Acts of Faith (41 page)

“You haven’t changed either, Father Joe,” said Tim with a flood of emotion, “although I hear that the diocese has.”

“You could certainly say that,” the older man acknowledged as they walked toward Passport Control. “Your aunt and uncle weren’t the only Irish family to move to Queens. All the old faces are gone now. And as you know, we’ve had a tidal wave of Hispanic immigrants.”

“Yo lo sé,”
Tim replied haltingly.
“Estoy estudiando como un loco.”

Hanrahan smiled. “I should’ve expected you’d be prepared. Anyway, I’ve been limping along, and young Father Díaz has been a real help. He even celebrates one of the Sunday Masses in Spanish. Funny, our newest parishioners may be strangers to some things, but not to the Faith. They’re a very pious lot.”

“So I guess the parish school must still be flourishing,” Tim offered.

“Uh, not exactly,” Hanrahan replied, with a nervous cough. “We still have the kindergarten and first grade, but for the rest the young people have to take a bus to St. Vincent’s. To put it bluntly, most of our faithful seem to have vanished. If it hadn’t been for the Latinos, the church would be completely empty.”

A shadow fell on Tim’s heart at the prospect of seeing the windows of his old school darkened. “It’s a pity,” he remarked. “We shouldn’t have charged tuition in the first place.”

“You should’ve taken that up with your friends in Rome.” The older priest sighed.

Tim did not know how to interpret this comment. Did his pastor know anything of the exalted circles he had lately come to move in? Very likely not. He was just venting his frustration at the prospect of leaving a parish less populous than he had received it.

“Naturally, there’s a room waiting for you at the rectory,” Hanrahan continued. “But if you’ll forgive me, I’ve done a selfish thing.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My mother died three years ago—”

“I’m sorry,” Tim interrupted softly.

“Well, she was ninety-three and almost deaf, so probably it’s better that she be where she can hear the angels sing. In any case, I’m still living in our old apartment, and I’ve taken the liberty of preparing one of our bedrooms for you. Frankly, lad, I’d be most grateful for the company.”

“Of course, Father,” Tim replied.

The skycap who lugged Tim’s suitcases to Hanrahan’s
old Pinto refused a tip and merely asked the two clergymen to pray that his pregnant wife would produce a boy this time.

A few minutes later, as they entered the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, the elderly priest commented, “Lord, I’m grateful that I’ll have the pleasure of your company for a little while.”

“You’re not planning on dying?” Tim joked.

“No, no, not for a long while yet. It’s just that, from what I heard …” He paused, and then said wistfully, “They won’t be keeping you here in Brooklyn very long.”

“Bendígame, Padre. He pecado. Hace dos semanas que no he confesado.”

As a pastor, Timothy found it difficult to sit on the other side of the curtain. Part of him still felt unworthy of discharging the duties of a priest, especially the role of confessor.

From beyond the lattice screen, a young husband was requesting absolution for his infidelity.

“I couldn’t help it, Father,” he protested. “This woman where I work was always teasing me.”

The penitent took a deep breath. “I suppose I’m lying to myself. My body wanted her. I simply couldn’t control myself.” He began to sob softly, “Oh, my God, can I ever receive forgiveness for what I’ve done?”

Then came the moment when Tim had to admonish, uphold the law, chastise the sinner. He felt like a hypocrite. “My son, God sometimes puts temptation in our paths to test our true devotion to Him. And these are the times we must be strongest and prove the power of our faith.”

With the aid of Ricardo Díaz, Tim learned to celebrate the Mass in Spanish and immersed himself completely in his pastoral duties. There were times when he did not leave the church until almost midnight. Yet who of his parishioners could have imagined that Father Timothy
was afraid to walk the streets by day—for fear of seeing something that might make him think of Deborah Luria.

Finally, the tension became too great. He resolved to explore and hopefully to satisfy his gnawing curiosity.

He picked a rainy Sunday. It suited him because his black hat and black raincoat with its collar pulled up to protect him from the wind would make him less conspicuous when he ventured into the Lurias’ neighborhood.

The downpour soaked him thoroughly. The heavy winds made others on the street pay more attention to their umbrellas than to passersby.

