The 14th Day by K.C. Frederick

Vaniok. For an instant he’s even tempted to tell the man that he was raised Catholic though he hasn’t been what anyone would regard as a good one for some years.
    The priest, after gingerly testing the injured foot, says “I should probably give this ankle a little more rest. Thanks again. I’m going to have to learn to ride a bike or give up on the damned thing. Oh, sorry,” he says. “By the way, you don’t have to be Catholic to come to the Center. Everybody’s welcome. Not everything we do there is religious.” Then he smiles. “Actually, I’m still finding my way around. Like you, I’m new here.” He laughs.
    â€œYou sure you’re all right?” Vaniok insists and for answer the priest does a brief cripple’s dance: a couple of awkward half-steps that seem to verify that nothing is broken.
    â€œA sprain,” the man declares. He shows no inclination to get back on the bike. “I think I’ll walk this back,” he says. “Thanks for the help.”
    â€œWash that elbow right away,” Vaniok urges.
    â€œI will. And remember the Center. Don’t worry, we don’t have any bikes inside.” He extends his hand and Vaniok takes it. “Remember,” he says, “Father Tom.”
    â€œSure thing,” Vaniok says, recognizing the seriousness beneath the man’s humor: if you have anything important you want to talk about, his eyes seem to say, I’ll listen—I’m not always crashing bikes. The man is a real priest, Vaniok realizes, and it makes him feel better.
    Vaniok has always been drawn to priests. Not that he ever felt he had the vocation. But some of the strongest influences of his childhood were priests and among the numbers of them who were disappointments there were enough admirable men to make him respect the profession. Even these days he’s occasionally seized by the desire to be a better person than he has been, exactly the way he used to feel as a boy when he attended retreats given by Father Nicol, a thin, bald cleric with deep-set eyes. At those highly charged sessions Vaniok pledged that he would always try to be that better person and for all that’s happened since, he can be overwhelmed at the unlikeliest times by that desire. It’s his own secret that in the last election back home he voted for some minor candidates of the Spiritus party, commonly known as the priests’ party, a fringe group that never held more than a few seats in the parliament because their ideas were hopelessly old-fashioned and unattainable, though their representatives could never be accused of corruption and worldliness. Possibly he was remembering Father Nicol.
    Who knows, Vaniok thinks, maybe I will visit the Catholic Center.
    The encounter has excited him. It pleases him to think the priest may even be newer to this town than he; it makes him feel like a native. Vaniok suddenly doesn’t want to be by himself, he leaves the residential area for the main commercial street, busy with people at this hour, and instead of going directly home he walks to the old brick mill that’s been converted to a shopping center. There he stops in the natural foods store and buys himself a roll and a cool drink. He smiles to the salesperson and takes his food to one of the outdoor tables where he sits and contentedly watches the homebound workers passing by. He’s a man with resources, a man with friends. However minimal his help may have been today to the fallen priest, his help was offered and accepted. In the old days, he realizes, that would be exactly the kind of incident that would have revived his dream of being that better person.
    Vaniok and Jory sit beside each other in the university truck. Edward is at the wheel, intent on his driving. The other two are silent. On the wide front seat each of the men is separated by a few inches from the one next to him, as if Vaniok and Jory are hitchhikers