“Mad magazine,” she read aloud as she yanked it out of hiding.
“It’s humor,” the reverend explained, quickly taking it back.
“Can I see it?”
“I don’t think your mother would approve.”
“Because there are naked pictures?”
“No!” he said. “No, no—it’s nothing like that. It’s just that sometimes I need a laugh. There’s not much humor in my job.”
“Why?”
The reverend hesitated. “Because God isn’t very funny, I guess. Why are you searching for a boys home?”
“It’s where my dad grew up. I’m doing a family tree.”
“I see,” he said, smiling. “Well, a family tree sounds like a lot of fun.”
“That’s debatable.”
“Debatable?”
“It means arguable,” Mad said.
“So it does,” he said, surprised. “Do you mind me asking? How old are you?”
“I’m not allowed to give out private information.”
“Oh,” he said, red-faced. “Of course not. Good for you.”
Madeline chewed on the end of her eraser.
“Anyway,” he said, “it’s fun to learn about one’s ancestors, isn’t it? I think so. What have you got so far?”
“Well,” Mad said, swinging her legs under the table, “on my mom’s side, her dad is in jail for burning some people up, her mom is in Brazil because of taxes, and her brother is dead.”
“Oh—”
“I don’t have anything on my dad’s side yet. But I’m thinking the people at the boys home are sort of like family.”
“In what way?”
“Because they took care of him.”
The reverend rubbed the back of his neck. In his experience, these homes were staffed with pedophiles.
“Saints, you called them,” she reminded him.
He sighed inwardly. The problem with being a minister was how many times a day he had to lie. This was because people needed constant reassurance that things were okay or were going to be okay instead of the more obvious reality that things were bad and were only going to get worse. He’d been officiating a funeral just last week—one of his congregants had died of lung cancer—and his message to the family, all of whom also smoked like chimneys, was that the man had died, not because of his four-pack-a-day habit, but because God needed him. The family, each inhaling deeply, thanked him for his wisdom.
“But why write to the boys home?” he asked. “Why not just ask your dad?”
“Because he’s dead, too.” She sighed.
“Good lord!” the reverend said, shaking his head. “I’m very sorry.”
“Thank you,” Madeline said in a serious way. “Some people think you can’t miss what you never had, but I think you can. Do you?”
“Absolutely,” he said, touching the back of his neck until he located the small chunk of hair that was slightly too long. When he went to visit a friend in Liverpool, they’d gone to see a brand-new musical group called the Beatles. They were British and they had bangs. It was nearly unheard of for men to have bangs, but he found he liked their look almost as much as he liked their music.
“What are you looking for in there?” she asked him, pointing to his book.
“Inspiration,” he said. “Something to move the spirit for Sunday’s sermon.”
“What about fairy godmothers?” she asked.
“Fairy—”
“My dad’s home had a fairy godmother. She gave the home money.”
“Oh,” he said. “I think you mean a donor. The home may have had several. It takes a lot of money to run those places.”
“No,” she said. “I mean a fairy godmother. I think you have to be a bit magical to give money to people you don’t even know.”
The reverend felt another jolt of surprise. “True,” he admitted.
“But Harriet says earning a paycheck is better. She doesn’t like magic.”
“Who’s Harriet?”
“My neighbor. She’s Catholic. She can’t get divorced. Harriet thinks I should fill the family tree with hodgepodge, but I don’t want to. It makes me feel like there’s something wrong with my family.”
“Well,” the reverend said carefully, thinking it did very much sound like there was something wrong with the child’s family, “Harriet probably only means some things are private.”