Page 4

Pete Martinez let out a satisfied breath, the final twist of his wrench echoing in the stillness of the parish hall kitchen. His hands, calloused from years of labor, bore the faint scent of metal and sawdust—a testament to the morning’s work. He ran a rough palm across his brow, catching beads of sweat before they could sting his eyes.

As he replaced his tools into his worn leather bag, footsteps approached. Pete glanced up to see Betty Serbin, her presence as familiar in St. Michael’s as the stained-glass windows that filtered sunlight into kaleidoscope patterns on the pews. Her silver hair caught the light, a halo of meticulous curls, and her smile softened the lines etched by seven decades.

“Oh, Pete, I’m so glad I caught you,” she said.

“Good timing,” Pete said, offering a nod of recognition. “Just finished up here.”

“We’ve got a bit of a situation in the Sunday school room. One of the shelves has given up the ghost, I’m afraid.”

“Lead on, Mrs. Serbin.” Pete’s response was automatic, having long since embraced the role of all-around fixer. With his tool bag slung over his shoulder, he followed Betty Serbin through the corridors. Each step took them farther from the heart of the church, towards the rooms where young minds were shaped. The Sunday school room awaited, another problem he was sure he could take care of easily.

The Sunday school room was a vivid change from the austere corridors. Bright Bible story posters competed for attention against the proud display of children’s crayon masterpieces. Morning sunlight played through the tall windows, casting a kaleidoscope of light that seemed to bring life to the still air.

Pale yellow paint brought freshness to one wall, suggesting renewal and hope—a backdrop now marred by a view through an open closet door. He could see that its interior had been plunged into mild disarray.

“It’s this closet here,” she explained, pointing inside where a shelf lay defeated in the clutter. Pete could see new supplies scattered across the floor, the result of Betty’s interrupted efforts at organization.

“I was trying to put away some of the new materials when the whole shelf just came away from the wall,” Betty explained, her voice tinged with disappointment over the mishap.

Pete stepped closer to the closet, eyeing the damage. The wooden shelf, once a steadfast guardian of supplies, now rested awkwardly against the wall. He noted the anchor points where screws had given way—betrayed, perhaps, by age or simply the burden of too much weight.

The culprit was obvious: a metal bracket, once the cornerstone of support for the wooden shelf, now dangled limply from the wall by one lonesome screw.

“Seen this kind of thing before,” Pete muttered. His hands were already envisioning the work ahead: clearing the area, assessing the integrity of the wall, installing a sturdier support system for the shelves. It was a simple enough task, routine for someone who had spent years tending to the various needs of St. Michael’s. He reached out, touching the rough surface where the bracket had torn through the drywall. Bits of plaster and dust crumbled to the floor as he traced the edges of the breach. The wall felt fragile under his touch, like the brittle pages of an ancient book that might turn to powder if handled too roughly.

“Old age and gravity,” Pete muttered, half to himself, examining the damage.

He stood up, dusting his hands off on his jeans before giving the wall a gentle tap with his knuckle. The hollow thud resonated a little too loudly. Pete’s frown deepened as he rapped against the wall again, the sound fueling his concern. He knew these walls, knew every repair he’d done over the years, the quirks and creaks of the old building. It was like an old friend that sometimes whispered secrets. And there was something unsettling about the echo, a suggestion of empty space where there should be none. Maybe this wasn’t just about simply patching up a shelf.

“Probably nothing,” he reassured himself, though the assurance rang hollow in his own ears. “Why don’t you keep on with your decorating, Mrs. Serbin? I need to talk to Father Walsh about how we should handle this.” Betty’s nod was accompanied by her usual pluck. The church’s welfare was in good hands with volunteers like her.

He left the Sunday school room, tool bag slung over his shoulder, and made his way down the quiet corridor toward the rectory. It was this tranquil atmosphere of St. Michael’s that had first drawn him to Trentville, away from the clamor of city life. Nearly two decades ago, he’d arrived seeking peace in this small town nestled in the Ozark Plateau. He remembered his first glimpse of the church, its stone facade a testament to a bygone era, welcoming him just as the townsfolk had. When old Mr. Henderson, the church’s previous handyman, had retired, Pete had taken up the mantle with little hesitation. The role suited him; it was more than just maintenance—it was stewardship of a place steeped in history and faith.

Pete’s thoughts were interrupted as he reached the rectory door. Shaking off the nostalgia, he pressed the buzzer and waited for Father Walsh to usher him inside.

The rectory door opened with a soft creak, and Pete stepped into the cool, dimly lit hallway that smelled faintly of old books and polished wood. He navigated through the narrow passage, his boots muffled on the thick carpet, until he reached the study at the end.

Father Thomas Walsh sat hunched over a cluttered desk, surrounded by tomes of theology and sheets of sermon notes. Although he was only in his mid-forties, the priest’s blond hair was thinning, and the round spectacles perched on the bridge of his nose gave him an air of scholarly diligence. His vestments were simple, a striking divergence from the grandeur of the stained-glass saints that watched over him from the window behind his desk.

“Ah, Pete,” Father Walsh greeted with a smile that warmed the room. “What can I do for you?”

Pete hesitated for a moment, taking in the sight of the man who had become both a boss and a confidant. He then explained about the faulty shelf and the concerns it raised: the drywall’s frailty, the hollow sound it made when tapped. Something wasn’t quite right.

