interesting. Then less interesting, thinking, What am I doing here? Quit fooling around and go look for the guy, Juvenal. Except she didn't want to appear to know anything about him. She didn't want to ask for him---
As it turned out, she didn't have to.
Lynn had a feeling--it was strange--the moment she saw him come in and begin talking to people, touching shoulders, moving from table to table on his way to the coffee urns, she knew it was Juvenal: not from Virginia's or Bill Hill's description, but as if she had known him from some time before, when they were little kids, and recognized him now, grown up but not changed that much.
He had a boyish look, light brown hair down on his forehead, slim body in a blue-and-red striped knit shirt and jeans. Very friendly, the outgoing type--and yet he seemed a little shy. Was that it? No, not shy. What it was, he seemed genuinely glad to see everybody but was quiet about it, natural. Maybe a little naive? No, it was more like he was unaware of himself. That would be a switch, Lynn thought, a guy who's the center of attention not trying to act cool or entertaining or anything. People were getting up and leaving, but stopping to say hello to him.
Edith, her Big Sister, said, "Oh, shit, I got to meet with my group. I shouldn't say that, it's doing me a world of good, but I get tired of thinking all the time, trying to say how I feel."
The man next to Lynn said, "Quit your bitching, you're sober, aren't you?" He got up with his empty cup and left.
Lynn was alone in the booth by the time Juvenal got his cup of coffee, looked around the room, and came over to her.
He said, "Can I join you?"
"Sure."
"You're Lynn, aren't you?"
"Yeah. How'd you know?"
He slid in across from her. "I'm Juvenal--on the staff here. You came in this morning early . . ." He paused, staring at her with a warm expression, nice brown eyes, super eyelashes.
She wanted to ask him if they were real.
He said, "You look great. You know it?"
It stopped her. "Oh--do you think so?"
"How do you feel?"
"Not too bad. A little, you know, fuzzy."
"Your eyes are clear." He smiled and there was the innocent look. "You have very pretty eyes."
"Wow," Lynn said, "all the compliments. I'm not used to it."
"You don't look like you've been drinking, I mean too heavily."
"I thought the amount isn't what you go by."
"No, but after a while it shows." He smiled again. "What're you doing here, hiding?"
"From what?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
Lynn hesitated. "I thought you were being funny."
"No, I'm curious. What're you doing here?"
"Isn't this a place you dry out?"
"You're not an alcoholic," Juvenal said.
"That's funny, the doctor didn't question it, or the nurse, or my counselor."
"Come on, tell me."
Looking at his eyes, into his eyes, she felt strangely moved and wanted to say, I can see you in there, I know you.
What she said was, "You've got it turned around," not believing she was saying it, but knowing she had to be honest with him and not play games or try to put something over on him. "You're the one that's hiding. I came here to find you."
"Oh, no. Oh, Christ," Father Quinn said. They had seen him and there was nothing he could do but continue along the short hall to the lobby where the right-winger was waiting, the right-winger with a folded newspaper under his arm and a seedy old priest it looked as though the right-winger was delivering.
Father Quinn did not like August Murray. He considered him a pain in the ass and a humorless bore; Christ, anyone who could get excited about bringing Latin back to the Church. But August Murray--since the first time he had visited a few months ago--had been bringing bundles of used clothing, showing an interest in the Center, though he seemed to have little or no understanding of drunks. He was weird, but he was a do-gooder, so Father Quinn tolerated him, let him do some good.
August said, "Father, I want you to meet Father Nestor. He's a Franciscan.
As it turned out, she didn't have to.
Lynn had a feeling--it was strange--the moment she saw him come in and begin talking to people, touching shoulders, moving from table to table on his way to the coffee urns, she knew it was Juvenal: not from Virginia's or Bill Hill's description, but as if she had known him from some time before, when they were little kids, and recognized him now, grown up but not changed that much.
He had a boyish look, light brown hair down on his forehead, slim body in a blue-and-red striped knit shirt and jeans. Very friendly, the outgoing type--and yet he seemed a little shy. Was that it? No, not shy. What it was, he seemed genuinely glad to see everybody but was quiet about it, natural. Maybe a little naive? No, it was more like he was unaware of himself. That would be a switch, Lynn thought, a guy who's the center of attention not trying to act cool or entertaining or anything. People were getting up and leaving, but stopping to say hello to him.
Edith, her Big Sister, said, "Oh, shit, I got to meet with my group. I shouldn't say that, it's doing me a world of good, but I get tired of thinking all the time, trying to say how I feel."
The man next to Lynn said, "Quit your bitching, you're sober, aren't you?" He got up with his empty cup and left.
Lynn was alone in the booth by the time Juvenal got his cup of coffee, looked around the room, and came over to her.
He said, "Can I join you?"
"Sure."
"You're Lynn, aren't you?"
"Yeah. How'd you know?"
He slid in across from her. "I'm Juvenal--on the staff here. You came in this morning early . . ." He paused, staring at her with a warm expression, nice brown eyes, super eyelashes.
She wanted to ask him if they were real.
He said, "You look great. You know it?"
It stopped her. "Oh--do you think so?"
"How do you feel?"
"Not too bad. A little, you know, fuzzy."
"Your eyes are clear." He smiled and there was the innocent look. "You have very pretty eyes."
"Wow," Lynn said, "all the compliments. I'm not used to it."
"You don't look like you've been drinking, I mean too heavily."
"I thought the amount isn't what you go by."
"No, but after a while it shows." He smiled again. "What're you doing here, hiding?"
"From what?"
"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."
Lynn hesitated. "I thought you were being funny."
"No, I'm curious. What're you doing here?"
"Isn't this a place you dry out?"
"You're not an alcoholic," Juvenal said.
"That's funny, the doctor didn't question it, or the nurse, or my counselor."
"Come on, tell me."
Looking at his eyes, into his eyes, she felt strangely moved and wanted to say, I can see you in there, I know you.
What she said was, "You've got it turned around," not believing she was saying it, but knowing she had to be honest with him and not play games or try to put something over on him. "You're the one that's hiding. I came here to find you."
"Oh, no. Oh, Christ," Father Quinn said. They had seen him and there was nothing he could do but continue along the short hall to the lobby where the right-winger was waiting, the right-winger with a folded newspaper under his arm and a seedy old priest it looked as though the right-winger was delivering.
Father Quinn did not like August Murray. He considered him a pain in the ass and a humorless bore; Christ, anyone who could get excited about bringing Latin back to the Church. But August Murray--since the first time he had visited a few months ago--had been bringing bundles of used clothing, showing an interest in the Center, though he seemed to have little or no understanding of drunks. He was weird, but he was a do-gooder, so Father Quinn tolerated him, let him do some good.
August said, "Father, I want you to meet Father Nestor. He's a Franciscan.
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