“Did you see the newspaper today, Father Jason?” Sister Mildred held a copy of the newspaper. The men at the tables huddled around, bringing their coffee with them. “Here, let me read it fer everone.”

“The headline says, Fighting Father Saved by Hail Mary,” the nun read aloud, and there were murmurs of approval from the men of the shelter. “Looking out of place for the first fight of his professional career, Jason ‘The Fighting Father’ Whitlock stepped into the ring in a simple pair of trunks made from a pair of gray sweatpants, perhaps as a result of being called up as a last-minute replacement for a much more experienced Kevin ‘The Slugger’ McCleary (44-23-3), who fell ill. The fact that the priest already sported a shiner on his left eye was either a sign of things to come, an ill omen, or a testament to the roughness of Hell’s Kitchen, home to the St. Michael’s Shelter. Fans of boxing will recall the beloved ‘Fighting Father’ Milligan (35-19-2)…”

Here Sister Mildred felt forced to interrupt the article. “They’re including in those 19 losses the bout against Fortier, and the late father—God rest his soul—was robbed. Fortier fouled the blessed father right ‘n’ left. He was the dirtiest, meanest, most low-down lug. Fight ended after the father got a horrid cut over his eye, ‘cause of an accidental headbutt. Accidental, huh. Tell it ta Sweeney!”

Anger flashed over the nun’s face, but she composed herself and returned to reading the article. “…who fought like a devil to support his self-financed shelter for vagrants. The question was, ‘Could this raw, untested fighter in the first bout of his career, step up into the large shoes he inherited from the famed and much-beloved Fighting Father Milligan?’

At the opening bell, the wily veteran Maxie ‘The Ghetto Wizard’ Rosenbloom, 27-0-2, with 21 of those wins by way of knockout, immediately tore into the novice boxer, easily landing jabs and combinations at will. Many of those attending the fight doubted that the newcomer would last as far as the end of the first round. The fighting priest seemed slow on his feet, lethargic, in contrast to the fast feet and even faster hands of Rosenbloom, who appeared to be toying with his opponent.

In the first miracle of the evening, the Fighting Father lasted to the end of the round and retreated to his corner without having landed a single punch. Whitlock seemed destined to lose—it was just a question of when, and how badly. While Rosenbloom retired to his corner without even having broken a sweat, a thoroughly pummeled Whitlock trudged to his corner, where his cornerman was equally inexperienced, failing to produce a stool or a bucket, or to remove the fighter’s mouthpiece.”

Jason patted Franklin’s shoulder. “That’s okay, we were both totally out of our depth.”

“It looked like the father didn’t have a prayer. At the start of the second bell, Rosenbloom was confident of an easy victory. Although Whitlock moved less sluggishly in the second round, he was still outclassed by the agile Rosenbloom, who in the first round had darted in and out, evading his opponent’s slower counters. In the second round, though, Rosenbloom moved in and stayed in to dish out punishment on the stymied Whitlock.

After a wild swing born of frustration, Rosenbloom masterfully countered, landing a right hand that knocked Whitlock’s mouth guard out of his mouth and sent it flying across the ring, dropping the newcomer to the canvas. A staggered and shaken Whitlock barely managed to struggle to his feet by the end of the count. Rosenbloom looked to finish him off and go home with his winnings, nearly untouched save for a single jab that connected. Rosenbloom launched a furious barrage of punches, battering Whitlock, who wilted from the heat of friction caused by the constant impact of leather on his face. Whitlock began to collapse, but the Fighting Father threw one last desperate punch, a Hail Mary uppercut to the body, before dropping to his knee.

The referee began Whitlock’s ten count, when the crowd witnessed the second miracle of the evening. Rosenbloom felt the delayed impact of a crushing liver blow, dropping to one knee, and prompting one of the greatest rarities in boxing, a double ten count. As Whitlock staggered to his feet at the count of seven, Rosenbloom collapsed to the canvas, rolling in agony. A stunned crowd was slow to recognize that they had just seen the underdog victory of a lifetime, against daunting odds. It was as though the ghost of the late Fighting Father Milligan had returned to the ring, determined to avenge his brutal murder.”

