Free Shelter Me by Juliette Fay Page A

spent many days just like this one hiking in New Hampshire or Vermont before they’d had kids. She loved to hike. But not now.
    Nevertheless there she was, trudging up her shady street. Carly was strapped into the carrier on her back, the wide pink brim of the baby’s hat flopping with each reluctant step Janie took. Father Jake commented on various things around them: a squad of bicycles in a neighbor’s yard, the height of an evergreen, the lack of fences. “How do you like your neighbors?” he asked.
    “Well, I don’t know everyone,” she said. “Some keep to themselves. But most are nice. A few are still here from when I was a kid growing up in the neighborhood. When Robby died they sent an unbelievable amount of food. Kind of funny because I’d never had less of an appetite in my life, and suddenly I was up to my armpits in casseroles and banana bread.”
    Father Jake nodded and strode silently for a few minutes. “You know, I was thinking,” he said quietly. “That’s one of the worst things about being homeless. I mean, other than being without shelter. No neighbors. No one to notice when your life takes an unexpected turn. No one to bake banana bread.”
    “So you’re saying I should be glad.”
    “Glad?”
    “That though I’m a widow, pushing forty, with two small children, at least I have a roof over my head.” She felt Carly slump slowly forward against her back, the little dozing body collapsing by degrees. “Of course, if I were homeless, I suppose I could be glad that I wasn’t also blind. Or lame. Or cursed with the heartbreak of psoriasis.”
    Father Jake smiled at her. “You always make things funny.”
    “By that you mean I’m a sarcastic smart-ass.”
    “By that I mean you’re funny. I wish I had that gift. I imagine it helps.”
    Janie stopped and put her hands on her hips. It took Father Jake a step or two to realize she wasn’t moving forward anymore. He turned toward her and waited.
    “You know,” she said quietly so as not to disturb the sleeping baby, “you’d have a little more credibility if you weren’t so unflinchingly nice.” His eyebrows shot up. Janie continued, “I’ve been a total bitch to you, and you keep acting like visiting me is somehow pleasant.”
    He squinted at her, nodded slightly, looked away. Then he met her gaze. “I guess both things are true. You have been a total bitch to me. You’re antagonistic and snide and a terrible listener.”
    Janie stepped back, stunned.
    “You’re also…” he searched for the word, “oddly likable, underneath all the sarcasm. And,” he rubbed his thumb and forefinger over his eyebrows. “And you bagged me doing my…what did you call it…? My Father Friendly impression.” He chuckled then and shook his head. “I am unflinchingly nice, and it’s a kick to be around someone who challenges me to be more than that.”
    Janie turned slowly and began to walk again. The baby was now snoring gently against her shoulder blade, the weight propelling her forward. “Where’s your collar?” she asked as Father Jake fell into step with her.
    “In my pocket. I got the feeling it annoyed you.”
    They turned right at the end of her street, down a less-frequented road; this dead-ended at a path that climbed gradually up a hill. Father Jake matched her pace, neither slow nor fast, and she began to feel her limbs warm up. Not a surging, angry heat, the kind that had become so familiar in the past five months. More of a steady warmth that poured through her like hot honey. “So, I’m a terrible listener,” she said.
    “Either that or you misunderstand me on purpose. I haven’t decided which, yet.”
    “Probably a little of both.”
    “Probably.”
     
    T HE VIEW FROM THE top of Jansen’s Hill was obscured by the oaks and evergreens that had moved in since the Jansen family had given up and let the farmland revert to forest in the 1930s. But hikers still got the sense that they had ascended to a satisfying