Читать книгу Faith - Jennifer Haigh, Jennifer Haigh - Страница 10

Chapter 4

Holy Week, for a priest, is like the year’s first snowfall: he knows it’s coming, yet somehow it always catches him off guard. The crowded Masses, the hundreds of confessions, the sickbed visits; the extra hours of sermon preparation, in a vain attempt to avoid repeating what’s been said a thousand times before. The hectic pace is shocking to a man who feels marginally useful most of the time. Art understood that to most of his flock, his services were not essential. At their baptisms, marriages and funerals his presence was expected, but in the intervening years they scarcely gave him a thought.

He had grown up in the priesthood, and grown tired. In his early fifties he’d begun to grow old. He was a slight, nervous man, prone to stomach upset and a yearly bout of bronchitis—ailments he blamed on his two vices, coffee and cigarettes, dissipations even a priest was allowed. Over the years he’d lost hair and weight, energy and stamina. He felt, increasingly, that he’d lost his way. That Lenten season—the season of repentance—had shaken him profoundly. This year he had a great deal to repent. And yet, as he prepared to celebrate the Resurrection and Ascension, he felt a glimmer of his old sense of purpose, like a dream remembered. The sensation was short-lived but potent. It seemed, however briefly, that aggiornamento was still possible. That a new life lay ahead.

The rituals of the season still touched him. The Palm Sunday gospel—Jesus riding into Jerusalem to cheering crowds, the shining moment of triumph before the looming betrayal—could move him nearly to tears.

Behold, thy King cometh unto thee.

That Holy Week was Art’s ninth at Sacred Heart, and though he didn’t yet know it, the final week of his ministry. Had he known, he might have skipped the endless parish council meeting that, due to a scheduling glitch, took place on Spy Wednesday, just four days before Easter.

The meetings were a chronic source of frustration. The council had been appointed by the pastor, Father Aloysius, just before a stroke landed him at Regina Cleri, the archdiocesan home for aging priests. The old man clung stubbornly to his title even as Father Breen took over his duties. Because Art was still, nominally, a mere assistant pastor, any decision involving money—as in the end they all did—required approval from the Archdiocese. It was a slow, cumbersome process that demeaned him in the eyes of the council, seven men and two women, most old enough to be his parents. They were pious souls, fiercely loyal to the parish (all but one had been baptized there, a fact often mentioned) and hostile to any suggestion of change.

Old themselves, they seemed not to notice the congregation shrinking and stooping around them, the young families leaving, the Communion lines shorter each year. At daily Mass the pews were mostly empty, dotted with gray heads. Unconcerned, the council reminisced about the old days, the elaborate church festivals, the parish high school so overenrolled that an entrance exam was needed to keep classes a manageable size.

It had been, at one time, the largest suburban parish south of Boston; its parishioners came, in equal parts, from the towns of Dunster and Braintree. The church, school, rectory and parish hall occupied an entire block, thanks to a diocesan building boom that started in the 1950s, the era of packed masses and heavy collection baskets. The church itself was vast and modern, with a central altar and pews on three sides—a design much maligned by the older parishioners, who still called it the new church. (Its predecessor, with its Communion rail and elaborate statuary, had been destroyed by fire in the early seventies.) The sleek new structure, in their eyes, looked suspiciously Protestant: the Sacred Heart nowhere in evidence, the altar marked by a looming crucifix.

That year Spy Wednesday was cold and rainy, like many nights in late March: the streets puddled, the storm grates loud with runoff. If the air were five degrees colder, Greater Boston would have been buried in snow. Art’s winter cold had blossomed into bronchitis, and a deep cough had lingered. An evening in bed would have done him good. Instead he dosed up with cough syrup and wound a muffler around his throat.

That night’s meeting was held in the church basement, the parish hall already in use by a local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous. Art had offered them the building while the Unitarian hall was under renovation—sparking complaints from the council, who groused that the hall was for parishioners’ use only. Art had refrained from speculating how many AA members likely belonged to Sacred Heart.

He was greeted outside by Flip Finn, who stood beneath an awning at the back door. His real name was Philip, but in the parish he was known by the childhood nickname. For Art it evoked visions of trained seals, an impression reinforced by Flip’s short limbs and narrow shoulders and smooth bald head.

“Evening, Father. They’re all here except Marilyn.” He nodded toward the church basement. “Smells a little damp, if you ask me. You might want to get the dehumidifier running. You could grow mushrooms down there.” A former engineer for the MBTA transit line, he kept busy in retirement by delivering a constant stream of technical advice to those in need, women and priests especially. Like many competent men, Flip was genuinely alarmed by such people, with their minimal understanding of the physical world and, when its systems broke down, their limited ability to cope.