“Read that again,” Harold requested.

Sister Mildred complied. “‘It was as though the ghost of the late Fighting Father Milligan had returned to the ring, determined to avenge his brutal murder.’ Take a look a that!” she exclaimed, holding the picture of Jason with the referee raising his hand aloft to declare him the winner.

“Let Miss Maureen see it!” Harvey suggested, pointing with his coffee cup to the slim young lady.

The redhead had been hesitant to join the mass of men crowded around the table. Looking at the picture, she smiled. “That’s amazing, Father Jason. I was so worried, I mean, we all were so worried about you, with it being your fist fight and all.”

“And at the last minute, ta boot!” Sister Mildred added. “The good Lord was lookin’ out for ya, that’s sure. Oh, and I almost forgot, Big Country donated three gallons a milk this mornin’. They said the big cheese seen ya fight.”

“That’s great!” Jason felt happy as the men congratulated him and was encouraged that the shelter had already received a donation. “Everyone! I just want you to know, that like the late Father Milligan, I’m going to use my winnings to support the shelter, and we already received our first donation. I’m going to work to get us some more. My thanks to Franklin, who helped me out.”

Franklin blushed and looked down into his coffee. “The f-f-father might have got his share of, um, chin music, but he c-c-cooled Rosenbloom good.”

Jason felt like he needed a translator every time Franklin spoke, because his speech was full of twenties slang, combined with his stuttering. If he remembered right, Franklin said that Jason had been hit on the chin a lot, but still managed to knock out Rosenbloom.

As the newspaper was passed around, Jason made his way to the coffee pot. Thank goodness the fight didn’t last the whole two rounds, because he could feel the beating he’d taken, in his sore muscles and even in the bones of his face, topped by an overall feeling of weariness.

“Father Jason?” Maureen asked, “do you think we could go visit my sister today?”

He was struck by the sight of freckles on her face resembling gold flakes, and the depth of her green eyes. “Uh, sure. Sister Mildred, want to join us while we go see Maureen’s sister?”

“Nah, I’ll just stay here and clean up,” the sister said. “Someone’s got ta mind the shelter. You two go on along.”

“Let me get ready,” Jason told Maureen. He preferred having a third party along, but the sister declined.

Jason decided to take the car, because Maureen’s sister lived at the far edge of the city. Their first stop was at Big Country Milk, to thank them for their donation, but because it was Saturday, the boss wasn’t in. Jason decided to come in on Monday to see if he could line up the dairy as a sponsor for the shelter.

Jason unfolded the map, frustrated by the large piece of thick paper with its multiple accordion folds. Once he saw where he needed to go, he tried to fold the map back up, but was frustrated. Somehow, somebody had been able to fold the map up neatly, but Jason had the feeling he was trying to make an origami frog. He wondered how people survived before Google maps. He handed the map to Maureen to fold. They drove for nearly forty minutes until they reached a large wooden building resembling a barn, surrounded by a dirt parking lot.

“Your sister lives here?” Jason asked and saw that the young redhead’s face was heavy.

“Yes,” she nodded, and then said in almost a whisper, “if you could call it living.”

Jason got out of the car and opened the door for Maureen. He tried not to show his elation when her pale freckled hand rested in his palm as he helped her step down. When they reached the door at the front of the building, Jason read a large sign hanging over the mantel. “Greater New York Sanitarium.” Was Maureen’s sister insane?

They entered the sanitarium, and Jason was stunned by the sight of a huge wooden building constructed crudely, with ventilation fans and two rows of windows. There were seven rows of bunks, running from one end of the building to the other. Several hundred patients lay on the bunks in sleepwear or robes, almost all of them sleeping, while nurses and attendants moved up and down the aisles or helped up groggy patients when they wakened.

“I’m here to see Laura Hogg,” Maureen told the attendant at the front desk.

“Sign in, please.” The attendant handed Maureen a pen.

