VII.

The party could not be better. There were more people than on other occasions and Tim seemed happier than ever, although he knew that was due more to the expectation of the three-legged race than to the obligation to dress up as a girl for the play with the Cubs.

He listened here and there to people anxious for the arrival of a television celebrity. He didn't know who he was, although he had a device at home, he never had time to sit in front of it and watch any of the programs. Still, it was nice to see everyone excited enjoying a free afternoon.

Fred had on his face the pride of a Broadway director when he introduced his Cubs and the representation of Robin Hood began. It was a small disaster but that could not matter less when the children were trying their best. He couldn't help laughing at Tim and in the head he began to invent dozens of jokes that would make just to annoy him.

He felt light and calm, enjoying the party and the little musical, but he also felt observed. He looked sideways, and he saw her. She was a few meters away, smiling too, or rather, trying to quell laughter. The fleeting thought of her watching him as he did with her for months moved him, but he totally dismissed that. He must not imagine things, he should not distract himself from his son.

Nurse Lee scared him when she approached him almost crying. He was used to being searched at any inconvenient time but on that bright and happy afternoon, he hoped that no one would suffer and need him. That hope was in vain, he had to leave the place. In his head he could already hear Tim's claims, the boy hated that he was always for others and not for him, and this time he would not forgive so easily. He knew he was ruining his son's fun for a miscarriage, something he didn't believe at all as soon as the nurse told it.

He mentally prepared himself for what he would surely find, while a part of his head calculated the minutes to reach at least the three-legged race. If he didn't arrive on time, Timothy would be more disappointed than ever. Maybe if he bought him a gift later...He shook his head as he entered the dismal and depressing building where his patient was. He couldn't think of compensating Tim with material things, he couldn't buy his son's love in that way. However, it was the only alternative he had left.

Of course it was an induced abortion. The poor woman was almost on the verge of death, she had turned to who knows what butcher who surely took away the little money she had.

According to Sister Julienne, there were many children. He never prayed, but he prayed that the woman would not die. He could not with a single child, he did not want to imagine how a poor man would do to care for many children. He clenched his fists, anger over injustices like this left him impotent as he couldn't give solutions.

He left the women in the place, they practically threw him out and he was grateful for their compression. He had to go back to the party although his mood had changed completely. He must keep his word with Tim.

When he arrived, his heart fell to the floor. The screams told him that the race was over or that it was about to do it. He mixed among the people, fearful of finding Tim's disappointed and sad face, watching the others run while he was only on one side.

However, he saw what he could never have imagined. His son was there, running and laughing, hugging Sister Bernadette, carrying her as if she were a paper in the wind. She laughed too but on her face was disbelief. Was Tim so bold as to ask her if she could accompany him? Or did she volunteer? Either one put his head in the clouds: the first thing would confirm that Tim adored and loved her, the second that she cared for his son and could also give herself permission to have fun with him. Although there was also the possibility that she simply felt sorry for a helpless child and father and took the opportunity to do her charity work of the day.

The thought failed to sink his heart because his mouth and feet moved forward, and he was already running among the people to see them closer while shouting "Come on sister!"

He was not even surprised when he first shouted at her before at his son. But he was surprised when they won and fell to the ground. It was a beautiful surprise, he was not for Tim, but the boy managed to win and he deserved it.

He approached them, heard her exclaim still incredulous that they had won. He didn't know much what else happened, the image of her without her glasses hit him directly. She looked younger and angelic, the eyes wider and clearer. A smile that he felt happy to know, adorned her face: it was that mischievous smile that he saw in her that time they shared a cigarette. Behind that smile was not Sister Bernadette, but who knows who, someone he did not know and was eager for it to come to light.

Tim wanted to leave to look for his medal, but Patrick stopped him. The boy looked at him, he was angry and upset with his father, and Patrick would apologize later, but first he had to untie his son from Sister Bernadette's leg.

His hands receded before he could give them the order. He simply wanted to untie them, but he was a man, and she was a nun. The person he wanted to know behind that name that he knew did not belong to her, disappeared, and the barriers between them rose. The simple act of untying a ribbon from her ankle, to which his son was also tied, was impossible. He sighed imperceptibly, relieved that he had not proceeded impulsively and, in an effort to help her, make her feel uncomfortable.

She did it quickly even though she didn't have her glasses, which reminded him to look for them so as not to stare at her ankle and her thin and agile hands. To distract himself, he thought she might have been very hot with those thick and black socks and heavy shoes, but that didn't help. It was impossible that the sudden mental image of her with bare feet and legs would help him somewhat.

