There was an almost audible group sigh. “Well, that’s something to be thankful for,” said Father Francis briskly, in a soft voice. “But why should she be sleeping here?” His blue eyes traveled over the somber, bemused faces of his brothers. “Did anyone let her in?”
Six bearded friars shook their heads. Brother George’s face was quite red.
“Well, I suppose we should wake her up,” Father Francis straightened, and then, for once, looked uncertain. Nobody seemed inclined to disturb the owner of the white foot.
Leon, who had grown up with three sisters, swallowed and put out a hand to touch the coat-covered body. But before his hand touched the coats, the sleeper moved.
III
There are many beautiful churches in Italy, and even the tourists who walk in and out of them become pilgrims, of a sort. Bear tried to figure out, as he sat in the church of Santa Cecilia in Rome, whether he could classify himself as a particularly devout tourist or a rather casual pilgrim. He had been sitting there for a good forty-five minutes in the nave of the church lit by the natural light coming from the dome above. In the beginning, he had been consciously praying, but his stream of meditation had dissipated into random thoughts in the haven of the ancient stone structure. The last Sunday Mass had ended some time ago, his brother had gone back to the hotel, and now he was mostly alone, studying the ceiling structure and support pillars of the church, trying to picture how the building process had transpired. The thought of building a church like this one was fascinating to him.
Just across from him was the hallmark statue of Saint Cecilia. Despite the fact that he had now seen thousands of souvenir replicas of it on the street for sale, it had not lost its ability to move him. Father Raymond, his late mentor, had once told him the story. The statue had been carved in 1599, when Cecelia’s tomb had been discovered, and her body found to be miraculously incorrupt. She had been the victim of a botched beheading around the third century.
The statue below the altar showed the slim body of a young girl lying face down on her side, her veil swept gracefully back, her head barely attached to her body. But despite the grisly detail, her form lay curled up as serenely as though asleep, her arms, carelessly thrown to one side. Her pose was deceptively accidental, for her fingers were curled in two deliberate symbols. On one hand, one finger points out, and on the other, three, proclaiming One God, Who is Father, Son and Spirit.
Despite his fascination with the architecture, Bear found his eyes drawn repeatedly to the smooth white form of the statue. It was mysterious to him. He wondered with bemusement what it could really mean. A girl. Death. Witness. Beauty. How they could all go together at once.
And as usual, his thoughts went from the statue of a girl to the real girl waiting for him on the other side of a stormy ocean, and he pondered again if it was time.
He had come to Europe to escape some problems and to find some answers. About a year ago, his life circumstances had changed drastically—he and his brother had been cleared of a crime they hadn’t committed, and because of this, the substantial inheritance they had received when their mother had died had been restored to them, somewhat grudgingly, by their father. Bear’s father had made it clear in his communications that he still wanted nothing more to do with his crazy religious sons, but the brothers’ financial difficulties were taken care of, at least for the next few years.
But the sorting-out period had been difficult and prolonged, with legal proceedings and at least two court cases to get through before his life could be called “normal.” After a while, Bear had felt the intense need to escape, and had arranged a long trip to Europe. He had spent most of his time wandering in and out of churches and other buildings like this one, looking at the bones of the architecture and wondering if he could become a stonemason or a sculptor. It had given him a long-needed rest after the stress, uncertainty, and danger of the past few years, but it had taken him away from her.
He thought of Blanche, a slender girl with white skin and black, black hair, long and shining like a dark wet rope down her shoulders. Blue eyes. Deep eyes, which said, even though she still might look like a child, she was almost a woman.
What did you do with a girl like that? Especially when she looked at you as though you were greater than you suspected you actually were, and you still didn’t know who exactly you were.
Of course, as more worldly men knew, if you had a girl like that, you could look at her body and avoid her eyes, and thus avoid the whole question of who you were, or who you would be if you stayed with her. But he just couldn’t do that.
Because of that, he didn’t let himself touch her very often. Granted, that was difficult. Still, he didn’t think it would be fair to her to do otherwise.
* * *
At the airport, he had asked her, just before he got onto the plane, “Does it bother you that I’m leaving?”
“Yes,” she said at last, quietly.
“Do you want me to stay here?” he asked, worried.
“No,” she said, and pushed back her black hair. One strand ran down her white cheek like a black ribbon. Her eyes were looking down. “I understand.”
He didn’t know what to say to her, and felt like a jerk, that he was leaving. Letting him go was a big thing for her to do. He was grateful.
He ran a finger down that black ribbon of hair. “I’ll be back before you know it,” he said.
“Will you?” she asked, looking up at him unexpectedly, and he saw then that she knew what he was thinking. That was the way Blanche was, almost preternaturally sensitive. Her intuition was very strong.
“As soon as I get things sorted out, I promise,” was all he could say. Before he had gotten to this moment, he had thought about kissing her goodbye, but now it didn’t seem right. Instead, he touched her fingers. As he shouldered his backpack and turned away onto the gray tube of the plane, he thought for a moment what it would have been like to kiss her, and even though he knew it wouldn’t have been fair, that missed kiss hovered in the air before him. When he turned to look back at her, she was still watching him. She smiled at him.
