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The local priest - At the Fundraiser - Tagged: Open
Luca had some...demons to face. He had been avoiding this for some time now, but he knew he needed to get it done now or never. Father Walter's office seemed colder now. The pictures that lined his desk, his file cabinet, the various other mismatched furniture, they all held a once warm glow. Father George Walter had been perhaps more than just a mentor to Luca. He had helped raised funds to get Luca into America, he helped pay for his school, he gave him a home, and he gave him a
chance. He was like family to Luca, perhaps the closest thing he would ever know for the rest of his life.
The young priest wiped his eyes on his sweater sleeve and slowly got to work. The files, papers, and belongings left behind needed to be sorted through.
It took well into the afternoon. Luca would be attending the local fundraiser that evening, but he needed to get this behind him.
He pulled open another heavy desk drawer and began sorting through the papers. Bills, notes, documents, and then a manila folder. He pulled it out and opened it, expecting more documents for the church's banking account. But, instead, travel documents, passport papers, plane tickets, and a few photos fell out. Luca's own name popped out at him, and his curiosity peaked. Surely, after all these years, Father Walter hadn't kept these papers? But sure enough, the aging priest's pack rat tendencies to keep any kind of even remotely important paper had prevailed.
Luca thumbed through the papers, then put them in the "shred" pile. He woudldn't need those. His passport was long expired and he was already a legal citizen now. He flipped over the first photo, and the image was haunting. A teenage boy, probably about 18 or so, stared back at him, eyes hallow. He was thin, sickly, and wore what was once a white t-shirt. His feet were bare, despite melting snow on the ground. One side of his face was purple, bruised as though someone had taken to it like a punching bag, and one eye was swollen shut with infection. He felt a little sick looking at the image of what he once was. He wasn't sure he wanted to turn the other photo over now.
But he did. This was one better. The same boy, sitting in a hospital bed with a younger Mrs. Pearson by his side. She and her husband had been the ones to find him and insist on bringing him home. He was smiling for the camera, his face much less swollen, and was hooked up to a hoard of IVs. Memories flooded back to Luca's mind. He'd never been in a hospital before, and he was terrified. He'd only known Mrs. Pearson for a few days, but he clung to her like she was his birth mother. He'd never been able to trust a single soul since he'd lost his family. He remembered the nurses fussing over him, being so nice because they pitied him. He remembered the doctor coming in and explaining to him that he had a disease that wasn't curable. He remembered Mrs. Pearson crying, and not understanding why.
Luca slid the photos back into the folder. He didn't want them, but he figured he should at least turn them over to the Pearsons. He slowly got back to work, sorting and filing.
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"You look so handsome," Mrs. Gloria crooned as she fruitlessly tried to tame his hair. Luca was about to head out for the fundraiser event, but lacking a suit to wear, Mrs. Gloria has loaned her one of her sons'. Apparently him and Luca had a strikingly similar build. Luca stood still while the woman combed his mane until she finally gave up.
"Thank you, Mrs. Gloria. I'll have it back tomorrow, cleaned and pressed."
"Oh don't worry about that, hun. I know the dry cleaner up the street; I can have it done for cheaper."
"Thank you," He said again, his voice drowned out by her's.
"Now go on, dear, you don't want to be late. Those pamphlets won't hand out themselves!"
The man nodded and took his messenger bag over his shoulder. Luca would be handing out pamphlets for the church, which included a calendar of the upcoming BBQ cookout to invite new members. He headed out the large, oak doors of his ornate home. Luca had lived at the church ever since arriving in America. It was comfortable to him. His bedroom, a small space once used for storage on the second floor, was where he did his best writing. He climbed into the church's passenger van, the faded words "Our Lady of Sorrow Cathedral" printed on the side, and pulled out of the parking lot and into the street.
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Luca stood with his hands folded behind his back. His booth had a banner for the church hung over the front, and pamphlets, calendars, and other advertisements piled high. Being the quiet natured man he was, he was more than happy to let the other volunteers hand things out while he hung back to answer more complicated questions and sign people up for events.
