The Gospel of Winter (6 page)

“I do.”

“You don't look it.”

I glanced toward the open door again. Normally, we'd close the door and Father Greg would open his desk drawer and pull out the bottle of Laphroaig. I'd grown used to seeing the amber bottle glow in the lamplight. But the rhythms were all off today.

I had so much I wanted to talk about, and yet I didn't know what to say. I wanted Father Greg to sit back down at his desk, to find a way to carve out a quiet space for the two of us. But by sitting on the arm of the couch, he seemed like he was hovering, as if he was going to spring to his feet any second.

“Aidan, we'll have more time,” Father Greg said. “I promise. Have I ever not kept a promise?”

I drank the cup of water in one quick gulp.

“You are going to be okay,” Father Greg said. He leaned over and gave me an awkward one-armed hug. It held me tightly all the same, and I let him hold it for a moment
because it felt like he meant it. “You have to start trusting me, Aidan,” Father Greg said, pulling back.

“I do,” I said quietly, like I did every time I told him that I did.

“You have to really trust me. This is all going to be okay.”

I reached toward him, but he put his hand out to stop me. He leaned back, keeping the distance between us. It sounded like there were a million people talking out in the rectory and they would be there all night, like one of Mother's goddamn parties. I thought I had wanted to stay, but now I wanted to get the hell out of there. Something was wrong. I wanted to go home, but not because I wanted to be at the house, really. It was more the idea of home.

“I have many people to take care of, Aidan,” Father Greg continued.

“But you said you'd always make time for me.”

“Yes, yes.” He glanced in the direction of the doorway. “You're also becoming a man now, Aidan. Suddenly, and so strongly, you've become a man. I'm so proud of you. Don't you know that?”

“I still feel alone.”

“We've talked about that, Aidan. You're not alone. That's what faith is all about.” I didn't respond, and he sighed. “Look, we'll talk more about it later.”

I hunched forward with my elbows on my knees and stared at the floor between my feet. “When?”

“I don't know. We have to look at the schedule.”

“I'm never on it anymore. Please. You promised. You said you'd always be here.”

“And I am. We'll talk, Aidan. I promise.”

“When?”

“Let's just see.”

“Tomorrow!” I shouted.

Father Greg grabbed my arm. “There's no need to yell.” He looked to the door. “Tomorrow, fine. Tomorrow. Just stop all this yelling and get ahold of yourself.”

I nodded, and he got up and sat down again behind his desk. He crossed his arms and shook his head at me. “I think it's time for you to go now,” he said.

I was about to say more when he held up his hand and pointed at me. “Aidan,” he said, looking me in the eyes, “remember that you made a promise to me, too. You wouldn't break your promise, would you? After all I've done for you? After all we've discussed?”

“No.”

“Good,” he said, and nodded toward the door. I hesitated. He calmly folded his hands together and placed them on the desk. “Don't make me ask you again, Aidan,” he said, looking at his hands.

I stared at his hands too, until we both heard Cindy's voice in the hall, shouting hello to Father Dooley. As usual, she was so wound up, she stuffed four syllables into the word “hello.” Father Greg looked up at me and for a moment was speechless. Cindy knocked on his door and poked her
head into his office. “We're here!” she shouted through her bullhorn smile. “James is ready for his first service, aren't you, honey? Oh. Are we interrupting?”

“No,” Father Greg said quickly. “Not at all.”

“Good!” She pushed James forward and stepped into the office behind him. The electric blue in her scarf and pumps accented the cool light in her eyes. She was “fierce,” as Mother called her. “Come on, honey,” she said to James. “Speak up. You're ready, aren't you? Tell him what you practiced.”

James had changed his look since I'd seen him last. He was still shorter than me, but he was much skinnier now, with the pale, gaunt features of a goth rocker, and a wild nest of dark hair, but he was still the timid, twitching little boy I'd always known him to be. “Is Aidan helping too?” James asked quietly.

“No,” Father Greg said.