They walked together down the stairs, into a wide, low-ceilinged room lit by fluorescent tubes. Used by the elementary school as a lunchroom, it retained a sandwich smell, peanut butter and tuna fish. At one of the long tables sat the council members, still wearing their coats.

“Father, it’s freezing down here,” said Kay Cleary, rubbing her plump arms. “Any chance we can turn up the heat?”

“I’m on it,” said Joe Veltri, springing to his feet. He was a small, spry man who worked part-time as the church custodian, a job Father Aloysius had created when Joe was laid off from Raytheon.

Art sat at one end of the table, Flip Finn at the other. Flip cleared his throat. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover, so I say we dive in. No sense waiting for anyone,” he said pointedly.

“I agree,” Kay said.

Just then Marilyn Burke swept into the room, shaking her wet raincoat. “Sorry, sorry. Traffic was murder. The rain,” she said, taking the empty seat next to Art.

She was his lone ally on the council—its youngest member and an obvious outsider, the only one not baptized at Sacred Heart. Over Marilyn’s objections, the council met at five-thirty precisely, which forced her to leave work early. She was a high-level administrator at South Shore Hospital; at least once during the meeting, a cell phone would ring inside her designer handbag—prompting frowns from the other members, all dressed for retirement in windbreakers and stretch pants. Kay Cleary favored seasonal sweatshirts: Easter bunnies, pumpkins in autumn, the Bruins or Celtics in winter. “I like to be comfortable,” she often said, though Marilyn Burke looked just as comfortable in her high heels and sharp suits. Kay had once complained to Art that Marilyn’s perfume gave her headaches.

(What am I, the hall monitor? he wondered. Am I supposed to tell her not to wear it?)

That night’s agenda was a long one. The annual church festival was approaching, which meant a hundred small decisions—tent rentals, liquor license, ads in the local paper—that Art was required to approve. He glanced periodically at his watch, fearing that his housekeeper had left for the day. This hectic week they had scarcely spoken; they’d communicated through notes attached to the refrigerator. Art longed for a face-to-face conversation. There were urgent matters—one, anyway—they needed to discuss.

It was nearly eight o’clock when the meeting adjourned. Art was halfway out the door when Marilyn Burke flagged him down. “Father, I have great news.” Her daughter Caitlin had settled on Notre Dame—this in defiance of her father, who’d lobbied for Boston College and offered bribes, a new car, to keep her in town. It was an ongoing tension in the marriage, Don Burke’s overprotectiveness, which to his wife reeked of sexism. The older Burke boy had gone to Stanford; at eighteen he’d been practically kicked out the door. Art had written for Caitlin several letters of recommendation. Don’t go crazy for BC, Marilyn had joked. Save the glowing praise for Notre Dame.

“The Fighting Irish,” Art said, grinning. “Good for Cait.”

Marilyn opened her mouth to speak, but Art was already moving. He gave her a wave as he crossed the street to the rectory, a large, rambling Victorian that had once housed a half-dozen priests. By the time Art was assigned there in the early nineties, the parish was down to two.

In the kitchen he found Fran Conlon—a large, comfortable woman, sixty or thereabouts, in a lavender trench coat and matching fedora. (It’s uplifting, she’d told him when he remarked on the color. He’d often seen her waiting at the bus stop on Atlantic Avenue, recognizable from down the street.)

“There you are. Weren’t they chatty tonight?” she said. “I was ready to bring you a sleeping bag.”

Art grinned, relaxing a little. For years now, his favorite part of council meetings had been grumbling to Fran afterward. There was no need to rush in, to pepper her with questions. He had the whole evening to steer the conversation around to Kath and Aidan. There would be plenty of time.

“They wasted twenty minutes complaining about the accommodations,” he said. “Two months in a row meeting in the church basement! I’ve been ordered to tell the AA people to get lost.”

“Let me guess,” said Fran. “It was Flip Finn leading the charge. Flip or Joe Veltri, one or the other.” She slipped off her coat. “Wouldn’t hurt either one to dry out a little. It’s the juicers who take it personal when anyone else shows some discipline.”

Art settled at the kitchen table and reached into his empty pocket for a cigarette. In the past year he’d quit, relapsed, and promptly come down with bronchitis. Now he’d quit again, but the reflex hadn’t left him. In moments such as this, he reached automatically for a cigarette.

“You look tired, Father.” Fran took a casserole from the fridge. “Have you seen the doctor?”

“I had to reschedule,” he said. “Monday. I promise. That smells good.”

