Acts of Faith

  Father Hanrahan looked quizzically at the Rav. “How do you come to know about all this, may I ask?”

  “Well, many years ago the boy’s mother worked briefly for me. And the lad is currently in my employ … as a kind of Sabbath helper.”

  “You mean a Shabbes goy?” the priest inquired with a knowing grin. “I’m not unacquainted with your religious practices.”

  “Then you know that it’s a position of trust and responsibility, which through the years has been held by such distinguished gentiles as the great Russian playwright, Maxim Gorky—”

  “—not to mention James Cagney, the great Irish-American actor,” Hanrahan added, as he suddenly moved his queen directly in front of the Rav’s king, amicably pronouncing, “Check!”

  Trying to avoid being distracted by his dilemma on the chessboard, the rabbi stated categorically, “I don’t know this Mr. Cagney—but I do know that the Hogan boy is innocent.”

  Father Hanrahan looked up at the rabbi and replied enigmatically, “I believe you’re right.”

  “Then why can’t you do something?”

  “This is difficult to explain, Rabbi,” the priest said, moving his knight forward, apparently absentmindedly. “But I’m party to certain information that the seal of confession forbids me to disclose.”

  The Rav persisted. “Still, isn’t there any way of saving the boy?”

  Father Joe pondered for a moment, and then remarked, “Perhaps I can speak to the lad—get him involved more in the church. That might give me some ground for dissuading Cassie.”

  “So it’s mainly the aunt?”

  Hanrahan looked at his watch. “It’s getting late. I must go. I hope you’ll excuse me.”

  The Rav rose, but Hanrahan’s voice stopped him.

  “Oh, just one more thing, Rabbi Luria.”

  “Yes?”

  Leaning over the board, the priest brought his remaining bishop straight down the diagonal, taking one of the rabbi’s pawns. There was no way of saving the Jewish king. The Catholic then tipped his hat in a gesture of jaunty respect and started off.

  Rav Luria stood in the windy park and thought to himself, He outplayed me.

  But the important thing is that I won!

  Before meeting with Timothy, Father Joe studied what his policemen parishioners might have called the boy’s “rap sheet.”

  There was an extraordinary amount to read. Yet what struck him was that every one of Tim’s teachers had been obliged to reduce his grades because of his misbehavior, despite the fact that he was by far the smartest in their classes.

  “He’s a clever little devil,” Sister Mary Bernard had written. “If only his considerable talents could be marshaled for the good, we would all be blessed.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” the priest called.

  The door opened slowly and Timothy Hogan, face nearly as white as his shirt, peeked anxiously inside.

  At first, all he saw were endless rows of books set from floor to ceiling on wood and cinder-block shelves. It reminded him of a tidier version of Rav Luria’s study. Then he focused on the gray-haired cleric, nearly dwarfed behind his huge mahogany desk.

  “You wanted to see me, Father?” he asked diffidently.

  “That I did. Sit down, my boy.”

  Before making the slightest move, Tim blurted, “I didn’t steal the money, Father Hanrahan. I swear to God I didn’t!”

  The priest leaned across his desk and confided softly, “I believe you.”

  “You do?”

  Hanrahan pressed his palms together and addressed the boy again. “Lad, it doesn’t matter whether you’re in the right this time, you’ve got a record for rowdiness as long as my arm.”

  Tim tried to read the old man’s thoughts. “It’s Aunt Cassie, isn’t it? She hates me—”

  Father silenced him with an upraised hand. “Come now, she’s a pious woman and means well.” He again leaned across the large desk and said in softer tones, “You must admit that you’ve given her a lot of trouble through the years.”

  “I guess so,” Tim replied, then asked impatiently, “Where are you sending me?”

  “I’d like to send you home to the Delaneys,” the priest said slowly, “but no one wants a wild tornado in his house. Tim, you’re a very bright young man. Why do you act the way you do?”

  Tim shrugged.

  “Is it because you think nobody cares?”

  The boy nodded.