He walked first to the synagogue. It was still there, almost as it had been, though the gilded Hebrew letters on the sign above the door were slightly peeling, and the building seemed to sag with old age.

It was but several dozen yards to where, so many years ago—almost a lifetime in a way—he had on Friday evenings put out lights for pious Jewish families …

And met a pious Jewish girl …

He walked on, though with each step his legs seemed to grow heavier. At last he was in front of Rav Moses Luria’s house, and stood there gazing at it. He looked up at the window he had broken—when was it, an eternity ago?

An elderly white-haired man noticed the unfamiliar figure standing motionless before the rabbi’s home. His ingrained fear of outsiders made him suspicious.

“Excuse me, mister. Can I help you maybe?” he inquired.

To the old Jew’s relief, the stranger replied in Yiddish. “I was just wondering if this was still the Silczer Rebbe’s house?”

“Of course, how could it not be? What are you, from Mars or something?”

“And is the rabbi well?”

“And why should the rabbi not be well?” the man asked. “Rav Saul is in perfect health—may God shield him from the Evil Eye.”

“ ‘Rav Saul’?” Tim asked, confused. “Is not Rav Moses the Silczer Rebbe?”

“
Oy Gotenyu
, you are out of touch, mister. Weren’t you here when Rav Moses was taken off—may he rest in peace?”

“Rav Luria’s dead?” Tim was rocked. “That’s terrible.”

The bearded man nodded. “Especially under such tragic circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” Tim demanded. “And why isn’t Daniel his successor?”

His elderly interlocutor grew uneasy.

“You know, mister, I think you ask too many questions. Maybe you don’t know these things because they’re none of your business.”

“I—uh, I’m sorry,” Tim stammered. “It’s just that they were all friends of mine … a long time ago.”

“Well, ‘a long time ago’ is a very long time,” the elderly gentleman philosophized. “Anyhow, mister, I wish you a safe journey back to wherever you belong.”

The man was glaring at him. Tim could remain no longer to contemplate the Luria residence, trying to read from silent brick the tragedy that had occurred. Thanking his wizened informant, he started off, wishing him
Shalom.

He went to celebrate the evening Mass in Spanish.

Timothy gradually came to realize that his desire to return to St. Gregory’s was, at least partially—perhaps completely—due to his yearning to be near where Deborah once had lived. To walk streets she might have walked. To let himself fantasize that he might see her coming around the corner, even if on someone else’s arm.

Now, he regretted that he had not thought more clearly before making his decision to return. For this was a kind of purgatory he could scarcely bear. A self-inflicted punishment that drained his soul of passion for his sacerdotal work. It made him half a man and half a priest—as neither whole, as both a failure.

If this was the Almighty’s way of testing him, he had surely failed and could now only sit anxiously awaiting God’s retribution—and wondering what form it would take.

Then, to his eternal agony, he learned.

Tim was at his happiest when in the parish school. He visited often, teaching the youngsters prayers and religious songs, and trying to awaken the love of God in them.

He would go along on their outings, ostensibly to share the responsibility of shepherding them, but in truth because he felt most at ease in the outside world when he was in their company.

One sunny morning they were visiting the botanical gardens. The weather was exhilarating, and his heart grew light. Though other parts of the neighborhood had become almost unrecognizable, the beauty of the flowers had not changed.

He felt young again. And pure.

It was so warm that the children were able to sit on the grass to eat their sandwiches and milk. The Sisters asked Tim to say a few words.

Inspired by the miracles of nature around them, he quoted from Christ’s Sermon on the Mount. Gesturing toward the gardens he pronounced, “ ‘Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, that even Solomon in all his glory …’ ”

He was struck dumb in midsentence. Scarcely fifty feet beyond where they were gathered, a dark-haired mother and her little boy were walking hand in hand, smiling and chatting with a petite, white-haired woman.

There was no doubt. It was Deborah and her mother. And her child.

Realizing that his own young audience had fixed their attention upon him, he rushed to conclude his words.

“ ‘Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field … shall he not much more clothe you?’ ”

Striving to keep his emotions in check, he asked one
of the girls, “Dorie, what do you think Jesus means by this?” As the little girl stood up and began her simple exegesis, Tim let his eyes focus once more beyond their group.

