Free The Angel of Milan by R. J. Grant

remaining years here at St. Andrew. The monsignor was credited with granting his request. Usually there is no place for old men in a rectory.
                  I watched him sleeping in his big armchair, a book  on the floor, where it had fallen from his hand as he dozed off. I doubted very much that I would ever reach that point, but I didn’t envy him. Waiting for death in an armchair was not something to look forward to. I was sure my own end would be violent and quick. Mucking about and peeing my own pants was not likely. 
                  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the house keeper kept looking over at me with a angry expression every time she passed through the room. It became a little annoying not knowing what she found so objectionable about me. After the third time she passed through, I mumbled under my breath something to the affect of, “old crow.”
                  “I see she doesn’t like you much, either,” said Ignatius from the armchair.
                  “I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean to wake you. I was just annoyed at the looks I’ve been getting from the house keeper.”
                  “Do not be surprised, my son. She doesn’t like you. In her eyes you don’t look any more like a priest than I do. We do not fit her expectation of the clergy. I’m afraid Teresa has found you objectionable,” he said with a little laugh. “If you wish, do as I do—skip shaving, and pretend to pick your underwear out of your ass every once in a while. It makes her crazy.”
                  It was plain to see that the old priest still had all his marbles. Bravo for you, old man, you are still fighting back , I thought.
                  “If she keeps it up, I will try your advice, but for the time being I will try not to antagonize her. She looks the type that would pray for your damnation.”
                  “I assure you, Adama, she does, and I also assure you she is diligent in her cause,” he said, ending with that little laugh again.
                  On that cheerful note, the old man seemed to doze off again. I pictured him walking about in her presence, pulling at the back of his baggy drawers. The image brought a smile to my face and determination to fight back, an attribute for which I needed little encouragement. 
                  My mind again went to Giovanni. It was time to find that greasy bastard, and see just what he was all about. Evidence of his transgressions was circumstantial, but that was more than enough for me. I had no problem administering penance first, and then listening to his confession.
                  Do I hear an Amen?              

A little Wine, a Little Truth
             
    5                                                                                     It was not long before I tired of watching the old man sleep. The rest of the rectory was empty. Everyone was out doing whatever it is they do between morning Mass and dinner. I had often thought that the life of a parish priest must bring on excruciating depression. Visit the sick, bury the dead, and console those left behind. Ah, it must be a calling. I decided to go up to my quarters and stretch out for a while.
                  While walking up the stairs, I thought I heard a sound coming from my room. I approached quietly, and opened the door slowly to find a man looking through my closet. He wore the black suit of a priest.
     
                  “What are you doing?” I asked firmly.
                  The man turned with a startled look on his face, and guilt in the corners of his mouth. I was sure that he or whoever sent him had not expected me to be able to return today. I gave him a quick study; the haircut and the