Free Empire Falls by Richard Russo Page A

good, took more comfort from His remoteness. Though Miles didn’t think of himself as a man up to no good, he did prefer the notion of an all-loving God to that of an all-knowing one. It pleased him to imagine God as someone like his mother, someone beleaguered by too many responsibilities, too dog-tired to monitor an energetic boy every minute of the day, but who, out of love and fear for his safety, checked in on him whenever she could. Was this so crazy? Surely God must have other projects besides Man, just as parents had responsibilities other than raising their children? Miles liked the idea of a God who, when He at last had the opportunity to return His attention to His children, might shake His head with wonder and mutter, “Jesus. Look what they’re up to now.” A distractible God, perhaps, one who’d be startled to discover so many of His children way up in trees since the last time He looked. A God whose hand would go rushing to His mouth in fear in that instant of recognition that—good God!—that kid’s going to hurt himself. A God who could be surprised by unanticipated pride—glory be, that boy is a climber!
    An idle, daydream deity, this, Miles had to admit. In truth, when God looked down upon His mischievous children, they were usually up to far worse than climbing trees.
    If there were such a deity, though, and if He’d ever feared that Miles would hurt himself, He could quit worrying anytime now. For all his early promise, Miles had scaled no heights, and now, at forty-two, he was so afraid of them that he cowered near the steel doors of glass elevators, reluctant to move back away from them and let others step on.
    “I thought we agreed you weren’t going to attempt the steeple,” Father Mark said.
    “We did, I guess.” Originally, Miles had imagined that by painting the church himself, he could save the parish a lot of money, but both contractors he’d spoken to about painting just the steeple wanted to charge nearly as much for that as they would have for the entire building. Annoyed that he proposed to do the safe, easy part himself, they let him know that the part he didn’t want was the part nobody wanted, and that was the part that cost you. The truth of this stung. “The trouble is,” Miles told his friend, “every time I look up there, it’s an accusation.”
    “So don’t look up.”
    “Fine advice for a man of the spirit to give,” said Miles, looking up and feeling at that moment a drop of rain.
    Father Mark had also looked up and also felt a drop. “Let’s go over to the Rectum and have a cup of coffee,” he suggested. “You can tell me about your vacation.”
    Ever since Miles had confessed his boyhood confusion about the words “rectory” and “rectum,” Father Mark—as delighted by the mistake as Grace Roby had been—had preferred this nomenclature, even though it sometimes slipped out when it shouldn’t. Such as earlier that summer when at the end of Mass he invited the parishioners to join him and Father Tom for lemonade on the lawn behind the Rectum.
    St. Cat’s rectory was one of Miles’s favorite places. It was bright and sunny in all seasons, warm in the winter, breezy in the summer, but probably it had more to do with the fact that Father Tom—now retired but still living in the rectory—had never allowed children there. Nor had Miles’s mother ever been invited in, for that matter, so perhaps it was the exclusion that added to the attraction. All of the rooms on the bottom floor were large and high-ceilinged, with tall, uncurtained windows that allowed passersby a glimpse of the privileged life inside. The Rectum’s dining room, which fronted the street, had an oak dining table long enough to seat twenty guests, though when Miles and his mother walked by late on Saturday afternoons after having had their confessions heard, the room was occupied only by Father Tom, seated regally at one end, and his housekeeper, Mrs. Dumbrowski, hovering in