Acts of Faith

Tim tried to catch Father Hanrahan’s attention. To force him to acknowledge that even now, when she was all but covered by the shroud of death, Margaret Hogan still recognized her son.

  How much more so would she have sixteen years earlier, when Tuck Delaney cruelly beat out of him all hope of seeing her?

  They had all conspired to keep him from her.

  “I’d like everyone to leave,” Tim murmured with icy calm.

  Not comprehending, the Mother Superior replied, “But Father Hanrahan’s the—”

  “I’m her son,” Tim stated quietly.

  The old man signaled the Sisters to depart. Suddenly, Timothy was alone with the woman who had given him life.

  “Margaret,” he said, fighting to keep control, “could we have a chat?”

  She looked blankly at him.

  “I’ve come to anoint you,” he added.

  “You mean Extreme Unction,” she said.

  “Yes.” Timothy nodded.

  Father Hanrahan had left his bag on the small table, and Tim withdrew the stole and placed it on his shoulders. He held the small bottle of oil in his hand as he sat beside his mother’s bed, wondering how long she would remain lucid. Her racking cough increased his fears.

  He tried to act the pastor. It was too late for him to act the son.

  “Margaret Hogan, I’m prepared to hear your confession,” he said softly.

  His mother acted reflexively. She crossed herself and mumbled, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been three hundred years since my last confession.…”

  Oh, God, thought Tim.

  She began to babble about angels, witches, demons. That she was the mother of a Saviour.

  Tim shielded his eyes with his hand, pretending to listen as he tried not to cry.

  Then, like bright sun piercing through a hurricane, she had an instant of clarity. “You’re not a real priest. You’re my little boy dressed up like one. You are my little Timmy, aren’t you?”

  Paradoxically, he was more shaken by her sanity than her madness. He tried to answer calmly, “Yes, Mother, I’m Timothy. But I’m grown up now.”

  “And become a priest?” A look of confusion crossed her face. “No one told me that my baby was a man of God.” She merely stared at him.

  This was the moment. His only chance to ask.

  “Mother, who was my father?”

  “Your father?”

  Tim nodded and urged, “Please try to concentrate. Tell me who he was.”

  She looked at him and smiled. “Why of course it was Jesus.”

  “Jesus?” His voice strained to prod her into thinking rationally. “It couldn’t have been Jesus. He sits at God’s right hand. Try to think. I know it was long ago.”

  “Oh, yes.” She nodded. “Very long ago, and I’ve forgotten so much. Can’t remember. No, no, I’m sure now it was Moses.”

  “Moses?”

  “Of course,” she answered with a manic look upon her face. “Yes, I remember now. Moses came to see me in the night. He told me I would have a son.”

  “A son?” Tim prompted her. “And am I that son?”

  She looked at him again. “No, you’re a priest. You’ve come to give me my Last Rites so I can be in Moses’s arms again and see my baby Jesus.”

  Tim felt a knot in the pit of his stomach. Why can’t I reach her? Why can’t I make her tell me?

  Then out of nowhere she blurted, “Oh, Father, bless me, I have sinned. I’ve sinned with—”

  She could not complete her sentence. She had fallen back onto her pillow, and now lacked the breath of life.

  In a daze, Tim acted to fulfill his priestly functions. He anointed her, and gave her absolution.

  “In the name of the Father. And of the Son. And of the Holy Spirit.”

  Tim stood up and looked down at her. Then he leaned over, kissed her on the forehead, and at long last turned away.

  59

  Timothy

  “Since almighty God has called our sister Margaret from this life to Himself, we commit her body to the earth from which it was made.…”

  “Amen,” said Timothy, echoed by the other mourners gathered at Margaret Hogan’s grave.

  They were not numerous. Merely her son, her sister, her sister’s husband, and two of their three daughters. The third, Bridget, now married and living in Pittsburgh, saw no need to travel all that way to attend the funeral of someone she had never known.

