“No argument here,” Stan says, his hands up, grains of rice hanging off the tines of his fork.
“And bonus—Dottie knows everything about the history of this place. Which I’m finding completely fascinating.” I take another bite as Dottie brushes off my compliment.
Father Patrick dusts the rice off the table into a napkin.
“Before Operation Allies Welcome, I knew there was a base here, and we celebrate a mass at the POW chapel every fall but nothing else.”
Dottie’s whole body bounces on the bench. “Yes, Father is a history buff. We’ve become good friends.”
She winks at the priest.
“You’re gonna make Stan jealous,” Father Patrick says in a very loud mock whisper.
“Too late,” Stan says with a grin, standing up slowly from his bench seat. “On that note, I need to steal this lady for a few minutes if you two don’t mind. Father, could you keep an eye on the young one till my wife gets back?”
“Of course,” Father Patrick agrees.
Dottie taps my arm to get my attention.
“If they call you back to the set, you can leave. I’ll have Stan drive me back in his cart.”
“Sure thing.”
“Thanks, dear,” she says sweetly as though I’m one of her granddaughters. As they walk off together, Stan takes his wife’s tray, returns it, and then claims her hand for himself.
“Are they really like that?” I ask, enthralled.
“Like what?” Father Patrick asks, not as interested in their timeless love story as I am.
“In love. Are they really that in love?”
He shrugs, also watching them leave, and turns back to me. “I have no reason to doubt it. Do you?”
“Nah, not really. I just . . . I guess I haven’t seen any relationship close-up without noticing all the flaws.”
“Well, there are always going to be flaws. No marriage is perfect, just like no painting is without its brushstrokes if you get close enough.”
“Okay . . . ,” I say, not sure I understand what he means.
“I see it this way. I remember going to the Louvre and seeing The Raft of the Medusa by Théodore Géricault, something I’d always believed was a perfect masterpiece. But up close, only a few feet away from the canvas, if I put my toes right up against the line on the floor that kept the public from touching it, I could see the final brushstrokes on the surface of the painting, which I’d never seen from far away, or in a book, or through a screen. But you know what those strokes helped me understand?”
“Maybe?” I think I know where he’s going with the analogy, but I want to hear him say it. The way he talks is so steady, and the way he thinks, so much more reflective than what I’m used to.
“That Géricault was a man, just like me. His hand wasn’t a gilded creation free of the constraints of human frailty. His brush wasn’t a magical instrument endowed with mythical powers. Everything I do as a man is covered in textures, and seeing that in Géricault’s work reminded me it’s okay to be imperfect.”
“So, a ‘we’re all flawed, so God needs to fix us’ kind of a thing?” I push back, catching on to his undercover sermon in the nick of time.
Father Patrick tilts his head and assesses me for a moment, which I’m learning is a habit of his. I stare back at him without flinching.
“Not everything I think about has to do with God.” He returns my unbroken stare.
“So that wasn’t a replay of one of your sermons?” I raise my eyebrow in a blatant challenge.
“Not a replay. But . . .”
“But . . . ? Remember, you can’t lie.” I take a bite of my cold food, knowing I’ve found a chink in his armor.
“It’s an idea I’ve been playing around with for a long time.” He’s not looking at me now. He’s focused on a spot in the air above my head, or something behind me.
“How long?” I ask, and take another bite.
“A while, I guess.”
“No lying . . . ,” I remind him, pointing at him with my fork.
“That’s not how it works,” he says, laughing.
“I guess you’ve never heard of the Ten Commandments.” I shovel another bite into my mouth, knowing I’m being ridiculous. But he’s playing along. And I like that.
“Nope. Never.” He’s back from whatever far-off place I’d lost him to momentarily. “I went to the Louvre my senior year of college.”
“Before all this, then?” I gesture at his collar.
“Yes, before I was ordained.”
“Hmm.” It’s my turn to evaluate him. “So, a million years ago, then?”
“It’s been a while, but the moment stuck with me.”
“Did you finish? Your degree?”
“I did, actually.” He nods without providing any further information.
“What did you major in?” I pop one of the fried pieces of dough into my mouth and crunch through the crispy edge, crumpling with pleasure when its airy sweetness hits me.
“I have a master’s in divinity.”
“And—” I don’t let him off the hook, tossing another treat into my mouth.
“Fine. My BA was art history, and I had a minor in secondary education.”
“You went from art to religion? That’s an unexpected jump.”
“It was very unexpected.”
“Oh yeah? Not part of your five-year plan after your undergrad?”
He shakes his head and looks into the space beyond again.
“No. Not at all. Things changed pretty soon after that trip.” I don’t know why, but I’m relieved when he looks at me again.
“And that made you change your trajectory?” I match his generalities.
“It did.”
“Must’ve been monumental.”
“Completely.” I can see the emotional fences around him. I want to break through. His title and his vestments must work well to keep the world out, but I’m longing to sound a trumpet and make his walls come crashing down.
“There are no cameras here, Father. No silent partners or mics or lights.” I fold my arms on the table and close the space between us so no one else can hear our conversation. His breath brushes against my cheek, and my elbow grazes his as he matches my position. The walls wobble ever so slightly.
“It’s hard for me to talk about—it’s easier to . . .” He cuts his sentence off like he’s struggling against invisible restraints.
“Talk about everyone else’s problems?”
“I was going to say, ‘get lost in service,’ but yes, when it comes down to it, I’d rather focus outward.”
“But . . . honest question.” I touch his sleeve. “How do you ever learn how to help others resolve their trauma if you’re still caught up in your own?”
He’s going to say God, I think, knowing how easy it is to look to a supernatural power to self-medicate the pain.
“Well . . .” I hang on the edge of his silence, ready for the story to pour out, when a tap on my shoulder sucks me back to reality.
It’s Conrad, live and in person. Swear words flash through my mind, but I smile instead of saying them, though I wouldn’t be surprised if it looks more like I’m gritting my teeth.
“There you are. Food’s ready on set.” He gives a side glance to my empty tray but doesn’t call me out. “And Mac is ready, so I need to get you back in hair and makeup.”