secretly I held on to six lines that Ulysses spoke to Dante,
Neither fondness for my son, nor reverence
For my aged father, nor the debt of love
That should have cheered Penelope
Could conquer in me the lust
To experience the far-flung world
And human vice and bravery
.
“Is that how you’re preparing yourself?”
“Yes, Father.” He blinked. I thought: What was the question? “No, Father.”
It was another trick of priests—not Father Furty—to say nothing, and for you to squirm until you guessed, somehow, what they meant.
“Well, what
are
you doing to prepare yourself?”
To prepare myself for what?
“Praying, Father.”
He stared: he knew I had just given him an all-purpose answer. And he knew I was lying. I wasn’t praying, I was only worrying whether I would ever experience the far-flung world. But wasn’t praying worrying out loud?
“And asking for God’s help.”
His smile was worse than his stare, his silence more terrible than anything he said. And I was trapped in the tick of his clock.
“And doing penance, Father.”
He pounced on this.
“What sort of penance?”
“Doing things and offering them up. Helping my folks. Drying the dishes. Working up at Wright’s Pond”—I was failing, and I knew it—“and going without things.”
He seemed bored, the air seeping out of him.
“Like candy, and—”
He glanced up.
“And camping equipment,” I said lamely, and added in desperation, “And bullets.”
This made him wince. He said, “So in fact you’re not doing anything to prepare yourself.”
“No, Father.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen, Father,” I said in a defeated voice.
“Got a girlfriend?”
“No, Father.” It was bad enough that I was telling a lie, but it seemed so much worse that I was denying Tina’s existence. My lie made her pretty face spring into my mind and made me sad.
He knew I was lying. He was smiling, watching my lies accumulate. I could hear the scrape of his breathing, like a comb in his throat.
Behind his head, a large tufty cloud moved past the window and made me wish I was outside. The cloud climbed, leaving blue sky, and I felt trapped down below.
“What makes you think you could be a priest?”
I said nothing at first. His eyes were perforating my soul. I said, “I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you something. You don’t simply say, ‘I’m going to be a priest’ the way you say, ‘I’m going to be a doctor or a lawyer.’ ”
Though it struck me that it was much harder to be a doctor or a lawyer, I said, “No, Father.”
“You don’t volunteer. ‘Here I am—might as well have a try!’ ” He made it sound thoroughly foolish. “You are chosen! You are called. To receive the sacrament. To perform the holy sacrifice of the mass.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Almighty God does the choosing!”
I wanted to get out of that room.
“You must think you’re pretty darned important,” the Pastor said.
I looked down, to appear ashamed, and saw his thin socks of black silk and hated them.
“Did you ever think you might be motivated by pride?”
There was no point in saying no. I knew I was beaten.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, and smiled his terrible smile. “The Church has no use for slackers. You don’t know how lucky you are!” He looked aside, then turned back to me and said, “A non-Catholic once said to a Catholic, ‘Do you believe that Christ is present in your church?’ The Catholic said yes. ‘Do you believe that, when you receive communion, God is in you?’ And the Catholic said yes. ‘Do you believe that when you die you have a chance to spend eternity in Heaven with Almighty God?’ ‘Yes,’ the Catholic said. And the non-Catholic said, ‘If I believed those things I would go to that church on my knees!’ ”
“Yes, Father.”
“I would go to that church on my knees!”
I thought: But he didn’t—didn’t believe, didn’t take communion, didn’t go to church.
Neither fondness for my son, nor reverence
For my aged father, nor the debt of love
That should have cheered Penelope
Could conquer in me the lust
To experience the far-flung world
And human vice and bravery
.
“Is that how you’re preparing yourself?”
“Yes, Father.” He blinked. I thought: What was the question? “No, Father.”
It was another trick of priests—not Father Furty—to say nothing, and for you to squirm until you guessed, somehow, what they meant.
“Well, what
are
you doing to prepare yourself?”
To prepare myself for what?
“Praying, Father.”
He stared: he knew I had just given him an all-purpose answer. And he knew I was lying. I wasn’t praying, I was only worrying whether I would ever experience the far-flung world. But wasn’t praying worrying out loud?
“And asking for God’s help.”
His smile was worse than his stare, his silence more terrible than anything he said. And I was trapped in the tick of his clock.
“And doing penance, Father.”
He pounced on this.
“What sort of penance?”
“Doing things and offering them up. Helping my folks. Drying the dishes. Working up at Wright’s Pond”—I was failing, and I knew it—“and going without things.”
He seemed bored, the air seeping out of him.
“Like candy, and—”
He glanced up.
“And camping equipment,” I said lamely, and added in desperation, “And bullets.”
This made him wince. He said, “So in fact you’re not doing anything to prepare yourself.”
“No, Father.”
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen, Father,” I said in a defeated voice.
“Got a girlfriend?”
“No, Father.” It was bad enough that I was telling a lie, but it seemed so much worse that I was denying Tina’s existence. My lie made her pretty face spring into my mind and made me sad.
He knew I was lying. He was smiling, watching my lies accumulate. I could hear the scrape of his breathing, like a comb in his throat.
Behind his head, a large tufty cloud moved past the window and made me wish I was outside. The cloud climbed, leaving blue sky, and I felt trapped down below.
“What makes you think you could be a priest?”
I said nothing at first. His eyes were perforating my soul. I said, “I don’t know.”
“I’ll tell you something. You don’t simply say, ‘I’m going to be a priest’ the way you say, ‘I’m going to be a doctor or a lawyer.’ ”
Though it struck me that it was much harder to be a doctor or a lawyer, I said, “No, Father.”
“You don’t volunteer. ‘Here I am—might as well have a try!’ ” He made it sound thoroughly foolish. “You are chosen! You are called. To receive the sacrament. To perform the holy sacrifice of the mass.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Almighty God does the choosing!”
I wanted to get out of that room.
“You must think you’re pretty darned important,” the Pastor said.
I looked down, to appear ashamed, and saw his thin socks of black silk and hated them.
“Did you ever think you might be motivated by pride?”
There was no point in saying no. I knew I was beaten.
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he said, and smiled his terrible smile. “The Church has no use for slackers. You don’t know how lucky you are!” He looked aside, then turned back to me and said, “A non-Catholic once said to a Catholic, ‘Do you believe that Christ is present in your church?’ The Catholic said yes. ‘Do you believe that, when you receive communion, God is in you?’ And the Catholic said yes. ‘Do you believe that when you die you have a chance to spend eternity in Heaven with Almighty God?’ ‘Yes,’ the Catholic said. And the non-Catholic said, ‘If I believed those things I would go to that church on my knees!’ ”
“Yes, Father.”
“I would go to that church on my knees!”
I thought: But he didn’t—didn’t believe, didn’t take communion, didn’t go to church.
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