An impatient rustling rose from the pews and broke into his musing. How long had his mind been wandering? He stared down at the homily printed on the pages in front of him. He had to rely on the pages now, following along the text with his forefinger, tracing his progress so that should he have a lapse of recall, all he had to do was glance down to reclaim his place. At one time, he could recall pages of a text without stumbling once or needing this crutch. Now he was no longer confident of his ability to recite the sentences and phrases, words he had labored over for syntax and precise meaning. He knew his satisfaction in the results was prideful, but he had always felt he owed this to the congregation, unlike Father Burns, who had not the gift for language and who dispatched his homilies in a manner one could, uncharitably he knew, call perfunctory. A second round of rustling from the pews, more pronounced now, flowed forward from the congregation. He adjusted his glasses, glanced down at the paper, slid his left hand under the scapular, as if seeking warmth in spite of the heat, and began.
“As many of you know—” He swallowed against a mouth suddenly dry and tried again. “As many of you know, one of our celebrated neighbors, the artist Will Light, has been selected to paint the art for the new cathedral, a series of paintings that will depict a gathering of saints.” He ran his tongue over lips turned dry and paused to take a sip from the glass of water on the lectern’s shelf, and then he inhaled deeply to shake off the faint light-headedness. “For this enterprise, the artist is following in the tradition of religious art that dates back for centuries. Like many of the masters, painters such as Caravaggio and Michelangelo and Rembrandt, he has decided to use as models for the saints the ordinary people of his town. Of our town.” Another swallow of water. He slipped his hand from beneath the chasuble and grasped the side of the pulpit to steady himself. Perhaps he should have asked Father Burns to lead the Mass. Too late for that now.
“I know this decision has made some of us uncomfortable, even unhappy. After all, we might say, who among us is worthy of representing a saint?” He lifted his eyes from the text, unable to resist a quick glance toward the third row of pews where Lena MacDougall sat in her customary aisle seat, overseeing all. It took him several moments to regain his place in the text.
“We might ask: Who is a saint? What is a saint? It seems we ought to be able to give a simple answer. A holy person, we might answer. A pure being who practices the virtues of Christ to a heroic degree. One who has forsaken earthly pleasure in service to God. A martyr who has sacrificed all for his faith and in His name. And yet, these simple answers lead us to a sanitized version of sainthood that weakens our understanding of how grace works in the world.”
He chanced another glance at Lena, who sat, mouth tight, disapproval an unnamed force of physics that radiated off her like smoke. Momentarily he lost focus. To calm himself, he took another drink, but the water was now tepid, and one swallow made him queasy. He soldiered on. “Among the legions of the saints, among the devout and pure of heart were crooks and thieves, con men and cutthroats, harlots and atheists. The thief Saint Dismas. The gambler Saint Camillus. Or the beggar Saint Benedict Joseph Labre. Or Saint Vladimir, the rapist. Thinking about these men as saints, we can feel uncomfortable, just as we might avert our eyes when we pass a homeless person on the street caught in the grip of poverty. Or alcohol. Or drugs. Why? Why does this person give rise to extreme reactions? Perhaps because we recognize the humanity in him, and so we are not let off the hook; perhaps she is a saint in disguise. We are then asked to release our judgments and accept the knowledge that there is no such thing as an unforgivable sin.”
Unforgivable sin. He recalled a conversation with his confessor at the seminary. “How do we forgive?” he had asked the older priest. “Is there anything that cannot be forgiven?”
The old man had looked at him, a searching gaze as if to discover the question behind these questions. “To understand forgiveness,” he had said, “it is first necessary to forgive ourselves.”
