I Am God (13 page)

There was no need to specify. Both of them knew what
the
other
time
referred to.

‘I have a cousin in the police, actually in a precinct on the Lower East Side. I spoke to him this morning. He was on the scene. He couldn’t be specific but he told me it was really nasty.’

John stopped for a moment on the last landing, as if what he was about to say needed clarification.

‘I mean, much nastier than it seems.’

They resumed walking and reached the bottom of the stairs in silence, both wondering what on earth could possibly make an atrocity like that even worse. They crossed the kitchen. Three of the kids, who were on work duty, and Mrs Carraro, the cook, were preparing Sunday lunch.

Father McKean walked to one of the stoves. Mrs Carraro had her back to him, and did not realize he was there. He lifted the lid of a saucepan. A whirl of steam rose toward the extractor fan, carrying with it the aroma of sauce.

‘Good day to you, Mrs Carraro. What are you poisoning us with today?’

Janet Carraro, a middle-aged woman of ample dimensions – by her own definition, two pounds away from being fat – gave a start. She wiped her hands on her apron, took the lid from Father McKean’s hands and put it back on the saucepan.

‘Father McKean, for your information, this is a sauce that could be considered a sin of the throat.’

‘So we don’t have to fear only for our bodies, we have to fear for our souls, too?’

The kids who were cleaning and slicing vegetables on a cutting board on the other side of the room smiled. This kind of skirmish was common between the two of them, a little bit of play-acting born of mutual affection and offered for everyone’s amusement. Mrs Carraro picked up the wooden spoon, dipped it in the sauce, and held it out to the priest with a defiant gesture.

‘Here, try it for yourself, ye man of little faith. And remember St Thomas.’

McKean lifted the spoon to his lips, blowing on it to cool it down. His initially dubious expression changed to one of ecstasy. He immediately recognized the robust taste of Mrs Carraro’s amatriciana sauce.

‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Carraro. This is the best ragù I’ve ever tasted.’

‘It’s amatriciana.’

‘Then you’ll have to do it again, or it’ll keep tasting like ragù.’

The cook pretended to be indignant. ‘If you weren’t who you are, just for that I’d put a huge dose of chilli in your plate when the time comes. And who’s to say I won’t anyway?’

But the tone of her voice and her smiling face belied her words. She gestured towards the door with her spoon.

‘Now go and leave people to work, if you want to eat when you get back. Ragù or amatriciana or whatever.’

Father McKean rejoined John Kortighan, who was
standing
by the door to the forecourt, smiling at the little show he had just witnessed. As he held the door open for the priest, he gave his considered opinion.

‘Very entertaining. You and Mrs Carraro should do it for a living.’

‘Shakespeare already did it. Ragù or not ragù, that is the question, don’t you remember?’

His colleague’s sonorous laughter followed him into the open until it faded in the cool air. Once out in the forecourt, they walked towards the right-hand side of the building, where a rundown bus was waiting with the kids on board.

Father McKean stopped and raised his eyes for a moment towards the clear sky. In spite of the brief exchange of jokes, he had been overcome with a sudden feeling of unease. When he got on the bus and greeted the kids, the tenderness he felt for them and the pleasure of being together briefly dispelled the feeling that had just come over him like a bad omen. But as the old bus trundled down the unpaved drive towards the entrance to the property, leaving the house to dissolve in a cloud of dust behind it, that sense of impending threat once again took possession of his thoughts. He remembered the images he had seen on television, and had the impression that the wind that stopped angels and men from weeping had suddenly stopped blowing.

Blessed
are
the
poor
in
spirit,
for
theirs
is
the
kingdom
of
heaven.

Blessed
are
they
who
mourn,
for
they
shall
be
comforted.

Blessed
are
the
meek,
for
they
shall
inherit
the
earth.

Blessed
are
they
who
hunger
and
thirst
for
righteousness,
for
they
shall
be
satisfied.

Blessed
are
the
merciful,
for
they
shall
obtain
mercy.

Blessed
are
the
pure
of
heart,
for
they
shall
see
God.

Blessed
are
the
peacemakers,
for
they
shall
be
called
children
of
God.

Blessed
are
they
who
are
persecuted
for
the
sake
of
righteousness,
for
theirs
is
the
kingdom
of
heaven.

Blessed
are
you
when
people
insult
you,
persecute
you
and
falsely
say
all
kinds
of
evil
against
you
because
of
me.

Rejoice
and
be
glad,
because
great
is
your
reward
in
heaven.

Father McKean was standing at the lectern to the left of the altar, raised slightly above the floor of the church. When his deep voice reached the end of the reading, he remained silent for a moment, his eyes fixed on the page, and let his voice travel around the building. It wasn’t a long journey, but it certainly wasn’t an easy journey either, not today. Finally he
raised his head and looked around the church, which was full.

