Free The One That Got Away by Leigh Himes Page B

Though I was raised without any formal religious training, Roberta being an agnostic, Jimmy was Catholic, making me one by marriage. I changed the subject, asking my new friend how he came to be a priest.
    Father Ferguson, or “Fergie” as he insisted I call him, seemed less socially awkward and more worldly than the priests I knew in Grange Hill, so I wasn’t surprised to learn he had come late to his ministry. In fact, he’d been married once—to his high school sweetheart, who he claimed was the great love of his life. They livedtogether “blissfully” until 1972, when she and their son, his only child, were killed by a drunk driver. He spent two years trying to drink himself to death, finally got sober, joined the priesthood, and made it his life’s work to help poor children and their families, asking the church to place him in the most crime-ridden sections of southwest Philadelphia. It was a tough job, full of heartbreak, but he credited it with rescuing him from despondency and keeping him sober these past twenty-five years. In his words: “It brought me back to life.”
    He told me one story of a four-year-old boy who showed up on Holy Rosary’s doorstep too weak to stand. Turned out the boy had scurvy from a diet of oatmeal, mac ’n’ cheese, and soda, the only foods his parents could afford—or, frankly, find—in the “food desert” of far West Philadelphia. Today, the boy was strong and healthy, and now about to graduate with a degree in economics from La Salle University.
    “Growing up in South Philadelphia, we never had much, but we
always
ate,” he said. “I can’t bear the thought of kids going hungry. Have you ever seen the look in a mother’s eyes when she knows her little ones are starving but there is nothing she can do about it?”
    I shook my head. Even in Grange Hill, where people lived paycheck to paycheck and the bank owned at least one house on every block, no one ever went hungry. I promised to visit Holy Rosary later that week and made a mental note to talk to Alex about his promise. From across the room, I could see my husband watching us, but he made no move to come over. I told Father Fergie I had to go.
    He reached up and touched my face, turning it toward him to ensure my complete attention: “Abigail, I’ve appealed to every person in this town and they’ve all let me down. Now I’m putting all my hopes in your sweet face,” he said.
    “I’ll try my best.”
    “That’s all I ask.” He smiled widely and clapped his hands together, as if his job was done. Then, more quietly, he added, “I’m just sorry we haven’t met before.”
    “Well, we might have,” I said quietly, not wanting to lie to a priest. “You see, I don’t really know. In fact, I’m not really who you think I am.”
    He chuckled as if I’d made a joke, and leaned in close to whisper in my ear: “None of us are, dear.”
    He stood up, lifted my hand to kiss it, like a knight kissing a lady after a tournament, and then walked out the door.
    Standing up, I noticed the crowd had thinned, but only slightly, with most people still drinking and laughing, some in heated discussions, saliva spraying as they spoke, while others lounged their bodies across couches, almost motionless, their bellies full of red wine and oysters. I noticed a few folks still clustered by the raw bar and my stomach growled, and I realized then just how long it had been since I had eaten. But when I reached them, I saw that the bar was picked clean, the mound of ice bare except for a few lemon wedges and some frozen dill fronds.
    Not easily thwarted, I strolled around the room searching for some leftover crudités or for a server passing a tray. But all I could fine was a solitary silver dish of dry brown crackers on a sideboard in the corner. I shoved a few in my mouth, grateful for any sustenance. Then I looked for Alex, figuring it was time for me to go.
    But all at once the three white-gray wolfhounds leapt off their