5
ON MONDAY MORNING, Father Gaetano woke just after five o’clock, peered through tired, slitted eyes at the predawn gloom and the rain pattering his bedroom window, and yearned for his mother’s house, the warmth of his childhood bed, and the smell of hot coffee that always accompanied his older sister’s calls to come down for breakfast. If it wasn’t raining, his mother would be upstairs, hanging laundry on the clothesline strung across the balcony.
Laundry, he thought, lying there in his cold, unfamiliar bed, which was canted ever so slightly to the left, so that he had spent all night afraid he might roll right off. At home, his sheets had always smelled of fresh soap and sunshine.
The devil might be mankind’s greatest enemy, but Father Gaetano firmly believed that the second greatest nemesis faced by any priest must be Monday. Even the most faithful members of the Lord’s flock might find themselves able to rest after mass concluded on Sunday morning, but Sunday was a priest’s busiest day.
Now, as he threw back the covers, still longing for the warm aromas of home, the ghosts remained, but he could not think of his own mother and sister at home in Augusta. He was no longer a boy, but a man. Not merely a priest, but suddenly a pastor and a teacher. Today he would have to fill all of those roles, but sometimes they felt like masks.
Much as he enjoyed the company of Sister Teresa and Sister Veronica, with most of the nuns, Father Gaetano felt as if he were playing a role. His father had devoted himself to his work, leaving Gaetano to be raised by his mother. She had been kind but demanding, and he had never doubted that she loved him. With the memory of his mother so firmly rooted in his heart, it was difficult for him to take a position of authority or superiority over the Domenican sisters. An older priest might have attempted to dominate them, but he didn’t have it in him. Any assertion of authority, even simply walking amongst them and noting the deference they paid him, felt like foolish pretense. Like a disguise. But he knew he would get used to it.
Hours later, during his first catechism lesson with the orphans of San Domenico, the mask had been required again, but he had surprised himself with how well he played the role assigned. When Enrico and Matteo, both age thirteen, began to assault one another every time Father Gaetano glanced at a book or the easel he had set up to use in place of a blackboard, the priest took his ruler, strode to the boys, and slapped the backs of their heads. He promised that the next time, it would be the ruler against their knuckles. The boys learned their lesson quickly, but the stern theologian was only one of the masks he wore during the lesson. Gentle confessor was another. Demanding instructor. Passionate man of faith. He showed them all of those guises, each more a facet of himself than an actual mask.
None of his masks—none of his faces—seemed to inspire them to pay sincere attention. When they questioned the wisdom or power of God, or worse yet, His existence, Father Gaetano attempted to reassure them that God loved them in spite of their doubts. He read them the tale of Thomas, the apostle who refused to believe that Jesus had returned from the dead, but this only seemed to encourage the doubters. Though at least those who vocalized their doubts were students he could be certain were paying attention. Many of the children gazed out the window, watching the rain and waiting for the lesson to end.
Mondays, he thought. But he knew it wasn’t just today. The burdens weighing upon these children would still be there on Tuesday, and every other day of the week. How could he get through to them? How could he restore their faith and teach them about God’s love if they had turned away from him, making their grief a hard callus upon their hearts? The questions had haunted him for the past two nights, and he had awoken this morning with their ghosts still roaming the halls of his mind.
When Sister Veronica rang the bell in the hall, indicating the end of the lesson, Father Gaetano felt sure he was just as relieved as the children were. Perhaps more so. He watched them hurry from the room, eager to get down to the dining room to eat their lunch, and knew that though he could teach them their catechism, he needed some way to make them feel connected to the gospels and parables and Biblical tales, something that would cause them to drop their guard enough that they could begin to believe in God’s love again.
But he hadn’t a clue what that something might be.