Koontz, Dean R. - Strangers

by Strangers(Lit)

  fling the sacred chalice across the chancel in despair and rage. In

  front of almost a hundred worshipers. Dear God. At least it had not

  happened at one of the three later Masses, which were better attended.

  Initially, when Brendan Cronin had come to St. Bette's more than a year

  and a half ago, Father Wycazik had not wanted to like him.

  For one thing, Cronin had been schooled at the North American College in

  Rome, reputedly the most splendid educational institution within the

  jurisdiction of the Church. But though it was an honor to be invited to

  attend that establishment, and though its graduates were considered the

  cream of the priesthood, they were often effete dainties, loath to get

  their hands dirty, with much too high an opinion of themselves. They

  felt that teaching catechism to children was beneath them, a waste of

  their complex minds. And visiting shut-ins was a task they found

  unspeakably distasteful after the glories that had been Rome.

  In addition to the stigma of being trained in Rome, Father Cronin was

  fat. Well, not fat, really, but certainly plump, with a round soft face

  and liquid-green eyes that seemed, at first encounter, to betoken a lazy

  and perhaps easily corrupted soul. Father Wycazik, on the other hand,

  was a big-boned Pole whose family had not contained a single fat man.

  The Wycaziks were descended from Polish miners who had emigrated to the

  United States at the turn of the century, taking physically demanding

  jobs in steel mills, quarries, and the construction trades. They had

  produced big families that could be supported only through long hours of

  honest labor, so there wasn't time to get fat. Stefan had grown up with

  an instinctual sense that a real man was solid but lean, with a thick

  neck, big shoulders, and joints gnarled from hard work.

  To Father Wycazik's surprise, Brendan Cronin had proved to be a hard

  worker. He had acquired no pretensions and no elitist opinions while in

  Rome. He was bright, good-natured, amusing, and he thrived on visiting

  shut-ins, teaching the children, and soliciting funds. He was the best

  curate Father Wycazik had been given in eighteen years.

  That was why Brendan's outburst on Sunday-and the loss of faith that had

  inspired it-was so distressing to Stefan Wycazik. Of course, on another

  level, he looked forward to the challenge of bringing Brendan Cronin

  back into the fold. He had begun his career in the Church as a strong

  right arm for priests in trouble, and now he was being called upon to

  fill that role once more, which reminded him of his youth and engendered

  in him a buoyant feeling of vital purpose.

  Now, as he took another sip of coffee, a knock came at the office door.

  He turned his gaze to the mantel clock. It was of ormolu and inlaid

  mahogany with a fine Swiss movement, a gift from a parishioner. That

  timepiece was the only elegant object in a room boasting strictly

  utilitarian-and mismatched-furniture and a threadbare imitation-Persian

  carpet. According to the clock, the time was eight-thirty, precisely,

  and Stefan turned to the door, saying, "Come in, Brendan."

  As he came through the door, Father Brendan Conin looked no less

  distressed than he had on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, when

  they had met in this office to discuss his crisis of faith and to search

  for ways to reestablish his belief. He was so pale that his freckles

  burned like sparks on his skin, and by contrast his auburn hair looked

  more red than usual. The bounce had left his step.

  "Sit down, Brendan. Coffee?"

  "Thank you, no." Brendan bypassed the tattered Chesterfield and the

  Morris chair, slumping in the sag-bottomed wingback instead.

  Did you eat a good breakfast? Stefan wanted to ask. Or did you just

  nibble at some toast and swill it down with coffee?

  But he did not want to seem to be mothering his curate, who was thirty

  years old. So he said, "You've done the reading I suggested?"

  "Yes."

  Stefan had relieved Brendan of all parish duties and had given him books

  and essays that argued for the existence of God and against the folly of

  atheism from an intellectual point of view.

  "And you've reflected on what you've read," Father Wycazik said. "So

  have you found anything so far that . . . helps you?"

  Brendan sighed. Shook his head.

  "You continue to pray for guidance?"

  "Yes. I receive none."

  "You continue to search for the roots of this doubt?"

  "There don't seem to be any."

  Stefan was increasingly frustrated by Father Cronin's taciturnity, which

  was utterly unlike the young priest. Usually, Brendan was open,

  voluble. But since Sunday he had turned inward, and he had begun to

  speak slowly, softly, and never at length, as if words were money and he

  a miser who begrudged the paying out of every penny.

  "There must be roots to your doubt," Father Wycazik insisted. "There

  must be something from which doubt's growna seed, a beginning."

  "It's just there," Brendan muttered, barely audible. "Doubt. It's just

  there as if it's always been there."

  "But it wasn't: you did believe. So when did doubt begin?

