He smiled. “From the archbishop.”
“What does His Grace want now?” From our first meeting, the big-bellied and well-coifed cardinal had struck me as more a smooth and successful salesman than a priest—a salesman, I soon learned, who was adept at generating positive PR for the church. Once the many decisions, negotiations, and compromises intrinsic to the project had been settled and I’d signed the commission contract, the archbishop called a press conference to announce it. The surprise in all this had been Father Gervase, who was proving to be an unexpected ally. When Cardinal Kneeland voiced reservations about my idea of using the townspeople as models, it was Father Gervase who had reminded the archbishop that traditionally the greatest artists had employed local people as models, paintings resulting in some of the most famous examples of religious art. He knew of a former church in Rhode Island that had become renowned for its frescoes painted by an Italian artist in the 1940s, all of whom bore the faces of the church’s former parishioners. And then there was the matter of selecting the forty-two saints to be painted, seven for each of the six panels. The archbishop had wanted to choose them, but Father Gervase pointed out perhaps the artistic vision should lie with the artist but I could submit renderings to the committee for review, presenting the idea so cleverly that the archbishop ended up believing it had been his own. Again, I realized how easy it was to underestimate the little priest. And it had been Father Gervase’s quiet suggestion that one figure not yet sanctified be incorporated in the saints’ Communion gathering, a figure who would represent the potential for sainthood in everyone.
“Cardinal Kneeland has a proposal.”
“And who does he want included now?” It had been settled that I would choose the saints for the panels, but each week the archbishop “suggested” one he believed should be represented.
Father Gervase hesitated. “Well, he’s been thinking about what an opportunity there is here.”
“What’s that?”
“The fact that you’re painting here in this building, right by the center of town. He has an idea he thinks could be a win-win for everyone.”
A win-win for everyone. I could hear the archbishop’s silky voice in that phrase. “So what’s the idea?”
“That you open the studio to the public so they can come in, look at what you’re doing, see the work as it progresses.” Noting my expression, he quickly added, “It’s not proposing this for every day, you understand. Just one morning or afternoon each week.”
“I don’t think so.”
“His thinking is that it would be good exposure for you and generate interest for the project.”
“I don’t work that way, Father. On display. I don’t do sideshow art.”
The priest nodded, then smiled gently, as if he had known before he asked that this would be my answer. “I’ll pass on your response.”
From my prior interactions with the archbishop, I doubted that this would be the end of it.
“How are things coming?” Father Gervase asked.
“No problems so far.” If one discounted the meddling of your archbishop, I thought. “I’ve drafted the scheme for the first panel on the south side of the nave.” I indicated the white board I’d nailed along one wall of the building where some of the photos were displayed. “The photographic studies for Rose of Lima, Crispin, Peter, Paul, Maurice, Brendan, and Ambrose are completed.”
The priest inspected the photos. “Interesting.”
“How’s that?”
“That you have the baker posing as Crispin.” He pointed to Alonzo Americo’s head, black hair so abundant with curls they formed a cap. “Crispin. From the Latin. It means ‘with curly hair.’ And there’s Jules Cavanaugh as Ambrose, the patron saint for beekeepers.”
There’s a saint for everyone, for everything, Sophie had said so long ago. Knock-knees and nose hair? I’d teased her. Lost pets, she’d countered. And lost causes. I wondered if she still believed.
Father Gervase leaned in closer to the photos. “Hands,” he said after a minute. “So beautiful. So individual.”
“Yes,” I said, and found myself sharing with the priest my observation about the different ways the models held their hands in prayer and how they stood more reverently when they posed.
“And you find that unusual? Their reverence?” Father Gervase returned to the small bench by one of the worktables.
“I guess I don’t understand the pull of religion.”
“You never attended church?”
“As a child. But a very skeptical child.” My parents had seen that I attended Sunday church school, but even then, as I’d listened to Mrs. Moulton read the story lessons, disbelief had surfaced. Alone in the bulrushes wouldn’t the baby Moses have cried and been discovered? And in that den? Wouldn’t a lion really eat Daniel? A lion? My questioning only grew as I aged. I couldn’t understand the mindless acceptance of dogma, an acceptance people were quick to call faith. And I was repelled by the way everyone protected his own little plot, which of course involved making everyone else wrong. I couldn’t understand the surrender of self to priests and popes that Sophie’s religion demands.
“Outside of the structure of religion, the dogma you reject, do you find it so hard to believe there is a God?” Father Gervase asked.
I readied a flip reply, but the priest’s sincerity elicited a more thoughtful answer. “I believe there is a mystery beyond our understanding. Why can’t we leave it at that?”
“So you are a doubter. That’s good news.”
“Good noose?” I said. Was I to be hung for my lack of faith?
“Good news,” Father Gervase repeated. “There is no true belief that isn’t tested by doubt.”
“I am not a true believer, Father.”
“Even nonbelief is a kind of belief. And I do believe you are a believer, Will. For instance, you believe in art.”
“Whatever.” I was determined not to be drawn into a discussion.
The priest closed his eyes for a moment. His hands were folded in his lap. “Perhaps,” he said softly. “Perhaps in the end it is not our beliefs that matter as much as it is our behavior.”
I wondered how the archbishop would respond to this bit of theology. “Whatever, Father. I guess what I am saying is I have no use for religion.”
“And yet here you are,” the priest said. “Painting saints.”