In the Bleak Midwinter

“What do you mean, find her parents if you can? There can’t be that many McWhorters on or around Depot Street.”

“You haven’t seen the area. It’s our own quaint, rural version of a rat-infested slum. Mostly six-or eight-or ten-unit apartment buildings, falling down around the tenant’s ears. Not that most of ’em would notice if a place came down. Half the residents of that area don’t have telephones. They have twenty-four-inch TVs and satellite reception, but no phones.”

“Being poor doesn’t make a person bad, Russ. Just as being rich doesn’t make a person good.”

“I don’t blame anyone for being poor. Hell, my mother was poor after my father passed on. I blame people who could change their condition but are too lazy or too attached to drugs or booze or who just plain don’t care that they live like pigs and suck off the public teat.”

Clare dropped her glass to the table and stared at him incredulously. “Maybe, if instead of being angry at them, you got angry at the forces that shaped their lives, you might find yourself an instrument of change, rather than just a complainer. Maybe if you tried seeing individuals instead of some amorphous ‘them,’ you’d see people with problems, not just people who are problems.”

“Of all the—’scuse me for being blunt, Clare, but that’s naive.”

“No, it’s not. Reaching out to people who may not even realize what sort of help they need is hard, thankless work. I’ve met men and women who’ve dedicated their lives to it, and they’re some of the toughest, least starry-eyed people I know.”

“I notice you’re not doing that inner city thing, though.”

She threw up her hands. “I think you’ve pretty well proved that Millers Kill has the full compliment of modern problems, even without an ‘inner city.’ Part of my work here is going to be to lead my congregation into service. To get them to open their eyes and see the need all around them.”

“And do what?”

Clare tucked a strand fallen from her French twist behind her ear. “To start, I want us to reach out to girls like Katie McWhorter, girls whose pregnancies would otherwise mean a lifetime sentence of dependancy and bad relationships. Help them to stay in school. Teach them how to find a job, be a better mother. Mentor them so they know there are other ways they have value besides producing babies. Support them in changing their lives.”

“You haven’t seen the ingrained pockets of country poverty yet, Clare. Folks who’ve never held a job, or lived in a house where some man wasn’t beating on a woman, or gotten through a day without pounding down enough booze to make ’em forget their hardscrabble life. I’ve been there, and I’ve seen it all and cleaned up after the messes, and I’m here to tell you, you’re gonna break your heart if you try to change people like that.”

She smiled at him. Maybe not such a hard case after all. “I don’t have a choice, Russ. We’re all called to see the Christ in all people. Even a down-and-dirty atheist like you must have heard of ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself.’ ”

“Oh. Well, hell, if you’re gonna bring God into it . . .”

“You know, I like that about you.”

“What?”

“You’ve just seen me celebrate the Eucharist, I’m sitting here in my cassock and collar, and you still manage to forget that I’m a priest. You argue with me like I’m . . . just me. I like that.”

Russ shifted in his chair. “No big deal. I’m just too ignorant to know there’s a way I’m supposed to treat a priest, that’s all.”

Clare smiled into her sherry. Russ spun the manila folder around on the tabletop.

“Katie McWhorter.”

“Yes.” Clare dropped her glass on the table and rose from her chair. “We can check right now to see if there are any McWhorters listed in the phone book. C’mon into my office.”

Russ studied Clare’s eclectic decor while she paged through the Millers Kill directory. “No McWhorters listed for Depot Street. Or for South Street or Beale Avenue. No Kristen McWhorter, no K. McWhorter.” She flopped the book shut. “Now what?”

“Now, tomorrow morning I go to the bank and see if I can find the sister. The best way to a positive I.D. will be to have a family member identify her at the morgue. Failing that, I’ll head for the high school. They should still have Katie’s records.”

“Would you like me to come along to the bank? Or to the morgue? To be there when you break the news to Katie’s sister?”

“To what, comfort her in her hour of need? We don’t know if she’s religious or not, Clare. Maybe she wouldn’t want a priest hanging around.”

“Maybe not. But I’ll bet she’ll want to speak to the woman who was there when her sister’s body was recovered. And you’d be better off having someone from St. Alban’s there when you ask her about Katie’s connection to the church.”

“I will, huh? And this wouldn’t have anything to do with you wanting to be in on the investigation?”