Stained Glass Read Online Free PDF Page A

and downs. Massimo, too, was old, but in this group he felt young. It was when old Reynolds announced that he was not coming back to the center, it was as good as closed already, that Massimo stepped forward.
    â€œNonsense! We must organize.” Long ago, he had led his fellow workers at Fox River Punch and Drill into the union and reigned for years as shop steward before rising into the upper ranks of the union, never more to operate a punch press. Silence fell, and he was surrounded. He smiled confidently into their anxious faces. “In union there is strength.”

    â€œBah,” said Reynolds.
    Massimo ignored him and outlined his plan. The first thing was to elect a leader. He looked around, waiting.
    â€œIt’s your idea,” Reynolds said.
    â€œIs that a nomination?”
    It was. Massimo was elected by acclamation and turned immediately to the question of what the group would be called.
    â€œSOS,” Reynolds said, chuckling. This was greeted by baffled expressions. “Save Our Seniors?”
    Massimo suggested a broader designation. “It is the parish, not just ourselves.”
    â€œWhat’s in a name?”
    Eventually, Massimo’s suggestion was accepted. Save St. Hilary’s.
    â€œSsssh,” said the disgusted Reynolds, but he was ignored.
    Marge Wilpert was elected vice chairman and O’Rourke, once a CPA, treasurer. Massimo withdrew to a corner with his fellow officers.
    â€œFirst we must let Father Dowling know,” Marge said.
    O’Rourke agreed.
    To Massimo, Father Dowling represented management. “Father Dowling has enough things on his mind. We want to surprise him with the support we can give him.”
    â€œWhat exactly will we do?” Marge asked.
    â€œPublicity,” Massimo said. “A public outcry.”
    â€œThe parish bulletin?”
    Massimo smiled. “I have a better idea.”
    The Fox River Tribune was a force for reaction, but who is more full of grievances than a reporter? Massimo had contacts in the courthouse, and he knew Tuttle, whose father had joined the union after retiring from the post office and going to work for a private delivery service, needing added income to finance his son’s long
march through law school. The union had covered the funeral expenses of Tuttle senior, and the son had wept with gratitude. He told his fellow officers he would seek legal advice, a soothing phrase, as he had known it would be. No need to mention Tuttle’s name.
    After ten minutes of waiting for the elevator that never came, Massimo mounted the four flights to the lawyer’s office. Tuttle’s secretary said that the lawyer was expected momentarily and asked his business.
    â€œWhat sort of benefits does he give you, Hazel?” Her nameplate was on her desk.
    â€œBenefits?”
    â€œMedical care, retirement …”
    Hers was an unattractive laugh, exhibiting a small fortune in dental work. “I’m lucky to get my salary.”
    Massimo shook his head. On another occasion he might have evangelized Hazel on the power of organization. For the moment, he considered the implications of her remark. If Tuttle were in need of business, he might balk at the proposal that he represent Ssssh (Reynolds’s revenge: His hissing acronym was hard to forget once he had made it) pro bono. Such doubts fled when the lawyer arrived, looked at Massimo for a moment, and then swept him into his arms. He remembered his father’s funeral.
    â€œCome in, come in,” he cried, opening the door of the inner office. “No calls, Hazel.” Tuttle’s office looked like a landfill, papers, plastic cups, Styrofoam boxes, trial records, books everywhere. Tuttle made a ringer with his tweed hat on the top of the coat stand and gestured Massimo to a chair. “Just put that stuff on the floor.” Before sitting down himself, Tuttle retrieved his Irish tweed hat and put it on.
    â€œI assume you have