  After they each had sprinkled a handful of earth on Margaret’s coffin, Father Hanrahan read, “Let not your hearts be troubled,” from the Gospel of John. He concluded with Jesus’ words to Thomas, “I am the way, the truth, and the life; no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.”

  The priest signaled the end of the service, and they all began to walk through the windy cemetery.

  Tim remained at his mother’s graveside, talking to her in death as he had addressed her in life, words to an invisible person.

  As he rejoined the group, he could hear Tuck Delaney, bloated and balding, complaining to Father Hanrahan.

  “Why was there no eulogy?” he inquired with a tinge of irritation.

  “I’m sorry, Tuck. Her son requested that there be none.”

  His uncle glared at Tim, who answered solemnly, “I didn’t want to hear a lot of phony words. Besides, there’s already been so much falsehood I could choke.”

  “Now, Timmy,” Officer Delaney chided, “is that how we’re teaching our priests to speak nowadays?”

  Father Hanrahan interceded. “Let him be.”

  They walked back in silence to the single dusty limousine that had brought them to the cemetery. Tim stood there as the others climbed inside.

  “Come on,” his uncle urged, “the radio predicted rain. Besides if we hurry we can miss the rush hour traffic.”

  “Fine,” Tim replied sardonically. “I’d be mortified if I caused you to get caught in traffic. You all leave—I’ll take the subway when I’m ready.” He slammed the car door.

  From inside, he heard his uncle tell the driver, “Let’s get a move on. I can show you a good shortcut.”

  Tim walked back to his mother’s grave. A few dozen feet from the freshly piled earth that lay on the remains of Margaret Hogan was the large marble tomb of one “Evan O’Connor, loving husband, father, and grandfather.” O’Connor’s foresighted family had provided a stone bench for people to sit down, to contemplate and pray for their relatives’ immortal souls.

  Tim stared at his mother’s grave, thinking, You took the secret with you, Margaret Hogan. Now I’ll never know.

  He smiled bitterly to himself, and said, “For both our sakes, I hope it was the angel Gabriel, or even Jesus. Or Moses.…”

  All of a sudden, he had a horrifying insight.

  Moses, he thought to himself. Did she not know a Moses in her lifetime? No, it couldn’t be. It’s utter blasphemy even to think of it.

  And yet …

  And yet, he suddenly recalled a moment from adolescence. He saw himself at fourteen, sitting in that study, hearing a most holy man of God say, “When my wife died, Sexton Isaacs hired her to come in now and then.…”

  And was not the man who had spoken these words named Moses Luria?

  Tim frantically performed the calculations in his head. If he was not mistaken—and dear God he wished he were—the year that Eamonn Hogan had been absent was the same year as Rav Moses’s period of mourning. The pieces fit together with excruciating accuracy.

  Moses Luria was young when his wife died. However much he was in pain, he was a man. And my poor mother in all her youthful beauty, and her innocence …

  Probably she held the man in awe. Of course she did. He was a man of God, however different the God he worshiped. And with his eloquence, he might have—could have—wakened pity in her for his lonely state.

  Darkness was enveloping the cemetery as Tim stormed toward the subway, trying not to think.

  Trying to avoid the terrifying possibility that he, a priest devote
d to the love of Jesus Christ, could be the son of Rabbi Moses Luria.

  60

  Timothy

  By asking him to hear his confession, Tim wanted to make his worldly peace with Father Joe Hanrahan. For he knew he could no longer be a priest after what he was about to reveal.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been seven days since my last confession.”

  “Yes?” Father Joe inquired.

  In agony, Tim whispered, “I have committed incest.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve had relations with a woman who I just discovered is my sister.”

  Father Joe was shaken. “Can you explain these fantasies of ‘incest’?”

  “They’re all true,” Tim raged. “I should have realized when the Jew himself said he had known my mother.”

  “The Jew?”

  “Rav Luria—I hope he burns in Hell.”

  “You think the rabbi was your father?” the priest asked in amazement.

  “I’m sure of it. Let him offer his own defense to his God. But what about me—do you understand my sin? What penance can you give me for all this? Nothing in this world could cleanse my soul.”

