Deep Betrayal

window ledge. I peered through the glass, cupping my hands at my temples to keep out the sunlight. Inside it was dark but for a sliver of light from under the office door.
    I shook the handle again and called through the glass, “Mrs. Boyd, are you in there? Mrs. Boyd?”
    The office door opened and Mrs. Boyd stepped out. She stopped just beyond the counter and said, “Sorry, we’re … Oh, it’s you.” She finished her walk to the door and unlocked it, opening it just enough to let me in. She tucked a wrinkled tissue in her bra.
    “Good Lord, girl, you look awful. I’ll have your coffee ready in two seconds.”
    I followed her to the counter. “Why are you closed? Everything okay?”
    Mrs. Boyd bent over behind the espresso machine and got a gallon of milk from the refrigerator. “I’m always closed on this day.”
    I leaned against the counter and waited for her to finish steaming the milk. “Anything I can do to help?”
    “That’s sweet, honey, but no, thank you.” From where I stood, I had a clear view of the office. Its door was still partially open. I’d never been inside; Mrs. Boyd always kept it locked. Through the gap I could see a bulletin board covered in faded photographs. Another vigil candle burned on the desk.
    “Another St. Jude?” I asked, gesturing vaguely toward the office.
    Mrs. Boyd looked, then went over to close the door. “St. Adjutor.”
    I’d never heard of him, but that didn’t mean much. Mrs. Boyd handed me my coffee, put a day-old apple fritter in my hand, then practically pushed me out the door. Once she had me on the sidewalk, she locked the door again and pulled the shade.
    “Okayee,” I said to myself. “Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, Lil.” I headed toward a red-lacquered bench by the water.
    It was almost the Fourth of July, but the lake air still kept the mornings cool. Halyards ting-tang ed off the sailboat masts in the marina, and cars rolled idly through town. There was an Eeyaw, aw! Yaw! and two seagulls landed a few yards from me, eyeing my breakfast with tilted heads.
    Hungry? They took two synchronized steps toward me, so I pinched off some of the fritter and tossed it their way.
    “Feeding the birds, Miss Hancock? That’s very Franciscan of you.”
    I shielded my eyes from the midmorning sun and found the speaker, a man dressed in worn sneakers, khaki pants, and a jean jacket. Underneath, he wore a black shirt and white collar.
    “Father Hoole! I didn’t recognize you at first.”
    “Ha! A full cassock seemed a little formal for a walk in the park.”
    “Yeah, guess so.”
    He sat down beside me, and I shuffled to my right. “Am I disturbing you?” he asked.
    I shrugged and threw the remaining pastry to thebirds. They fought over it, snapping at each other in turns. “Not really.”
    “I didn’t see your family at Mass this morning. I haven’t seen your dad in a few.”
    “Oh, is it Sunday?” Father Hoole leaned back to see if I was kidding. “Sorry, Father. I guess we all forgot. Rough night.”
    “Anything you’d like to talk about?”
    “You mean like a confession?”
    “Well, if you’d like to go up to the church we can, but I was thinking more like a conversation.”
    “Oh. Okay.” I fingered my necklace absentmindedly, trying to think of a good explanation. “Let’s just say I’ve let some things get a little out of hand.”
    Father Hoole shifted his weight and looked out across the lake. He was right. This might be easier if we didn’t look at each other. “I see. Maybe you could define ‘out of hand.’ ”
    “What if I told you I was hearing voices?”
    Father Hoole’s shoulders relaxed. Apparently he preferred this question to the direction he thought our conversation was going. “Ah. Well. The prophets heard voices.”
    “They heard God,” I said.
    “Fair enough. Are you hearing God?”
    I shook my head and kicked at the seagull who’d lost out on the meal. “I seriously doubt it.”
    “Are the voices coming from a place of love?”
    “Exact opposite. They sound angry.”
    “Ah. Common misconception.” Father Hoole leaned forward and rested his forearms on his knees, his fingers clasped together. His khakis were frayed at the bottoms. “Anger isnot the opposite of love. The opposite of love is indifference. Indifference, neglect … these things can do terrible damage to a person. Apathy can suck the life right out of someone.”
    Apathy? Maris and Pavati could be described in