Fr. Echeverría
Before the visitor reaches the first floor of the rectory Shoshannah can hear the clomping of boots on the wooden steps that climb the side of the house up to the side door that lets her bypass the interior stairwell. Only one person ever makes this journey and he doesn't do it quietly. His weight makes the steps bark beneath his heels.
He reaches the door and does not let himself in. This is not technically his house. He's staying here just as temporarily as she is. If he doesn't fulfill the spiritual needs of the parish then he'll have to find someplace else to live. It hasn't yet come to that. He isn't here to evict her or tell her he's been evicted.
When she answers the door she finds the priest there in black slacks and a black button-down shirt. Black blazer over it. The sky threatens to weep and he does not wear sunglasses. He wears black dress shoes on his feet instead of his cowboy boots. Must have been a funeral service today.
"Morning," he says even though it's afternoon already. "Got a minute?"
ShoshannahHe's not there to evict her (this time), though her stomach drops to somewhere around her knees when he asks that - it's been awhile, after all. There's no indication, though, just that apparently indifferent shrug she's all but perfected, and a face that's somehow blank and expressive at the same time. She's devilishly beautiful, this girl, and even with the age difference he's likely to have seen it --
Or, barring that (beauty is objective, after all), he's bound to have heard neighborhood locals talking about the [relatively] recently landed ángel caído, as the charitably inclined have taken to calling her.
-- in the girl who looks at him almost as a father figure (and at whom he may well look at as a child) - or maybe an uncle - when she thinks he isn't paying attention. At any rate, there's a pretty girl with wildly curly hair that she only bothers to restrain when she's working (which is almost always) or cooking (as she'd been about to start now, if the carton of eggs in her hand is any indication) or hot, with wrists that are always concealed regardless of ambient temperature, with piercing, flaying blue eyes, with attitude for days. There's an attempt at warm, congenial greeting, but Shoshannah's not really prone to such; it manifests as a not-quite-smirk, a slight lessening of tension (though not complete, never, and she's still a bit nervous about why he's here, why he wants to talk) in her long, lean frame.
"Yeah. Hungry? I was just starting lunch."
She pushes the door open enough that he can do the rest easily and steps out of the way so he can come in, follow her to the kitchen.
Fr. EcheverríaWhich he does. He catches the screen door that pushes out into the world and lets himself in. Takes the knob of the side door and eases the thing shut behind him. Doesn't lock it. The nearness to her ricochets a shiver up his spine but that isn't why he doesn't lock the door. He doesn't lock the door to the ground floor of the rectory either.
Shoshannah may very well have been awake or awakened by the Cultist letting herself into the downstairs on Friday night. He really ought to lock his doors but he doesn't want to be distanced so greatly from people who need help. Nothing broke that night and he performed Mass the next morning. This does nothing to ease Rosa's suffering. She doesn't like the Cultist and she doesn't like the Dreamspeaker but it isn't anything personal. Only reason she likes Pan is he saved her goddamn life.
"I could eat," he says as he lets himself in. "What're you making?"
Doesn't matter. He'll eat whatever she puts in front of him. He slips off his shoes just inside the door and follows her into the kitchen with his hands in his pockets.
Shoshannah"Egg sandwich with some other stuff. You want ketchup or anything?" One never knows what one likes to add to such things, after all; with Shoshannah, it depends on the mood. (And she makes scrambled eggs by what may well be the most complicated method ever, but seems to enjoy it enough. Pan's never seen her cook before, though he may well have tasted the results; she's decent but not great, and has obviously had a few classes in different kinds of cooking (or reads the technique section of cookbooks really well). A sizzling saute pan smells of onions, garlic and mushrooms, and this cooking has the blessed benefit - for both of them, likely - of keeping her from looking at him, from waiting for whatever it is he has to say.
And regardless of Padre's stance on condiments, it isn't too long before there's a plate in front of him, with one flat cap mushroom, a little bunch of pan roasted tomatoes, some sauteed onions and garlic alongside a slab of sourdough bread with the creamiest, smoothest looking eggs (flecked with red pepper flakes and course ground black pepper) he's likely to have seen any time recently on it. (Okay, eggs on toast rather than a sandwich, but Shoshannah'd only been planning on feeding one even if it is significantly more than she's likely to have eaten on her own.)
"What's up?" This is asked as she hovers, holding her matching plate.
Fr. EcheverríaThe kitchen upstairs is not large enough to write home about. She does not have a refrigerator and the range does not come with an oven. If she ever wants to cook anything that requires more than pan searing she's going to have to come downstairs and use the kitchen on the ground floor. Unless she has picked up furniture on her own the only items in the place are a bed and a couch.
Pan leans against the counter. Sets down the plate so he can offer Grace before he does anything else.
"Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. Amen."
If he were at least corny about it that might make it less painful. But he isn't. If Shoshannah has stood at the back of the sanctuary during any of his services in the past month she would have noticed that he performs nearly every Mass in Spanish and that he believes wholeheartedly in what he says to the people who come to services. That sort of devotion has the potential to veer off into delusion.
