of Jesus’s blood in the form of the red wine.

 

Just once.

 

Putting the crumpled dollar bills in the offering basket.

 

Singing the final hymn as the priest and the altar boys walked down the center

aisle bearing the cross and the Holy Book out into the foyer.

 

His mother lingering to talk to the priest and some friends, while he and his

brother fidgeted, anxious to get home, change their clothes, and run wild

outside. Or for Robert Puller to finish reading a book or complete a science

project.

 

Puller blinked and his gaze went toward the altar. A door had opened on one side

of it and a man in a white collar had emerged from an inner room. He was

carrying some hymnals. When he spotted Puller he put the books down and walked

down the center aisle toward him.

 

He was in his fifties, with a shock of fine white hair that neatly matched the

color of the collar. He had on the usual black pants and a black clerical shirt

with the white tab collar. His glasses fronted watery blue eyes. “May I help

you?” he asked, offering a smile along with his greeting. The man drew closer

and held out his hand. “I’m Father O’Neil.” He peered at Puller more closely.

“I’m sorry, young man. Do you attend church here? I’m usually very good at