  “You’re wrong,” Father Joe whispered. “To begin with, God cares.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tim answered. And then added almost reflexively: “1 John 4:8, ‘He that loveth not, knoweth not God.’ ”

  The priest was astonished. “How much of the Scriptures do you know by heart?”

  Tim shrugged. “I guess I know whatever stuff we’ve read.”

  Father Joe swiveled in his chair, pulled out a large Bible, and leafed through the pages. “ ‘If a man say, I love God, and hateth his brother, he is a liar: for he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?’ ” He glanced at Tim and asked, “Recognize that?”

  “Yes—same chapter, verse twenty.”

  “Extraordinary,” Hanrahan muttered. He slapped the Bible closed on his desk and shouted with exasperation, “Then why in heaven’s name do you go around throwing punches at your fellow man?”

  “I don’t know,” Tim confessed.

  The priest stared at him for a moment and then said with fervor, “Timothy, I do believe the Lord ordains each move we make. And all that’s gone before today was just to bring the two of us together. It has suddenly come clear to me that you were born to serve our Lord.”

  “How?” Tim asked uncertainly.

  “Well, as an altar boy to start with. No—you’re a little old for that. You’ll share the task of thurifer with Marty North. He’s younger than you, but knows the ropes.”

  “But what happens if I don’t want to be your spice boy?” Tim asked, his old defiance reemerging.

  “Well,” the priest replied, still jovial, “then you can hold a candle.” Quickly he added: “Or you can go to St. Joseph’s School for Boys in Pennsylvania.”

  Hanrahan’s bluntness caught Tim off guard. He looked at the priest. “I don’t mind getting up early,” Tim said matter-of-factly.

  The priest began to laugh. “I’m very glad, Tim. And I know you’re on the right road now.”

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I’m just happy,” Father Hanrahan replied. “After all, there’s more delight in finding one lost sheep than the ninety-nine already in the fold.”

  To which Timothy replied, “Matthew 18:13—sort of abridged.”

  The priest beamed and inquired, “Same thought’s also in Luke. Don’t you remember?”

  “To be honest, I don’t,” Tim replied.

  “Deo gratias—there’s at least something I can still teach you. Now go home. And be here at six-thirty in the morning.”

  If he was not converted by the churchman, Tim was definitely transformed by the ceremonies themselves. It was one thing to kneel and pray, it was another to serve, to feel a part of the prayer.

  When he took off his jacket to don the garments of worship, he sensed that he was somehow removing a layer of sin. The simple black cassock and a white surplice made him feel pure.

  And in stark contrast to the vestments of the priests, his own garb never changed. The priests altered the color of their garments according to the seasons.

  The green worn on ordinary Sundays symbolized growth and hope, while the violet during Lent and Advent signified penance, and the rose on special Sundays during those same periods indicated joy. Most important was the white for Christmas, Easter, special Saints’ Days, and holy occasions like the Feast of the Circumcision.

  Tim would sometimes appear in school still emanating traces of incense.

  “Hey, what’s with you, Hogan?” Ed McGee taunted. “You wearing pe
rfume or something?”

  “Mind your own business,” Tim replied.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you look so good in a skirt.”

  Tim felt his temper rising. “Cut it out, McGee, or—”

  “Or what, altar boy?”

  Tim thought for a split second. What was the proper response—turning the other cheek, or breaking the other’s jaw?

  He compromised by walking away.

  They had reached the age when adolescents suddenly discover the opposite sex—though of course it was not considered manly to admit it.

  In Tim’s case, his female classmates had long whispered among themselves about the color of his deep blue eyes and sighed at his indifference. And, since he did not seem to notice them, they began to take the initiative.

  One evening, as he emerged from a Latin tutorial session with Father Hanrahan, Tim was surprised to find Isabel O’Brien, her hair cut shorter and her figure grown fuller, waiting for him.

  “It’s dark, Tim,” she said in a soft, nervous voice. “Would you mind walking me home?”