He takes a bite and swallows before he answers her question.
"You gotta slow down, girl," he says. "We're running out of things for you to do."
ShoshannahPackets of condiments filched from fast food joints are shelf stable, as are most things Shoshannah eats when she's feeding herself - it's only a handful of times that she's really cooked at all (and for her, it's been easy, simple fare though to anyone else around here? Well, her status as 'rich kid runaway' had been established long before she fed Padre anything), but those have showcased her training well.
Shoshannah knows Padre is a priest, knows at least some of his belief structure (between his religion/denomination and his Tradition, some might think they know more - but Shoshannah tries not to assume), but most of the time she can avoid the more obvious bits of it. It's odd, perhaps, that such a simple, standard offering of thanks for a meal causes a slight, subtle flinch. It's more expected, perhaps, that the mention of running out of things for her to do causes a much more obvious one.
".....I can find a job somewhere else, if I need to. Pay rent." Even in the beginning, Shoshannah hadn't confirmed his guess that this would be a far easier and more reliable way to have a roof over her head than getting a job and apartment would be - but she hadn't had to. Even before Padre had known what she was, he'd known how she felt and seen how normal people reacted to her. "Or . . . I can teach guitar lessons." To the people that can stand to be in close quarters with her, anyway.
Fr. EcheverríaHe sets down his plate on the counter and ignores it for now. His egg-on-toast is over half gone. He is not slamming down his food just as fast as he can but his nearness to her doesn't appear to have impacted his appetite. One has to wonder at the company he's kept in his life that he isn't moved to perform an exorcism every time he's around this girl.
"We've usually had guys on probation doing the work you're doing. Or like, nineteen-year-olds with babies need help while they finish their GEDs." People who don't have rich white girl problems isn't what he's saying and it isn't even in the space between the lines but nobody would blame her if that's what she heard. "Was talking to Rosa yesterday, she say you work like somebody's gonna Taze you if slow down for a minute."
ShoshannahIn fact, Shoshannah is middle eastern as much as she's white - but she's the light, fair sort that comes from Israel and Lebanon and the like as opposed to the darker, more easily profiled kind. She's not quite a white girl, but close enough by most standards. She passes, at least as far as ethnicity goes. And, as is to be expected, she doesn't question the company Padre's kept that stops him from trying to exorcise her or just kick her out but instead thanks her lucky stars and whatever spirits had a hand in it any time it crosses her mind. It's a sad fact that living here, with Rosa crossing herself whenever she thinks Shoshannah isn't looking and the more usual denizens of the area warding against her and spitting in her general direction or inexplicably drawn to her by turns is the most at home she's felt in . . . well, ever, or at least as long as she can remember.
And it does feel like that's what he's saying, even if he isn't - were she a rational person as opposed to one who flies off the handle every which way at the slightest provocation, maybe she'd realize that wasn't his meaning at all, but now her brow furrows and the plate - full of food that she's barely touched, though the mushroom and tomatoes have disappeared at some point - gets shoved onto the counter, narrowly escaping making a mess.
"I like to do a good job. There's no point in doing anything at all if I'm not going to do it right, or as close to as I can - but if I'm taking space someone else needs I can go." It's a preemptive strike, really; in Shoshannah's mind it's better to leave on her own terms than to be asked to go.
Fr. EcheverríaHe may not be able to tell when he's the object of someone else's affection but the man has plenty of experience dealing with teenagers. Troubled teenagers who have no sense of permanence or stability and think the best way to maintain their own sense of safety and self-reliance is to push away other people before they can abandon them. That's what he's used to. Her reaction doesn't do so much as faze him.
"We don't have a list of people waiting to sort clothing donations," he says. "But if anyone else shows up gives five-year-olds goose flesh and don't know how to swing a hammer, then we're gonna have a problem."
He's joking, but not. Shoshannah cannot drive, cannot help with construction or renovation, and can't work in the nursery. She can't volunteer to help during services. She can't go to the hospital to sit with people who are dying or sick. That dread-feeling her presence gives other people prevents her from doing much more than isolated cleaning up of things that have been ignored for months or longer.
His next question comes almost out of nowhere but the conversational tires manage not to squeal even as he steers it sharp as he does.
"What'd you think of the Chantry?"
ShoshannahShe can cook (though given her current set up there's little evidence of it) and clean and provide better than passable entertainment, if her occasional impromptu stoop concerts and collection of instruments are any evidence. These things, though, are only useful as long as they're wanted or needed . . . and there's little that makes for a feeling of security as much as usefulness does, at least for Shoshannah. The question about the Chantry? It's been more or less expected since they were there, really, and any ill reaction she has to its mention is well hidden. (In fact, she'd obviously liked the place quite well when they were there, had seemed to fit right into her environs, and this may well still be true.)
".....it was alright. Quiet, but not empty." Which is to say, even if there's no one there at least there's interesting folk to talk to if she needs it - though she doesn't explain.