Another rustling from the pews. He looked up at the congregation, thought he saw Will Light sitting toward the back, but the faces blurred and he was unsure. What would the artist think to know that the sketches he had been working on for weeks had inspired the homily this morning? He blinked again to clear his vision, relieved to be nearing the end of the text. “There are many pious people who believe themselves to be saints who are not,” he read, “and many who believe themselves to be impious who are not.” Lena snorted, a sound loud enough to rise to where Father Gervase stood. He carried on. “Simply put, the saints are us, all of us, in our full and flawed humanity. All it takes—” Another wave of nausea took him, and in spite of the heat, he was chilled. He thought again that he should have asked Father Burns to lead the service. He glanced toward the side door he used to enter the sanctuary in what now seemed like years ago and wondered if he should leave, but the distance to the door was daunting. He tightened his hold on the pulpit. His vision blurred, as if his eyes were filmed with oil. Off to his right, the candle flames wavered and shimmered. Where was he? “All it takes,” he continued, “to convert a sinner to a saint is desire. Desire to do good, to be better, to try harder, to be open to grace.” Now all he wanted to do was finish the Mass. He had completely lost his place on the page and tried to recall the last line. He closed his eyes and concentrated, willing the words to come. There was a rustling from the pews, not of impatience, but of concern, as if as one they were leaning forward in their seats, leaning toward their priest, sensing something had gone wrong. Something about a journey. Yes, a journey. And then it came flowing back. He remembered each word. “Our spiritual journey,” he started. He stopped, inhaled deeply like a runner seeing the finish line. “Our spiritual journey is—or ought to be—a deepening realization of the possibility of sainthood in all of us.”
Again Lena snorted, and that sound of her displeasure was the last thing he remembered.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Two hours into the trip to Maine, I remembered the portfolio I’d brought home from the wharf studio the previous afternoon.
I had set it on the hall table earlier that morning, and I definitely recalled seeing it next to my overnight bag, but had I picked it up and carried it out to the car? This I could not remember. Well, if I’d forgotten, it was too late to turn back now. It was already past one, and Sophie expected me around noon. I’d started out later than planned and hadn’t thought about the crush of weekenders heading north, and so crossing over the state line from Massachusetts I’d been caught in traffic. I considered stopping to find a pay phone so I could give her a call. If I could even find a pay phone. One of these days I’d have to cave to the inevitable and get a cell phone. Welcome to the twenty-first century.
I’d been nervous all morning, and being late only added to my anxiety. My last conversation with Sophie had been easy, her voice relaxed and warm, and when we’d planned the weekend—not a day trip, we’d agreed, but an entire weekend—I’d felt an awakening to possibilities, but now I wondered if I had misread everything. The possibilities, the tender hope that we could begin again seemed just that, a hope and one too easily dashed. How did one begin again? Was it possible? Or had too much damage been done? Had we already crossed that line? There was so much I didn’t know, but this I knew: I missed her and wanted her back. I wanted a return to our lives where there was no need for “space” and the unspoken threat that such a need gave rise to. The truth is, I loved her still.
Had I brought the damn portfolio?
I’d spent time poring over the working sketches from those I’d completed, hoping they would reveal to Sophie what I didn’t trust words to convey. I had limited the selection to no more than a few, drawings I hoped she would be moved by. Elaine Neal as Monica, Leon Newell as Brendan, Harold Weaver as Simon, Payton Hayes as Vincent de Paul. I had included Mary Silveria, the young mother from the grocery store, the one I thought of as my first saint, sketching her even before I had known I would accept the c
ommission. And there had been no question but that Duane LaBrea, my Saint Sebastian, would be in the folder. Thinking of the teenager, I wondered if Sophie would see the same haunting quality in the boy that I had. In the short time Duane had posed, I continued to feel protective of him, a pull to help the boy. Suddenly everything hinged on having the sketches to show Sophie. I pulled over onto the breakdown lane, clicked on the emergency flashers, and got out to open the trunk of the Prius. And yes, there it was, right next to my overnight bag.
