Liam

Akimbo, admiring the school and community he’d built, the Jesuit held a cigarette. A lanky cynic from South Baltimore, Padre, as they called him, had given thirty years to these sundry poor. Striking a match, he turned to his diminutive partner, the nun: “Paz, I did it,” his voice soft and gruff like an old Don’s, “blood, sweat, some panhandling, but by God I did it.” “I?” said Paz, eyebrows raised, “what arrogance.”