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Back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth. He kept thinking it was trying to tell him something.
    A Catholic with any training at all would have knelt down. He didn’t know enough to do that, so he was still standing at the rail when a man came through the side door, threw his right hand around in front of his face and chest, then did a quick bobbing kneel in front of the altar. John almost laughed. The man was wearing a robe that only sort-of fitted him. The sleeves were too long and fell down over his hands. It gave them something in common. John’s shirt was too long, too. His clothes were always the wrong sizes, because they were always picked off the rag tables at Goodwill.
    That’s a priest, John thought. Just as he thought it, the man held out his hand and said:
    “I’m Father Carnetti. Can I do something for you?”
    Later, he would think of all the answers he could have made to that question. God only knew, he had enough that needed to be done. Standing there in the church, he could only think of one thing to say, and it didn’t make any sense.
    “What was that you were doing with your hand?” he asked the priest. “That thing when you first came in.”
    “You mean the Sign of the Cross?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Father Carnetti made the Sign of the Cross again, slowly this time, so that John could see exactly what he was doing.
    “That was it,” John said.
    “I take it you’re not a Christian,” Father Carnetti said.
    “I don’t know.”
    “Well, certainly not a Catholic.”
    “I don’t know,” John said again. He hesitated. “My father was a Catholic once, I think. A long time ago. I think I was too little to remember.”
    “What about your mother?”
    “She used to go to church.” John coughed. He could only vaguely remember his mother going to church, mornings when she left him alone with his father or just alone. He couldn’t have been more than two or three years old. Then he remembered something, and brightened. “She used to have beads she carried around. Beads with a cross on the end of them. That’s Catholic, isn’t it?”
    “That’s right. That’s a rosary.”
    “So she must have been Catholic once in a while.”
    “What is she now?”
    “The next best thing to dead.”
    “Ah,” Father Carnetti said. “I see.”
    John held his breath. He had no idea what he’d meant by what he’d said. He had no idea how to explain it. If Father Carnetti asked him about it, he was going to have to turn and run.
    But Father Carnetti had turned back to the crucifix. He had his hands behind his back and his chin down so that it tucked into his high collar.
    “I came over here to get away from the rectory,” he said. “My housekeeper made my dinner for me and then went home. She’s got six grandchildren. Do you want to come and eat with me?”
    “Eat?”
    “Well, it is Christmas. I hate eating alone on Christmas. My family’s out in Oregon and I couldn’t get away.”
    “Do you have children of your own?”
    “Priests don’t have children of their own. We don’t marry. I have a sister in Portland. She’s got the children.”
    “I’m sorry you couldn’t—get away.”
    “So was I. Now maybe I’ve changed my mind. Will you come and eat with me?”
    “Yes,” John said. At that point, he would have gone to eat with vultures in a lion’s den. His stomach felt like one of those black holes they’d told him about in one of the schools he’d attended in those intermittent periods when his father had money.
    “Good,” Father Carnetti said. “I’ll tell you all about the Catholic Church. When we get to the pie, maybe you can tell me about that look you had on your face when I came in here.”
    “Look?”
    “Never mind. I used to walk around with that look on my face once, when I was your age. I think we’d better get moving. The stuffing’s sitting out on the table getting cold.”
    Father Carnetti turned and started walking back toward the side door, his robe