Father Kevin sees Dawn and the boy before they reach the block where the church sits. As soon as he steps out of the rectory, he spots the two blond figures and recognizes them for who they are. Even though he can't yet see their faces. He glances at his watch and notes that they've got less than five minutes before the doors lock.
Even from a distance, Ryan looks petulant. He's a good six paces behind his mother and he's noticeably dragging his feet. Which is unusual, since the boy is generally so eager to please and because he knows about the church's strict 6:00 deadline for being in the door or being out of luck. Fr. Kevin can hear Dawn urging the child to hurry up. He can't make out the exact words, but he can hear it in her tone. He can also see that Ryan's not obeying, because there's no discernable change in the little boy's pace. It's almost like he's deliberately trying to make them miss the cut-off. And if that happens, he and his mother will have to return home empty-handed and the family will have to wait another two months for the supplies they so obviously need. Because the deadline is strictly enforced. For efficiency mostly. But sanity also, since a no-exception policy keeps the rectory doorbell from ringing at all hours of the day and night.
Pick up is every two weeks. It's always on a Tuesday, it's always from 3:00-6:00 and each family is scheduled just once every two months. If they miss the deadline, they're out of luck for the next 60 days. Because there are too many families and not enough resources and, while he wishes they could do more, it's impossible. The church is financially strapped, and despite assurances from Washington and New York, neither the church nor its parishioners seem to be experiencing any type of economic recovery.
Fr. Kevin's glad to see Dawn and Ryan. He's been worried about them. He's been worried about all of the Atwoods for a while now. When he'd first been assigned to the parish three years ago, he'd made it a point to try to meet all of his regular parishioners. He hadn't had to go out of his way to meet the Atwoods. John had been an usher and a second degree candidate in the K of C. Dawn'd helped out with the coffee and donuts in the cafeteria on Sundays after mass, when the kids were in CCD. Both were friendly enough, if a little rough around the edges. Not particularly well educated, skilled, or ambitious, they'd lacked the resources to climb out of the social position to which they'd been born. They had grown up in poverty and were raising their kids in poverty. And they didn't have the tools to make it any other way. The Atwoods were not unlike most of the other working-class families he counted among his parishioners.
Fr. Kevin had made an instant friend in Trey, the older son. Trey had an encyclopedic knowledge of baseball and Fr. Kevin had played a few years in the minors. He'd been a catcher, started with the Frederick Keys and made it all the way to Rochester's AAA club within the Oriole system before he'd succumbed to one knee injury too many. Trey had been awestruck at meeting a former pro player, even if said former pro player hadn't made it to the majors. Not even for one game. And even if said former pro player was now a parish priest at a church in an economically distressed neighborhood in Fresno. Fr. Kevin still enjoys engaging Trey in heated debates over the designated batter rule, whether Joe Jackson or Pete Rose will ever or should ever get a Hall of Fame nod and if Mike Schmidt or Brooks Robinson was the greatest third baseman ever. He's enjoyed having Trey on his CYO baseball team the last couple of years. The kid has a natural talent and a pure love of the game that's infectious.
Ryan's different. Ryan's been harder to figure out and Fr. Kevin is the first to admit that, after three years of trying, he still doesn't have a good handle on the boy. Part if it was his age, of course. Ryan was just five when Fr. Kevin started at the parish. But, even with time, he hasn't gotten any easier to decipher. Mostly because he's so quiet. So reserved. But, not particularly sullen. If anything, he's the opposite. Seems to want to be everything to all people all the time—except his mother right now. Fr. Kevin watches as Ryan stops in the middle of the sidewalk and says something to her. Again with the delay tactics when he's got to know that they're running late and any hold-up could keep them from getting through that door.
Fr. Kevin isn't certain that Ryan isn't doing it on purpose. That he doesn't know exactly what he's doing. Because, Ryan's smart. He's smarter than most people give him credit for being. Fr. Kevin suspects that Ryan will be underestimated his whole life. Because he's not as brash and outspoken as his brother, he tends to slip by under the radar, live life in the periphery. But he's acutely perceptive. He absorbs absolutely everything going around him. You can see it in his eyes, the way they dance from one speaker to the other, from one actor to the next. Fr. Kevin doesn't imagine that there's much that Ryan misses.
And there are some things Fr. Kevin hasn't been able to miss recently. Or not so recently—since about a year ago when the cutbacks started at the plant and John couldn't continue to get the shifts like he used to. John began working less, making less and drinking more. And when that happened, the whole family started pulling away from activities and friendships. Started isolating themselves. Dawn stopped volunteering. John stopped ushering. He ceased all participation in the K of C. Then Dawn lost her job and the family's attendance at mass became sporadic. The kids didn't always make it to CCD. Just a few days ago, Fr. Kevin noticed that Trey's name was glaringly omitted from the church's CYO spring-training roster.