“Corned beef and cabbage. Let me heat it up for you.”

“Don’t go to any trouble,” Art said.

She waved away his objections. “The next bus isn’t for forty minutes.”

“Don’t be silly, Fran. Of course I’ll drive you home.” His questions could wait until then, he decided. The conversation would flow more easily when his hands were busy, his eyes focused on the road.

“This is delicious,” he said. “Please have some.”

Nearly every weeknight they shared, by unspoken arrangement, the dinner Fran cooked. Still she waited for his invitation.

“Don’t mind if I do,” she said.

Fran’s cooking, like the woman herself, was warm and heavy and comforting. Her repertoire—stews and chops, boiled dinner, fish on Fridays—was identical to his mother’s, but there was no comparing the results. In his first months at Sacred Heart, Art, underweight his whole life, finally filled out a little. This was due as much to Fran’s company as her cottage pie. Since Father Aloysius’s departure, the dining room was never used. Art and Fran lingered at the kitchen table, talking sometimes late into the night.

On Spy Wednesday they covered their usual topics. Fran was an ardent Sox fan, a loyal reader of the Boston Herald, a cynical authority on misdoings at the State House. Finally Art could restrain himself no further, and did a little spying of his own.

“Heard anything from Kathleen?”

A shadow passed over Fran’s face.

“We aren’t speaking much these days, Father. I’m afraid she’s up to her old ways.”

“Why do you say that?” Art said—careful, careful.

“That Kevin Vick is hanging around again. She denies it, but I have an inside source.”

“Aidan?” Art said, feeling his heart.

“He tells his granny everything.” Fran hesitated. “This is what it’s come to, pumping a child for information. But how else am I supposed to know what’s going on over there? If Kath is using, she’ll lie about the color of the sky.”

Is he all right? Art wanted to say but didn’t. Does he like his new school? Does he ask about me?

In the last seven months he’d seen the boy only from a distance. Just before Christmas he’d left a gift on Kathleen’s porch, a toboggan tied with a red ribbon. He’d waited nearly an hour that time, his car parked across the street, for Aidan to come home from school.

LATER, AFTER dropping Fran at her neat duplex, Art pondered what he’d learned. Kevin Vick was a recurring presence in Kathleen’s life, a local hood who disappeared periodically for unsavory reasons: thirty days in a court-ordered rehab, brief jail terms for possession and driving under the influence. Art had met the guy only once, when Vick stopped by unannounced at Kath’s apartment, something he was clearly accustomed to doing. Art and Kath were drinking coffee in the kitchen when Vick’s battered Camaro squealed up to the curb. As was typical of the wayward young, he was dumbstruck in the presence of a priest. I just need to get some stuff, he’d mumbled, heading straight for Kath’s bedroom. Kath was palpably embarrassed, while Aidan—who normally hovered like a hummingbird during Art’s visits—seemed to be in hiding. Was he afraid of Kevin Vick? Fran had long maintained that the man was dangerous. Art suspected that the truth was subtler and more pernicious: that under his influence, Kath herself became dangerous.

At this thought, he made an illegal U-turn—in the local dialect, banged a Uey—on Atlantic Avenue and headed west to Dunster. A century ago it had been a village in its own right, with shops and a Congregational church and a pretty town green, until it was garroted by a state highway and absorbed into the noisy, traffic-strangled Boston suburbs. Kath Conlon lived on North Fenno, a side street at the far end of town, in a three-decker Flip Finn had bought as an investment. Art had convinced him to take her on as a tenant, despite her lack of references or a steady paycheck. I’ll vouch for her, he’d promised, sounding more confident than he felt. If she’s ever late with the rent, you can come to me.

North Fenno was short and narrow, the houses set close to the curb. Aidan and Kath lived on the first floor, in a shotgun apartment with a kitchen at the rear. Art drove past slowly, noting lights in the windows, Aidan’s yellow toboggan still lying on the front porch, though the snow had melted a month ago.

Kevin Vick’s beat-up red Camaro was parked at the curb.

Well, now what? Art thought. At one time he would have knocked at the door, but those days were gone forever.

(And if he had gone to her door that night—would this have changed anything? It seems unlikely. The match had been struck, the fuse already lit.)

In the end he turned the car around and headed for the rectory. He would do as Fran had asked: he would remember Kath and Aidan in his prayers.