  He was slightly disoriented, not merely by her request but by the way she was looking at him. He was sure she had some special purpose.

  As they walked the first few blocks, it seemed she only wanted to report on his status among the girls in school. But she could not sense how uneasy it made him to hear that the girls thought he was “cute” and one or two actually found him “gorgeous.”

  Tim did not know how to respond, so after a moment Isabel persisted.

  “Who do you like best?” she asked. “I mean, out of all of us?”

  “I … I don’t know. I never really sort of thought about it.”

  “Oh,” said Isabel.

  Tim was considerably relieved when they reached her front steps. Though it was cold and windy, Isabel did not dash up to the warmth of her home.

  Instead, she startled Tim by saying, “It’s okay if you want to kiss me. I mean, I won’t tell anybody.”

  Tim lost his breath. He had often fantasized about what it would be like to … touch some of the girls in class. Yet he was afraid of making a fool of himself. Because he did not know what to do.

  Without warning she showed him, pulling down his head and pressing her lips against his.

  It was a nice feeling, he admitted to himself. Although she was forcing her warm mouth against his so strongly, she was stirring thoughts in him. Like wanting to see what her breasts felt like. Some of the guys had already boasted of accomplishing such things.

  But then he did not want to offend Isabel. After a moment he stepped away and said, “I guess I’ll see you in class tomorrow, huh?”

  “I guess,” she murmured coyly. “Will you walk me home again?”

  “Uh … sure. Maybe next week some time.”

  Tim’s new demeanor affected everyone around him. Even his aunt and cousins could sense—with a certain awe—that his once-demonic energy had been rechanneled.

  “I don’t know what it is,” Tuck complained to Cassie, “but something’s happened to the kid. He’s become such a goody-goody.”

  Part of the explanation was that serving publicly now gave him the chance to pray more often, without having to be furtive about his devotion to the Virgin.

  Within six months he had advanced in rank and was swinging the thurible itself in the Mass procession.

  They had already started Latin in class, and Timothy could easily translate such passages as the beginning of the Gospel of John:

  In principio erat Verbum,

  et Verbum erat apud Deum,

  et Deus erat Verbum.

  In the beginning was the Word,

  and the Word was with God,

  and the Word was God.

  But his mind was too hungry to be satisfied with a diet of simple scriptural sentences, and Father Joe was more than happy to advance his knowledge of the holy language of Catholic Scripture.

  Once again, he marveled at Timothy’s prodigious memory, as well as the intensity of his desire to learn.

  “Tim,” Father Hanrahan remarked one day with undisguised pride, “I can only say to you what Our Lord said to Nicodemus in John 3:3.” He smiled conspiratorially. “I don’t have to quote it for you, do I?”

  No, Timothy shook his head, and recited the passage: “Nisi guis natus fuerit desuper, non potest videre regnum Dei. ‘Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.’ Yes, Father, I do feel reborn.”

  Tim believed with unswerving faith that next year when Tommy Ronan went off to seminary, he would be chosen to lead the procession as bearer of the Cross.

  But Providence had more immediate plans.

  On a wintry day, while playing hockey on roller skates in the street, Tommy Ronan slipped and broke his ankle, leaving Father Hanrahan the task of choosing someone else to carry the Crucifix.

  There was the matter of seniority, of course. Many of the older boys had been in service for five years or more. And yet the handbook emphasizes that the youth who bears the heavy Cross must be distinguished by his height and strength. On these grounds, the mighty Crucifix was passed to Tim.

  Both priest and server saw in it the hand of God.

  10

  Deborah

  For years Deborah had lived in dread of this day.

  The subject was first broached one evening after dinner. Danny, as usual, was upstairs doing homework. Mama and Papa sat alone with Deborah, waiting for the tea to cool.

  “My child,” Rav Luria began, “it’s time—”

  “I don’t want to get married!” Deborah burst out.

  “Ever?” her mother asked.

  “Sure, some time, Mama. But not yet. Not now. There are still so many things I want to do.”

