“Oh yes. Yes. According to the article, researchers believe it’s this ability that’s at play when we learn a language.”
“Interesting,” I said, my voice just short of curt. Christ, would I never be able to escape.
“Isn’t it.” Father Gervase studied me for a moment, leaned toward me. “So here’s the question at the core of it: Are life events random, or do they represent a deeper order?”
“And what’s your take on that, Father?” I asked in spite of myself.
“On coincidence?” He smiled. “Well, I don’t know about the scientific aspect, but there is something at work. I think of it as spiritual timing. God’s timing.”
I could guess where this conversation was headed and derailed it before it could pick up speed. The last thing I wanted to hear was any shite about God’s timing. “Well, I just stopped by to return this. You left it at the house.” I extended the book, but Father Gervase made no move to take it and instead headed toward the side door of the rectory, motioning for me to follow. There was a damp circle on the seat of his trousers from where he had been sitting on the bench, and this patch caused an unexpected softening in me. I found myself trailing the priest into the rectory, thinking I’d just get rid of the book and get out of there.
The living room where he led me held the smell I associated with my father’s home after my mother died, a place of men who lived without women, a stale, slightly sterile smell that made me feel claustrophobic. The room was furnished with two couches, a rather discouraged looking recliner, and a television—one of those new flat-screen jobs. Plasma? LCD? Not that I knew the difference. Our television was so old it was surprising the Smithsonian hadn’t requested it. There were a couple of side tables and a coffee table on which were magazines and a newspaper folded open to the television guide, a room not unlike that of an average family. I had pictured something more austere, more monk-like. There was the requisite crucifix on one wall, a box of tissues on one of the side tables along with a framed photograph of two men in clerical garb. I wondered if this was where parishioners came for counseling or if there were more formal offices for that. I tried to imagine the priest spending evenings here, watching television, waiting until it was time for bed, and I thought what a lonely existence it must be. I suppose not unlike mine during those days.
Father Gervase set the book he had been reading down on one of the side tables. “Can I get you something to drink, Will? Coffee? Or a glass of wine? Sherry, perhaps.”
Before I could respond, another priest entered the room, his clerical collar nearly concealed by a crewneck sweater. He was balding, younger, and beefier than Father Gervase, and he wore the bright smile of the perpetually cheerful, and beneath it a barely concealed air that verged on preoccupation, as if his thoughts were often somewhere else. Someone you might imagine managing a minor league baseball team.
“Oh, sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”
“That’s perfectly all right,” Father Gervase said. “Perfectly all right. In fact, if you care to join us, we were just about to enjoy a glass of wine. Have you two met? No? Will, this is Father Burns. Father Burns, Will Light.”
The younger priest extended a hand. His grasp was firm, the skin of his palm slightly rough. “Please,” he said. “Just call me Father Joe.” A flash of recognition crossed his face. “Will Light,” he said. “The artist.”
I nodded. Extricating myself was becoming more and more difficult, and I regretted the impulse to follow the older priest into the rectory.
“Have a seat,” Father Gervase said. “Have a seat. I’ll get the wine and be right back.” Then, elusive as quicksilver, he slipped away.
“I’m so glad to meet you,” Father Joe said. “Paul has told me about you.”
Paul? It took a moment to realize he meant Father Gervase.
“He tells me I must get over to the art association and see your paintings. He was quite taken with them, I gather.”
“Yes, well, most of them are older work. Not the kind of thing I do anymore.”
Father Joe checked his watch. “I’d like to stay and talk, but I’m due at Rose Hall Manor. It’s my turn for pastoral calls. We’ll have to talk another time.”
Not bloody likely, I thought.
“My apologies for dashing off, but I’m sure Paul will be right back.” He slipped out as quickly as Father Gervase had.
All the comings and goings—it might as well have been a French farce. The only things missing were housemaids and mismatched lovers. I crossed to the framed photo and recognized the two figures in it. The former pope—the one with the Nazi past who shocked everyone by retiring from the job—and Father Burns at his side. I turned from it and picked up the book Father Gervase had set on the table, assuming it was a volume of scripture, and saw it was a collection of poetry by Neruda. The little priest was full of surprises.
I was trying to decide whether I should just slip away when he returned, carrying a tray with a carafe of wine, three small cut-glass goblets, and a plate of biscotti, which he set on the coffee table.
“Father Burns has left?”
“Off to Rose Hall Manor.” I noticed that the priest had changed into dry trousers.
“Of course. Of course. I forgot it’s his evening there.” He poured the wine.
“I hope you like sherry.”
“Really, I can’t stay. I only stopped by to return this.” I set The Illustrated Book of the Saints on the table next to the tray, relieved to finally be rid of it.
“No need to return it. I meant it for you.” Father Gervase held out a glass. “Here you go. I hope you like sherry. Amontillado. A gift from one of our parishioners.”
I took it. One glass. Hair of the dog, I thought. And then I would be out of there.
“To your health,” Father Gervase said.
“And yours, Father.” I took a deep swallow, winced at the sweetness of it.
The priest offered the biscuits, which I refused, then settled himself in the recliner. “You know, I went to the art association this week. I found your work remarkable.”
“Thank you,” I said, refusing false modesty.
“I see now why Cardinal Kneeland wants you to paint the series of the saints.”
I set my glass down so sharply the remaining wine slopped over the rim, wetting my fingers. “I told you I’m not interested. I don’t give a damn what your cardinal wants.”
Father Gervase reached for the tissues, pulled one from the box, got up, and brought it to me.
I mopped at my hand, shamed at my outburst. “Sophie tells me I have anger issues,” I said and stopped before I could blurt out more.
The priest returned to the recliner. “Yes, well. Sometimes it is hard—” He fell silent.
I waited. “What’s hard?” I finally asked.
“To distinguish anger from grief.”