“Excuse me,” Father Pete called out, waving nervously to the passing clerk. “Why is there a . . . a cage here?”

The clerk’s eyes drifted down to Father Pete’s collar then over to the caged off alcohol aisle. “It’s a Sunday morning,” the kid said flatly.

“Yes,” Father Pete said, nodding rapidly. “The thing is, I just need to buy some wine. Is it possible for you to open this or . . .” he seemed to hesitate seeing refusal hardening on the clerk’s face. “Or maybe you could just pull some out?”

The groggy worker could not even be bothered enough to roll his eyes. “That would be illegal sir.”

“But I’m not going to drink it.”

An arched eyebrow

“It’s for communion,” Father Pete tried to explain. “For the church.”

“You want wine, you’ll have to wait till noon,” the clerk explained, then turned and began walking away.

“But Mass starts at 6:00.”

With nothing more than a shrug, he replied “Grape juice in aisle three. Wine is across the state line.”

* * *

The pale light of dawn was creeping into the eastern sky as Father Pete crossed from Indiana into Michigan. A single illuminated sign waited just beyond that invisible border: “Cross the Line Liquor.” The sight of it was such a relief that Pete nearly said a prayer of thanks to God. Suddenly realizing why this store would have been placed here and who its usual clientele would be on a Sunday morning. “Lord,” he muttered instead, “have mercy.”

* * *

“We ran out of wine,” Father Pete said nervously.

“Uh huh.” The cashier moved with excruciating lethargy, picking up one large bottle at a time, scanning it, and sliding it into a brown paper bag.

“Very embarrassing.”

“Sure.”

An electronic tone sounded from the door, and Father Pete turned abruptly to avoid any further risk of being recognized as a priest buying bulk alcohol early in the morning. “Communion,” he mumbled. “Gotta have wine.” A grunt came in answer. “It’s an important ritual. All about sharing in the death of Christ.” This time the cashier didn’t even bother responding. “Do you go to church?”

“That’s $116.58.”

“Right, yes.” Father Pete began fishing bills out of his wallet. The cashier opened the register, and suddenly shouting erupted.

“Hands above your head!”

Pete’s spine went cold. The other person who had entered the liquor store, the person whom Father Pete had made every effort to avoid looking at was now immediately behind him. The indolent cashier was now wide-eyed with arms raised. Pete mirrored the posture and slowly turned to face the would-be robber.

A stocky figure with a hat pulled low and a scarf over his mouth held a gun in an outstretched hand. Though the weapon was pointed at the cashier, it was inches from Father Pete’s head. For a moment, it was the only thing he could see. Then the gun began to shake. Pete focused on the attacker’s face and saw the wide, panicked eyes. “Father Pete?” the gunman said.

Recognition like sunlight breaking the horizon. “Billy?”

Quick breaths. Darting eyes. The scarf fell away from the young man’s mouth as he stammered, “Forgive me father!” And then he was sprinting out the door.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox