Page 16 of His Holy Chaos

I am looking. He knows it.

Father Brennan begins the liturgy, and I cue the opening hymn, Be Thou My Vision, a straightforward piece the choir could sing in their sleep. I come in two beats late. Mrs. Reyes covers for me, her alto steady and unflinching, and I recover before anyone else notices. But I notice. It sounds horrible to my ears.

Jude sits with his hands folded in his lap, his posture surprisingly still for someone who seems constitutionally incapable of remaining in one position for longer than thirty seconds. The stained glass paints his hair in shifting colors as the morning light moves, gold, then rose, then a deep violet that turns his white to something darker. He's watching Father Brennan with attention. I'm shocked by how well-behaved he's being.

The service ends. The congregation files out. Jude stands, stretches, and walks toward the exit without looking back.

He doesn't say goodbye. He doesn't wave. He simply leaves, and the church is suddenly too quiet, and the space he occupied in the third pew from the back looks exactly like every other empty pew, and there is no reason at all for me to stand here staring at it.

I stare at it anyway until the organist asks if I'm feeling all right, and I say yes, and I am lying.

Chapter 10. Jude

The service ends and I slip out before Ford can corner me again. That's my move today. Show up, be perfect, leave him wanting. I push through the heavy doors into the sunlight, blinking against the brightness after the dim church interior. This idea is my best one yet. Guaranteed to frustrate the hell out of him.

The courtyard is mostly empty. A few congregants linger by the steps, chatting. I'm fishing for my earbuds when I hear it: a small, sharp cry, the kind that's half surprise and half fear.

A toddler, maybe younger than a year old, is pulling herself up on the edge of a stone bench near the garden. She's wobbling, her tiny fingers white-knuckled on the ledge, and her legs are doing that thing babies' legs do when they haven't figured out the whole standing concept yet. She's about to go down, and she's going to go down hard, face-first onto the flagstone.

I move without thinking. Three steps and I scoop her up just as her grip gives out, one hand under her chest, the other cradling her head. She lets out a startled wail, her face scrunching into that red, furious expression babies get when the world doesn't cooperate.

"Hey, hey, hey," I murmur, shifting her against my chest and bouncing her gently. "You're okay. You're fine. Gravity's bad, I know."

She hiccups, her tiny fists grabbing at my jacket. Her eyes are blue. Really blue. Something about them feels familiar, but I can't place it. Her brown hair is soft against my chin. She smells like baby shampoo.

I keep bouncing, rubbing small circles on her back, and after a few seconds the crying downgrades from emergency siren to a low, grumpy whimper. Her fingers find the zipper of my jacket and she tugs at it, apparently deciding I'm acceptable.

"That's it," I tell her. "See? Not so bad. You will get the whole walking thing in no time. But let me tell you, enjoy while others can carry you. I'd love to be able to be carried but it seems I'm too big or something."

That's when a woman comes rushing around the corner, her face white with panic. She's small, a little chubby, brown hair lighter than the baby’s, and her eyes are wide and terrified.

"Oh my God, oh my God," she gasps, reaching for the baby. "Angel! I turned around for one second!"

"She's okay," I say, smiling, holding Angel steady while the woman takes her. "She was pulling herself up on that bench and lost her grip. I just caught her."

The woman clutches Angel against her chest, pressing her lips to the baby's head, her hands shaking. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I just… she's gotten so fast, I didn't…"

"Really, it's fine," I say, stepping back. "She's tough. Barely cried."

The woman looks at me with such gratitude that it makes me uncomfortable. I'm not used to being thanked for anything, let alone something this simple. I give her an awkward smile, shove my hands in my pockets, and turn to leave.

That's when I hear the church doors open behind me. I don't need to look to know who it is. I can practically feel the disapproval radiating from twenty feet away. But I don't stop. I keep walking, because the whole point of today was to leave first, to be the one who walks away.

I make it about fifteen steps before I hear her voice behind me, louder now, directed at someone else.

"There you are. I needed to thank that young man for helping with Angel, and he bolted so fast!"

I stop. Because I'm an idiot who can't resist a scene.

I turn. Ford is standing on the church steps, his portfolio under his arm, and the woman - his mother, I realize now, those are the same eyes, that's where I've seen that blue before - is holding Angel and gesturing toward me. Is Angel his granddaughter? She could be. He's in his fifties. But something about the way his whole body tenses at the mention of her name doesn't feel like a grandfather. It feels more urgent than that. More personal.

Ford's frown is bad. Such a pretty face for such a bad frown.

"Don't worry about it, ma'am," I say, walking back. I sound comically polite, even to my own ears, and I can see Ford's eyebrows climb his forehead.

She turns to Ford. "Son, Angel was about to fall. This young man caught her and calmed her down before I even got there." She faces me again. "Thank you. I didn't catch your name."

I smile. My best smile. The one I save for moments exactly like this. "It's Jude."