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"Father Pruitt?"
The heavy wooden door opened and a woman peeked inside.
"Father Pruitt, I'm so happy I found you here."
She entered the church, making a short stop to genuflect and make the sign of the cross, before she walked towards the altar, towards John. Her bright, green eyes, as round as her freckled cheeks, gazed at John behind the curtain of long eyelashes. A soft smile graced her pink lips and a green scarf covered her ginger hair.
"Mrs. Keane, is everything alright?"
He had spoken to Judith Keane earlier that day, after morning mass, so he hadn't expected to see her again so soon, less than an hour later, as kind as ever, but obviously troubled. Mrs. Keane always attended daily mass with her daughter and they sat in the front pew on the starboard side, eagerly listening to every word John said, soaking every homily in, singing the Psalms the loudest. Her husband, however, worked on the mainland, and only joined his wife and daughter at Sunday mass.
"I wanted to talk to you about Bev," Mrs. Keane explained when she came close enough to John.
He stopped, rubbing his beard.
"Did something happen to her?" He asked. Bev was a smart girl, always so eager to help around St. Patrick's, always so serious—too serious for her own good, perhaps—the brightest, most promising student in her catechism class.
John would swear on the Holy Bible that Bev was the teenage girl least likely to get into trouble.
"If some boy tricked her into going to the Uppards, I'm sure she—"
But Judith Keane shook her head.
"No, no, nothing like that, Good Lord, I almost wish…" she trailed off, shaking her ginger head. The wrinkles on her forehead deepened, got more pronounced, worry clearly written on her face.
"No, Bev wouldn't go the Uppards, even if someone invited her. She's a good girl, she takes the scripture so seriously. She's so serious about everything. You know that she's smart and hard-working, the best student in her class, and she respects her elders."
John nodded his head. He still didn't understand what the problem was.
"My Beverly is a special girl," Judith continued, "you know she is, Father, but she's… well, she's… she's Bev."
John nodded his head again. He said nothing. Being a good priest sometimes entailed giving long homilies, but sometimes it meant simply listening.
"I sometimes wish she was…" Judith sighed. "Please, don't get me wrong, Father, Beverly is a blessing, has been since she was born. She's a gift from God, of course she is, the greatest gift. And I love her, I'm so proud of her, but I wish, oh Lord, I wish… I know my Beverly is special, but I sometimes wish she was more like the other girls. I wish she had friends her age, I wish the other kids liked her. Of course I'm not saying I would want her to smoke or lie or sneak out to the Uppards with boys, for drinking and necking. No, nothing like that. I just wish she was… You know what I mean."
He did. While Beverly was wise beyond her years and more serious than most adults John came across every day, he also knew that she was lonely. He had never told that to her mother, but he had found Beverly alone at St. Patrick's many times, sitting in the pew, praying and crying, because the boys had made fun of her or the girls had said something mean to her. John was fond of the girl, but he knew that her peers didn't like her.
"That's why I wanted to talk to you," Judith Keane continued. "My cousin Abigail lives in Hawkins, in Indiana. It's a small town, but quite—quite bigger than the Crock Pot." Her pale, freckled face carried the expression of joyous, nostalgic bliss. "Abby's always been my favorite cousin, we were so close growing up. You wouldn't believe it, but Abigail was the more religious one when we were younger." She smiled and John smiled, too, still unsure what Judith Keane really wanted from him.
"Aunt Mary was so upset when Abby met Howard and decided to marry him, straight outta high school. She was seventeen. No, eighteen. She met Howard at a dance on the mainland and decided to marry him. A mainlander."
She gave a little over exaggerated gasp, so he did the only thing that seemed appropriate: he nodded his head solemnly. Even though he'd lived on the island for almost twenty years, and the residents of the Crock Pot had accepted him as one of their own, John sometimes still felt that he didn't quite understand them and thought he never would.
"But Howard's a good man, bless him, a good, devout Catholic. They have a son, too, around Bev's age. Jason. Abby talks about him all the time. He's a good boy, goes to church every Sunday, he has good grades, he's the captain of the basketball team—I know my Bev isn't really athletic, but I always thought that playing a sport might—" Judith gave a little shrug, before she continued, "Abby tells me her Jason has many friends, he's a popular boy. He even has a girlfriend, Cassie or something. Kelly maybe? Such a well-adjusted boy." A dark shadow crossed her face. "I wish Beverly was so well-adjusted. She's so lonely, she says she doesn't mind, but I worry about her all the time. I don't want her to be alone when we're no longer—I just wish she'd find someone."
Before John could offer her a few select words of comfort, about the mysteries of God's plans or the perfection of His creation, even if it carried the displeased, judgmental, freckled face of Judith's strict daughter, the dark shadow disappeared from Mrs. Keane's face, replaced by her usual kind smile.
"Oh, but I'm boring you with my complaints, Father. I'm sure you're busy. What I wanted to say is… well, Abby invited Bev to spend summer with them, in Indiana, and I think that's good for her, to see how more worldly people live. Perhaps even make friends. Find some nice, devout kids to hang out with. But she doesn't want to go. So, I was thinking, maybe you could talk to her. You know how much she respects you, how much she values your opinion, maybe you could tell her about your travels. Tell her it's gonna be good for her, to get away from the Crock Pot. To see the world."
John didn't share his thoughts about the world Bev could see in a small town in Indiana.
"My first parish was in Indiana," he said.
Mrs. Keane's smile widened.
"Well, that's even better! You know everything about Indiana! Make sure to tell her that, she's going to be so happy."
Judith Keane had such a warm and bright smile on her face that John didn't have the heart to tell her that the teens in a small town in Indiana would hardly be more inclined to accept Beverly than the teens of the Crockett Island who'd known her their entire lives.
"Alright," John agreed. "I'll talk to her."
Mrs. Keane squeezed his hand. "Thank you, thank you so much, Father! Thank you! Oh, and one more thing, can you please make sure to talk to her as soon as you see her. Abby sent her a plane ticked, for July 1st."
With that, she was gone, leaving behind a fading floral scent and a frowning John.
Even though she was still a child, Beverly Keane was the most stubborn person John knew. Getting her to do something she didn't want to do would be difficult, but maybe Judith was right. Maybe she would find friends in Indiana, sweet girls who attended church every Sunday or a nice Catholic boy who also played basketball. Maybe a trip to Indiana would make Bev happy.
He thought about Beverly, her permanently displeased disposition, her habit to pass judgment, quickly and sternly, her tendency to dismiss everyone who didn't fit into her admittedly narrow concept of the world.
Or maybe not.