The Mob Gave Me a Week to Leave, So I Took Over Dorchester novel · Chapter 23 of 24

Chapter 23: Marek's POV

Marek's POV

On Holy Saturday morning the Polish church on Dorchester Avenue was full of baskets.

They stood on the long tables in the side aisle, hundreds of them.

Each one was lined with a white linen cloth and tied with a bow.

Eggs painted red and gold lay in them beside links of kielbasa and rounds of rye.

There was a little dish of salt, a jar of horseradish, and a lamb molded from butter.

A sprig of boxwood stood up out of every one.

My mother's basket sat in the middle of the third table, the same basket she had carried every Holy Saturday of my life.

She stood beside it in her church black with her rosary wound around her hand.

Kathleen stood on her other side.

She wore a dark green dress and a black cardigan, and the little silver eagle on the collar.

She had come to this church only once before, for a funeral, and she had sat at the back.

Today she stood at the front, between my mother and me, with the scar bare on her cheek.

People looked at it.

Then they looked at the brooch, and looked away.

"What do I do?" she whispered.

"Nothing," I said. "He walks down the line and throws holy water on everything. You stand."

"On the food?" she said.

"On the food."

"Your people are practical."

The priest came down the aisle with a silver bucket and a brush, praying in Polish, and flicked water in great arcs across the baskets.

A drop landed on Kathleen's cheek.

It ran down the scar, and she did not wipe it away.

My mother's lips were moving.

When the priest passed us she crossed herself.

Then, to my astonishment, she took Kathleen's hand and held it, hard, for the length of the blessing.

Kathleen did not pull away.

She stood stiff and straight with my mother's small hand wrapped around hers.

She did not look at Mama, and Mama did not look at her.

When the water had gone by and the priest had moved to the next table, my mother let go.

"Take the basket," she said to Kathleen, in English. "It is heavy. My hands are tired today."

Kathleen took the basket by the handle and settled it on her arm.

I knew what it meant, and so did my mother, and nobody said it.

After the blessing, my mother walked to the back of the church.

A line of old women waited by the confessional with their heads bowed.

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