Pie Town - Lynne Hinton [34]
Bernie studied the young priest. “Yeah, I reckon that’s probably the truth.”
Blushing without completely knowing why, Father George took the wad of wet napkins and threw them in the trash can at the edge of the shelter.
“Well, I just hope she ain’t got trouble coming with her or after her.” Bernie sat back down at a table.
Father George hadn’t considered that Trina might have friends who would join her.
“We don’t need no more drugs being peddled through here. We had enough of that with the sheriff’s daughter and her crew. Thank God they all left or got locked up.” He was watching the group of people coming in his direction.
Father George turned to study the rancher. The news of drugs in his parish, in this sleepy little town, surprised him, especially in reference to the sheriff’s family. He cleared his throat, not knowing what to say. “It seems like everybody from town is here at the party,” he finally said, changing the subject.
“Yep, it’s about the only thing this town can agree on, celebrating Alex, having his birthday party out here. I figure you’ll learn about our disagreeing ways before long,” Bernie commented with a grin. “We ain’t an easy town to motivate or resuscitate.”
George was about to ask for an explanation, but before he could ask the question the others had made their way into the picnic shelter.
“Father George,” called out one of the women, the first one to enter the shelter. She was older, thick around the waist, and hunched over. She pulled herself up to make the introduction. “Good to see you.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Fedora Snow,” she announced. “I’m in charge of the Altar Guild,” she added. “I’m sure you’ve seen my name on the programs. I had planned to drive out to the parish to introduce myself earlier this week when I had heard you arrived, but I figured you needed a few days to get settled. I expect I’ll have a chance to come by in the next few days to fill you in on how our Guild works here in Pie Town.”
Father George smiled and shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Snow.”
“It’s Miss Snow.” Oris had made his way back to the shelter too. “She’s never married, although I suspect she’s spied enough on other folks’ marriages to know what she’s missing.” He pinched her on the behind as he walked past the two of them, making his way to the coolers.
“Oris Whitsett!” Fedora yelled out, falling into the priest. “You are a sorry son of a bitch!” She suddenly realized what she had said, and in what company, and she immediately turned a bright shade of red. “I’m so sorry,” she sputtered. “I, he, I . . .” She struggled with her words. She backed away from Father George.
“Oh, hush up, Fedora,” Oris called out. “You might as well let the good father know who he’s dealing with. No need trying to act like the saint everybody here knows you ain’t.” He laughed a bit and took a soda from the cooler. He sat down at one of the tables.
Fedora made a huffing noise and quickly turned to walk to the front table in the shelter, a place as far away from her neighbor as she could manage.
Father George cleared his throat. His discomfort with the conversation was obvious, and he struggled to find a way to change the subject or move things along.
“I’m Malene.” A middle-aged woman had walked up from the field with the others. She was pushing an older woman in a wheelchair, and she stopped the chair just in front of the priest and greeted him. “I’m Alex’s grandmother and that old geezer’s daughter,” she explained, glancing over to Oris. “He’s a handful, and you should be glad he was forced to leave the church years ago,” she added. “And this is Mrs. Henderson.” She smiled down at the woman in the chair.
“I quit the church,” Oris explained before anybody else could speak. “Nobody forced me out. I just got fed up with all that mumbo-jumbo you say every Sunday and the way the hypocrites always take over.”
“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Henderson,” Father George said, ignoring Oris. He stuck out his hand to the old woman, and she rolled her eyes