Collin swept the marble floors at St. Patrick’s. He used to love Tuesdays. Monsignor Ryan presided at the school those days and he had the day to himself. After morning mass, five or six in the pews, he’d start preparing his homily for Sunday’s mass. He’d eat lunch alone in the rectory. Mrs. Scheidelmaier always prepared his Tuesday favorite, corned beef and sauerkraut.
He’d go back to his desk for reflection on his chosen lessons and, before an hour had passed, he’d have the outline of his first draft completed. As a reward, he’d read a book for pleasure and, more likely than not, he’d fall asleep for twenty minutes. Fifteen years would have fallen by the wayside when he awoke and he’d go for a walk around Rittenhouse Square before returning to the rectory for a light supper, reading, and off to Neverland.
These days, he’d lost interest in his homilies, cycling each year through the same lessons, pontificating the same moral platitudes, reprimanding children and adults alike for committing the same sins. The sins never changed, only the people. When he went for his walks these days, he used a cane and dressed warmer than he used to dress. When it went below fifty, he’d have to wear gloves – but even ten years ago, he’d gone outside without a parka at forty-five.
Collin didn’t see any point to the same routine. His family had deserted him – Siobhan and Patrick had gone to Washington. Julia had retreated to her life of books in Manhattan. And Agnes – the only one who remained in Philadelphia, she lived only five blocks away. Yet he could not see her. She’d have to make the first move.
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