Angels of Wrath

EPILOGUE

Just in from his morning rounds visiting the shut-in members of his parish, Father Tim Casey sat down at the kitchen table in the rectory. The pain today was a little more intense than the day before, which itself was more than the day before that. But it was the Lord’s pain, he told himself, and he could manage it. He would push himself until the end: hardly a struggle at all, as long as he caught his breath.

How he would tell the children that the parish council had vetoed the winter basketball program — now that was a problem he couldn’t resolve. It was the sort of secular matter that had to be left to the council, truly, but it would break the kids’ hearts, and a few of their parents’ as well. That pain he couldn’t bear; he was too weak to see others’ distress.

He’d put it off another day at least.

Casey picked through the mail. Most of it was junk, advertisements and the like. There was an electric bill and a belated card on his anniversary as a priest that he recognized from a former student, a conniving no-good liar, now a rich banker in Boston, God forgive him.

There was an envelope from the morning mail addressed to him and marked personal in large red letters, with a stamp he didn’t recognize and no return address. He picked it up and tore open the end as his housekeeper came in.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Father? An everyday miracle.”

Mrs. Perez was in the habit of exaggerating, and she could very well have been talking about a new cleanser for the kitchen floor, father Casey gave her only part of his attention, reserving the rest for the envelope. There was an odd book in it, the sort that the priest associated with raffles.

It was only as he flipped through them that he realized they were airline tickets. And a hotel. Transfers between them. And a bus tour.

All for Jerusalem.

Nonrefundable, according to the script.

“Anonymous,” said Mrs. Perez.

He’d find a way to get these exchanged, he thought. They would fund a quarter of the basketball season, if not more.

Still, if he couldn’t…

God was tempting him. He would do the right thing. The priest felt a twinge of guilt as he looked up.

“He spoke to the treasurer himself. The money was wired into the account,” said Mrs. Perez.

“What are you talking about?” he asked the housekeeper. “Who spoke to the treasurer?”

“A parishioner who wishes to remain anonymous. He funded the basketball season — the entire season — And asked for not so much as a God bless you in return. He must be a saint, father. A true saint.”

Casey blinked. “Aye,” he said, looking back at the tickets. “A saint and a sinner… The best of us are.”