Deal

Late October. St. Joseph’s Church was holding its annual rummage sale and craft show. One young man wandered the racks of donated clothing, picking out shirts and work pants, stopping every once in awhile to recalculate the total price of everything he carried.

More than once he stopped at the rack of winter coats, pushing aside a few coats to get a better look at a heavy, fleece-lined corduroy jacket. After looking at it a minute, he’d squint up at one of the hand-written listings of prices taped throughout the old hall. Then he’d let the jacket swing back into place and wander away again.

Finally, he went to a quiet spot, in the arched passageway that led from the old Bingo hall where the rummage sale simmered, to the old gymnasium where the craft show struggled alone. He mentally counted the money in his pocket again, and recalculated the total cost in his arms.

If he put back two shirts and one pair of work pants, he could afford the jacket. He needed the clothes for his new job, but he needed the jacket more. Satisfied with his decision, he turned back to the coats.

The jacket was gone.

He stared a moment, blinking back his disappointment. There was no other jacket that would fit him that looked warm enough, that he’d be caught dead wearing. He took a deep breath and blew out his resignation. Oh well. Now he could get the extra shirts and pants, and still have money to stop at McDonalds on his way home. Soon as he got his first paycheck at work, he’d buy himself a good jacket.

He went to the long, battered banquet table, where two blue haired women in pastel sweaters and matching bifocals checked customers out and bagged up their purchases. As he handed over his money, and waited for the change, the young man turned back to the coat rack.

Nope, it wasn’t there.

He accepted the change and took the two packages from the lady, the tops of the brown paper bags folded down several times. He smiled and thanked them, and went out to his old Ford Tempo in the parking lot.

He drove through McDonalds and ate his lunch in the kitchen of his one room apartment. Work started the day after next, but he’d be paid every two weeks, so it would be a month before he got his first paycheck. It’d be nearly the end of November. He’d definitely need a jacket by then.

Shrugging to himself as he finished the last of his cheeseburger, he thought: ‘The Lord will provide I guess.’ He threw out his trash and went to open the paper bags to hang up his new clothes.

There in the first bag, neatly folded, was the corduroy jacket.

Fr. Josiah Sanchez climbed up the ladder to the roof of his rectory. The gutters would hold out one more winter if he could get them clear of the leaves and aggressive saplings. If he could find the time to do it. He needed to work on his sermon for the weekend Masses, try one more time to get his parish budget to make sense, be on time for confessions though the line was usually pretty short, and see to that faulty plug on the ‘vintage’ refrigerator before the whole place burned down.

Yep, the gutters would hold out one more winter if he could just get them cleared out.

As he began to dig at the solid mass of debris with a garden spade, he saw a car pull up in front of the church, and a young man get out. With his thin build and long hair, Josiah recognized him from the rummage sale earlier in the day. He carried a brown paper bag in his hands.

Josiah climbed back down and went around to the front of the church hall, where he found his visitor. "Can I help you?" he asked, as he wiped the dirt off his hands onto his jeans. He smiled in greeting, then smiled more when he realized why the young man was here.

Holding the bag out in front of himself as though it might hurt him, he said: "I was at the rummage sale today. I didn’t buy this. A corduroy jacket. Got put in one of my bags by mistake I guess. I guess somebody must’ve come back looking for it?"

"I saw you spend most of the morning looking at that jacket." Josiah told him. "Nobody else was buying it, I figured it needed a good home." The young man lowered the bag a little as he pondered this, and then he raised it again.

"I can’t take it if I can’t pay for it," he said, without rancor.

Josiah pondered this himself a moment, as he introduced himself. "What’s your name?"

"Vin Tanner," he answered, but the bag stayed where it was, held out toward Josiah, who arched an eyebrow.

"Well Vin Tanner, you aren’t afraid of heights by any chance, are you?"

Vin was done cleaning out both gutters by the time Saturday evening Mass ended, and had just finished raking up the leaf litter to throw in garbage cans when Fr. Sanchez came looking for him. Looking at the pile thrown out, and the pile still awaiting a garbage can, he said, "Son, I owe you a whole lot more than one jacket."

Vin shrugged.

"Glad to have something to do. Glad I could help." His corduroy jacket was still safely tucked away in the paper bag where it wouldn’t get dirty.

"I hope you’ll stay and have supper with me." The priest went on. Just as Vin was about to decline, he added, "It’s been just me most nights since Fr. Parker died last summer. I’d surely appreciate the company." How could Vin say no?

"Sure, thanks."

Vin tried to remember the last time he’d been in a rectory. Maybe when his Dad died, back seven years now, when Fr. Fitzgerald let him pick out readings for the funeral Mass. He found himself wondering if all rectories looked alike, dark wood and creaking floorboards. The kitchen looked like something out of a Merchant Ivory film, with its tiled walls, glass-fronted cupboards, squat refrigerator and massive antique gas stove. He sat at the utilitarian oak table, drinking hot chocolate, while Fr. Sanchez - ’call me Josiah.’ - made stir-fry and conversation at the stove.

"Did you just move into the parish?"

"Uh, well…" Nearly choking on a swallow of hot chocolate. ’How’d he know I’m Catholic?’ "I been living in the same apartment a couple of years now. Kinda got out of going to Mass awhile ago, after my Dad died." He felt the need to offer an explanation, an excuse.

"Hmm…" Josiah said casually. "Same thing happened to me when my Dad died. Back when I was in college. Took me a long time to come back too…door’s open you know, you ever want to come back." He didn’t wait for Vin to respond or not respond, he just went on, cooking and talking.

"You work nearby?"

"Used to work down at the Wendy’s on Elmwood. Just got a job with St. Michael’s though. Start on Monday, in Groundskeeping."

"Hey, that’s great!" Josiah seemed genuinely happy for him. "I’ve heard that’s a good school."

"That’s what my social worker said. She got her Masters Degree there and taught a couple classes…" Then he realized what he’d said, though Josiah didn’t seem to have noticed. "I mean – I was in foster care a couple years after Dad died. My social worker, Mrs. Rosenberg, she helped me even after I turned eighteen. Helped me get that job at Wendy’s, and find an apartment and a car. She’s been real good to me."

"Sounds like a good woman."

"She is."

"Been on your own awhile?" Josiah had judged him to be in his late teens. No older than twenty.

"…couple years…" Vin seemed to hesitate on the answer. "Been outta the foster home a couple years…"

Josiah said the blessing, and they began to eat. It’d been so long since Vin had an honest-to-goodness home cooked meal that the words were out before he could stop them. "Wow! This is good!" At first embarrassed by his enthusiasm, he tried to backpedal. "I mean – I mean…" Then he gave up. "Aw hell. I mean it’s good. Best dinner I had in awhile."

"Consider yourself invited whenever you want, then." Josiah told him, and answered the objection he knew Vin was about to offer. "I’ll even let you work it off if you insist." He gestured around the echoing kitchen. "Lord knows the place hasn’t been updated since Archbishop Sheen was an altar boy…what d’you say? We have a deal?"

Vin nodded firmly. "Deal."

The End