  Last August, you said. But what sparked it? There must've been a

  specific incident or incidents that led you to reevaluate your

  philosophy."

  Brendan gave a softly exhaled "no."

  Father Wycazik wanted to shout at him, shake him, shock him out of his

  numbing gloom. But he patiently said, "Countless good priests have

  suffered crises of faith. Even some saints wrestled angels. But they

  all had two things in common: Their loss of faith was a gradual process

  that continued many years before reaching a crisis; and they could all

  point to specific incidents and observations from which doubt arose. The

  unjust death of a child, for instance. Or a saintly mother stricken

  with cancer. Murder. Rape. Why does God allow evil in the world? Why

  war? The sources of doubt are innumerable if familiar, and though

  Church doctrine answers them, cold doctrine is sometimes little comfort.

  Brendan, doubt always springs from specific contradictions between the

  concept of God's mercy and the reality of human sorrow and suffering."

  "Not in my case," Brendan said.

  Gently but insistently, Father Wycazik continued. "And the only way to

  assuage that doubt is to focus on those contradictions that trouble you

  and discuss them with a spiritual guide."

  "In my case, my faith just ... collapsed under me ... suddenly ...

  like a floor that seemed perfectly solid but was rotten all along."

  "You don't brood about unjust death, sickness, murder, war? Like a

  rotten floor, then? Just collapsed overnight?"

  "That's right."

  "Bullshit!" Stefan said, launching himself up from his chair.

  The expletive and the sudden movement startled Father Cronin. His head

  snapped up, and his eyes widened with surprise.

  "Bullshit," Father Wycazik repeated, matching the word with a scowl as

  he turned his back on his curate. In part he intended to shock the

  younger priest and force him out of his half-trance of self-pity, but
in

  part he was also irritated by Cronin's uncommunicative funk and stubborn

  despair. Speaking to the curate but facing the window, where patterns of

  frost decorated the panes and where wind buffeted the glass, he said,

  "You didn't fall from committed priest in August to atheist in December.

  Could not. Not when you claim you've had no shattering experiences that

  might be responsible. There must be reasons for your change of heart,

  Father, even if you're hiding them from yourself, and until you're

  willing to admit them, face them, you'll remain in this wretched state."

  A plumbless silence filled the room.

  Then: the muffled ticking of the ormolu and mahogany clock.

  At last, Brendan Cronin said, "Father, please don't be angry with me. I

  have such respect... and I value our relationship so highly that your

  anger..... on top of everything else . . . is too much for me right

  now."

  Pleased by even a thread-thin crack in Brendan's shell, delighted that

  his little stratagem had produced results, Father Wycazik turned from

  the window, moved quickly to the wingback chair, and put a hand on his

  curate's shoulder. "I'm not angry with you, Brendan. Worried.

  Concerned. Frustrated that you won't let me help you. But not angry."

  The young priest looked up. "Father, believe me, I want nothing more

  than your help in finding a way out of this. But in truth, my doubt

  doesn't spring from any of the things you mentioned. I really don't

  know where it comes from. It remains . . . well, mysterious."

  Stefan nodded, squeezed Brendan's shoulder, returned to his chair behind

  the desk, sat down, and closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.

  "All right, Brendan, your inability to identify the cause of your

  collapsed faith indicates it's not an intellectual problem, so no amount

  of inspirational reading will help. If it's a psychological problem,

  the roots lie in your subconscious, awaiting revelation."

  When he opened his eyes, Stefan saw that his curate was intrigued by the

  suggestion that his own inner mind was simply malfunctioning. Which

  meant God hadn't failed Brendan, after all: Brendan had failed God.

  Personal responsibility was far easier to deal with than the thought

  that God was unreal or had turned His back.

  Stefan said, "As you may know, the Illinois Provincial of the Society of

  Jesus is Lee Kellog. But you may not know that he oversees two

  psychiatrists, both Jesuits themselves, who deal with the mental and

  emotional problems of priests within our order. I could arrange for you

  to begin analysis with one of those psychiatrists."

  "Would you?" Brendan asked, leaning forward in his chair.

  "Yes. Eventually. But not right away. If you begin analysis, the

  Provincial will refer your name to the province's Prefect of Discipline,

  who will begin to pick through your actions of the past year to see if

  you've violated any of your vows."

  "But I never-"

  "I know you never," Stefan said reassuringly. "But the Prefect of

  Discipline's job is to be suspicious. The worst thing is . . . even

  if your analysis leads to a cure, the Prefect will scrutinize you for

  years to come, to guard against a lapse into unpriestly conduct. Which

  would limit your prospects. And until your current problem, Father, you

  struck me as a priest who'd go far-monsignor, perhaps higher."

