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He wore his
civvies this morning--faded jeans, flannel shirt, sneakers. He wasn't here on
Church business and it was easier to get around without the Roman collar.
Especially in Tompkins Square. The collar drew the panhandlers like moths to a
flame. And can you believe it--every single one of them a former altar boy?
Simply amazing how many altar boys had become homeless.

Tompkins Square
Park was big, three blocks long and running the full width between Avenues A
and B. Black wrought-iron fencing guarded the perimeter. Oaks, pale green with
new life, stood inside the fences but spread their branches protectively over
the surrounding sidewalks.
Homeless shantytowns used to spring up here every so often,
and just as often the police would raze them, but closing the park between
midnight and six
a.m.
every night
had sent the cardboard box brigade elsewhere.

Dan walked past
the stately statue of Samuel S. Cox, its gray-green drabness accentuated by the
orange, red, and yellow of the swings and slides in the nearby playground, and
strolled the bench-lined walks, searching for the gleaming white of Harold
Gold's bald head. They'd met years ago when Dan had audited Hal's course on the
Dead Sea scrolls. They'd got to talking after class, found they shared an
abiding interest in the Jerusalem Church--Hal from the Jewish perspective, Dan
from the Christian--and became fast friends. Whenever one dug up a tasty little
tidbit of lore, he shared it immediately with the other. Dan was sure Hal
had picked up some real goodies during his sabbatical
in Israel. He was looking forward to this meeting.

He didn't see
Hal. Lunch hour was still a while off but already seats were becoming scarce
around the square. Then Dan spotted someone waving from a long bench in the
sunny section on the Avenue A side.

No wonder I
couldn't spot him, Dan thought as he approached Hal's bench. He's got a tan.

As usual, Hal
was nattily dressed in a dark blue blazer, gray slacks, a pale blue Oxford
button-down shirt, and a red-and-blue paisley tie. But his customary
academician's pallor had been toasted to a golden brown. His nude scalp gleamed
with a richer color. He looked healthier and better rested than Dan had ever
seen him.

"The
Middle East seems to agree with you," Dan said, laughing as they shook
hands. He sat down next to him. "1 can't remember ever seeing you looking
so fit."

"Believe
me, Fitz," Hal said, "getting away for a year and recharging the
batteries does wonders for the mind and body. I heartily recommend it." He
looked around. "You came alone?"

"Of
course. Who else would I bring?" Dan said, knowing perfectly well who Hal
was looking for.

"I don't
know. I thought, well, maybe Sister Carrie might come along."

"No. She's
back at St. Joe's, working. You'll have to come by if you want to see
her."

"Maybe I
will. Been a long time since I stopped in."

Dan knew Hal
had a crush on Carrie. A strictly hands-off, love-from-afar thing that reduced
him to a stumbling, stammering twelve-year-old around her. But he wasn't alone.
Everybody loved Sister Carrie.

"Do that.
And bring some food. A long time since you made a contribution."

Just then an
eighth of a ton of black woman in a frayed yellow dress lumbered up and spread
a large green garbage bag on the bench. She seated herself so close to Dan that
one of her massive thighs rubbed against his. He smiled at her
and inched away to give her some room as she settled herself.

Hal clapped Dan
on the shoulder. "Saw you on TV last night, Fitz."

"Did you.
How was I?"

"You
sounded good. I thought you came off very well."

You wouldn't
think so if you'd been there, Dan thought.

. . .
you
just ain't getting it done . . .

His herd at his
heels, he'd slunk back to St. Joe's with his tail between his legs. At least
that was the way it had felt. The on-camera interview Hal had seen had been
taped during the fund-raising dinner, while he and the demonstrators were all
waiting for Senator Crenshaw to come out. After the senator's exit--after he'd
been sliced and diced-- Dan had fielded a few questions from reporters but his
answers weren't as sharp as they might have been. They'd seemed almost . . .
empty.

But perhaps
that was just his own perception. Everyone he'd seen so far today had told him
he and the protesters had come across extremely well on the tube. Dan would
have to take their word for it. He'd lacked the nerve to tune in last night.

Luckily, no one
seemed to have caught Senator Crenshaw's little diatribe on tape. Dan knew the
wounded part of him within would shrivel up and die if he had listen to that
again.

"What
the--?"

Hal's voice
jolted Dan back to the here and now. He glanced up and saw Hal staring past him
in horrified fascination at the fat black woman. She'd removed the mirrored
half of a compact and a pair of tweezers from her huge purse and was now
plucking at her face. Dan couldn't see anything to pluck at but that didn't
seem to deter the woman. She was completely engrossed in the task.

Hal shook
himself. "Anyway, seeing you reminded me that I had a present for
you."

He picked up a
football-sized box from the bag between his feet and placed it in Dan's hands.

"What's
this?"

"A gift.
From the past . . . sort of."

Dan hadn't
expected a gift, though God knew his spirits needed lifting after last night.

"Well,
don't just stare at it. Open it."

No ribbon or
wrapping to remove, just a plain, oblong wooden box. Dan lifted the lid and
stared.

"What . .
. ?"

"Your own
Dead Sea scroll," Harold said.

Dan glanced at
his friend. He knew Harold was kidding, but this thing looked so damned . . .
real.