He found the glasses and handed them to her, feeling a little sad that she covered her beautiful eyes with glasses, but she needed them and she also looked very pretty with them. She took the glasses carefully not to touch him, balancing while standing up. He wanted to offer his hand to help her, or take her by the waist to lift her, but his thoughts and good intentions had to end there.

However, it was impossible to stop them.

His son would receive the tin medal they would give him for winning the race, but she wouldn't get one because she couldn't keep personal possessions. Maybe she kept the green ribbon she held in her fingers, and that would be all. He swallowed, if it were for him, he would give her everything she wanted.

The sight of blood took him out of his foolish ramblings. She had dirty hands and her habit was also dirty and wrinkled, but one of her palms had a wound. Suddenly the desire to protect her emerged, and made her notice the wound. She responded with a joke, which at another time he would have appreciated. This time he didn't, because she joked, yes, but she was nervous. She said those words and laughed, playing down her wound, because she was nervous. And for that very reason, she left quickly, moving away from him as if he had the plague.

It wasn't his imagination, he saw it clearly. But why that nervousness when just a few seconds before she had been radiant with joy? Some of his actions had made her feel that way, but he didn't know which ones. If she had realized that he was observing her, that he was almost constantly watching her, he would be lost.

She left, and he stared everywhere. His son no longer needed him, the woman seriously ill either, the nurses did not require his opinion, and Sister Bernadette was gone. When no one needed him, when he couldn't help, he felt the most lonely and useless man in the world.

He told himself again and again that it was to help her. That the least he could do for her was that. By the way, he would thank her for accompanying Tim, and for everything. He would approach as a friend, chat with her, and then leave to continue enjoying the party.

When he pulled away the plastic curtains, he didn't know very well what he felt. She looked beautiful even though she was only in a kitchen, leaning over a sink. The afternoon light entered directly and illuminated her, and she had her hand extended, the sleeve of the habit a little higher, revealing a little more of her arm. Her chest rose and fell, perhaps agitated by the race, or by the pain of cold water cleaning the wound. He thought he heard her mutter something, and he saw that her eyes were on her hand, the eyelashes he now knew were blond, shaking, and her lips parted and a little dry. It was a perfect vision of her, he discovered that her profile could be envied by the Queen herself.

She seemed not to have noticed his presence until he spoke. He told nonsense, of course, as he had been doing lately whenever he was close to her. The wound was small, and she was Poplar's best nurse, or perhaps the best in the country, and she was surrounded by medical supplies. She could manage alone, but he spoke before he could think about all that.

She could have told him that, or that she didn't need him, or that he was idiot for asking such stupidity.

But she didn't do any of that.

She said yes, and extended her hand to him, and again that look asking for help, as if she was giving her hand to him so that he would get her out of there and from her life. Her face was clearer than ever, he could see the total trust placed in him. This was not the work of his imagination. She was talking to him with her eyes and her actions, and he felt he could not ignore her anymore.

As if it were an act of religious worship, he gently took her wet hand and looked at the wound. It was small, but her hand was also in his. He traced only the contours, looking at the clean blood that still sprouted lazily. The marks of the hand and the veins of her wrist were delicate, he feared for its fragility. Everything about her was soft, perfect as her scent so close to his nose. He felt himself entering a dream in which he could only hear her breathing, more agitated now.

The dream ended before it could begin. His lips barely felt her skin, the cold dampness, barely her taste, and then the tug and she escaping from him, moving away forever. He was stunned and closed his hands on his chest, to retain at least her air with him.

He told her that it was unforgivable, and he said it sincerely. He did not reason, he was delighted by her closeness, by her confidence that he betrayed. It was a desperate and impulsive attempt to tell her what he felt, that he loved her, that he wanted to give her the help she seemed to ask for. But she was offended, turning her back. His mind ran right away with the worst scenarios: she hitting him, moving away, leaving Poplar forever, or ignoring him, avoiding him, or feeling afraid of him.

She barely turned her face, he could not see her, only her profile, which, like a fool, just a few seconds before had thought that the whole royalty would envy. Then he heard her voice, nervous and hurt, with some cryptic words that shattered his heart, put it back together, and broke it again. She didn't do it because she hated him, or because she didn't want him to come near her, she did it because she had no right and belonged to someone superior, and he respected that. Moreover, he respected it so much that he wanted to sink into hell right there for daring so much.

He left and left her, and that act made him feel even more miserable. He did this to her and left her alone, hurt, confused. He wanted to return, apologize again, really take care of her wound, but he knew that none of that would work.

When he went out, he felt the saddest, the most lonely, and the most useless man in the world.