“That’s true, ma’am. But I don’t discriminate. Any kind of food will do, as long as it doesn’t come out of a plastic bag, or a can.”

Fanny was putting the milk in a little fridge. She sized me up. “The shirt fits well, monsieur.”

I said, “Call me Tom. The shirt’s fine.”

Fanny poured coffee for Madame Vaugeois and me. Simone sat down and gossiped with Father Bousquet. Until he looked at his watch and said, “Time to go. Miriam?” Miriam hadn’t said a word the whole time. Just helped out with the coffee arrangements. Bousquet looked at me and said, “Miriam and I are taking a load of donations up to Calais.” The priest stood up. He was broad-shouldered. With both of us standing, the kitchen became small. I stepped out of the way. Bousquet moved past me. “Every Sunday. Right, Miriam?”

Miriam blushed. She was petite and boyish. With a shock of very dark hair covering her forehead. She wore a dark shirt and jeans. An upside-down silver hand pendant with an eye in its palm hung from her neck on a chain. “Yes.”

The Dacia was already half full with boxes. I helped Father Bousquet and Miriam load the clothes into the back. There were the bags from Brumaire, plus three times as much from Fanny’s. Fanny said, “Now that’s a load.”

I said, “What’s in the boxes?”

“I don’t know.”

Bousquet said, “Food. Dry goods and some boxes of nutritional supplements.”

The priest went back into Fanny’s to use the bathroom.

I asked Fanny, “Don’t priests wear a collar?”

“Right, but he’s a Jesuit.”

“They don’t wear collars?”

“Father Bousquet doesn’t have a specific church.”

Simone broke in, “The world is his church.”

Fanny said, “I’ve seen him wear his cassock with the collar and everything.”

“When he met the Imam?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

Simone turned to me. “He wears it on special occasions.”

The trail bike from across the river started up again, cutting into the conversation like a neighbor’s lawn mower, but worse. Simone closed her mouth. Fanny shouted above the noise, “He probably thinks it’s pretentious. He’s a real worker-type priest of the old school.”

Simone continued, “I was going to say, a few times a year. Father Bousquet puts on his collar a few times a year.”

The bike crossed the river. Then turned away from us, motoring down the road. The annoying whine tailed off. Bousquet came out of the store. He was wearing jeans and a blue and black flannel shirt. His big red hands hung like slabs of meat. He was almost my height.

“Come with us to Calais, Keeler. I’m sure you’ll find the trip interesting.”

I looked at Madame Vaugeois, who shrugged. I couldn’t think of any reason not to go, so I went.

Chapter Seventeen