With casual inquiry over the last few months, he had garnered some information. He'd been surprised when Chris Peña told him that the police had made several domestic calls to the Atwoods' residence and that the calls went back over a period of years. He wasn't as surprised when Officer Peña told him that the calls seemed to be escalating in frequency and severity. Or that Dawn wouldn't press charges, not even when they dragged John away to dry out in the jail overnight. The officer told him that Trey'd looked like he'd been on the wrong end of his father's fist one time when they'd answered a call. But, Trey wouldn't talk and Ryan wouldn't talk and the parents wouldn't talk, so the police did what they could. They hauled John in again—called DFACS. John was released the next day, no charges were ever pursued and DFACS had too many cases to worry about the one where no one's talking.
One of Ryan's teachers—another parishioner—approached Fr. Kevin about an incident she'd witnessed just a few weeks ago that had her convinced that Ryan was getting hit at home. She was at the school waiting for homeroom to start and realized she had forgotten something in her car. As she passed the playground before first bell, she'd seen Ryan just arriving on the campus. He looked like he'd been beaten up. He had a split lip and a split cheek. But before she could make her way over to him and ask him about it—before he even knew that she was there—he'd deliberately started a fight with a boy a few years older. A known bully who was twice the little boy's size. A fight he must have known he couldn't win. When questioned about it later, Ryan insisted that he'd been uninjured before the fight. The other boy was no help. Either he didn't notice, or he wanted credit for the damage. The teacher suspected that Ryan initiated the fight to cover up whatever went on at his home the night before. She'd talked to the principal, but he'd been there to hear the boys' denial. He didn't think the situation warranted anything more than a note sent home for the parents to sign and a week of detention. She'd even left an anonymous call to DFACS, but as far as she could tell, the phone call went nowhere.
When Fr. Kevin finally spoke to the monsignor about the Atwoods and raised his concern, he'd been told to leave it in the hands of the police and the teachers and DFACS. But, even with the church's blessing, Fr. Kevin knew there wasn't much he could do for the family. He knew it better than most. Because he'd grown up in a family not dissimilar to the Atwoods. In a place not dissimilar to this neighborhood and in which he'd occupied a position not unlike Trey's. As the oldest of three, he'd done his damnedest to keep his own abusive father away from his little sister and brother. And he'd sometimes failed. Oftentimes failed. So he'll reach out his hand. And he'll leave it outstretched. He'll leave himself available to Trey, to Dawn, to Ryan, to John. And hope that they'll come to him. Not that he thinks they will. Or that they will before he's transferred again. As a young priest, Fr. Kevin knows it won't be long till they move him to another church. It could be anywhere in the country. It could be somewhere abroad. Because that's the way the Catholic church works. Young priests are moved often. And Fr. Kevin has been in the same place for three years.
Fr. Kevin watches as Dawn finally snaps. She leans forward, slaps Ryan, grabs him by his shoulders and reprimands him, her face inches from his. She scolds him for a couple of seconds while Ryan keeps his head down, grips the wrought iron fence and kicks at the metal spikes. Dawn finally pulls him by a shoulder towards the steps leading down to the basement where the clothing and food are being given away. She shoves him towards the stairs and follows him down.
Fr. Kevin waits a minute, then continues his course to the church basement. He does what he's there to do. He locks the door and locates Mrs. Weaver. He takes the piece of paper on which she's kept a careful record of each family who made this week's deadline. He also keeps an eye on the Atwoods. He sees Dawn picking through the clothes and selecting a few items for herself, for her husband, for Trey. Ryan is apparently left to his own devices. But it doesn't look like he's trying much. He looks distracted as he lifts a couple of shirts. Puts them back without even looking at them. Tries on nothing. Keeps nothing. Dawn brings over a pair of jeans, holds them up for his approval, but he just shakes his head. Dawn's continued frustration with him is visible.
"We're not leaving until you have at least three shirts, two pairs of pants and new sneakers."
"They're not new."
"Well, they'll be new to you. Here, at least try these on." She extends the jeans towards Ryan again. Ryan makes no move to take them.
"C'mon, Ryan. Why not?"
"Mom, they've got elastic." Dawn looks down at the jeans she's holding. Notices the elastic waistband for the first time.
"So?"
"So, they're gay."
