Conroy’s latex-gloved hands.
~~~~~
Conroy looked over Leila’s sloppy stack of papers. They sat in wheeled lab chairs in the mouse room of the animal facility to examine the translation of the priest’s web pages.
Her slim, tanned finger pointed to a link for The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith . Leila’s fingernail polish was the color of champagne.
He reached for her thigh.
She pushed him away and her chair rolled out of his reach. “Conroy,” she whispered. “The door is open. And God only knows what’s on your gloves.”
“No one could see.” And it didn’t matter if he was caught with her, too. He rolled toward her and reached for her leg again.
“Conroy! Yuck! You smell like mice.”
He stripped off his gloves. “Can I see you tonight?”
Leila’s almond eyes, shaped by her Egyptian father’s genes, slid sideways. “I have lab work.”
“Me, too.” Both his hands clamped around her thighs just above her knees.
Leila’s eyebrows twitched. “More labwork? More than these mice?”
Conroy’s neck stiffened as if the suggestion of mice induced encephalitis. “Tonight?”
Leila peered into the cages. One black mouse staggered in its shoebox-sized plastic cage, slammed its head into the clear plastic wall, and swayed, stunned. “What in the hell is wrong with that poor thing?”
“Nothing.” Nothing that she nor anyone should know about until he was good and ready to tell the world. “Tonight?”
“All right.”
Conroy’s neck loosened enough to nod. His fingers climbed up the lean meat of Leila’s thigh. “I could give you a ride.”
Leila shook her head and her hands rose in the air, warding off evil eyes. “Malcolm from Lugar lab drove up after you dropped me off Monday. His headlights almost hit your car, and that black midlife crisis-mobile of yours is too damned distinctive.”
“Midlife crisis-mobile?”
“The Porsche. Come on, Conroy. Surely you lead a more examined life than that.” Leila left him sitting in the mouse room, contemplating.
~~~~~
Bev clutched her jacket around her and hurried from the music room to the library. January mist drifted through the lines of plaid skirts and navy blue slacks and into the unbuttoned front of her coat. The cathedral nosed out of the winter fog ahead of her.
She knocked on the library door.
The priest’s muffled voice said, “Yes?”
She bustled in.
Father Dante was slumped in his chair. His hands covered his face.
“Father, are you all right?”
She dumped her soggy sheet music on her blue chair and stood beside him. If Conroy or one of her girlfriends had been slumped over so, she would have put her arms around them, but a priest, how could she comfort a beleaguered priest? Priests moved in the company and grace of God, beyond her fumbling. She patted his shoulder with a tentative, arrhythmic tapping.
Under his black shirt, his shoulders were rounded with muscle.
He rubbed his face. He stood and reached toward her arm but his hand stopped in midair and pointed to her arm. “Why you are wearing the long sleeves?”
“It’s January.” She tugged a sleeve over her wrist self-consciously.
His hand hovered inches away from her face. “And the collar, it is high on your neck?”
She sat on the other chair. “The music room is chilly.”
Father Dante’s hand dropped away, but he leaned closer, like when a man angles for a kiss but doesn’t know whether the woman will acquiesce, and he whispered, “Did he hit you?”
“What?” Conroy hadn’t hit her. Conroy had never hit her. “No. No. He didn’t. He wouldn’t .”
Father Dante watched and seemed satisfied. His hands came together on his chest and his fingers formed a sort of cage. “You see most of the children in this school?”
“I substitute often.” She crossed her ankles, lady-like, as behooved her with a priest, especially a young priest who still looked like a man. “Sister Benedicta has health
~~~~~
Conroy looked over Leila’s sloppy stack of papers. They sat in wheeled lab chairs in the mouse room of the animal facility to examine the translation of the priest’s web pages.
Her slim, tanned finger pointed to a link for The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith . Leila’s fingernail polish was the color of champagne.
He reached for her thigh.
She pushed him away and her chair rolled out of his reach. “Conroy,” she whispered. “The door is open. And God only knows what’s on your gloves.”
“No one could see.” And it didn’t matter if he was caught with her, too. He rolled toward her and reached for her leg again.
“Conroy! Yuck! You smell like mice.”
He stripped off his gloves. “Can I see you tonight?”
Leila’s almond eyes, shaped by her Egyptian father’s genes, slid sideways. “I have lab work.”
“Me, too.” Both his hands clamped around her thighs just above her knees.
Leila’s eyebrows twitched. “More labwork? More than these mice?”
Conroy’s neck stiffened as if the suggestion of mice induced encephalitis. “Tonight?”
Leila peered into the cages. One black mouse staggered in its shoebox-sized plastic cage, slammed its head into the clear plastic wall, and swayed, stunned. “What in the hell is wrong with that poor thing?”
“Nothing.” Nothing that she nor anyone should know about until he was good and ready to tell the world. “Tonight?”
“All right.”
Conroy’s neck loosened enough to nod. His fingers climbed up the lean meat of Leila’s thigh. “I could give you a ride.”
Leila shook her head and her hands rose in the air, warding off evil eyes. “Malcolm from Lugar lab drove up after you dropped me off Monday. His headlights almost hit your car, and that black midlife crisis-mobile of yours is too damned distinctive.”
“Midlife crisis-mobile?”
“The Porsche. Come on, Conroy. Surely you lead a more examined life than that.” Leila left him sitting in the mouse room, contemplating.
~~~~~
Bev clutched her jacket around her and hurried from the music room to the library. January mist drifted through the lines of plaid skirts and navy blue slacks and into the unbuttoned front of her coat. The cathedral nosed out of the winter fog ahead of her.
She knocked on the library door.
The priest’s muffled voice said, “Yes?”
She bustled in.
Father Dante was slumped in his chair. His hands covered his face.
“Father, are you all right?”
She dumped her soggy sheet music on her blue chair and stood beside him. If Conroy or one of her girlfriends had been slumped over so, she would have put her arms around them, but a priest, how could she comfort a beleaguered priest? Priests moved in the company and grace of God, beyond her fumbling. She patted his shoulder with a tentative, arrhythmic tapping.
Under his black shirt, his shoulders were rounded with muscle.
He rubbed his face. He stood and reached toward her arm but his hand stopped in midair and pointed to her arm. “Why you are wearing the long sleeves?”
“It’s January.” She tugged a sleeve over her wrist self-consciously.
His hand hovered inches away from her face. “And the collar, it is high on your neck?”
She sat on the other chair. “The music room is chilly.”
Father Dante’s hand dropped away, but he leaned closer, like when a man angles for a kiss but doesn’t know whether the woman will acquiesce, and he whispered, “Did he hit you?”
“What?” Conroy hadn’t hit her. Conroy had never hit her. “No. No. He didn’t. He wouldn’t .”
Father Dante watched and seemed satisfied. His hands came together on his chest and his fingers formed a sort of cage. “You see most of the children in this school?”
“I substitute often.” She crossed her ankles, lady-like, as behooved her with a priest, especially a young priest who still looked like a man. “Sister Benedicta has health
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