George swept the marble floors at St. Bede’s. He used to love Tuesdays. Monsignor Hanson presided over 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. He’d eat lunch alone in the rectory. Mrs. Biedelmaier always prepared his Tuesday favorite, corned beef and sauerkraut, a staple in the Point Breeze neighborhood of Pittsburgh.
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. Fifteen years would have fallen by the wayside when he awoke and he’d go for a walk through Squirrel Hill before returning to the rectory for a light supper and prayer.
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.
George didn’t see any point to the same routine. His family had all left, one by one. Mary and John had gone to Philadelphila. Margaret had retreated to her life of books in Cleveland. And Isabella – the only one who stayed in Pittsburgh, she lived just five blocks away, married to her Episcopalian husband. That man. Yet George refused to see her. She’d have to make the first move.
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