Iscariot

Signora Delvecchio came to the door of Father Scarza’s room. There was a scatter of feathers near it that fluttered erratically, escaping the broad sweep of her mop. She would have to gather them up by hand and that would be painful. Fortunately, she saw no white droppings anywhere, either on the doorjamb, or floor. At least she would be spared that. She knocked gently on the door. Father Scarza was always gone to the Biblical Institute by this time, but she always knocked. She knew better than to enter, unannounced, into the presence of high-ranking priests. They were rarely gentle with her if she surprised them. There was no answer, so she opened the door. She was not a young woman, so her outcry was not a high-pitched scream, but an old woman’s croak of horror. There on a chair facing her, sat Egidio Scarza, draped in black cloth, a crimson skullcap on his head, mouth agape in a bloodless face, eyes wide and staring.