“That so?”
“Oh, you can’t imagine. ’Course, everything is so dull these days. Some guys I know turned into teetotalers. Attend those meetings. Like they took the pledge. Not like the old days. Chappy Wilson—you heard of him? No? Well, he’d bring in some of his home brew. High-octane, that stuff was. Ya know what he put in it? Potato peelings. See? Vegetable stuff. Oranges.”
A poor man’s vodka, I thought and shuddered. “How’d it taste?”
“It wasn’t the taste we was looking for. My Christ, but we had some good times. More than once someone called the police. Different times, those were. ’Course, after he lost his son, he quit the booze.”
I looked up. “He lost a son?”
“Over in ’Nam. Caught in an ambush. The day he got the news, Louie quit the drink cold turkey.”
A better man than I, I thought. I gazed up at the marks on the beams and wondered how many of them had been incised after the death of the boatbuilder’s boy.
As Leon walked back to take his place on the riser, he looked around as if ghosts of past days still lingered. “How long have you owned the place?”
“Oh, I don’t own it. I’m only renting it for this project.” I would have preferred being in my own studio, but at the outset it had become apparent that the oversized dimensions of the canvases would require a large work space, and with the understanding that the diocese would absorb the cost, I’d negotiated for use of the barnlike building. There were two skylights in the high ceiling that, along with the rolling barn doors that opened to the water, offered good light. I had already grown used to the smell, an amalgam of wood and tar and varnish and the lingering must of a building that shouldered up to the sea.
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s get started. I don’t want to take up your whole morning. I’m going to begin by taking some photos, a few different poses that I’ll use as studies. As I explained earlier, your head, hands, and feet are all that will show in the final painting. The rest of you will be covered by a robe.”
“Who am I supposed to be? Jossie was asking me. I know you told me, but I already forgot.”
“Saint Brendan.” I looked over at Leon’s deformed hands, his seamed and weathered face, and saw in them a likeness of the ancient saint.
“Brendan, huh? Never heard of him.”
“He was Irish. A sailor. I thought you might know of him, you being a fisherman and all. He’s one of the patron saints of sailors.”
“Hell, I was raised Baptist. No saints for us.”
I gestured toward the far side of the room, where several stacks of books and folders were spread across the surface of a workbench. “You can read about him if you want. There’s a folder with his name on it over there.”
“Well, he must have been an ugly son of a bitch if you want me to sit for him. So what do you want me to do?”
“Stand there and look holy,” I said.
“Jesus.” Leon laughed. “That’s one hell of a tall order.”
“We’ll start with your hands.” People were most comfortable when I focused on their hands, and I began with those to put them at ease. If you pay attention, you’ll notice how revealing hands are of a person’s life. Looking at Leon’s I was reminded of the smooth, plump hands of seventeen-year-old Tracy Ramos, whom I’d chosen for Rose of Lima, and the pale, thick-knuckled ones of the Portuguese baker who posed for Crispin of Viterbo. Leon’s were thickened and worn, fingers permanently cupped from years of hauling nets.
“Okay, now if you’d just clasp your hands in prayer.”
Leon shifted from one leg to the other, then joined his hands.
I never gave specific directions beyond that, just asking my models to hold their hands as if they were gathering for Communion. Some folded their hands, fingers interlaced tightly as if hiding something in their palms as Leon did then. Some cupped one hand over the other. Others pressed palms together, fingers steepled together, like a child’s, while others aimed their fingers straight forward. What I noticed, though, was how when they stood there, robed and hands held in an attitude of prayer, people stood a little taller, a little straighter, reverent, and I was unexpectedly touched by this. And then, immediately, thought if I wasn’t careful I’d find myself lighting candles. Or heading over to the grocery store to purchase some aerosol cans I thought of as spray and pray.
After Leon left, I rolled open the large barn doors on the water side of the building to take advantage of the slight breeze coming in from the harbor, although the movement of air did little to alleviate the already intense heat. It was impractical to air-condition a space that vast, but if the weather continued, I knew I would need to install a few more fans. I was scanning the photographic studies I’d done of Leon when a shadow fell across the workbench. I looked up to see Father Gervase standing there. The priest held two takeout drink containers, the sides beaded with sweat.
“I didn’t want to bother you, but I thought you might like a cold drink,” he said.
“Thanks.” You might be surprised to learn I wasn’t unhappy to see the priest. We had developed an odd relationship, not friendship but a peculiar sense of ease with each other. He would show up at the oddest hours, always with a cold drink or cookies he had purchased at the bakery. Sometimes he would just sit and watch me work, and other times he would chat, reminiscing about his childhood in Wisconsin or his work as a young priest in an inner city. Once he had been called by the police to talk to a man who held an entire SWAT team at bay with a gun. “He told us to get you,” the cop had said. “You’re the only one he’ll talk to.” Again and again the little priest continued to surprise me. “As a matter of fact, I was just about to take a break,” I said.
Father Gervase set the glasses down and sank down on one of the smaller benches. “I also come with a message.”
I didn’t bother any attempt to withhold a sigh. “From the archbishop,” I said.