Free Traveling with Spirits by Valerie Miner Page B

it’s the ice. Also, I hate the milky skies. Usually the saving graces of our winter are blue skies and glistening snow. But we’ve had skim milk overcast for a week and no fresh snow. The back garden has lost its creamy texture—dead grass gets exposed and the lawn is beginning to resemble those glazed sugar cookies. Do you get much snowfall in Moorty?
      She grins at Beata’s excellent manners; following her own news with questions.
    You must be wondering about James.
      Well, yes, dear.
      Last night we went to that funny restaurant: Sushi Tango in Calhoun Square. He surprised me with his expertise about sushi and sashimi, which he picked up when he was a soldier in Japan. A hard posting for a black man, but he made several close Japanese friends and he’s devoted to the cuisine. The evening was full of stories. He asked about me, too. The one disappointment is that he attends Westminster Presbyterian. At least he’s a man of faith. We have plans to see each other on the weekend.
      Yes! Beata was beginning to give up finding a good man in Minnesota. Here’s a woman who deserves happiness, after all she’s done for others. Finishing the tea, Monica realizes she’s not at all jealous. She must truly be recovering from Eric.
      The gong echoes. She stretches, folds the blanket, grabs a blue sweater to wear under her shawls. The walk back to the residence after dinner will be freezing. Hurrying, she notices excitement about meeting the elusive Dr. Sanchez. She trusts he found some peace in the chapel.
      Father Freitas walks into the refectory at the same time. “How was your afternoon, doctor?”
      “I met an interesting woman, a teacher. Perhaps you know her—Sudha Badami?”
      “Yes,” he smiles. “A good person. She often brings students here. She’s made an unusual vocational choice for a Bombayite with such fine training—did she tell you she has a degree from St. Andrews?—to opt for village education. She’s very dedicated. A missionary in her own way.”
      “But definitely not a Christian.”
      “Ohhhh, most certainly not.” He holds out a chair at the dinner table for her. “At first she was leery of us. Worried we were peddling doctrine with our medical care.”
      “She quizzed you about this?” Monica recalls the woman’s imposing manner.
      “Quizzes are her specialty,” he chortles. “We had a coffee in town—now you must let me introduce you to the Kerala Coffee House on your half day next week.”
      The Walshes enter, chatting intently. Rather, he talks rapidly to his nodding wife.
      “Ms. Badami has invited me to speak on hygiene to her class Tuesday afternoon.”
      “But of course.” Father rocks in his chair. “She got to you quickly! It took her two months to persuade me to speak about Goan history. She does all she can to introduce those children to diverse voices.”
      She’s intrigued. “So you two sparred about religion?”
      “It was more temperate than sparring, a lively discussion. She questioned why the Church has established our own clinic. Why we needed a priest here. After all, what practical use am I, aside from administrative work, any sensible non-Christian might inquire.” 
      “She asked that?”
      “Not directly,” he lowers his voice. “I did explain that I served those who asked.”
      “I guess you didn’t reveal the local congregation has trebled since you arrived.”
      “Now where would you get such a notion?” He frowns, then checks to see who’s assembled for diner.
      Dr. Sanchez is still missing.
      “Sister Margaret in Delhi told me. She’s one of your greatest fans.”
      “God bless Sister Margaret, but she shouldn’t be telling tales like…ah, here he is, Dr. Sanchez!” He whispers as the dark-haired man approaches. “A fine person, but excitable. Very tired. The last journey was arduous.”
      Kevin Walsh announces, “I believe everyone has arrived. Shall we sit at table?”
      Sit at