Catch of the Day

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“Does that mean no one barfed on you today?” my sister quips.

“How about you, Maggie?” Will asks. “Anything new?”

How I hate that question, second in loathing only to Seeing anyone? “No, not really,” I say. “Not that I can think of, anyway. But everything is great. Just fine. Thanks, Will.”

“Hey, hon,” Christy says, “remember you mentioned that guy at the hospital? You said you’d try to fix Maggie up with him?”

Will opens the fridge and pulls out three beers. “Right. Yeah. Roger Martin. Nice guy, Mags. He’s a nurse. What do you say? Want to be fixed up?”

“Sure,” I say, taking a long pull on my beer to cover my embarrassment. It still bothers me that I must rely on the kindness of others to get a date. However, I’m thirty-two years old. Time’s a-wastin’. “But, you know, only if he is interested. And if he’s nice. Is he nice?”

“Of course he’s nice!” Christy exclaims, not that she’s met him. “You said he was kind of cute, right, Will?”

“Yeah, I guess. But you know, I’m straight, so I couldn’t really say, Mrs. Jones.” He breaks into the song they danced to at their wedding two years ago. “‘Mrs…Mrs…Mrs…Mrs. Jo-ones. We’ve got a thing going on….’”

“Please stop, you’re scaring the baby,” Christy says, her cheeks rosy with pleasure.

I love my sister with all my heart. Violet is the joy of my life, and Will is one of the best people I’ve ever met, one of the few who might deserve my twin. But tonight, it’s hard to be with them, as much as Christy and Will genuinely welcome me into their home. The fact remains that I’m a visitor, and I want what they have. The inside jokes, the unconscious affection, the nicknames.

Christy senses this. After the dinner dishes are done, she walks me to the door. “You want a ride?” she asks.

“No, no. That’s—it’s great out. Great night for a walk.” Great in March on the northern coast of Maine is a bit of a stretch, but I could do with a walk. I wrap my scarf around my neck, pull my hat over my ears and call to Colonel, who has been enjoying the bone Will sneaked him.

“You’ll find someone,” my sister whispers, hugging me. “You will.”

“Sure! I know. Just a matter of time. Or maybe we could clone Will.” I smile and hug her back. “Thanks for dinner, Christy. Love you.” I walk down the steps, holding Colonel’s collar so he won’t fall. His hips are a little arthritic, and stairs can be tricky for him.

“Love you, too,” she calls.

I have just enough time to go home, help Colonel up my own stairs, get him settled, go back to the diner, pick up the apricot squares and walk to the rectory. There are five other people there already, all women, all half in love with Father Tim, though not to the degree or with the public scrutiny that I myself suffer.

“Maggie!” Father Tim exclaims. He walks over to me, and I can smell the soap he uses. His radiant smile makes my cheeks burn. “There you are! And what have we here? Ah, now, Maggie, you’d tempt a saint.” Mrs. Plutarski, St. Mary’s gorgon secretary, frowns. Of course, Father Tim is talking about my baking, not my feminine charms. Crooning softly over the dessert, he puts the tray on a sideboard. His ass is a work of art. These sinful thoughts are getting you nowhere, Maggie, I inform myself sternly. But yes, it is a work of art.

“Now, then, ladies, I believe we were going to discuss this lovely passage from the Book of Wisdom, weren’t we? Mabel, love, why don’t you get us started and read verses five through eleven?”

For the next hour, I stare at Father Tim, drinking in his expressive eyes, compassionate and perfect smile, his lilting accent. My feelings flit between lust for him and annoyance with myself. If only I could meet someone else. If only I could get over Father Tim. Better yet, if only he were Episcopalian! Then we could get married and live here in this cozy home with our beautiful, green-eyed children. Liam, maybe, and Colleen. A new baby is on the way. We’re considering Conor for a boy, Fiona for a girl.

“Maggie, what do you think? Do you agree with Louise?” Father Tim asks expectantly.

“Yes! Yes, I do. Mmm-hmm. Good point, Louise.” I have no idea what she just said. I vaguely remember something about light…but no, there’s nothing there. Mrs. Plutarski snorts.

Father Tim winks at me. He knows. I feel my cheeks grow warm. Again.

When Bible study is over—not that I’ve become educated, enriched or spiritually moved, mind you—I feel the uncharacteristic desire to leave. The others have already congregated around the sideboard, pouring coffee and falling onto my pretty squares.

“I’ve got to go, folks,” I say, waving. “Sorry. Enjoy the snack.”

“Thanks, Maggie,” Father Tim says around a mouthful. “I’ll just drop the tray off at the diner, shall I?”

“That would be great.”

He waves as he reaches for another square, and I smile fondly, happy to have pleased him. Then I head home, glad that Colonel, at least, is waiting for me.