the same pew two visits in a row. Never visited the same shrine more than once a month.
People who prayed sat under a shroud of invisibility. Therewas still the sense that it was wrong to stare at someone with their head bowed, eyes closed. And so that was the pose he struck when he needed to escape from the streets outside and the people who knew him and expected things of him.
This was his refuge. And today it was also his shopping mall. The tableau he’d constructed required simple black rosaries. And there was no safer place to buy them than in the gift shop of this holy edifice.
Commercialism had taken over the church with the same voracity as it had taken over the art world. For all the people who stood rapt in front of a van Gogh, there were two dozen who bought the coasters for sale in the museum’s store. For all the people who came to this grand cathedral to reach out to the Lord, hundreds more worshiped in the small shop buying medals, prayer cards, bottles of holy water and any one of the dozens of rosaries offered for sale.
No one would remember the man who purchased the black rosary. No one would think it odd that he had been there once a week for the past few weeks, each time buying the exact same prayer beads. And no one noticed that he managed not to touch the beads with his fingertips but held only the tag when he handed them to the saleswoman.
He chose black again. Because they were simple. Because he liked how they looked against ivory-colored skin. He chose the medium-size beads, with the silver roundels and Virgin medal and crucifix. The gold was ostentatious.
The act of handing over the money and taking the bag holding the rosary was an act of faith in itself. He was doing God’s work. He was bringing another woman into the fold. He was introducing Jesus to another lost soul. And if she did not appreciate him for it, if she did not understand what was happening in the moment, he was sure that her soul did.
The woman smiled at him as she gave him change. He smiled back. Easily. Without fear. Knowing that she wouldnever remember just another man. He left the gift shop and walked into the apse of the church. He would go to the confessional and ask the priest behind the mesh window to bless these beads. Dozens of people made this request every day. Tourists in the house of the Lord who had no respect. Who took pictures. Who bought souvenirs. If he could push them all out, he would. If he could make the cathedral pure again, he would.
But then he would no longer be invisible. And until his job was done, until he’d completed his task, being seen, being recognized was not anything he could risk.
“Father, it has been one week since my last confession. I have taken the Lord God’s name in vain and coveted my neighbor’s wife. And I would like you to bless my rosary. Would you do that?”
“Yes, my son.”
17
T he following Monday morning at eight-fifteen, Dulcie and I were in a taxi, heading downtown to her drama school.
“I wish I could go to this school all year long,” she said longingly.
As the cab worked its way through the traffic, she kept up a steady stream of chatter about how she liked the academy so much more than regular school and how her new friend, Gretchen, and she thought that the earlier you got started with your career, the better chance you had of making it as an actress.
I had not minded that Dulcie was going to spend the summer at the academy, instead of going to a sleep-away camp, although I would have preferred she spend the summer months outdoors, swimming and playing softball and tennis. Of all the things for her to be fascinated by, the theater was the last one I would have chosen for her. And not just because I’d seen what my mother’s early success as an actress, andthen later failure, had done to her. How it had destroyed her. I just wanted Dulcie to enjoy her childhood and not face the pressure and rejections of an acting career before she had the
People who prayed sat under a shroud of invisibility. Therewas still the sense that it was wrong to stare at someone with their head bowed, eyes closed. And so that was the pose he struck when he needed to escape from the streets outside and the people who knew him and expected things of him.
This was his refuge. And today it was also his shopping mall. The tableau he’d constructed required simple black rosaries. And there was no safer place to buy them than in the gift shop of this holy edifice.
Commercialism had taken over the church with the same voracity as it had taken over the art world. For all the people who stood rapt in front of a van Gogh, there were two dozen who bought the coasters for sale in the museum’s store. For all the people who came to this grand cathedral to reach out to the Lord, hundreds more worshiped in the small shop buying medals, prayer cards, bottles of holy water and any one of the dozens of rosaries offered for sale.
No one would remember the man who purchased the black rosary. No one would think it odd that he had been there once a week for the past few weeks, each time buying the exact same prayer beads. And no one noticed that he managed not to touch the beads with his fingertips but held only the tag when he handed them to the saleswoman.
He chose black again. Because they were simple. Because he liked how they looked against ivory-colored skin. He chose the medium-size beads, with the silver roundels and Virgin medal and crucifix. The gold was ostentatious.
The act of handing over the money and taking the bag holding the rosary was an act of faith in itself. He was doing God’s work. He was bringing another woman into the fold. He was introducing Jesus to another lost soul. And if she did not appreciate him for it, if she did not understand what was happening in the moment, he was sure that her soul did.
The woman smiled at him as she gave him change. He smiled back. Easily. Without fear. Knowing that she wouldnever remember just another man. He left the gift shop and walked into the apse of the church. He would go to the confessional and ask the priest behind the mesh window to bless these beads. Dozens of people made this request every day. Tourists in the house of the Lord who had no respect. Who took pictures. Who bought souvenirs. If he could push them all out, he would. If he could make the cathedral pure again, he would.
But then he would no longer be invisible. And until his job was done, until he’d completed his task, being seen, being recognized was not anything he could risk.
“Father, it has been one week since my last confession. I have taken the Lord God’s name in vain and coveted my neighbor’s wife. And I would like you to bless my rosary. Would you do that?”
“Yes, my son.”
17
T he following Monday morning at eight-fifteen, Dulcie and I were in a taxi, heading downtown to her drama school.
“I wish I could go to this school all year long,” she said longingly.
As the cab worked its way through the traffic, she kept up a steady stream of chatter about how she liked the academy so much more than regular school and how her new friend, Gretchen, and she thought that the earlier you got started with your career, the better chance you had of making it as an actress.
I had not minded that Dulcie was going to spend the summer at the academy, instead of going to a sleep-away camp, although I would have preferred she spend the summer months outdoors, swimming and playing softball and tennis. Of all the things for her to be fascinated by, the theater was the last one I would have chosen for her. And not just because I’d seen what my mother’s early success as an actress, andthen later failure, had done to her. How it had destroyed her. I just wanted Dulcie to enjoy her childhood and not face the pressure and rejections of an acting career before she had the
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