"They're not gay, Ryan. They're just pants. They're jeans. They look fine."
Ryan stands, silently shaking his head back and forth. Fr. Kevin crosses over to them just as it looks like Dawn going to make another attempt with the jeans.
"Hey, Dawn…Ryan."
"Hi Fr. Kevin." Ryan stops shaking his head long enough to greet the priest.
"Hi, Father."
The priest points at the jeans she's still holding out towards Ryan. "I'm not sure Katie Pennington had Ryan in mind when she gave us her old slacks."
Katie Pennington had been in Fr. Kevin's 8th Grade homeroom class back at Kennedy Jr. High School in Maryland. She'd been his first real crush. He's not sure why she's the first name that pops to mind. Dawn gives the jeans another once-over.
"They don't look girly to me." But he's planted the seed, because he can hear the uncertainty in her voice.
"They're slacks." Ryan says it like it's a dirty word.
"Well, then, you're going to have to find something without my help."
"Okay." Ryan lifts an indifferent shoulder and shuffles off to find something more acceptable. Dawn looks at his retreating form, then at the pants again.
"That bad? Really?"
"Not if you're actively trying to get him beat up at school."
"That's pretty bad." Dawn returns his grin with a small smile of her own.
"If you've got a minute—"
Dawn looks apprehensive, but nods. "Sure, Father."
"It's about Trey."
Dawn's face falls. "What's he done, now?"
"Nothing—it's nothing like that." Fr. Kevin's quick to assure her that Trey's not in trouble. "It's just—I just noticed that he's not signed up for baseball this year." Dawn frowns. Looks away.
"Yeah. Money's been tight. I—uh—I guess I don't have to tell you that."
"Maybe there's something we can work out."
"I don't think so. We really—we really can't afford it right now."
"What if I can get the fee waived?"
Dawn's face looks suddenly hopeful and he can tell that she's seriously considering it. "You can do that?"
"I can do that." Because it's imperative to Fr. Kevin that he gets Dawn to accept this. That he gets Trey back onto the team. Because the family will be just a little less isolated and he'll be able to keep an eye on the boy. "I want to do that. What good is a baseball team without its star shortstop?" The corners of Dawn's mouth pull down for a few seconds before she accepts.
"He'll be thrilled." She finally says. "Thank you."
Ryan's suddenly there. He wordlessly shoves a pair of Levi's at his mom.
"Did you even try these on, Ryan? Do they fit?" She holds them up skeptically. They're obviously too big.
"I like them."
"And in three years you could wear them."
"I can't find anything."
"I'll help you, but you've got to cooperate with me. You actually have to try this stuff on."
"I'm not trying on the girl jeans."
Fr. Kevin interrupts the bickering. "You playing baseball this year, Ryan?" Ryan looks up and meets Fr. Kevin's eye briefly before casting his eyes downward.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't play baseball."
"I know you don't—or that you don't, yet. Do you want to?"
"Not really."
As he sees the red creep into Ryan's face, Fr. Kevin knows he's going about this the wrong way. The little boy starts scuffing the toe of his left shoe back and forth across the floor. Follows it with his eyes. Ryan's young. He's not stupid. He knows that Trey's not playing this season. He knows that the family doesn't have the money for this right now.
"It's free. Your mom just told me that Trey's going to do it. Are you sure you don't want to play, too?" Fr. Kevin explains.
"I'm sure." Ryan still doesn't look up.
"What about something else? Something that isn't baseball?" When Ryan shrugs instead of flat out refuses, Fr. Kevin thinks he may be on to something. "You're right. Baseball is Trey's thing. You've got to get something of your own. Let me think what else we have going on this spring—track—basketball—there's a cheerleading camp, but only if your mom let's you get Katie Pennington's old skirt. I'm pretty sure it's still on that table. Next to where she found the jeans."
This gets a small smile from Ryan, which Fr. Kevin considers a major victory.
"Or soccer! What about soccer?"
"Soccer?" Ryan doesn't seem overly enthusiastic.
"Soccer. Actually, I think you'd do well in soccer. It's all about being scrappy, being quick." The corners of Ryan's mouth turn down in the exact same way as his mother's had a few minutes before. It seems like forever before he finally lifts a shoulder.
"Yeah. Okay, I guess."
Ryan allows himself to think it might even be fun. Because he knows kids from school who play soccer. Dan O'Neil is supposed to be good and he's not that much bigger than Ryan. So he might even have a chance at not sucking. Not that he'll be as good as Trey is in baseball. But, at least he won't be compared to Trey. Trey doesn't play soccer. But maybe Ryan would.