May had turned to June but the stone-slabbed floor still held a lingering chill of winter, and now it seeped through the thin soles of his shoes. Set at the edge of a small plot behind the church, the chapel had been built decades ago at the bequest of a parishioner as a place in which to hold small weddings, baptisms, and other services and as a quiet retreat for those who wished to use it for meditation or prayer, but since the custodian reported finding several syringes beneath the pews and even, to the Rosary Society’s horror, used condoms, parishioners wishing to use the space were required to sign for the key.
The rectory study was warmer, and certainly he would be more comfortable there, but he’d formed the habit of retreating to the chapel when writing a homily for the Sunday masses. There he was less likely to be interrupted, and the stillness allowed him the necessary space in which to reflect. Now, as he absorbed the quiet, a lambent ray cut through the chapel at a low angle, and its beam fell beneath a pew to his left, where it settled on a small object, obviously overlooked the last time that Wayne Jervis swept. From a distance, it was not clear what it was. The priest hoped their part-time custodian hadn’t neglected to lock up after he cleaned, once more leaving the chapel open for illicit meetings or drug dealings. At one time it would have been inconceivable to use a holy space for such things, but it was Father Gervase’s sorrowful knowledge that times had changed, and not even church property was exempt from fornication and theft. As he returned his attention to the homily, he made a note to retrieve the object when he left.
It was unusual for him to leave the writing of the homily to this late in the week, as he usually had it written by Wednesday, but the past three days he had been overwhelmed with duties. In addition to the usual demands of his schedule, there had been two funerals—Manny Costa’s on Monday and Elizabeth Spellman’s on Tuesday afternoon—and on Wednesday morning the christening of the Rodriguez infant. Christenings and funeral masses, he thought, the bookends of the earthly Christian life. And then on Thursday, there had been the extended counseling session with Joseph and Sylvia Ramos. In spite of his best efforts, it was clear that their union was on a paved path to divorce and heartbreak. Another failure on his growing list of disappointments, although the Ramos family would be a challenge for even the most skilled counselor, which Father Gervase had never claimed to be. According to Sylvia Ramos, their problems began last fall when their sixteen-year-old daughter became pregnant. She said Joseph placed the blame at her feet, but from all the blustering Joseph did and the way he avoided looking at either of them directly, Father Gervase suspected there was truth to the rumor that another woman was involved. Patiently, he had listened to them both, had spoken about how at various times in life one was faced with the long process of feeling hurt and lost, betrayed and abandoned, but with work it was possible to come out on the other end of these experiences wiser and more compassionate. The couple had stared at him as if he were speaking a foreign language and one they had no interest in learning, let alone mastering. How he wished they had gone to Father Burns for pastoral guidance.
And overshadowing everything all week was this business with Will Light. Father Gervase could still hear the echo of Will’s words when he’d left the rectory two weeks ago: tell your cardinal to find someone else to paint your goddamn saints. He lacked the courage to pass this message on, even discreetly edited, and so had been avoiding the bishop’s calls. At some point he knew he’d have to report in. All in all, a difficult week, and it was the weight of this long week that had given rise to the subject of this homily. He stared down at the notepad on which he had copied the words of Paul, one of the most prolific of the apostles. We are subjected to every kind of hardship, but never distressed; we see no way out, but we never despair. Second Corinthians. This scripture had proved a source of comfort to many, himself among them, and yet in spite of the wisdom of sacred writings and the power of prayer, he understood too well that despair and hardship remained a daily condition. His thoughts returned to Will Light, and he knew that even if the artist listened to his homilies they would be no match for the depth of his anger, rage he had recognized on his first visit and feared the risk it posed to Will. In the past Father Gervase had seen the damage rage could do when it morphed into violence. He had been plagued with a growing belief that he had somehow been called to reach Will and help him. The call. Wasn’t that the word Father Gartland had used? The older priest had been the spiritual director when he was at the seminary and one day told him he saw in him the potential to be an excellent counselor. “In fact,” he said, “I think you have a calling for it. You might ignore it, but it will not ignore you. For what are we asked to do but counsel? And console. Remember, Paul, when the call comes, you must answer it.”
He tried to turn aside these thoughts. He was too old and too tired for this business with Will Light, which technically was not his job anyway since the fact was that Will was not a member of the parish, not even a member of his faith.
He shifted on the bench, unable to get settled. The cold crept up his ankles and calves. In addition to the discomfort of the chilly chapel and elusive words for his homily, there was the growing distress in his stomach, indigestion brought on by the dish Mrs. Jessup had served for lunch, a heavy kale soup loaded with kidney beans and chunks of linguica that now caused him to belch and rub his belly, regretting every spoonful. He no longer tolerated rich or spicy foods as easily as he once had, a function of aging, he supposed. He’d broached the subject with Mrs. Jessup several times, but her back stiffened at his comments, which she took as criticism of her cooking. “Father Burns has no complaints,” she’d said through thin lips. Mrs. Jessup had raised eight children and ruled the rectory kitchen like a tyrant, and in truth he was afraid of her. Just the thought of approaching her again about the delicacy of his digestion made him weary. Perhaps he should lie down for a bit. But no. He had the homily to write.