Strangers (14 page)

The granite solidity of Father Wycazik’s faith made it difficult for him to understand why, at the early Mass on the Sunday just past, Father Brendan Cronin’s belief had dissolved so completely as to cause him to 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 Cronin 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 grown—a 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 further 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, changing 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 menacing 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.”