Byron Tatterman pulled open the big church doors and stepped inside. He was early, but Father Holm was already in the lobby, a hand raised in greeting. He wore khakis and the standard black shirt and white collar, and approached Byron with the step of someone comfortable on his home turf.
“Hey there,” the Father said. “Thanks for coming in.”
Byron said, “Sorry to interrupt your day.”
“Why do you do that?”
I turned around, halfway up the stairs, and pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“Do what?”
“Slap your leg?”
We were in his basement, which had a same-leg staircase.
“Wanna play horse?” I asked.
He paused for a second, and then said, “Sure,” before running past me up the stairs.
I don’t know how it started, these little games. But they still linger. The initial motivation might be gone, but they’re worn in place. Products of habit. Annoying tics that my wife can’t stand.
No one would ever know if Timothy the Turtle’s arrival at Our Lady of Perpetual Help Roman Catholic Church was a well-timed prank, or a tiny miracle.
Sometime between the First Reading and the Responsorial Psalm at the first Friday children’s mass after Easter, he’d wandered through a maze of potted lilies on the altar. Prehistoric feet pressed into the plush carpet as he ventured out, one agonizingly long step at a time. Timothy stopped at the altar’s edge, facing the pre-pubescent, parochial-school-uniformed congregants giggling on either side of the center aisle.
Photographer: Look to the left. Okay, good. Now to the right. Fine. Now look straight at the camera. Hum … Not so good. Your profiles are best. You look more noble.
God: It’s my nose, I think. It’s more regal in profile.
Photographer: Yeah, I think you’re right.
God: I’m always right.