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Authors: Linda Stasi
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in my life.
As we approached the Church of the Holy Family, almost at a run, the steel gate of Mary’s Garden swung open and a young priest, holding a key, looking as frantic as we felt, said, “Hurry up, get inside!”
We all ducked inside quickly. As Bruiser and company watched our backs, the young priest said to Dona and me, “Man has much more to fear from the passions of his fellow creatures than from the convulsions of the elements.”
“Is that from scripture?” I asked, shaking his hand to thank him.
“Edward Gibbon, eighteenth-century historian,” he answered. Then, “I’m Gene. Eugene Sadowski, Father Sadowski, Father Eugene, whatever. Come on in and take a load off.…”
“You have Internet access?” I asked. I didn’t know if this was one of those old-fashioned churches that talked directly to God or needed outside assistance.
“High-speed, wireless, holograph—you name it.”
“Is this heaven?” Dona asked.
“No. Forty-seventh Street,” one of the cops answered. Then into his two-way: “We got a situation. Church of the Holy Family.”
Father Eugene led us into the rectory kitchen, and it smelled—I swear!—like fresh-baked bread and wine.
A woman and what I assumed was her adolescent son stuck their heads in the kitchen’s swinging door. The kid was holding a dry-cleaning bag with his altar-boy black-and-white robes. “Need anything before we take off, Father?” she asked.
“We’re good, Laurie, thanks.”
In half a second the bruiser was all over the pair like a bad smell. “ID, please, ma’am.”
The thirty-something-year-old mother in her too-tight jeans and too-blond hair looked at Sadowski.
“Mrs. Braunthauler works for me,” the priest said to the cops. “It’s all right. I can vouch for her.”
That’s a church lady?
“ID, ma’am,” the second cop repeated, as though Sadowski had said nothing.
Mrs. Braunthauler reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet and showed her driver’s license. “Take it out, please,” the bruiser said.
Mrs. Braunthauler complied, and the cop wrote down the information.
“Is that necessary?” I asked, putting my two cents in where they didn’t belong.
“Yes,” was all Bruiser said, and I swear she sounded pissed off. “In case you don’t understand, you are in danger, Ms. Russo.”
“Right.”
This whole bullshit is because of me! Everything I know is changing at the speed of light.
If only I’d known then that my world had already changed. Thing is, everyone knew that but me. And that was only my first big failing. If I’d only understood.…
5
The second sign that I was no longer just plain old (and feeling very old at the moment, actually) Alessandra Russo was that Dona started bugging me about the interview. I mean, I couldn’t even imagine interviewing her. We already knew everything about each other. But I knew that if I didn’t give in, she’d keep it up until I did it.
Feeling all banged up from the day’s bizarre events, I managed to compose myself as Dona turned her camera on me. No, I’d never met Demiel ben Yusef; yes, I was shocked that he kissed me; no, I didn’t feel compromised nor did I feel assaulted or shamed. I intended to continue working as though nothing extraordinary had happened, and I could only assume it was because I was in the right place at the wrong time. Or something.
God knows what she got me to say, because I was in such a rush to get my column done that I wasn’t paying all that much attention.
I’d also forgotten to turn my cell phone back on after I’d left the UN because, hey, these things can happen when you’re being chased by a mad crowd into the sanctuary of a Catholic church (OK, a garden of a Catholic church), an institution you hadn’t stepped into for at least ten years.
When I turned my cell back on, I saw that I had forty messages and that my mailbox was full. I assumed thirty-nine of them were from Dickie Smalls, so without playing
As we approached the Church of the Holy Family, almost at a run, the steel gate of Mary’s Garden swung open and a young priest, holding a key, looking as frantic as we felt, said, “Hurry up, get inside!”
We all ducked inside quickly. As Bruiser and company watched our backs, the young priest said to Dona and me, “Man has much more to fear from the passions of his fellow creatures than from the convulsions of the elements.”
“Is that from scripture?” I asked, shaking his hand to thank him.
“Edward Gibbon, eighteenth-century historian,” he answered. Then, “I’m Gene. Eugene Sadowski, Father Sadowski, Father Eugene, whatever. Come on in and take a load off.…”
“You have Internet access?” I asked. I didn’t know if this was one of those old-fashioned churches that talked directly to God or needed outside assistance.
“High-speed, wireless, holograph—you name it.”
“Is this heaven?” Dona asked.
“No. Forty-seventh Street,” one of the cops answered. Then into his two-way: “We got a situation. Church of the Holy Family.”
Father Eugene led us into the rectory kitchen, and it smelled—I swear!—like fresh-baked bread and wine.
A woman and what I assumed was her adolescent son stuck their heads in the kitchen’s swinging door. The kid was holding a dry-cleaning bag with his altar-boy black-and-white robes. “Need anything before we take off, Father?” she asked.
“We’re good, Laurie, thanks.”
In half a second the bruiser was all over the pair like a bad smell. “ID, please, ma’am.”
The thirty-something-year-old mother in her too-tight jeans and too-blond hair looked at Sadowski.
“Mrs. Braunthauler works for me,” the priest said to the cops. “It’s all right. I can vouch for her.”
That’s a church lady?
“ID, ma’am,” the second cop repeated, as though Sadowski had said nothing.
Mrs. Braunthauler reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet and showed her driver’s license. “Take it out, please,” the bruiser said.
Mrs. Braunthauler complied, and the cop wrote down the information.
“Is that necessary?” I asked, putting my two cents in where they didn’t belong.
“Yes,” was all Bruiser said, and I swear she sounded pissed off. “In case you don’t understand, you are in danger, Ms. Russo.”
“Right.”
This whole bullshit is because of me! Everything I know is changing at the speed of light.
If only I’d known then that my world had already changed. Thing is, everyone knew that but me. And that was only my first big failing. If I’d only understood.…
5
The second sign that I was no longer just plain old (and feeling very old at the moment, actually) Alessandra Russo was that Dona started bugging me about the interview. I mean, I couldn’t even imagine interviewing her. We already knew everything about each other. But I knew that if I didn’t give in, she’d keep it up until I did it.
Feeling all banged up from the day’s bizarre events, I managed to compose myself as Dona turned her camera on me. No, I’d never met Demiel ben Yusef; yes, I was shocked that he kissed me; no, I didn’t feel compromised nor did I feel assaulted or shamed. I intended to continue working as though nothing extraordinary had happened, and I could only assume it was because I was in the right place at the wrong time. Or something.
God knows what she got me to say, because I was in such a rush to get my column done that I wasn’t paying all that much attention.
I’d also forgotten to turn my cell phone back on after I’d left the UN because, hey, these things can happen when you’re being chased by a mad crowd into the sanctuary of a Catholic church (OK, a garden of a Catholic church), an institution you hadn’t stepped into for at least ten years.
When I turned my cell back on, I saw that I had forty messages and that my mailbox was full. I assumed thirty-nine of them were from Dickie Smalls, so without playing
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