Bedsheets.
Books.
Drawings.
One little boy took a broken lamp.
Nobody understood why.
He did.
Enough.
Temporary housing was divided between two smaller properties while repairs began.
Not Hawthorne.
Too much attached to it now.
Martha supervised food.
Rose helped coordinate staff.
No gala committee.
No Vale control.
I spent the first morning in the kitchen.
Martha placed a loaf in front of me.
Same bread.
Dense.
Too salty.
Perfect.
“You still make it wrong,” I said.
She stared.
“You ate six slices when you were twelve.”
“I was starving.”
“Exactly.”
I laughed.
Then stopped.
Children haven’t eaten today.
That sentence would stay with me.
I asked:
“How close did it get?”
Martha understood.
For six weeks, Serena’s new purchasing system reduced pantry deliveries.
Always explanations.
Vendor change.
Budget review.
Transition planning.
Martha supplemented food herself twice.
Never told me because she believed the gala would fix everything.
There.
Everyone waiting for the big event.
Meanwhile children hungry.
I had written checks.
Attended dinners.
Put my name on brochures.
Never opened the pantry.
That failure belonged to me.
“I should have come.”
Martha shrugged.
“You came now.”
Not absolution.
Just fact.
Then Eli entered carrying my old brass key.
“I found another thing.”
Of course he did.
He led me to locker seventeen.
Inside the cavity, behind where he had hidden, was one more envelope.
Not my mother’s letter.
Something from Father Mercer.
Gabriel,
If you are reading this, then the building finally outlived somebody’s ability to control the truth.
Typical.
I kept reading.
Do not save St. Catherine’s because it saved you. Save what is worth saving. Change what is not. Children do not owe buildings gratitude.
I sat down.
Even dead, Father Mercer refused sentimentality.
Good.
Then one final line:
And feed them before you name anything after yourself.
I laughed so hard Martha shouted from the hallway asking what was wrong.
Nothing.
May you like
Everything.
Mostly Father Thomas still being unbearable.
