“Nah. I don’t need the priest and all the sitting and standing. I’d probably fall on my face and cause a fuss. I go most mornings, after the seven thirty is cleared out.”
“So what do you do?”
“Just sit and pray.”
Joe actually started going to church because of his sister, Maggie. He finally talked to her on the phone last month, told her everything. She was stunned and upset and even cried while asking about Joe’s kids, which surprised him, given that she’s never even met them. While Joe’s grateful that Maggie hasn’t noticed any symptoms in herself, he also couldn’t help feeling outraged. He and Maggie each had a fifty-fifty chance of inheriting HD from their mother. Why couldn’t it have been Maggie who got it instead of him? Maggie has no children. It could end with her. Why would God curse Joe’s kids with this wretched disease? And to his shame, he hated Maggie for probably being HD negative. He hated God for singling him out, for giving HD to his family. Most of all, he hated himself.
Without a consciously calculated decision to do so, he walked his sorry ass into St. Francis the next morning, collapsed into a pew, and, alone in the church, prayed aloud to God. He prayed for many things that day, but mostly, he asked God for forgiveness. To his surprise, he felt almost immediately absolved, lighter, cleaner, the toxic hatred washed from his body. He’s gone to church almost every morning since.
Four rows from the back on the right side, where they always sat as a family when the kids were little. He’s only there each time for five minutes, tops. He could easily pray from his chair in the living room, but he likes praying in that spot, in their old pew, in St. Francis Church. He likes the columns leading to grand arches on the balcony level, fashioned after the cathedral in Limerick, Ireland; the pipe organ; the American, Irish, and Charlestown flags; the gold crucifix hanging from the ceiling; the stained glass windows and stations of the cross; the worn, red-painted wooden floors. His prayers whispered there feel official, blessed, heard.
God, please help the scientists find a cure for HD so my children don’t lose their lives to this.
God, please let Patrick and Katie and baby Joseph be gene negative.
God, please let JJ and Meghan be cured, and let me live long enough to know they’ll be okay. Or, if there can’t be a cure yet, let them not become symptomatic until they’re much older.
God, please pray for Rosie. Don’t let me be too big a burden on her. Let her always feel loved by me. Please take care of her after I’m gone.
And lastly, God, if I’m not being too greedy, please let the Red Sox win the World Series, the Bruins win the Stanley Cup, and the Pats win the Super Bowl.
Amen.
Then he signs the cross, kisses his lucky quarter, and goes home.
“How ’bout this?” asks Joe. “I’ll pray for you and the kids. You pray for me. Just me. That way you don’t get overwhelmed, and everyone’s covered. I know I could use the help.”
Rosie shakes her head, unconvinced. “But why, Joe? Why would God do this to us?”
“I don’t know, hun. I don’t know.”
He pauses, wishing he had something wiser to offer. Where’s Katie with one of her damn inspirational yoga quotes when he needs her?
“Wanna put all the Jesus stuff back?” he asks.
“No,” she sniffles. “I can’t. It still feels like a lie.”
“Okay, that’s fine. We don’t need it. Snoopy’s still out there. We can pray to Snoopy. In the name of Snoopy, Charlie Brown, and the Holy Woodstock,” says Joe, crossing himself.
“Stop it, that’s terrible.”
“Or we could use Kermit. Holy Kermit, mother of Miss Piggy.”
“Stop. That’s ridiculous and blasphemy.”
“See, you still believe. Don’t lose faith, sweetie.”
Joe holds on to the edge of the bed and stands, groaning as his knees crack. He flings his arms wide open, inviting Rosie out of bed.
“Come with me. Let’s get you a cuppa tea.”
Rosie acquiesces. They walk together, listing and pitching, bumping off the hallway walls and each other’s hips. A drunk wife and a husband with HD. They make a fine pair. As they lurch down the hallway and finally make it to the kitchen, it occurs to Joe that this is the best anyone can hope for in life.
Someone you love to stagger through the hard times with.