  “Could you maybe give me a for instance?” the Rav asked.

  “Well, I’d like to go to college.”

  “ ‘College?’ ” her father echoed with amazement. “For what purpose should you want to go to college? Did your mother go? Did either of your sisters?”

  “Times have changed,” Deborah answered with quiet determination.

  The Rav pondered for a moment, then reached over and patted his daughter’s hand affectionately. “You’re very special, Deborah. You of all my daughters … are the brightest and most pious.”

  Deborah lowered her head, hoping to mask some of the delight this compliment had given her.

  “So,” the Rav continued, “we won’t restrict our search for a good husband just to Brooklyn—or New York City even. I assure you, there are many worthy candidates in Philadelphia, Boston, or Chicago.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Well,”—her father smiled—“I have already taken the liberty of making inquiries.”

  He leaned over, kissed his daughter on the cheek, then patting Rachel’s shoulder whispered, “I’m working on a difficult ruling. Don’t wait up.”

  When he had left the room, Rachel took her daughter’s hand in hers. “Don’t worry, it’ll be all right. He’ll never force you.”

  Deborah merely nodded, thinking, He didn’t “force” Rena either. Father had a way of creating a tidal wave, drop by drop.

  “Mama, is it written in stone that a girl has to get married when she’s so young? I mean, God didn’t mention this to Moses on Mount Sinai, did He?”

  “Darling,”—Rachel smiled indulgently—“it’s our tradition to get married early. Besides, nobody’s rushing. I’m sure I could convince your father to let you wait a year or maybe even two.”

  “I’d still be only eighteen,” she answered plaintively. “I can’t imagine myself at that age having to cut off my hair and put on a wig.”

  Deborah looked at her mother and her sheitel of synthetic hair and wished that she could disappear. Rachel’s smile reassured her.

  “Want to know a little secret?” she began. “It isn’t the end of the world. I hear lots of fancy socialites wear wigs.”

  “Not to make them unattractive,” her daughter
countered.

  Rachel sighed with exasperation. “Listen, Deborah, hold your horses for a minute. Why not wait and see what kind of prospects your father comes up with? Maybe he’ll find someone with the strength of Samson and the mind of Solomon.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Deborah with a tiny laugh. “And we’ll be married by Elijah the Prophet.”

  To which her mother responded, “Amen.”

  Rachel Luria did not exaggerate her husband’s resourcefulness.

  In April of Deborah’s seventeenth year, he came home from evening prayer waving a manila envelope.

  “Aha, I knew it,” he declared. “I knew Chicago was the place to look.”

  He turned to Deborah with a flourish and announced, “My darling, in here is your future husband.”

  “Then he can’t be very big,” she joked weakly.

  “But this boy is Rebbe Kaplan’s son. He has all the virtues anyone could want. You’ve heard the expression tall, dark, and handsome?”

  “Don’t tell me,” said Deborah facetiously. “It’s Gary Cooper.”

  “I never heard of any Cooper boy,” her father said blankly. “I was discussing Asher Kaplan—a tip-top candidate. Not only is your future husband steeped in piety and Torah, he’s six foot five and plays basketball for the University of Chicago. Under special dispensation, of course.”

  “With or without his skullcap?” she asked sarcastically.

  “With, naturally,” her father countered. “That’s what makes him so unusual. And he never plays on Saturdays, unless the game’s after Shabbes.”

  “Wow!” Danny interposed in awe. “Like Sandy Koufax of the Dodgers. He never pitches on Jewish holidays.”

  “This Koufax boy I also never heard of. But Kaplan—”

  “I don’t know,” said Deborah, hoping levity would dismiss the topic. “He sounds too athletic for me.”

  “Will you at least meet him?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Of course, my darling.” Her father smiled. “It can be any time you want.”

  Deborah sighed, defeated.

  After an enthusiastic exchange of letters between the two fathers, Asher Kaplan was dispatched to Brooklyn on his chivalrous quest. He lodged with cousins two blocks distant from the Lurias.