“But,” I said, looking at Father Greg, “it's the Feast of Saint Stephen. I know what you'll read in the service:

“When they bring you to trial, do not worry about what you are going to say or how you will say it; when the time comes, you will be given what to say.”

“Aidan,” Father Greg said, cutting me off. “That's enough.”

The room was quiet. I'd memorized it specifically to
impress him, but instead Father Greg stared at me silently, and he aimed at me a tight, cheerless smile. Cindy was behind him, though, and couldn't see him. “See, honey?” she said to James. “You'll be as good as Aidan in no time. Can you imagine?”

“Aidan,” Father Greg said, “apologize to James.”

“What? Why?”

“Nobody likes a know-it-all. That's not welcoming. This is church, Aidan, and in it we behave in a way that makes everyone feel welcome and respected, don't we?” He turned to Cindy. “I'm sorry. Please forgive my tone, but occasionally a child needs a bit of discipline.”

“Oh, I understand, Father,” she said. “Hear that, James? You listen to Father Greg.” She patted her son on the back and pushed him forward again. “He'll be good. He always is!”

Father Greg stood up and ushered Cindy and James into the room. “Please. Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to the couch. He became more animated and enthusiastic as he spoke. “Aidan was just on his way out.” He looked at me with one of his party grins. “I have a meeting with Cindy and James. What a big day!” Father Greg clapped once and then, with one hand on my back, steered me out of the office. “All right. Let's go,” he said as he closed the door. Through it I could hear him clap again and then say, “You are going to be great, James! Let's run through the rites to make sure you remember.”

In the main hall, the geriatrics dozed over their phones
and coffee. I knew the damn script better than any of them and yet, nobody wanted me there at Most Precious Blood. Even with all the holiday adornments, the statues, the paintings, and the people positioned around the room in chairs, or leaning over tables, the church felt cold and empty, and the pageantry could not hide the lifelessness behind it. It reminded me of my own house, a giant dollhouse perfectly appointed to pretend something real existed where nothing did. I didn't want to wait around for the afternoon service to watch James wave the incense or hold up the book while Father Greg raised his hands in prayer and smiled down at him. Prayer was a sacred trust, Father Greg had told me, and there was nothing that could break it, if I had faith.

For the words you will speak will not be yours; they will come from the Spirit of your Father speaking through you. . . .

Everyone will hate you because of me. But whoever holds out to the end will be saved.

I repeated the passage to myself as I got outside and took off, on my own, down the long slope of the front lawn to the street. I couldn't understand: Was it really love if it was so often being tested? Hadn't I endured? I had, and I would hold out to the end, I told myself. I must. What else did I have?

T
he car service had been scheduled to pick me up later, but I left without calling to cancel. I walked home, letting the cold air sting my face and eyes. When cars passed me, I tried to keep my head down. I felt like a stain on their gorgeous country view, and I wanted to be a mark that could be dissolved with the blink of an eye. I could only imagine what I looked like, leaning into the wind with my overcoat billowing behind me, my face windburned and splotchy. I could just hear those people asking as they passed me,
Who is that? Does he belong here?

Well,
go take your faces off
, because I am just one of you.

When I got home, I threw off my coat, made a snack in the kitchen, and prepared to barricade myself in my room for the rest of the afternoon and evening; and that would have been the end of my day had the phone not rung while I was still downstairs. I ran to get it, thinking it was Father
Greg calling back to apologize, calling to tell me to come speak with him after the service, calling to tell me he was proud of me, calling to tell me that if a man can reach out to another man in his time of need, then he is bringing God into both their lives and they are both the better for it.

But the voice on the other end was not his. It was Josie, and it took me a few seconds to collect myself. I was suddenly embarrassed, and I didn't know why.

“Good break so far?” she asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

She hesitated. “Actually, isn't it always kind of a letdown? There's all this buildup and expectation, and then it's, like, where's all that fun I'm supposed to be having?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god, Mom. I don't need an audience!” Josie breathed harder, as she must have walked away and tried to find privacy in her house. I waited. “Actually, I was having fun at your party, for a little bit,” she said finally.