Then he began speaking.

‘The words you’ve just heard are from one of Jesus’ most famous sermons. It’s become famous not only because of the beauty of the language, or its power of evocation, but because of its importance in the centuries to come. In this short passage we find the essence of the doctrine he preached for the last three years of his life. In making himself a man, he brought to earth a new pact between men and the Father. With his message he gave us hope but did not ask us to surrender. It doesn’t mean that we have to passively accept all the unjust, painful, tragic things that happen in a world made by God but ruled by men. But it does remind us that our strength and our sustenance in our everyday struggles lie in faith. And it asks us to have faith. It doesn’t impose faith on us, but like a friend it simply asks us to have faith.’

He paused and again lowered his eyes to the lectern in front of him. When he raised his head again he allowed everyone present, without embarrassment, to see the tears running down his cheeks.

‘You all know what happened in our city last night. The terrible images we all have before our eyes are not new, any more than the distress, the pain, the pity we feel when confronted with trials like these we have been called to overcome are new.’

He paused for a moment, giving everyone a moment to remember and understand.

‘Which we are
all
called to overcome, every last one of us, because the pain that strikes one of us strikes the whole human race. Being made of flesh and blood, with our weaknesses and our frailties, when a tragic and unexpected event happens, an incomprehensible event that implicates our
very existence and challenges our tolerance, the first instinct is to wonder why God has abandoned us. To wonder why, if we are His children, He allows such things to happen. Jesus did that, too, when on the cross he felt his human part demand the tribute of pain that the will of the father had required of him. But note this: at that moment, Jesus did not have faith …’

He paused. There was a new silence in the church, this Sunday.

‘At that moment Jesus
was
faith.’

The priest had emphasized that sentence in a very particular way.

‘If that happened to a man who came into the world with the desire to bring us redemption, it is understandable that it can happen also to us, who are the beneficiaries of that desire and that sacrifice, a sacrifice for which we give thanks every time we approach an altar.’

Another pause, and when he spoke again it was in the tone of a confidant rather than a preacher.

‘You see, a friend is accepted for what he is. Sometimes we must do so even when we don’t understand, because in some cases trust must go beyond understanding. So if we act in this way for a friend, who is and remains a human being, all the more reason we must do it for God, who is our father and at the same time our best friend. When we don’t understand, we must offer in return that faith that is asked of us even when we are poor and afflicted, even when we are hungry and thirsty, even when we are persecuted, insulted, wrongly accused. Because Jesus taught us that it comes from our own goodness, from the purity of our hearts, from our mercy, from our desire for peace. And, remembering Jesus’ words on the Mount, we will have that faith. Because what he promised is
that if what we live in is an imperfect world, if what we grow old in is an imperfect time, what we will have one day in return will be a wonderful place, which is all ours. And it won’t be constrained by time, because it will be for ever.’

With admirable synchronicity, as soon as he ended his sermon the evocative sound of the organ spread through the church, and the choir launched into a hymn that spoke of the world and its need for love. Every time Father McKean listened to the voices joined in the perfect fusion of harmony, he could not help feeling goose bumps in his arms. He considered music one of the greatest gifts given to men, one of the few that managed to involve the spirit in such a way that it affected the body. He moved away from the lectern and went back to his place next to the altar boys. He stood there, following the ritual of the mass and at the same time continuing to observe the faithful who had crowded into the church.

His kids, apart from those who were on work duty at Joy, were sitting in the front rows. As with everything else, he had left them a free choice over prayers and their presence at services. Joy was a place for human conversions rather than religious ones. The fact that the community was led by a Catholic priest was irrelevant to the choices the kids made. But he was conscious of the fact that almost all of them came to church because he was there and because they understood that he liked to know they were participating in a moment of togetherness.

And that was enough for him, at least for now.

The church of Saint Benedict was in the middle of a residential neighbourhood in the Bronx called Country Club, largely populated by people of Italian and Hispanic origin. At the entrance to the church, fixed to the wall around the
statue of the Blessed Virgin, were brass plaques placed there in memory of the dead of the parish. Most of the surnames were Italian or Spanish. In fact, in the course of Sunday, to please the two ethnic groups, mass was celebrated in both languages.

When the time came for Holy Communion, Father McKean approached the altar and received the host directly from the hands of Father Paul Smith, who did not hesitate to give him a look of gratitude for his sermon. As the music swelled, and the worshippers turned to each other to exchange the sign of peace, and the smell of incense spread through the air, the voice of Father Smith led the mass to its conclusion.

Later, as was their custom, the priests stood at the entrance of the church to bid farewell to the faithful, exchanging impressions, listening to their stories, discussing the latest parish initiatives. During the winter months this farewell took place in the lobby, but on that fine late April day the doors had been flung wide open, and they stood spread out on the steps.