  "Oh, no. Certainly not. Not me," Brendan said self-deprecatingly.

  "Yes, you. And if you beat this problem, you could still go far. But

  once you're on the Prefect's danger list, you'll always be suspect. At

  best you'll wind up no better than me, a simple parish priest."

  A smile flickered at the corners of Brendan's mouth. "It would be an

  honor-and a life well spent-to be, as you say, no better than you."

  "But you can go farther and be of great service to the Church. And I'm

  determined you'll have that chance. So I want you to give me until

  Christmas to help you find a way out of this hole. No more pep talks.

  No debates about the nature of good and evil. Instead, I'll apply some

  of my own theories about psychological disorders. You'll get amateur

  treatment from me, but give it a chance. Just until Christmas. Then, if

  your distress is still as great, if we're no nearer an answer, I'll put

  you in the hands of a Jesuit psychiatrist. Deal?"

  Brendan nodded. "Deal."

  "Terrific!" Father Wycazik said, sitting up straight, rubbing his hands

  together briskly, as if about to chop wood or perform some other

  invigorating exercise. "That gives us more than three weeks. For the

  first week, you'll put away your ecclesiastical suits, dress in ordinary

  clothes, and report to Dr. James McMurtry at St. Joseph's Hospital for

  Children. He'll see that you're assigned to the hospital staff."

  "As chaplain?"

  "As an orderly-emptying bedpans, dhanging bedclothes, whatever is

  required. Only Dr. McMurtry will know you're a priest."

  Brendan blinked. "But what's the point of this?"

  "You'll figure it out before the week is up," Stefan said happily. "And

  when you understand why I sent you to the hospital, you'll have one

  important key to help you unlock your psyche, a key that'll open doors

  and give you a look inside yourself, and maybe then you'll see the cause

  of your loss of faith-and overcome it."

  Brendan looked doubtful.

  Father Wycazik said, "You promised me three weeks."

  "All right." Brendan unconsciously fingered his Roman collar and seemed

  disturbed by the thought of removing it, which was a good sign.

  "You'll move out of the rectory until Christmas. I'll give you funds to

  pay for meals and an inexpensive hotel room. You'll work and live in the

  real world, beyond the shelter of the ecclesiastic life. Now, change

  clothes, pack your suitcases, and report back to me. Meanwhile, I'll

  call Dr. McMurtry and make the necessary arrangements."

  Brendan sighed, got up, went to the door. "There's one thing maybe

  supports the notion that my problem's psychological, not intellectual.

  I've been having these dreams ...

  actually the same dream every time."

  "A recurring dream. That's very Freudian."

  "I've had it several times a month since August. But this week it's

  become a regular occurrence-three out of the last four nights. It's a

  bad one, too-a short dream that I have over and over again in one night.

  Short, but . . . intense. It's about these black gloves."

  "Black gloves?"

  Brendan grimaced. "I'm in a strange place. Don't know where. I'm

  lying in bed, I think. I seem to be ... restrained. My arms are held

  down. And my legs. I want to move, run, get out of there, but I can't.

  The light is dim. Can't see much. Then these hands . . ." He

  shuddered.

  "Hands wearing black gloves?" Father Wycazik prompted.

  "Yes. Shiny black gloves. Vinyl or rubber. Tightly fitted and shiny,

  not like ordinary gloves." Brendan let go of the doorknob, took two

  steps toward the middle of the room, and stood with his hands raised

  before his face, as if the sight of them would help him recollect the

  details of the me
nacing hands in his dream. "I can't see whose hands

  they are. Something wrong with my vision. I can see the hands ... the

  gloves ... but only up to the wrists. Beyond that, it's all ...

  blurry."

  By the offhanded way that Brendan had mentioned the dream, almost as an

  afterthought, he obviously wanted to believe that it was of no

  consequence. However, his face was paler than before, and there was a

  vague but unmistakable flutter of fear in his voice.

  A burst of winter wind rattled a loose window pane, and Stefan said,

  "The man with black gloves-does he say anything to you?"

  "He never speaks." Another shudder. Brendan lowered his hands, thrust

  them in his pockets. "He touches me. The gloves are cold, slick." The

  curate looked as if he could feel those gloves even now.

  Acutely interested, Father Wycazik leaned forward in his chair and said,

  "Where do these gloves touch you?"

  The young priest's eyes glazed. "They touch . . . my face. Forehead.

  Cheeks, neck . . . chest. Cold. They touch me almost everywhere."

  "They don't hurt you?"

  "No."

  "But you're afraid of these gloves, of the man wearing them?"

  "Terrified. But I don't know why."

  "One can't help but see how Freudian a dream it is."

  "I suppose," the curate said.