After she signed, the two of them moved down the aisle, where bunk after bunk held a sleeping patient.

“What’s going on here?” Jason asked.

“The sleepy sickness,” Maureen replied. She spotted her sister, causing her eyes to fill with sorrow. “Right when the Spanish influenza struck, millions died, and we thought it couldn’t get any worse. Then Laura got hit by the sleepy sickness.”

Maureen sat down at the edge of the bed, and held the hand of an emaciated woman, who appeared to be sleeping peacefully. Jason stood near the foot of the bunk.

“It’s me, Maureen. I came to check in on you, see how you’re doing.” She smiled, but it was an effort. “Father Jason is with me. He helped me get out of a rough spot, and he’s in the newspaper today—won his first boxing match by knockout. Mom’s doing better; we’re hoping she’ll be released real soon. I’ve been staying with Aunt Mildred, and she and Father Jason have been looking out for me. I’m getting myself straightened out, and I’m focusing on my studies. I’ve started French, and I just wish I was as good as you are at it.”

There was no response. The thin woman, whose cheeks were hollow, lay in the bed like a figure carved from balsa.

“Whenever you wake up, I’m going to be right here for you. You can count on that. Father Jason, Aunt Mildred, and I are all going to be praying for you, every day.” Maureen patted her sister’s hand.

The entire time that Maureen spoke to her, Laura never responded or moved. Maureen began to sing “Beautiful Dreamer,” which caused the attendants and nurses to look in her direction, pausing what they were doing to listen.

Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me,

Starlight and dewdrops are waiting for thee;

Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,

Lull'd by the moonlight have all passed away!

Beautiful dreamer, queen of my song,

List while I woo thee with soft melody;

Gone are the cares of life's busy throng,

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

Maureen’s eyes were wet, and Jason found himself moved by the sight.

They stayed there for nearly an hour. A thoughtful attendant brought Jason a chair so he could sit. At times Maureen sang, and Jason thought she had a heavenly voice. Other times the redhead sat quietly, brushing back her sister’s hair while reassuring her that she wouldn’t abandon her.

Maureen said her good-bye and the two of them went out to the car. After Jason helped her in, they drove in silence until Maureen spoke. “It started with a sore throat and a headache. Then Laura was seeing double and was too weak to stand.”

Maureen stared out the window as they drove before resuming her story. “The next thing she’s shaking, and her arms are flying out, flapping around, her eyes are twitching. ‘It hurts,’ she says while rubbing her arms and legs. Then she started seeing things, like a dog that wasn’t there, and a man looking in through the window. We thought she was going crazy; after all, mom had a breakdown. Now she’s in a coma.”

Jason recalled that her sister’s last name was “Hogg,” and not McCullough. “Where’s her husband?”

Maureen still looked out the window and didn’t turn to face Jason as she spoke. “Pennsylvania, we think. He couldn’t handle Laura’s condition and walked away.”

As they drove into the city, the mood still remained oppressive, with Maureen deep in thought and Jason not knowing what to say.

“I think you could use a boost. What do you say we go to the soda fountain?” Jason suggested.

“I’d like that.” Maureen looked at him and smiled faintly.

* * *

Jason and his grandfather pulled up to his father’s trailer home in Kuna, a small town in Idaho’s Treasure Valley. Throughout the drive, Jason texted and called his father, but received no response, which added to the tension and a sense of foreboding that he and his grandfather felt.

The moment Jason pulled up to the rickety steps of the trailer home, he and his grandfather jumped out and ran up the steps. Jason knocked on the door. “Dad!” He then pounded after there was no response.

Jason tried the doorknob. “It’s locked.”

Gramps whipped out a knife and snapped open the blade, which he used to draw back the bolt while pulling back on the knob. The door opened silently, followed by Gramps moving over the creaky floor, with Jason close behind.

Jason’s father sat in his chair behind the TV tray and turned to see who was in his house. His eyes were bloodshot, and he wore a distressed look on his face. In his hand he held a pistol.