As Pete detailed his findings, Father Walsh’s eyes narrowed slightly, and the warmth ebbed from his features. Concern etched deeper lines into the priest’s forehead, and he leaned forward, elbows resting on the vast sprawl of papers that documented the spiritual guidance of his flock.

“I think we should remove the drywall entirely,” Pete concluded. “It’s not original to the building anyway. Judging by its condition, it was probably put up maybe fifty or sixty years ago, long after the church was built in 1859.”

Father Walsh drummed on the oak surface of his aged desk, breaking the silence that had settled over the room like dust on an unused pew. Pete stood there, tool belt sagging with the burden of his responsibilities.

“I understand your concerns, Pete,” Father Walsh finally said, his voice carrying the weariness of a man caught between duty and tradition. “But you know how some of the congregation can be. They’re very protective of the church’s history, even the more recent parts.” He sighed, a muted sound in the hush of the study. “I’ve only been here eight years, and I still get pushback when I suggest changes.”

Pete nodded, understanding more than most the delicate balance required in places like this, where every stone and beam was steeped in memory.

“Father Walsh,” Pete said, “it’s just the Sunday school room. We’re not talking about altering the nave or anything sacred. Besides, this isn’t about change for the sake of it. It’s about the integrity of this place—about safety.” He paused, considering his next words carefully. “The shape of that closet is odd, and it could be dangerous if the wall got knocked in completely.”

The priest rubbed at his temples without replying, so Pete plunged ahead again, “Look, it might seem insignificant, but what if there’s mold or rot? What if the next heavy rain brings the whole thing down on one of the kids? I think it’s a risk, Father.”

Father Walsh’s gaze lingered on the framed photograph of the original church altar hanging beside his desk. After a moment, his shoulders dropped—an almost imperceptible surrender to reality. “Okay, Pete,” he conceded. “Do what needs to be done. But please, keep it quiet if you can.”

Pete exhaled with relief. “Don’t worry. I should be able to get the whole thing done this afternoon before the room is even used again. Nobody’s likely to even notice the change.”

It seemed like an easy enough promise to make, and an easy enough promise to keep. Pete understood better than anybody the need to tread lightly on the memories and history that lay within the church’s walls. With a resolve bolstered by the priest’s reluctant blessing, he turned to leave the study, his thoughts shifting to the impending task.

His boots echoed through the empty corridors of St. Michael’s as he made his way to the maintenance room—a small chamber that smelled perpetually of sawdust and oil. The worn leather of his tool belt creaked as he removed it, placing the plumbing tools back on their designated hooks with a practiced hand. His gaze then swept over the array of implements before him, and he reached for the hammer and crowbar.

Father Walsh’s words lingered in Pete’s mind, a quiet admonition to handle the task with care. As he closed the door to the maintenance room behind him, he felt the weight of responsibility, not just for the preservation of the church’s physical integrity, but also for the trust placed in him by a community that held every stone and stained glass window dear.

Upon re-entering the Sunday school room, Pete found Betty Serbin, much as he left her, a flutter of activity amid the crayon drawings and biblical scenes. She stood on a stepladder, stretching to align a new poster perfectly beside another that proclaimed, ‘God Loves All His Children’. Her hands did not tremble, nor falter—the same hands that had likely tended this place and its people for more years than Pete had been alive.

“Mrs. Serbin,” Pete called, his voice gentle so as not to startle her. “I’m going to need to do some work in the closet here. Might get a bit dusty. You okay to keep working, or would you rather come back later?”

Without missing a beat, Betty glanced down at him, her smile unwavering even as a strand of silver hair slipped free of its pins. “Oh, don’t you worry about me, Pete? I’ve breathed in plenty of dust in my day. You just do what you need to do. I’ll be so grateful to have the repair done.” Her dismissal was kind, wrapped in the soft lilt of a voice that had sung hymns and comforted crying children.

Pete set the fallen shelf aside. The closet’s exposed innards seemed innocuous at first glance, but Pete knew better than to trust appearances, especially within the hidden corners of an old building like St. Michael’s. Taking a deep breath to steady himself for what might be revealed, he wedged the crowbar against the damaged drywall, his movements deliberate and controlled.

With a crack, the first piece of wall yielded to his efforts. Dust billowed from the breach, carrying with it the musty scent of secrets long concealed. As the debris settled, Pete leaned closer, peering into the newfound aperture. A glint there in the hollow snagged his attention—a hint of plastic that didn’t belong, an anachronism in the church’s ancient structure.

That shine of heavy plastic inside the old structure required understanding, and Pete obliged, chiseling away at more of the wall with renewed purpose. Each strike of the hammer echoed through the Sunday school room, a sharp counterpoint to Betty’s quiet work on the other side. He pried off another sizable chunk, enlarging the hole, the void behind the wall opening up like a dark maw.

Pete pulled a flashlight from his tool belt and peered into the darkness. What he saw next rooted him to the spot. His heart hammered in his chest, each pulse a drumbeat of dread as the implications of his find began to unfurl in his mind. He stood motionless, his gaze locked onto the discovery. His throat tightened, constricted by the sight of what lay before him.

“Mrs. Serbin,” Pete’s voice finally broke through the hush, urgent yet tempered by shock. “I think you’d better go get Father Walsh. Right away.”