"No,
really. What is it?"

Harold launched
into the explanation. A fascinating story, during which a pair of thin,
dark-haired, mustached men seated themselves on the far side of the black
woman; each began drinking his lunch from a brown paper bag. Dan listened to
Hal and sensed the mixture of excitement and disappointment in his voice. When
he finished, Dan looked down at the loosely rolled parchment in the box on his
lap.

"So,
you're giving me a first-century parchment filled with twentieth century
scribbles."

"Damn near
twenty-first
century scribbles. An oddity. A collector's item in its own
right."

Dan continued
to stare at the ancient roll of sheepskin. He was moved.

"I. . . I
don't know what to say, Hal. I'll treasure this."

"Don't get
carried away--"

"No, I
mean it. If nothing else, the parchment was made in the early days of the
Church. It's a link of sorts. And I'm touched that you thought of me."

"Who else
do I know who's so nuts about the first century?"

"You must
have been crushed when you found out."

Harold sighed.
"Crushed
isn't the word. We were all devastated. But I tell you, Fitz, I wouldn't
trade the high of the first few days with that scroll for anything. It was the
greatest!"

Just then a
woman dressed in satin work-out pants and a red sleeveless shell top walked
over to the bench and stood on the other side of Hal. She was middle-aged with
a
bulging abdomen. Dan noticed that she wore
red slipper-socks over red lace knee-highs. She'd finished off the ensemble by
wrapping Christmas paper around her ankles.

Hal looked down
at her feet and said, "Good Lord."

She smiled down
at him. "Ain't blockin' yer sun, am I?"

Hal shook his
head. "No. That's quite all right."

She then pulled
a bottle of Ban deodorant from her pocket and began to apply it to her right
underarm--and only to her right underarm. Dan and Hal watched her do this for
what seemed like five minutes but was probably only one. During the process she
also managed to coat half of her shoulder blade as well.

She was still
at it when Dan turned back to his gift and spotted a legal-size envelope tucked
in next to the scroll. He pulled it out.

"What's
this?"

Hal dragged his
eyes away from the woman with the deodorant. "The translation. I know
you're pretty good at old Hebrew, but this will save you from risking damage to
the scroll by unrolling it. And as jumbled, paranoid, and crazy as it may read,
you can rely on the accuracy of the translation. The folks who did it are
tops."

"Great,
Hal. You've thought of everything."

An elderly man
in a shabby blue suit slipped past the Ban lady and seated himself next to Hal.
Immediately he began untying his shoes.

"You don't
mind, do you?" he said in an accented voice as he slipped the first one
off. "They're really sweaty. I need to air my feet something awful."

"Be my
guest," Hal said, rolling his eyes at Dan as the odor from the exposed
feet and empty shoes began to rise. "We were just leaving. Weren't we,
Fitz."

"Gee, I
kind of like it here, Hal," Dan said in his most guileless tone. "Why
don't you save our seats while I run up to the corner and buy us a couple of
hot dogs. We can eat them right here. You like sauerkraut?"

"I've lost
my appetite," Hal said through a tight, fierce grin. "Let's. Go. For.
A. Little. Walk. Shall. We?"

Dan hadn't the
heart to play this out any longer. After all, Hal had just given him a
first-century scroll.

"Sure."

As they left, the
Ban lady took their spots and switched to her left underarm.

When they
reached the sidewalk on Avenue A, Hal said, "I think I preferred living
under the threat of a PLO attack."

Just then a
very pale woman with very black hair, black blouse, and black stretch pants
walked by balancing a loaded green plastic laundry basket on her head.

"And
sometimes I wonder if I've truly left the middle East."

Dan smiled.
Poor, fastidious Hal. "You should be at Princeton or Yale."

"Yeah. I
could have been. But I thought I'd like New York. Don't they get to you?"

Dan shrugged.
"Those folks are like most of the people I hang out with every day, but
considerably more functional."

"How do
you do it? You all but live with them. And you don't have to."

"Jesus
hung with the down-and-outs. Why shouldn't I?"

He noticed Hal
looking at him closely. "You don't think you're Jesus, do you?"

"Hardly."
Dan laughed. "But that's what being a priest is all about--modeling your
life on the J-man, as he's known around here. Truth is, we don't know much
about His life. He might even have been married."

"We don't
look into the New Testament much where I come from, but I don't remember ever
hearing that he was."

"True. But
nowhere is it said that he wasn't."

"Well, we
do know that he rubbed the higher-ups the wrong way."

"I've done
my share of that," Dan said, thinking of his long-running battle with
Father Brennan, St. Joseph's pastor, over his soup kitchen in the church
basement.

"It got
him killed."

Dan laughed
again. "Not to worry. I'm not looking to get my palms and soles
ventilated."

"You can't
be too careful, Fitz," Hal said, glancing back
toward the plaza. "A lot of these folks are more than
a few bricks shy of a full load."

Dan nodded.
"I'm aware of that." He thought of the couple of occasions when some
of Loaves and Fishes' "guests" got violent, mostly screaming and
shouting and pushing, but one went so far as to pull a knife during an argument
over who would sit by a window. "And I'm careful."

"Good. I'm
sure there's a place in heaven for you, but I don't want you taking it just
yet."