He could barely see her now in the distance. Yet even that sight was sufficient to tear at his heart. Deborah had come home. Married to another. To someone she had loved so much that she had borne a child to him.

That evening, he walked into the dining room and poured himself a large glass of whiskey. He then went to the living room, moved a chair close to the window, and opened it so the wind could soothe his face.

He took a swallow and began to berate himself.

Why are you surprised, for heaven’s sake? Did you imagine she’d become some kind of Jewish nun and light a candle to you every night? You stupid Irish dolt. She’s gone on with her life. She’s forgotten.…

He raised his glass and toasted, “Good for you, Deborah Luria. You’ve wiped me from the slate of memory. You’ve given no more thought to … what we were.”

He took another swig, and let the alcohol unlock his true emotions. At first he did not even realize it, but tears began to wet his cheeks.

And then he murmured half-aloud, “God damn you, Deborah. He can’t love you half as much as I do.”

T
im did not dare to call from the parish phone, nor even from Father Hanrahan’s house, since Sister Eleanor, who had been doing the priest’s domestic chores for years, was apt to walk in any time.

Feeling guilty for his furtiveness, he bought a copy of
The Tablet
, handing the news vendor five dollars and requesting change in silver.

“Going to play pinball, Father?” the old man jested.

“Right you are, Mr. O’Reilly.”

He even had to think about which phone booth to use, fearing he might be discovered by a chance parishioner.

As an act of desperation, he took the subway to Fulton Street, found an office building with a bank of telephones, and hid himself where he was certain he would not be seen or heard.

“Hello, Tim. Nice to hear from you.”

“I’m grateful that Your Eminence had time to take my call.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m always glad to hear from you. Actually, this whole thing’s providential, since I was planning to ring you. What’s on your mind?”

“Eminence,” Tim answered, “I—this is very hard to say …”

“Tim, your voice sounds despairing. I hope you’ve not lost your … commitment. Here in Boston, priests are leaving as if the whole cathedral was on fire.”

“No, no,” Tim rushed to say, “but I can’t explain it on the telephone. Could I come up and speak to you privately?”

“Of course. I’ll fit you in tomorrow morning if you can get up that soon.”

“Thank you, Your Eminence.” Tim sighed with relief.

Set on a hill in Brighton, the Cardinal’s mansion was hardly grand by Roman standards, but in what was once a Puritan stronghold it was lavish enough.

Tim waited nervously on a bench at the end of a long marble corridor. Ten minutes later, a pair of tall mahogany doors opened, and the cardinal’s secretary, a dark, broad-shouldered Cuban, began to motion the visitor to enter. He himself was suddenly blocked as Mulroney moved his portly presence to the doorway and called out, “Come in, my boy. Welcome to the land of the bean, the cod, and the Red Sox.”

As he put his arm around Tim, and led him into a comfortable small parlor, he looked back at the Cuban priest. “Father Jimenez will bring us some tea, and we can start right in. I’d have invited you to lunch, but I’ve got to dine with a faculty committee at Boston College and try to hold my ground while they dun me for money. I thought I’d spare you that aggravation till you’re a cardinal yourself.”

His Eminence leaned back in a leather chair whose color almost matched his garb, and said, “All right, my lad, I’ve never seen those eyes of yours look dimmer. You’re unhappy. Tell me what’s the matter.”

Tim had spent the night before wondering what pretext he could find, what story he could manufacture—and yes, if necessary, what lie he could pronounce—to induce the cardinal to have him transferred from Brooklyn.

“It’s funny, Tim,” Mulroney remarked, “I’ve known you since you were a fresh-faced seminarian, then a
scholar-priest in Rome, and in all that time you never seemed to age a day. But now I see a shadow on your face. I can only conclude you’re in the grip of a terrible crisis. And—notwithstanding what you told me on the phone—you’re suddenly disappointed with the priesthood. Am I right?”

“No, Your Eminence,” Tim quickly responded, “not at all. It’s just—”

This was the sentence that he could not complete—until abruptly he decided that—despite the risk—the truth would serve him best.