And receiving that smile was as good as a kiss.
* * *
Now, in the church of fair Cecilia, the brave young girl of long ago, he studied the knuckles of his hands, knitted together. His hands were big, like Father Raymond’s had been. And for the longest time, he had thought, when everything had sorted itself out, that he would become a priest.
Was that what Father Raymond would have wanted? Bear felt he knew his mentor’s mind so well, but he had never been able to figure that out, when the man was alive. He remembered asking once, “Do you think I’m the sort of guy who would make a good priest?”
He could still remember the smile that creased Father’s face. “So what are you trying to say, Arthur?” the priest had asked, and thrown the basketball over his head.
“I’m just wondering,” was probably what he had replied, as he dodged to catch the ball. They were on the court, their usual routine after high school. Bear had never cared much for sports, but the priest, a tall, energetic man, shot hoops every day from 2:30 to 2:45 in the school gymnasium or the rectory parking lot. And Bear, who was called Arthur back then, and his brother had found it was the natural time to talk with Father, right after school let out. Sometimes the talks that began on the basketball court continued as the priest went on to his other tasks.
That day, they were in the rectory parking lot, and his brother wasn’t with him, probably delayed in the library. “What makes a man a good priest—or a good husband—is being a real man. What distinguishes a real man is that he is able to give all of himself, without reservation, to the call. He doesn’t just want to be able to give his whole self, but is actually able to, without holding anything back,” Father Raymond had said, twisting the ball between his capable hands. “You need to be able to give your whole self.”
Bear had thought about those words for a long time. Certainly he had felt that desire
to give himself whole-heartedly to do a single thing. For example, when Father Raymond had been murdered, he had seen what he was supposed to do for the next few years. But once that was over, the free-floating fuzziness that had haunted him as a teenager returned.
Perhaps Blanche had sensed this. As the months went by, she had seemed to withdraw a bit, watching him, waiting for him to decide. It seemed to make sense to take some time off, go to Europe, remove himself from everything familiar for a while, in order to think and see if that call was really real, or just his imagination.
So he had traveled around Europe, sat in churches, tried to listen, tried to recover some sense of what it was that this mysterious God might expect of him. But he couldn’t say the experiment had been a tremendous success. He did feel a little less restless, much less agitated, but he didn’t feel any closer to knowing what his task was.
He had been writing to Blanche frequently. Always preferring the low-tech option, he had decided to use pen and paper to communicate with her instead of email. Besides, Blanche didn’t have a computer in her home. He had sent her quite a few letters over the past few weeks. She hadn’t sent him quite as many, although since he was moving around and she was remaining in the same place, it was natural that it would be harder for her letters to reach him than for his letters to reach her. He had tried to call regularly, since he usually enjoyed talking with her, as he always had.
Now it was the beginning of August, and he was starting to think about returning home. For one thing, the smell of the hot pavement in Rome reminded him awfully of the heat of New York City.
He had persuaded his brother to come over to Rome for vacation so they could do some sightseeing together before he returned home. Fish, as usual, was in total contrast to his older brother. He knew exactly what he wanted to do with his life: study history and literature. He had jumped into university studies with characteristic intensity, announcing his intention to finish his undergraduate degree in two years, to make up for lost time.
It had been hard to extricate Fish from his summer schedule of classes and papers, but in the end, Fish came to Italy. He reported that Blanche, who had offered to water the plants in their apartment while he was gone, seemed a bit stressed and anxious. But she was occupying herself with working and visiting old people in her spare time, and was going to be happy to see Bear again. Bear was glad, but he still did not yet know what he was going to say to Blanche when he saw her.
A letter had arrived that morning from Blanche, but Bear hadn’t yet read it. Again, he wasn’t quite sure why. Now he drew it out of his pocket and turned it over. Somehow he knew when she was sending him a “heavy” letter. Their last talk had been a bit heavy, too.
Chastising himself for delaying, he opened the card and read it quickly.
Bear,
I was thinking about our last conversation.
I don’t know if I told you before that this summer at work I met a man who is dying, and I’ve been visiting him. He has no visitors except for me. Why? Because he won’t forgive the people who hurt him, including his relatives and his sons. Now he’s dying alone—well, practically alone. I’m the only visitor he has, and he doesn’t seem to be well taken care of, so I’ve kept visiting him, even though it’s sad to be around someone so bound by the past. It’s very sad and so senseless. Even terrifying.
All I can think is that I don’t want to see you become like this. I don’t want to see you hardened, like this man is, by years of unforgiveness.
Not that I want to change you. But it seems that your past has a hold on you. Do you think that maybe you can’t find peace and direction in your life because, on some level, you won’t forgive?
I can only say this to you because you’re my friend. Maybe seeing so much this summer has made me bolder. Or just more anxious that my friends and family don’t end up like this man.
