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A few weeks later, Philippe gathered what he needed to leave for the day as he buzzed around the house in Malakoff, looking for things. His footsteps rang happily on the wooden floor. I’m glad I repented of swearing, he thought. It truly is ugly language, and often it seems to aggravate the anger I’m feeling instead of dissipating it.
He grabbed sunglasses, writing notebook, and a map of Paris in order to find an elderly parishioner’s apartment later. Housebound, the poor dear. She needed to be visited every week. Dominic, too, home from the hospital but still sick and tired of heart disease and feeling ill. What people go through, dear Lord, he thought.
Help us all.
He saw a hair tie of Meredith’s lying on the sofa. It shouldn’t be left like that. But she was at work, and going to a meeting tonight, and going to church on Sunday. Not his church, but church. Be slow to complain about a stray hair tie, he thought.
He zipped up his crumbling-leather briefcase and headed out the front door. He turned on the top step to lock the door behind him and felt in his pants pockets for his keys. They weren’t there, and they weren’t in the briefcase either. He hadn’t seen the keys anywhere in the house while getting ready. He was late for yet another appointment with yet another ailing parishioner. It was so annoying, there was always some stupid little thing going wrong, even when he was trying to do some good.
“Shit!” he said. It felt satisfying. And then he cringed. Obviously, changing his propensity to swear wasn’t going to be easy. A lifelong struggle. Like writing, like pastoring, like staying out of patisseries and wine shops, like so many other things.
He went into the house to search.
