I Am the Messenger

That day, two things happen.

The first is that the father comes over to my place. I offer him some soup for lunch. Halfway through it, he stops and I see some emotion expand on his face.

He drops his spoon and says, "I have to tell you something, Ed."

I also stop. "Yes, Father?"

"You know, they say that there are countless saints who have nothing to do with church and almost no knowledge of God. But they say God walks with those people without them ever knowing it." His eyes are inside me now, followed by the words. "You're one of those people, Ed. It's an honor to know you."

I'm stunned.

I've been called a lot of things many times--but nobody has ever told me it's an honor to know me.

I suddenly remember Sophie asking if I was a saint and me replying that I'm just another stupid human.

This time, I allow myself to hear it.

"Thanks, Father," I say.

"The pleasure's mine."

The second thing that happens is that I make a few visits around town. First up, I see Sophie, very briefly. I ask if she can make it on Sunday, to which she says, "Sure, Ed."

"Bring the family," I suggest.

"I will."

Then I go to Milla's and ask if she'd allow me to escort her to church on Sunday.

"I'd be absolutely delighted, Jimmy." In short, she's thrilled.

Then.

The last visit.

As I find myself knocking on Tony O'Reilly's front door, I don't feel too optimistic.

"Oh," he says, "you." But he appears happy enough to see me. "You give that brother of mine my message?"

"I did," I say. "My name's Ed, by the way."

I'm a touch embarrassed now. I hate telling people what to do, or even asking. Still, I look now at Tony O'Reilly and talk. "I was kind of..." The rest of the sentence breaks off.

"What?"

I pick it back up but keep it. I use something else instead.

"I think you know what, Tony."

"Yes," he agrees. "I do. I've seen the spray paint."

I look down and back up. "So how about it?"

He opens the flyscreen, and I'm worried he might be coming out to abuse me, but he asks me to come in and we sit down in his lounge room. He wears a similar outfit to last time. Shorts, a tank top, and slippers. He doesn't look too mean, but I'm a firm believer in men in that sort of gear. All the best criminals wear stubbies, tank tops, and flip-flops.

Without asking, he brings out a cool drink. "Orange cordial okay?"

"Of course." It even has crushed ice in it. He must have one of those brilliant fridges that do everything.