Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel Page B

came through the door.
    â€œIt’s all set.” The other priest laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles.
    â€œSenator Evans’s campaign manager—name is Martin Quinn—will be here this afternoon to assess the mission.”
    â€œAssess the mission?” Father John pulled over a stack of phone messages that he intended to follow up on: Visit Ben Little Elk at Riverton Memorial, arrange the baptism date for Lucy Monroe’s grandson, stop by Dora Willow’s place to see how the old woman was getting along. And he wanted to drive over to Vera’s and check on T.J.
    â€œQuinn wants to see the grounds,” Damien said, an edge of impatience in his voice. “They may want to build a platform . . .”
    â€œWhat?” The other priest had his full attention now.
    â€œFor the senator to speak from. Quinn intends to invite the mayors from Lander and Riverton, county commissioners, a few judges. You know, local VIPs lining up behind local man’s bid for the presidency. It’ll make a terrific photo-op.”
    â€œWhat about the Arapahos and the programs at the mission?”
    The other priest cracked his knuckles again. “There’ll be Indians around the platform. The senator will be speaking to them, encouraging them to avail themselves of the AA meetings, GED classes, after-school tutoring. Don’t worry, John. It’ll be all about the mission and the people.”
    â€œIt’ll be all about the senator.”
    â€œTrust me, John, it’ll work out for everyone’s . . .”
    The front door banged shut, and Damien stepped back. Catherine Bizzel burst past him into the office. She was out of breath, her chest rising and falling beneath the fronts of the green jacket that she gripped together. Her face was flushed.
    â€œWhat is it?” Father John asked.
    â€œYou see all the cars at the museum?” Stout and square-shouldered, in her fifties, with short, tightly curled gray hair and narrow eyes that looked like slits in her round, puffy face, Catherine was married to Leonard, the mission caretaker, for longer than Father John had been at St. Francis. Last summer, Father John hired thewoman to work part-time, helping to arrange meetings and line up volunteers for the programs. He’d had to create a space for her out of a storage closet across the hall, which was barely large enough for a desk and chair.
    Yes, he told her. He’d seen the cars on his way over from the residence. Since the Curtis exhibit opened, cars had been parked out front every day. Locals, tourists—probably a couple of hundred people had visited the museum.
    â€œWell, a lot of people are hanging around, waiting for the museum to open.” Catherine let go of her jacket, scratched at one sleeve, and stared at her watch. “Supposed to open twenty minutes ago. Where’s the curator? She’s here early most mornings.”
    True, Father John thought. He said, “Something might have come up.” He fished a key out of the desk drawer, walked over, and handed the key to the woman. “Would you mind looking after the museum until Christine gets in?”
    â€œI got my own work to do today,” she said, wrapping puffy fingers around the key. “I gotta get the storeroom organized.”
    â€œI appreciate it, Catherine,” he said, ushering the woman into the hall. If the storeroom had ever been organized, it was long before anyone at the mission could remember.
    â€œA reluctant recruit.” Father Damien was shaking his head and smiling. “Wonder what’s holding up Christine?”
    Father John stepped back to the desk and picked up the phone with one hand while riffling through the cards in the Rolodex with the other. He punched in Christine’s number and stared at the papers on his desk, listening to the buzzing of a phone somewhere in Riverton. Seven, eight rings, and he hung up. “She