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“You know it’s not just the money, Mr. Carter.”
I click my tongue, shaking my head now and reminding Sister to call me Steve.
“MisterCarter is what the staff here call me. Makes me sound so… old!” I exclaim, laughing aloud.
“You’ll always be that sweet little angel baby to us, Steven,” she reminds me affectionately and warns me to take care before saying goodbye.
“Those streets are icy as all hell today,” she laughs quietly to herself before hanging up. That’s the closest thing to a sin to come out of her mouth, which makes me smile.
The closest thing to a mom I ever had, too.
God bless and watch over every one of those nuns who have been doing his work every day for decades now.
There is still good in the world, ya know, Steve. Just gotta learn to see it.
Hmm. Not sure about that one most days. My world is a dog-eat-dog kind of place.
There’s a hurried knock at my open office door, and even though I make a low sound of annoyance, it’s what I do. What I’m here for.
“Uh, Mr. Carter? Paris is on one. And the D.A. is still on hold, line two.” The familiar and clipped voice of my personal assistant, Madison, reminds me with the look I’ve grown to ignore.
“I’m in a meeting,” I murmur absently, not even looking at him as I turn my back to the doorway.
Looking at the snow again, sensing the quiet outside. The quiet that exists somewhere else but here, and I finally turn around.
“I’m still here,” my faithful assistant almost snaps at me. “The D.A. doesn’t buy themeetingstory anymore, and Paris…?” he starts, but my eyes have moved past him toward my coat.
“Alright. Think I’ll go for a walk instead,” I tell him, creasing a smile and noticing his effort not to roll his eyes in my presence.
“A walk…,” he parrots back somberly, pretending to jot it down on his legal pad before spinning on his heel and leaving me alone as I slide into my coat and scarf.
I mean it, though. A walk in the winter snow will do me good.
Clear my head.
Paris and the D.A. They’ll still be there when I get back, or maybe even tomorrow if I can make it through the rest of today without being interrupted again.
Just don’t forget about the hospital. Sister O’ Halloran.
I won’t.
I promise.
The thought echoes in my mind as the voice of the good Sisters. Almost like angels themselves.
And that quiet solitude I was yearning for?
It certainly looked possible forty stories up, but at street level, the noise, smells, and skiddy slipperiness of downtown sidewalks a few days before Christmas hit me in the face like a ton of bricks.
With my collar turned up against the icy wind whipping up from the alleys, I keep my eyes down, watching my steps on the icy pavement.
I thrust my hands into my pockets, and feeling my thin wallet reminds me I’ll need some more ready cash.
Donations are one thing, but Steve Carter has a reputation for visiting sick kids and handing out crisp hundred-dollar bills around Christmas time.
Some people call it other things, nasty, jealous things. But the face of a sick kid who can choose what they want, or maybe help mom or dad with something like rent or food when they see sorely needed cash?
That means a hell of a lot more than wrapping paper and stuffed toys.
