But if she couldn’t leave, she could still see him, right? Maybe Pat will get a job back in New York. She could make her choice then. She picked up the phone and called the rectory. He’ll be back from evening Mass by now. She just wanted to have an option. Someone to be possible for her. The phone rang and rang until finally a young scholastic with a thick Puerto Rican accent picked up.

“I’m trying to reach Father Ronan Carroll.”

“May I ask who is calling?”

“Anne Mulligan.” She wasn’t sure why she used her maiden name.

“And this is regarding . . . ?”

“A personal matter.” Her voice sounded disconnected, suspicious.

“One moment.”

Anne cradled the receiver closer, trying to will herself through the call. She closed her eyes and prayed for him to pick up. This is a dumb idea, Annie. But she just wanted to hear his voice.

“Hello, this is Father Faherty.” An older man.

“Yes, I’m trying to reach Father Carroll.”

“May I ask what this is regarding?”

“I’m a friend and colleague from Fordham and I’d like to—”

“I see,” he said, cutting her off—This is the priest who hears Ronan’s confession. “Well, Father Carroll is not here anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

“Father Carroll is no longer ministering the College of New Rochelle. He took a new assignment.”

Anne sat back, unable to think.

“Do you know where I can reach him?”

“The Kakuma Mission.”

“Where?”

“It’s in Kenya, dear.”

“Here, give me the phone.” Sticky pulled the snaggled extension cord from Dan and looked up a number in the St. Paul directory.

“The Budnips family. I can work with that.” He dialed the number. “Hello, is Merrill Budnips there? . . . Good evening. Mr. Budnips, I’m Steve Austin calling from the Baskin-Robbins on Belt Line Road. We’re running a fun little contest down here. If you can name all thirty-one of our flavors in under a minute—ah shit, he hung up.”

Dan searched the parish directory. The two of them were sprawled across the floor and bunk beds in Stick’s room, which he shared with Dennis. Stick had the lower bunk with Peanuts bedsheets that he pretended were his younger brothers’, but Dan didn’t really care. The rest of the room was clearly Dennis’s: running trophies, a Cowboys calendar that made tight end Doug Cosbie look like a sweaty gigolo, an acid-lettered poster of Tawny Kitaen, and a framed and signed green Adidas track jersey from John Treacy, the Irish Mudlark, who was Dennis’s cross-country idol. The room smelled like Tinactin.

Dan took back the phone. “Let me try . . . oh, here’s a good one. Barbara and Jeff Turdlinger.”

“No way.”

“Look, I’m not making it up.”

Dan dialed the number and got Barbara’s daughter, who—quickly checking the directory—was Marsha, sixth grade.