Faith (5 page)

(Unless, of course, the revelations were of an intimate nature. Then the grille stayed closed.)

One such confessant he recalled distinctly. Cindy Clay was a Vietnam widow—Art's age, slender and fair-haired. Her flowery perfume lingered in his confessional. For the rest of the afternoon he'd know she'd been there.

One Advent she made a memorable confession: she had used birth control. For no good reason Art felt himself sweating. As confessions went it was hardly incendiary: he had his own private doubts about
Humanae Vitae
, as did many priests he knew. The problem here was more basic: Cindy Clay had admitted contracepting, but not the act that necessitated it. In the eyes of the Church she was an unmarried woman, and the act in question was
fornication.
The facts of the matter were clear.

Had she been less attractive, he might have been able to say it. Instead he found himself dumbstruck. Hastily he assigned her a penance, falling back with relief on the familiar words.
Go in peace and sin no more
. He pronounced the last words with particular emphasis, as though they exonerated him. As though in speaking them, he had discharged his duty.

On the other side of the screen the kneeler creaked. Cindy Clay rose to go, a cloud of lilacs in her wake.

E
VERY PARISH
had a Cindy Clay, or several. He was assigned next to St. Rose of Lima, on the North Shore. It was a parish of young families, its elementary school thriving. As the new assistant pastor, Father Breen functioned as a kind of youth minister, a duty that suited him perfectly. He trained altar boys and spoke to Confirmation classes. He did sacrament preparation for the tiny First Communicants, and subbed for a religion teacher in the parish school. The young mothers were his own age, grateful for his involvement. More than once he heard the wistful compliment—
You would have been a wonderful father, Father—
in a tone that was nearly flirtatious. If there was a proper way, a priestly way, of responding, Art never found it. He blushed, stammered, mumbled.
Thank you. You're very kind.

Holy Redeemer, St. Rose, Our Mother of Sorrows: Art's life as a priest divided into chapters. The newspaper accounts mention them only briefly.
Father Breen served without incident
.

In the spring of 1994 he was assigned to Sacred Heart.

Part 1
2002

H
oly 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.

L
ATER, 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.