I’m sorry if this hurts you. But I thought you should know.
With love,
Blanche
He turned over the card in his hand, creasing it shut with a touch of resentment. He had to admit it wasn’t altogether unexpected, given the tenor of their last talk, a week ago.
Thing is, Blanche had no idea how hard it had been. Well, he hadn’t told her much, but she seemed to sense more than he was letting on, as usual. She wanted him to talk about it. He just wanted to put it behind him.
He rose and genuflected, a little distracted, before turning toward the door. As he did so, a curious disquiet came over him. Why did he suddenly feel as though he were running away?
All right, he thought, looking back at the white marble statue of the fallen girl and speaking to it as though she were Blanche. All right. You want me to talk about it? We’ll talk.
Mentally he said a token farewell to St. Cecilia. Once out in the courtyard, he flinched at the heat of the afternoon day as he walked back to the hotel. It was siesta time by now—for everyone except the crazy Americans.
Up in his room, he quickly dialed Blanche’s number, after calculating the time change. It would be six hours difference—after nine by now. But Blanche usually worked at her catering job till past midnight on Saturday nights, and now she would still be sleeping. I should wait a few hours, he told himself, reining in his sudden emotion.
Frustrated, he sighed and replaced the receiver. He unfolded the letter and read it again. She was only saying to him what Father Raymond had told him before. And he knew he should do it, but it was going to be difficult.
Something was odd about the letter, but at first he couldn’t make out what it was. He studied it more closely.
Blanche’s penmanship was usually precise and perfect, as good as calligraphy. She was a perfectionist that way. But this handwriting was more erratic, almost sloppy. If he hadn’t known before opening it that the letter was from Blanche, he might not have recognized the writing as hers.
Something’s really agitating her. Had she just been nervous about writing him the letter? Or was it something else? He picked up the phone again and pushed the numbers of the Briers’ home number. He remembered that Blanche’s mom and sister were on vacation, and that Blanche had been alone in the house for the week. All the more reason why he should call to make sure she was all right.
As the phone made the connection and started to ring, he tried to come up with something to say to Blanche, to explain this unusually timed phone call. If something’s really disturbing her, I’ll hear it in her voice, he told himself.
And if she was all right…? He wished he could say something groundbreaking to her, but he couldn’t think of any way to begin except, “I got your letter...”
The phone rang, and rang, and rang, and rang. The answering machine came on. He hung up and dialed again.
And again.
And again.
There was no answer.
Chapter Two
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading, treading, till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through.
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum,
Kept beating, beating till I thought
My Mind was going numb.
She was aware at once that she was no longer alone. Something had changed in the air—it was alive with breathing and stifled whispers.
All of her muscles tensed, and she froze for a moment. No. I have to face this. Then, taking a deep breath, she sat up and turned, her hair sliding over her eyes.
She saw what seemed like half a dozen male faces peering down at her in the dim light. Two young faces stared at her from her feet. The rest looked over boxes and around bags. But there was something different about these faces. For a second, she thought it was an illusion, and then realized that it was real. But all of the faces had beards, and none of them seemed to have any hair on their heads.
The sight was so odd that she forgot to be afraid for a second, and she almost smiled. The men contin
ued to look at her, and she realized that they must be as startled as she was.
“H—Hi,” she said, recovering her voice.
“Uh—hi,” said the Hispanic one nearest her. Above him, a round red face creased into a smile and waved a hand.
For a moment, there was an awkward silence. She was extremely conscious of being someplace she shouldn’t be. She had thought that this church was still abandoned. But it clearly wasn’t.
“Sleep well?” asked the round red face, embellished by a long white beard and round gold-rimmed spectacles, making him look like Santa Claus.
“Yes, thank you.” She protectively pulled the coats around herself, even though she was fully dressed. Her heart was still beating fast.
“We were just surprised to find a guest in our vestibule. Sorry if we alarmed you,” the older man went on, his white beard twitching as he talked.
“Oh—no, not really.” She tried to smile, and the man beamed back at her.
“Relax,” he said. “We’re not skinheads. This is a friary.”
“A friary?” she looked about her in bewilderment.
Muffled laughter erupted in several places around the room. “Yes. Believe it or not, this ruin is now a religious house. We just moved here,” the Hispanic said.
“Oh!” she murmured, turning red. Of course. A friary was a sort of monastery, and that’s what the church had been turned into. In her disoriented state, she had thought for an instant that a friary was some type of restaurant.
“Yeah, it sort of looks more like a Rent-A-Storage,” the Hispanic one grinned at the others. “Not a bad idea for an apostolate. How about it, Father Francis?”
The oldest friar, who seemed to be Father Francis, smiled grimly as the others chuckled. “I’m Father Francis. This is the friary of St. Giles. We’re Franciscan brothers in the Catholic Church.”
“Oh!” she said. “I’m sorry—I really shouldn’t be here,” she murmured.
“How did you get in?” Father Francis asked her.