  There was silence in the room for several minutes. Then the old man, his voice quavering, asked, “Now will you hear my confession?”

  Tim shook his head. “I can’t, I’m not a priest. I’m really not a priest. Besides, you haven’t given me my penance.”

  Father Hanrahan grasped Tim firmly by the shoulders and cried, “Hear my confession as your penance!”

  Before Tim could protest, his boyhood parish priest sank to his knees and crossed himself.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession.

  “I have committed several mortal sins. Not merely in the space of time since I last spoke to you, but nearly all my adult life.

  “I helped perpetuate a lie. My only excuse is that the truth I withheld was given to me under the seal of the confessional. No one—not even the Holy Father himself—could have released me from my vow of silence.”

  He paused, and then added, “But as a penitent, I can tell it to my confessor.”

  He looked at Tim, his eyes pleading for compassion, then began haltingly. “This was long ago—”

  “How long?” Timothy demanded sternly. “Can you be more specific?”

  He hesitated for a moment, stole a glance at Tim, and answered, “Before you were born …”

  A shiver made his body tremble, but Tim responded simply, “Go on.”

  “A member of my parish confessed to me that he’d committed adultery and had made a woman pregnant. It was his wife’s sister. He wanted her to have an abortion. Being a policeman, he knew the doctors.…” He took a deep breath. “But I dissuaded him. Then when the child was born, I lied on the baptismal papers. I put down the woman’s husband so the child would be legitimate. I wanted to protect the poor sick woman. And the child … I wanted to protect the blameless little boy.”

  He lowered his head and began to sob.

  Tim was electrified. Tuck Delaney is my father? That loudmouthed, craven animal? The very thought made him sick.

  At this point the old priest looked up and met Tim’s fierce glare. “That’s my confession, Father Hogan,” he mumbled. “Will you grant me absolution?”

  Tim hesitated, then shot back, “I’m sure God in His infinite compassion will bestow forgiveness on you.” He paused, and then added icily, “I can never give you mine.”

  It was a muggy New York morning and, though clad only in shirtsleeves that exposed his beefy arms, Tuck Delaney was sweating as he mowed the front lawn of the white-shingled, green-shuttered Queens house to which he had moved his family several years before after making sergeant.

  As he stopped, withdrew a handkerchief, and wiped his brow, Tuck saw his nephew striding toward him, wearing jeans and a faded satin baseball jacket.

  “Hey, Tim,” he scolded. “What kinda way is that for a man of God to dress?”

  Tim ignored the reprimand.

  “Shut up. You’re no one to give me moral lessons.”

  His uncle bristled, and the back of his bull neck grew red with rage. “Hey, mister,” he growled. “You watch what you’re saying or, priest or no priest, I’ll bust your chops.”

  In a way, Timothy was glad to see Tuck so belligerent. It made it easier to vent his anger when it was matched by equal animosity.

  All during the subway ride to Queens he had wondered how he would broach this traumatic truth. Now the altercation had given him the perfect opening.

  “You’re a disgrace to the Force, Sergeant Delaney,” Tim said bitingly. “I could have you up for child abuse.”

  The larger man’s face seemed almost apoplectic with anger. “What the hell are you—”

  Suddenly he realized that Tim knew. He froze, barely able to draw breath. “What’re you trying to insinuate?” he asked with confused aggressiveness. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”

  Tim looked at Tuck and felt a wave of shame that his progenitor could be such a callous brute. “I ought to kill you for keeping me from seeing her,” he snarled through clenched teeth.

  “Your own flesh and blood? I gave you life, boy.” Tuck laughed nervously. “A holy man like you committing patricide?”

  “You killed my mother—you stole her life.”

  “Say it any way you want, you little bastard. ’Cause that’s what you are, you know.”

  “There are words for what you are, Tuck. Far worse—”

  Suddenly the policeman’s face contorted into a cruel smile as he taunted, “Besides, I’m not even sure I’m the one. Your mother had real hot pants.”