Fr. EcheverríaIf she were an apprentice, his own or anyone else's, the odds of their having this conversation would diminish to a point where they could vanish and no one would have noticed their existing in the first place. But she is not and she conducts herself like a person of means and autonomy and though it chafes at times he does not treat her like a child when he can avoid it.
Granted: even the oldest of the Initiates is young enough to be his child. Credit given where credit due.
"It was alright," he says. If he says it out loud he can taste the tone of it, sort out if she's underwhelmed or ambivalent or if she truly does not want to spend all of her days out there but fears telling the truth will lead to an outcome in either case. After a moment of contemplation he says: "Even if Annie does end up sticking around, she's gonna need help keeping up the place. It's pretty big and I don't know nothing about taking care of Nodes."
ShoshannahThe trouble with repeating Shoshannah's words aloud to taste their veracity is that she so seldom says what she means, let alone what she's thinking. The girl doesn't outright lie - is quite terrible at it even when she does bother to try - but she's learned her particular set of defenses well. "You want me to crash out there."
It's flat, a statement rather than a question, and no judgement on his desire for her to do so or lack thereof; even if she can't feel it herself, Shoshannah knows that she doesn't exactly give people warm fuzzies.
"I can do that. Crash out there, I mean - I'll have to learn about taking care of nodes. But I can do that, too."
Fr. Echeverría"You gonna move in and make a home out of it and learn how to take care of the Node," he asks, "or you gonna tell me you're crashing there and then load up your bike and take off when you think I'm not paying attention?"
Shoshannah"Have I lied to you yet?" A question answered with a question is always fun.
Fr. EcheverríaHe hasn't moved from the position he took up against the counter after setting down his plate. He leans against it and he keeps his arms crossed loose and low on his torso. This house has big honest windows that let in lots of light and for all the light that pours off of him through the telling of his magick it is in the light of his own god's sun that he looks his age. Bright green eyes look exhausted for the shadows beneath them and the gray and white shot through his black hair turns silver in the noon glow.
Father Echeverría doesn't have time to sleep as much as he should but he makes time to talk to people who won't ever tell him how much they appreciate the shit he puts up with.
"I don't know. Have you?"
ShoshannahThe furrow in her young, unlined brow deepens and Shoshannah turns abruptly away, to face the counter and her rapidly cooling, as yet untouched lunch. It's a slight relief, perhaps, to no longer have those eyes cutting him to the bone, to the soul.
"I don't lie. And I haven't started with you, no."
She knows he's not sleeping enough, knows she's part of the problem, but she's an exception to the rule - while she may well not come out and say 'thank you', she shows her appreciation for the things he does for her in other ways. Sometimes it's muffins and tea set up for him to just steep and enjoy after a rough day at work, sometimes it's a random bunch of flowers rescued from a dirt patch and potted in his office's window, but it's always something, whether he knows it's from her or not.
"Whatever. I'll stay out there and learn what I need to know, yeah. It'll make it easier around here."
Fr. EcheverríaLittle point arguing with a teenager, let alone a teenage girl. He stands looking at her like there's about a thousand things he would tell her if he thought they'd sink in. Part of preaching is saying things nobody wants to hear but a bigger part of it is saying things that speak to what the congregation is going through as a whole, something that's going to resonate with each person sitting out in front of him. So he doesn't just throw up his hands and consider their conversation a glowing success.
"This ain't something I'm choosing for you," he says. "Shoshannah, there's lots of people in this city whose station in life would improve just by having the chance to dust shelves and change light bulbs twenty hours a week, but I can't think of nobody else can talk to spirits and sit still for hours reading five-hundred-year-old German books. You're the one found that story about cleansing the Fallen's soul. You give that girl hope, yeah? You make her days brighter by being her friend, even if it's only for a couple of hours. This ain't about making my life easier, it's about trying to save hers. We don't have a whole lot of time here."
Shoshannah"she'snotthatdifferentthani," comes almost whispered to the plate she's staring at as if it's the most interesting thing she's ever seen - and this, perhaps, is from whence the added tension and angst she's been spewing since their brief meeting with Leah. As stated before, Shoshannah doesn't experience the aura she puts out, but she does know how people look at her, how they react. There's quiet for a moment, the only sounds being those that go along with this sort of neighborhood, and the Dreamspeaker's shoulders are ratcheted up around her ears. Eventually, though . . .
"I said I'd go. You don't have to butter me up."
Fr. Echeverría"Good."
He pushes off the counter like that settles that. Like he'd stopped really listening after that muted confession given to the plate.
"Get packed. I'd like to head out after evening Mass."
Shoshannah".............right. I'll be ready. You going to finish your lunch?"
Bland indifference serves everyone well, right? Or at least the appearance thereof does. Maybe. And regardless of whether Padre finishes his eggs or not, by the time he's ready to take Shoshannah out to the Chantry the room in which she's been living for about a month is so spotless it would be difficult to tell she'd been there at all.
Fr. Echeverría[WRAP BITCHES]
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