A half hour later, I left the highway for a secondary road and recalled directions Sophie had recited the night before. “You’ll pass a vegetable stand on your left and then a gas station,” she’d instructed. “Shortly after that, look for a used furniture shop on the right. If it isn’t raining, there will be some old chairs and bureaus lined up in front.” I passed the farm stand, the gas station, and smiled, remembering a conversation we had once had about the difference women and men had about giving directions. “Men give it in miles, women in landmarks,” she’d told me. I watched for the wooden sign that marked the lane leading to the cottage, and still I was almost past before I caught sight of it. “End of the Road.” I backed up and made the turn. The lane was not paved, and tire ruts ran deep in the gravel. The Prius bounced over them, occasionally scraping the undercarriage. At least the roadbed was dry, and I thought that it had to be near impassible in winter and during the spring thaw. I rounded a curve, and as the lane descended toward the water, I saw first the one car—Sophie’s green VW—and then the house. Just as she had described. White shingles with French-blue shutters, sharp peaked roof with narrow windows in the gable. Overgrown foundations plantings. A two-story farmhouse with a wing off to one side, but in the manner of many homeowners of places along the coast, it was referred to it as a cottage. Two Adirondack chairs sat on the lawn that sloped down to the cove that opened to the Atlantic, and even from afar I recognized the single figure seated in one. I scanned the yard, the columned porch that fronted the house, and was relieved to see that Joan Laurant was nowhere in sight. As I pulled up the seashell drive, Sophie rose and walked toward me, her movements full of grace. Her hair had grown longer and was pulled back, gathered in a low ponytail. She was wearing a blue halter top and a skirt of some gauzy fabric that traced the line of her legs as she walked. Longing thickened my throat.
I should have stopped for a bottle of French Chardonnay or a bouquet. Sunflowers, the blossom Sophie had chosen to carry at our wedding because, she’d said, they represented hope. Yes, sunflowers would have been perfect. But I had not brought her flowers. Or her favorite wine. I had brought her the only thing I could think to give. I was bringing her the saints.
I hoped I was not mistaken; I hoped it was enough.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
There was something wrong. A mistake.
Father Gervase roused to hear two voices breaking through the mist. His father’s? His mother’s? A dream? He was still clothed in his vestments and lying on the sofa in the rectory with Father Burns bending over him. He attempted to orient himself, and this was when he saw, standing next to Father Burns—and he had to close his eyes again against the indignity of this—Lena MacDougall, her face no more than a foot or two from his, close enough for him to see a mole on the underside of her chin. He attempted to swing his feet to the floor, but Lena stopped him with a firm palm against his shoulder. “It’s best you stay there for a bit. Get your bearings before you get up.”
“Lena’s right,” Father Burns said. Father Burns. In a golfing shirt. And a pair of those silly shorts with all the pockets. As if he were planning to hike, for heaven’s sake. “You need to rest.”
Father Gervase looked around to see if there were others to witness his humiliation, but mercifully he was alone with just these two. Which was bad enough. Lena MacDougall, he thought again. Her of all people.
“Well,” she said. “You gave everyone a bit of a fright.”
Slowly, it came back to him. The Mass, the heat, his light-headedness. But to faint like this. He’d never passed out in his life.
“I wanted to call the EMTs,” Father Burns said, “but Lena didn’t think it necessary.”
“My nurse’s training,” she explained.
Nurse’s training? Lena? He absorbed this information. He’d known her for what—twelve years—and had never known this central fact. A failure on his part to see her only as a bossy, meddling busybody.
“Your pulse was steady and your breathing strong.” She dropped her hand to his wrist, again checking his pulse with a competence he hadn’t bargained for, though he should have expected it given the way she ran the Rosary Society. He was struck by the surprising coolness of her fingers against his skin, as if she had dipped them in cold water. “There you go. Nice and steady,” she said, as if she was personally responsible for his normal pulse. “It was just the heat.”
“Yes,” he said. “The heat.” Again he attempted to sit up, and this time she allowed it. He stood, hoping he was successful in concealing from them the wave of unsteadiness. To his relief, this passed after a moment. “No need to make a fuss. I’ll just go change and perhaps lie down for a bit.”
He saw Lena wanted to argue, to have him stay there with her where she could keep an eye on him. He could only imagine how long she’d dine out on the drama of it all, and then he recalled her fingers on his pulse, felt ashamed at the smallness of this thought. He crossed to the door before she could utter a word of protest.