BACK AT the rectory, beside the old rotary phone, he found a stack of messages. It was the usual mix of parish business. Sister Ursula, the school principal, had set a rehearsal date for the eighth-grade commencement. A young bride had called to schedule her wedding. (In all his years as a parish priest, Art had never received a phone call from a groom.) Only two of the messages could be called personal: one from his old friend Clem Fleury in Rome, another from Sheila, me, in Philadelphia. They were recorded faithfully in Fran’s neat handwriting, indistinguishable from my own or my mother’s or my aunt Clare’s—evidence of our shared education, twelve years in the parochial schools. (My brother Mike, taught by the same nuns, writes illegible chicken scratch, as do my father and his brother and all their male children. I think back to those school papers corrected in red ink—Penmanship!—marked down half a grade if an i was left undotted, a t uncrossed. Maybe only the girls were penalized in this way.)

Messages in hand, Art retreated upstairs. With Father Aloysius gone, he had the run of the place; but from long habit—he had lived his whole life in shared housing—he avoided the common areas, the dark parlor and stiff sitting room. I would see these rooms a week later, when I came to help Art pack his few possessions before the Archdiocese changed the locks. Undoubtedly the circumstances influenced my perception; still, I pitied the engaged couples reporting for their mandatory Pre-Cana counseling, squirming for hours in those punishingly uncomfortable chairs. Art felt at ease only in the cluttered front room, which served as the parish office, and in Fran Conlon’s kitchen, with its lingering smell of breakfast. He spent the rest of his time in his bedroom, which he’d outfitted with a stereo and portable TV. Also a cordless telephone, from which he returned my call.

He left a message I now know by heart. I have replayed it several times, analyzing the tone of his voice. Sheila, it’s me, Brother Father. The man in black. I’ve escaped from a hostage situation, three hours with the parish council. I’m slammed tomorrow, so I’ll try you on Friday. If he had any inkling of what was about to happen, he gave no indication. There was no hint of distress in his voice.

I HAVE reconstructed his movements the next day, Holy Thursday. I have in my possession Art’s desk planner, its black leather cover embossed with the numerals 2002. From long practice I decipher his cramped handwriting (he too, it seems, was given a pass on penmanship). At 9 A.M. he attended a fellowship breakfast at St. Thomas Presbyterian, sponsored by the local Ecumenical Council. In the afternoon he heard confessions and gave the sacrament at Mountain View nursing home. On the same page, I found a yellow Post-it note: Drop by choir rehearsal. He had doubts about the new director and feared a disaster on Sunday morning, her first Easter at Sacred Heart. Thursday evening he celebrated the annual Mass of the Lord’s Supper, a ninety-minute extravaganza complete with full choir, trumpets from the eighth-grade orchestra and the ritual foot-washing, Art kneeling at the altar before twelve barefoot parishioners, like Christ bathing the feet of the Apostles. Afterward the Eucharist would be carried, in solemn procession, to the Repository. With luck he’d eat supper by midnight. Fran would be long gone, and he’d have no chance to question her about Kevin Vick. He would sit in the kitchen with the Atlantic Monthly, eating whatever she’d left in the refrigerator, then rush through his prayers and fall exhausted into bed.

Which brings us to Friday morning, the Friday in question. Good Friday, if you are raised Catholic, is something of a trial—an endless day to be loathed and dreaded, if you are the Catholic child of Mary McGann. Each year Mike and I suffered it together: a day of no school, no television, no loud playing; a day of rosaries and soggy fried fish. My mother took a certain pleasure in disparaging our flimsy modern devotions—put to shame, she claimed, by the extreme rites of her girlhood, Good Friday as it was meant to be observed, at her childhood parish in Roxbury. From noon to 3 P.M., the hours Our Lord spent hanging on the cross, young Mary Devine had knelt in prayer, with nothing but a piece of toast in her stomach. (Having strictly observed the Friday fast, one full meal per day, and that without meat.)

Off to church now, she’d conclude sourly. What’s left of it. At this Mike would stare at me with mournful pious eyes and we would both fall out laughing, and Ma would bemoan the fate of our souls.

Though it was rough going for the faithful, a priest’s Good Friday duties were light. Mass could not be celebrated, which was itself a rare freedom. Years ago, when Art was a lowly cleric at Holy Redeemer, Frank Lynch had declared Holy Thursday an all-night poker game. Priests from the surrounding parishes drank until dawn and slept until noon, the one day of the year they were excused from morning Mass.

In Art’s datebook, that morning is blank. At 2 P.M. he would lead the Solemn Commemoration of the Lord’s Passion. In the evening he was expected at the newly concocted Family Service, led by parishioners, and the elementary school’s performance of the Passion Play.

As it turned out, he did none of these things. His calendar makes no mention of what actually happened, the 10 A.M. phone call from Bishop John Gilman, an aide to the Cardinal.

At ten-fifteen Art got in his car and drove to Lake Street.