Yet as he sat in the front row of the nearly empty catechism class, resisting as always the impulse to stare at the wispy hint of pompadour that dangled from Father Gregory’s forehead, Bradley still listened carefully as the priest said, “Celestial beings have no bodies of their own and need none, for they are clothed in thought. But they love to assume the human form, and this they can do instantly.” The Father looked up at the ceiling, away from Bradley and the other remaining student, that young girl named Lisa who always sat in the last row. Only two left, he thought. “Some angels,” he half-mumbled, “let their fingers, hands, and limbs fill out slowly, with voluptuous grace, quietly erupting from nothing into a diaphanous shape.” Though Bradley knew most of these words, he wished Father Gregory would spell the hard ones so he could look them up. But he was afraid to interrupt the Father, who, regarding his hands as if he were alone, said, “Others spend hours inventing a perfect face for their angelic temperaments.”
