creaked open the door.
Mrs. Sloan called through the crack, “Father Dante?”
“ Si? Yes?” Mrs. Sloan walked in with a man. Moderate lines creased the man’s middle-fifties face. Dante ventured, “Mr. Sloan?”
“ Dr. Sloan,” the man said.
His pompous attempt to establish authority annoyed Dante. He did not rise to it. “Father Dante Petrocchi-Bianchi. Pleased to meet you.” Dante opened his hand toward the two plush chairs. “Sit down, please?”
Mrs. Sloan sat and stared at her clenched hands in her lap. Dante had thought that she might be smug because she had initiated the counseling, but she seemed despondent.
Her husband crossed his legs and twitched his foot. “This’ll have to be short. I have some work to finish. I’m a doctor and a professor.” Sloan drew himself up in his chair. “I work on neurodegenerative diseases like Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s. Synucleopathies.” Haughty chin juts punctuated his rehearsed speech.
Oh, good Lord. This man was that C. Sloan, the American neurologist who dribbled trivial research into good but not first-rate journals. Neuroscience is a large field, but everyone knows everyone at least by reputation.
Dante settled himself in the chair opposite them and stretched his tired legs. “Alzheimer’s is an amyloidopathy and a tauopathy, not a synucleopathy.”
Sloan’s head dropped and his jaw cracked. “You’re in neuroscience?”
If Dante had been less enraged at the evil of the world or if he had eaten lunch, he might have been kinder, as befits a priest. “My research concerns molecular psychiatry. I have a paper in last month’s JAMA ,” a better journal that Sloan published in. Dante did not need to mention his recent papers in Nature and Science . He left Sloan something to discover.
Sloan’s fidgeting foot stopped twitching. “Wait, you’re D.M. Petrocchi-Bianchi?”
Smoothly, from behind his steepled fingers, he said, “I prefer ‘Father Dante.’ It is nice to meet you, Mr. Sloan.” He stood and opened the door for them to leave. “You must be in a hurry to return to your lab. You are quite tardy, so we cannot speak today. However, please send Dinah and Christina in.”
“Christine,” Mrs. Sloan said.
“Yes, excuse me.” A headache was forming behind his left eye. Dante pinched the bridge of his nose. “Good night, Mr. Sloan.”
~~~~~
Sister Mary Francis walked Dinah and Christine under the cathedral’s vulturing saints to the library. The girls’ ponytails twitched above their plaid jumpers.
Earlier, Sister had tried to remove some books from the library, but Father Dante had raged that no one was to go in there.
She complained to Father Samual about this new priest not knowing his place, but Sam had shushed her and told her that the new priest was from the Vatican and that he was God’s man. Sam wouldn’t even tell her what he meant or why he was suddenly nervous and pale.
And now she was throwing two of her own little girls into the priest’s lair.
At the door, she dropped to one knee.
Their mother stood aside, struck mute.
Sister said, “Just answer his questions. If you need anything, you call out, and I’ll be right outside the door.”
They nodded.
Father Dante opened the door. His curt chin jut suggested anger.
She ushered the girls into the library. The wooden door closed, but stopped before the door hit the jamb. Father Dante’s handspan measured the distance the door remained open, about nine inches, and then withdrew.
~~~~~
Conroy rocked on his feet. His wife sat in a pew and regarded the lurid, crucified Christ suspended above the altar.
The Protestants were smart to remove Christ from the cross and contemplate the abstract form of the torture device. Not that he understood them, either.
He leaned on the pew where Beverly was sitting and asked her, “Why is he talking to the kids?”
“Something about the school.”
“I don’t like it.” He didn’t like that priest
Mrs. Sloan called through the crack, “Father Dante?”
“ Si? Yes?” Mrs. Sloan walked in with a man. Moderate lines creased the man’s middle-fifties face. Dante ventured, “Mr. Sloan?”
“ Dr. Sloan,” the man said.
His pompous attempt to establish authority annoyed Dante. He did not rise to it. “Father Dante Petrocchi-Bianchi. Pleased to meet you.” Dante opened his hand toward the two plush chairs. “Sit down, please?”
Mrs. Sloan sat and stared at her clenched hands in her lap. Dante had thought that she might be smug because she had initiated the counseling, but she seemed despondent.
Her husband crossed his legs and twitched his foot. “This’ll have to be short. I have some work to finish. I’m a doctor and a professor.” Sloan drew himself up in his chair. “I work on neurodegenerative diseases like Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s. Synucleopathies.” Haughty chin juts punctuated his rehearsed speech.
Oh, good Lord. This man was that C. Sloan, the American neurologist who dribbled trivial research into good but not first-rate journals. Neuroscience is a large field, but everyone knows everyone at least by reputation.
Dante settled himself in the chair opposite them and stretched his tired legs. “Alzheimer’s is an amyloidopathy and a tauopathy, not a synucleopathy.”
Sloan’s head dropped and his jaw cracked. “You’re in neuroscience?”
If Dante had been less enraged at the evil of the world or if he had eaten lunch, he might have been kinder, as befits a priest. “My research concerns molecular psychiatry. I have a paper in last month’s JAMA ,” a better journal that Sloan published in. Dante did not need to mention his recent papers in Nature and Science . He left Sloan something to discover.
Sloan’s fidgeting foot stopped twitching. “Wait, you’re D.M. Petrocchi-Bianchi?”
Smoothly, from behind his steepled fingers, he said, “I prefer ‘Father Dante.’ It is nice to meet you, Mr. Sloan.” He stood and opened the door for them to leave. “You must be in a hurry to return to your lab. You are quite tardy, so we cannot speak today. However, please send Dinah and Christina in.”
“Christine,” Mrs. Sloan said.
“Yes, excuse me.” A headache was forming behind his left eye. Dante pinched the bridge of his nose. “Good night, Mr. Sloan.”
~~~~~
Sister Mary Francis walked Dinah and Christine under the cathedral’s vulturing saints to the library. The girls’ ponytails twitched above their plaid jumpers.
Earlier, Sister had tried to remove some books from the library, but Father Dante had raged that no one was to go in there.
She complained to Father Samual about this new priest not knowing his place, but Sam had shushed her and told her that the new priest was from the Vatican and that he was God’s man. Sam wouldn’t even tell her what he meant or why he was suddenly nervous and pale.
And now she was throwing two of her own little girls into the priest’s lair.
At the door, she dropped to one knee.
Their mother stood aside, struck mute.
Sister said, “Just answer his questions. If you need anything, you call out, and I’ll be right outside the door.”
They nodded.
Father Dante opened the door. His curt chin jut suggested anger.
She ushered the girls into the library. The wooden door closed, but stopped before the door hit the jamb. Father Dante’s handspan measured the distance the door remained open, about nine inches, and then withdrew.
~~~~~
Conroy rocked on his feet. His wife sat in a pew and regarded the lurid, crucified Christ suspended above the altar.
The Protestants were smart to remove Christ from the cross and contemplate the abstract form of the torture device. Not that he understood them, either.
He leaned on the pew where Beverly was sitting and asked her, “Why is he talking to the kids?”
“Something about the school.”
“I don’t like it.” He didn’t like that priest
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