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The Bulletin on His Plate
Daniel smelled the roast from the path, and he saw the parish bulletin before he saw his mother. It lay on his plate, folded once, with the time of mass circled in pencil. He had come across the city for Sunday lunch, and he needed to know whether lunch was still only lunch.
On the phone she had said it was. He had said that he was not going to mass. He wanted the seat at her table and the small quarrel about potatoes, not a second invitation back into a pew. If the paper on the plate was the real offer, he wanted that said before he sat down.
Ruth came in with the dish and a smile that was trying to be only a welcome. "Father Keane asked after you," she said. She did not glance at the bulletin.