  “Shut up!” Tim bellowed.

  “Go on,” Tuck sneered, cocking his fists. “Prove you’re a son of mine. Try and belt me.”

  Tuck mistook his momentary inaction for cowardice and began to goad him with left jabs that lightly slapped his face.

  Then Tim let loose the reins of self-control, pounding Tuck’s ample belly. When the older man doubled over in pain, Tim delivered a punishing right to his jaw.

  The moment he slumped to the ground, Cassie appeared at the porch.

  “My God, Tim, what have you done?”

  Tim held his aching right hand, gasped for breath, and murmured, “Why, Cassie, why?”

  “For God’s sake,” she cried hysterically, running to her husband, who had risen to his elbows and was trying to gain the equilibrium to stand. “I took you in. Can you imagine what torture that was for me? What kind of priest are you?”

  Tim looked down at both of them, his foster parents, and, eyes burning, replied from the depths of his bruised heart. “What kind of human beings are you?”

  He turned and walked away.

  61

  Deborah

  Officially, Deborah had been rabbi at Beth Shalom since the first of September and had already presided over two Sabbath services and a funeral. This had brought her into contact with some of the members of the congregation. But only on the eve of the New Year did she finally realize why the architect had designed the sanctuary to hold nine hundred worshipers.

  With the completion of the circle of seasons, Jews all over the world would be gathering for their yearly expiation and atonement. The ritual catharsis available to Catholics at all times was theirs only on the High Holy Days. They shared a collective guilty conscience that drew enormous satisfaction from rising to confess in unison and of course to be further berated by their spiritual leader, garbed in white canonicals.

  Traditionally on this occasion, the rabbi’s sermon would be based on the biblical tale of Abraham being called upon to offer up his only son, Isaac, as a sacrifice to God.

  But Rabbi Deborah Luria used this text merely as a point of departure. After a fleeting allusion to the piety of Abraham and the unquestioning obedience of Isaac, she continued, “Yet there are other sacrifices told of in the Bible that surpass the magnitude of Abra
ham’s. For example,” she went on, “in The Book of Judges, we find the story of Jephtha, a great hero who was obliged by a sacred oath to slay his only daughter.”

  There was a stirring among the congregants. Few, if any of them, knew the story.

  “Look at some of the significant contrasts,” Deborah continued. “For one, Abraham never communicated his intent to Isaac—who we know from the commentators was no mere youngster, but actually thirty-seven years old at the time.”

  Her audience whispered to one another (“They never taught us that at Sunday school”) as she went on. “In the story of Abraham and Isaac, there is no meaningful dialogue between parent and child. But Jephtha not only discusses his oath with his daughter, she actually encourages him to fulfill it.

  “Unlike the case of Isaac, no angel appears at the last minute to say, ‘Do not touch that child.’ Jephtha must actually kill his own daughter.” She could almost feel the shiver that ran through the silent sanctuary as she continued, “I believe that this is a truer story of religious devotion, one that makes us face the realities of life: That we must be ready to serve a God who sends us no angel, neither to rescue us, nor to tell us that what we are doing is right.

  “And so, tomorrow when we read of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice Isaac, I will be thinking of Jephtha’s daughter, whose name is not even deemed worthy of mention in the Bible. For throughout history, Jewish women have always been Jephtha’s daughters.”

  It was indeed a good New Year for Congregation Beth Shalom and its new rabbi.

  But it was not only the public Deborah they appreciated. It was also her devotion as a pastoral healer. Sometimes, in the tradition of her biblical namesake, she acted as a kind of judge in marital disputes. At others she counseled the distraught and comforted the bereaved.

  Just a week after Yom Kippur, Lawrence Greene, a pediatrician from Essex, had a head-on collision when rushing to an emergency call late at night. Deborah spent nearly forty-eight hours at the hospital with Mrs. Greene until her husband was out of danger, leaving the woman’s side only briefly to deliver and pick up Eli from school.

  There was only one problem. And it did not take long for Deborah to realize it. Her personal life was a catastrophe.