Father McKean was complimented on his sermon. Ellen Carraro, their cook’s elder sister, came to him with watery eyes to express her emotion and remind him of her arthritis. Roger Brodie, a retired carpenter who sometimes gave his services free to the parish, promised he’d swing by Joy the next day to repair the roof. Gradually, the groups broke up and they all went back to their cars and their houses. Many had come on foot, as they lived very close to the church.

Father Smith and Father McKean found themselves alone again.

‘You were very moving today, Michael. You’re a great man. For what you say and how you say it. For what you do and how you do it.’

‘Thank you, Paul.’

Father Smith turned his head and cast a glance at John Kortighan and the kids waiting at the bottom of the steps to return to Joy. When he turned his head back to him, McKean saw embarrassment in his eyes.

‘I must ask a sacrifice of you, if it’s not too much of a burden.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Angelo isn’t well. I know Sunday is an important day for you and your kids but do you think you could possibly replace him at the twelve-thirty mass?’

‘No problem.’

The kids would feel his absence, but with the day being so unusual he knew he wasn’t in the right mood to share their company at lunch. That sense of oppression had not left him, and he thought it best not to spoil the mood at table.

He descended the steps and joined the waiting kids.

‘I’m really sorry, but I’m afraid you’ll have to have lunch without me. I have something to do here in the parish. I’ll join you later. Tell Mrs Carraro to keep me something hot, if you don’t wolf it all down.’

He saw the disappointment on some of their faces. Jerry Romero, the oldest of the group, who had been at Joy the longest and was looked up to by many of his companions, made himself the spokesman for the general discontent.

‘Seems to me if you want to be forgiven, you have to let us have a Fastflyx session.’

Fastflyx was a mail order DVD rental service that the community received free, thanks to John’s diplomatic skills. In a place like Joy, where there was so much effort and so much abstinence, even watching a movie together was something of a small luxury.

McKean wagged a finger at the young man. ‘That’s
blackmail, Jerry. And I say that to you and your accomplices. However, given the common will, I feel forced to give in. In addition I think a surprise arrived only yesterday. In fact, a double surprise.’

He made a gesture to stop the kids asking questions.

‘We’ll talk about it later. Now go, the others are waiting for you.’

Arguing among themselves, the kids moved towards the Batmobile, the nickname they had given the bus. Father McKean watched them as they walked away. They were a colourful mass of clothes and a tangle of problems too great for their ages. Some were difficult to relate to. But they were his family and for part of their lives Joy would be their family.

John lingered a moment before joining them. ‘Shall I come back to pick you up?’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll get a ride from someone.’

‘Okay. See you later, then.’

He stayed on the street while the vehicle disappeared around the corner. Then he climbed the steps and went back into the church, which was now deserted apart from a couple of women sitting in one of the rows near the altar, continuing on a personal level that contact with God that had been collective during the mass.

On the right, just past the entrance, was the confessional. It was made of clear shiny wood, with the two doors covered in burgundy velvet drapes. A red light indicated whether or not the priest was inside. The side reserved for the confessor was a narrow space containing a wicker chair beneath a screened wall lamp that cast a dim light from above on the blue wallpaper. The penitent’s side was much more Spartan, with a prie-dieu and a grille allowing a privacy that many needed at such an intimate moment.

Here Father McKean sometimes took refuge, without switching on the light or indicating in any way that he was inside. He would stay there for a while thinking about the financial necessities of his work, collecting his thoughts when they threatened to fly away from him like migrating birds, concentrating on the case of a particularly difficult young person. Usually arriving at the conclusion that they were all difficult and all deserved the same attention, that with the money he had at his disposal they were performing genuine miracles and would continue to perform them.

Today, like many other days, he moved aside the drapes, entered and sat down, without turning on the little light above his head. The chair was old but comfortable and the
semi-darkness
an ally. He stretched his legs and rested his head against the wall. Those distressing television images took their toll on everyone, even those who had not been touched directly by the tragedy. Simply because everyone was human. There were days like today when he weighed his life in the balance and found that the greatest difficulty was to understand. In spite of what he had said in his sermon. Not only to understand men but also the will of the God he served. From time to time, he wondered what his life would have been like if he had not answered the call of God. If he’d had a wife, children, a job, a normal life. He was thirty-eight years old and many years earlier, when he had come to make that choice, he had been told what he was renouncing. But it was a warning – it wasn’t based on experience. Now he
sometimes
felt an emptiness to which he could not give a name. At the same time, he was certain that a similar emptiness was part of the experience of every human being. He had his revenge on that emptiness every day by living in contact with his kids and helping them to escape it. Ultimately, he told
himself, the most difficult thing was not to understand but, once you had understood, to keep going, in spite of the difficulty, to keep travelling along the road. Right now, that was the closest thing to faith he could offer himself and others.