“Me too.”

“Even though Mark's mother was a total psycho and made us pull a Houdini for no real reason. We weren't even drunk yet. Anyway, it's kind of bugged me how it ended. I mean, we didn't even say good-bye to you.”

As she spoke I walked out of my own kitchen and cut back toward Old Donovan's office. “It's cool,” I said.

“Actually, it wasn't. What was cool was how you handled the whole thing. You just stood there calmly, taking the heat
for all of us. We stood there doing nothing. When I got home, I was, like,
Why did I do that? I suck
.”

I was quiet on the other end. I couldn't believe what I was hearing.

“Seriously,” Josie continued. “You didn't fight back. At first I thought that was weird, and then I thought,
Oh my God, he's just going to take all the blame—
for us.”

“It was my fault, I guess.”

“Hello? Let's get real here. We were all there together.”

“Get real? People do that?”

“Jesus, you're cynical.”

“Look,” I said, trying to sound a little warmer. “I didn't think it was a big deal.”

“Well, I did,” she said. “I thought it was cool. I thought you were pretty cool.”

As she spoke it felt like she reached through the phone and brushed my chin with her fingertips. I had to pace while we talked. “Thanks.” I could barely say it.

“I felt bad”—she lowered her voice—“like I was a stuck-up bitch. And then I figured we got you in serious trouble.”

“I don't think that. Besides, nobody said anything to me. Believe me. Remember? None of us were supposed to say anything. You, Mark, Sophie, me. I don't know, dumb, deaf, blind, and dumber?”

Her laughter came through the phone like a hug. “I'm glad you're okay,” she said.

Neither of us spoke for a moment. There was only her breathing, and I could picture her running her hand through her hair while she was thinking. I could see the tilt of her head and that slope of neck I was so used to studying in Mr. Weinstein's class. I waited. “Listen,” she finally said, “I'm trying to get a jump on my New Year's resolution. I've decided that I need to become less of a bitch. It's hard, because everybody else around me is one, but I want to try. I don't want to be like that. I want to be different, you know?”

“Yeah. I know how you feel. I want to become someone else too.”

There was a pause. “So, listen. Sophie and I were going to call Mark and hang out today. You want to come?”

And, all of a sudden, I had plans. Not an activity, not a job, not some prearranged social disaster waiting to happen that Mother had set up. I had plans to hang out like a normal kid my age. I'd been invited.
Get real
,
Josie had said, and I wondered if that was what they were when they all hung out.
Real
. In school there was a script. I could talk about the homework, or the books we were reading. I could talk about geometry theorems, but I never talked about how they twisted together in my mind like the braids Josie sometimes wore in her hair. I would never tell her how I noticed that. Was that what I was supposed to talk about now? What I really noticed? I did want to get real, but what had they noticed about me? What was real about me? This was what I thought I had wanted, but now I wondered.

+    +    +

Josie and Sophie picked me up a little while later, and we headed to Josie's house. Ruby, Josie's family's housekeeper, made us hot chocolate while we waited for Mark. Even though our families had once been close, I had never really hung out with Mark alone. As far as I knew, neither he nor I hung out with many of the other kids at CDA, but his cultivated distance somehow gave him the appearance that he didn't need anybody else. I admired that more now.

When he arrived, he came right in through the kitchen door without knocking. He kissed Ruby hello. He kissed Sophie and Josie hello too. “Donovan's in on this too?” he asked the girls, but it was a rhetorical question. “Good to see you again, dude,” he said to me. He stuck out his hand, and I took it.

“Sorry about the last time,” I said.

“Dude,” Mark said, “it was all my mom. She flipped. Let's not even talk about it.”

Josie led us out the back door and up the hill to the pool house. We turned on the stereo and sat on stools around the bar. Mark stood behind the bar, packing a bowl. He got it cooking and passed it. Josie had us exhale through a little cardboard tube filled with dryer sheets.