“And it is important that you stay hydrated. Drink plenty of water.” Her voice followed him, and for a moment he feared she would pursue him and so quickened his steps. In his room, weaker than he had admitted to Father Burns or Lena or even to himself, he stripped off the cassock, taking note of the dampness of the fabric. His hands trembled slightly as he folded the robe and surplice. It occurred to him that perhaps he should see a doctor, just a checkup. The church had good health insurance, and the priests were encouraged to undergo annual physicals, but Father Gervase avoided them. His father had distrusted doctors and, unreasonably, he knew, he had inherited this prejudice. He switched on the oscillating fan, slipped off his shoes, and reclined on his bed, not bothering to fold back the covering. Of course, Lena was right and he should drink some water, but that could wait. For now he just wanted to rest, to block out the memory of fainting in front of the congregation and then coming to with MacDougall leaning over him. Overhead, the fan whirred on and on, rhythmic and steady as a metronome.
A rap on the door woke him, and he was surprised to find the light in the room was now that of late afternoon.
“Father Gervase?” It was Father Burns.
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.” He cleared the rust from his throat. “Just resting.”
“I hate to disturb you, but the family is waiting for you in the chapel.”
“The family?”
“The Medeiros.”
It came to him then. Gloria Medeiros. Following a year of treatments, her last tests had shown the cancer to be in remission, and she had returned home to an exultant family. Her children had requested the use of the chapel for a small service of prayer and thanksgiving.
“Shall I meet with them?” Father Burns asked.
For a moment he was tempted to turn his obligation over to his fellow priest but realized this would reveal a weakness he preferred to keep private. “No, no, I’ll be right along.” He took a fresh cassock from his closet and dressed. Mindful of Lena MacDougall’s directive to hydrate, he detoured by the rectory kitchen and drew a cup of water, drank half of it, then went to his study to pick up the brief notes he had made for the service. On the walk to the chapel his steps were steady. Just a passing spell then. Caused by the heat. That was all. Inside the chapel, a small gathering awaited. Three generations. Gloria, her two sons and their wives, their four boys, her daughter Mary Margaret along with her husband, and, in Mary Margaret’s arms, the baby girl who was
the newest addition to the family. They turned to him, the faces of all but the youngest buoyed by relief and hope and faith. The chapel air was sweetened by the vase of honeysuckle and roses someone had brought to place by the altar.
“Oh, Father Gervase,” Gloria said. “We were worried about you.”
He smiled and said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone, “No need. No need.” He reached out a hand to stroke the baby’s brow. He’d christened the infant just two months ago and attempted to recall the name. Something unusual, he thought. Kiara? Kiley? But those names were faintly Irish, and perhaps he had confused this child with the O’Shea baby, whom he also recently christened. Unsure, he didn’t chance a name. He looked now at Gloria, slip-thin from her treatments, her hair newly grown into short silver curls that haloed her skull, and he saw beneath the lingering ravages of illness the pure and shining essence of her.
“Father Gervase?” one of the sons prompted.
“Ah, yes,” he said. For the occasion, he had chosen two readings. Some scripture, of course, Psalm 96, and then several lines of poetry. While meditating on the occasion he had recalled Frost’s quote “the best way out is through,” and that had led to pulling a slender volume of the poet’s work from the shelf. When he came to “Birches,” he’d stopped reading. Just the thing. Now he unfolded his notes. “Shall we begin?” he said. He opened with the scripture and spoke for a bit about this gift to the family of having their mother and grandmother returned to health and led them in prayer. Looking out at the gathering, at the infant and the young boys fidgeting on the pew, at the six adult children and Gloria, he was suddenly moved by the truth of life and was struck with the need to convey the fleeting preciousness of life to them. He leaned forward and veered off his prepared script. “No matter what span of days we are given,” he began, “they are too few. An accident or illness. A single phone call. We never know when He will call us home, only that it is a call each of us will receive.” One of the sons scowled and cleared his throat, and his obvious displeasure sent Father Gervase back to his text. But as he recited Frost—the lines about fate snatching one away not to return—he realized he had somehow misjudged his selection, and what had seemed perfectly appropriate in the privacy of the rectory had now missed the mark. In confusion, he returned to Psalms, repeating the verse he had already read. The scent of honeysuckle, so pleasant just moments before, now seemed too sweet, too thick in the air. And the faces tilted up toward him, which so recently had been filled with expectation, now reflected disappointment and anxiety. He should have let Father Burns substitute.
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