“Why they came to Eureka Valley, I don’t know. But pretty soon, they were buying up the old houses and opening businesses in the boarded-up shops on Castro Street. The neighborhood came back to life, but it was all these men, not women with strollers or kids headed to the parish school. Around that time, we got a new priest down at Blessed Savior, Father Toby. Some of the old folks went to him and asked him if there wasn’t something they could do to save the valley from these boys. Fairies, they called them, and worse than that. He told them he would give them his answer on Sunday at the ten o’clock Mass.”

“Well,” she continued, “the church was packed. Father Toby stood up to give the homily on some verses in Deuteronomy.”

She got up from her armchair, went to the bookshelf and returned with a thick oversized book, bound in dark leather, The Holy Bible emblazoned in gold lettering on its cover. When she opened it, a piece of official looking paper slipped out and fell to the floor. I retrieved it, glancing at it as I returned it to her: her son’s death certificate.

“Here,” she said, and began to read reverently. “‘The great God, mighty and awesome, has no favorites, accepts no bribes, executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and loves the stranger, giving them food and clothing. So, you too should love the stranger, for that is what you were in the land of Egypt.’ Then he told us these boys—these strangers—were beloved of God, and that we had to love them. Take them into our neighborhood.” She closed the book and set it aside. “Well! Down at the coffee hour after Mass some of the old men were saying things to Father Toby that you don’t say to priests, but he stuck to his guns.”

“A few days later, these two boys came to my door to see about the upstairs apartment. Waldo and Billy. Now Waldo,” she said, and smiled. “You could have picked him for a fairy if he was standing still. Billy, he could have been one of my son Timmy’s school friends.”

“Billy was Bill Ryan?”

She nodded. “He and Waldo couldn’t have been more different, but they were best friends. Waldo was—” she smiled softly, reminiscently, “a sprite. A skinny little thing with a bushel of red hair and bright blue eyes. Polish boy. He had time for everyone and not a care in the world. A teasing sort of boy, but never mean. No, he was softhearted, kind. Billy was quiet and solid and handsome. He had a big flop of black hair falling over his forehead and worried eyes. Anyway, they wanted to see the apartment. Well, I’m ashamed to say that I hemmed and hawed because I wasn’t sure I wanted to rent to them.”

“What changed your mind?”