The Spirit Woman by Margaret Coel Page A

corridor: past pastors at St. Francis Mission, staring out of wire-rimmed glasses, obedient and nonquestioning, solemn in their rectitude. Had it been easier in the past, he wondered, to keep the vows?
    His desk looked as if he’d just walked away. Folders and papers, stacks of messages, unopened envelopes spilling over the surface. So many things unfinished. He tossed his jacket and hat onto a side chair, sank into the cracked leather of his own chair, and drew the phone past a pile of papers. He called Vicky’s office. The secretary’s taped voice: “Vicky Holden’s office. Please leave a message.” He hit the disconnect button and tapped out her home number, surprised that he remembered it. He seldom used it.
    Another answering machine, Vicky’s voice this time. “Leave your name and number . . .”
    â€œJohn,” he said. “I’ve seen Theresa. Call me.” As he replaced the receiver, he heard a shuffling noise on the stoop, the sound of the door opening, then the clack of footsteps in the corridor. He looked up.
    Elena stood in the doorway, crushing a black purse against the front of her blue coat, anger flashing in the round face. “I quit,” she said. Then she turned back into the shadowy corridor.
    Father John was on his feet. He caught the housekeeper at the front door. “Wait a minute, Elena.” He had a sense of what was going on. “Come in and sit down.” He took her arm and led her back into the office to a side chair. Tossing his jacket and hat onto the floor, he sat down beside her. “Talk to me,” he said.
    The woman threw both hands into the air. The black purse slipped off her lap and sank onto his jacket. “How’s he expect me to get my work done? Grocery shopping, cleaning, the laundry. And all the cooking, and you know I gotta fry some good-tasting Indian bread once in a while. How am I s’pose to get it done with his asking questions all the time? ‘Sit down, Elena,’ he says. ‘Tell me about today’s Arapaho courtship practices.’ Courtship practices! What’s the man goin’ on about?”
    â€œI’ll talk to Father Kevin,” Father John said.
    â€œWell, you’re leavin’, so I’m leavin’.” She gave him a look weighted with determination.
    â€œYou can’t leave. The mission will fall apart without you.”
    â€œYou got that right, Father.” The old woman swallowed back a smile.
    â€œLook, Elena, go home and think about it.” He reached out and took one of her hands in his. “And please come back.”
    She started out of the chair, and he picked up her purse and handed it to her. “There isn’t any dinner. I didn’t get time.”
    â€œWe won’t starve to death.”
    â€œThere’s some hamburger in the fridge,” she said.
    He walked her to the door and returned to his desk. This wasn’t right. Nothing was going the way he’d assumed it would. Everything was changing, rearranging itself in ways he hadn’t imagined. Only the thirst was the same, coming on him when he least expected it, when it was the last thing he needed. He wanted a drink, that was the whole of the matter. He could taste the whiskey sliding down his throat, sense the initial control and clarity it would bring, and the joy. One drink was all he needed—
    He laughed out loud at the notion, and the sound of his own voice came back to him in the quiet of the old building. He needed the entire bottle. There had never been enough whiskey to quench the thirst and ease the loneliness. Lord, give me courage. Let me not start drinking today. Let this not be the day.
    He got up and poured a mug of the thick, black coffee stagnating at the bottom of the glass pot—coffee he’d made this morning. It was still warm, but it had passed beyond bitter to something bland and tasteless.
    He sat back down and punched in the