Peter had looked forward to the morning of Black Saturday, the calm before the storm. For a few hours, no obligations - no Mass to say, no Eucharist to give, no one to see - unless, of course, he was called to give a dying person the Last Rites. No priest ever escaped that duty, not even when-
The ringing telephone nearly startled him out of his skin.
"Father Clifford speaking," he breathed.
As Peter made his way to the front door of Siobhan's house, he prepared himself for a dozen possibilities. Someone was visiting and had a heart attack - Brendan? Padraig? She herself had been well enough to speak...a moribund veterinary patient? Surely she knew better than that. Peter's heart pounded. All she'd said was "Can you come over?"
When he arrived, he could see her eyes were red and swollen, but she had a pot of tea on and made no motion to lead him to a body. Instead, she sat him at her coffee table.
"Something's happened," she said, weakly. "Life as I know it is over."
...Slow-acting poison? "What's happened?" he managed.
"I'm pregnant."
His career had prepared him for a million different takes on those words. Niamh's elation, the first time; her cocktail of paranoia and optimism, the second. A teenage athlete in despair. A woman who had to choose between continuing the pregnancy and her own life-saving chemotherapy. He had always managed to find the right thing to say, to listen without judgment and offer support.
But he'd never before seen the look on Siobhan's face. She had the paranoia and the despair, but also the look of someone who'd just shaken hands with an extraterrestrial. She was older than Peter and, he'd always thought, a few shades smarter than just about everyone in town. Lately, he thought she might have him beat on the morality count as well, by a few goals at least.
He could think of no wisdom to share. He simply put his arms around her.
"These things happen in threes, right?" she mumbled into his shoulder. "There'll be one more surprise any day now, won't there?"
Oh, just you wait, he thought - then realised he was a step behind. "Wait, what was the first?"
Siobhan's face brightened a little. "Hold on."
She rose and opened the bathroom door.
An hour later, Joey was still curled asleep in the priest's lap.
"At least the fur will blend in with the suit," Siobhan joked.
"I hope the drool does as well," Peter smiled. "So he can't stay here?"
She pushed out her lower lip and blew a puff of air through her red fringe. "Pregnant women shouldn't handle cat litter."
"And the father?" he asked, tentatively.
She gave a look of warning that quickly melted into resignation. "If I tell him - it turns out he's violently allergic."
"Oh," said the curate, wondering if his own unspoken truth was as obvious as hers.
She looked at the cat now. "I'd say he's made his preference clear."
"I'm quite taken with him," Peter admitted. What am I doing? I don't even know where I'll be living next week!
Welcome the stranger.
I must be going mad.
Just do it.
Where were you yesterday?!
Holding my tongue. You weren't where you're meant to be.
Am I now?
You're closer.
"I'll take him on," Peter said, having no clue how he'd manage this.
"Will it bother your landlord?"
He smiled nervously. "Hardly matters."
"Well, would you look at the pair of us?" Siobhan said, relaxing more by the minute. "Unexpected little ones, all round."
He recalled Niamh's useless gift, weeks ago. He thought of the christening ahead, of nursing mothers, of fussy infants, of necessary retreats during the sermon.
That's it.
Ambrose lit his candle from the Paschal flame as it travelled up the aisle, then shared this light with Niamh, who passed it to her father, who offered it to Imelda. The glow began to spread into the dark church, taper by taper, pew by pew. Sharper minds held the lit candle upright, bringing the unlit wick to meet it. Duller ones took their chances with the reverse operation, spilling hot wax onto their wrists and gasping into the dark.
He supposed it was rather like faith itself: you could try to force someone else to share the light, and risk burning him and singeing your own eyebrows, or you could wait for him to come to you, stand straight, be ready.
His mind wandered to his son's big day tomorrow as the light continued to overcome the dark, as the priest's shaky voice labored through the Exsultet. Ambrose wondered how Kieran must be faring in the care of Siobhan, who had seemed strangely insistent on babysitting this evening.
Ambrose heard Brian heave a sigh, no doubt longing for a cantor or a deacon who could more reliably carry a tune. Perhaps the change Niamh kept hinting at had to do with this. Some low-level shakeup, something that made it essential that they have Kieran christened before the arrival of some unknown quantity, some major force for change...
It dawned on Ambrose, just what was about to happen, slowly, gradually, like a thousand white candles lighting up one at a time - not abrupt but still astounding.
It also astounded him to feel neither frightened nor betrayed, but quite irrationally safe and calm.
It was late when Peter arrived home - well, what was home for now - and set his alarm for an ungodly hour, but he relaxed quickly with a warm black lump at his side. "Don't let's get too settled in," he said. "Tomorrow we may be lodging in a Ford Fiesta."
He dreamt an Easter Sunday where he stood totally naked before the congregation. He could tell it was making them uneasy, kept feeling he should at least find a frock to cover himself, but he simply couldn't muster the energy. He couldn't muster energy to do anything. He sensed also that he couldn't put on clothes without somehow admitting his nakedness had been wrong.
He searched the pews for Assumpta. She was nowhere. Father Mac finally came up to take his place at the altar, but Peter could hardly move.
He awoke to a small high voice, clamouring for a tin of tuna.
First day of the rest of my life, he thought.