took my hands in his. They were the hands youd expect from an outdoor
kind of priest who umpired Little League games.
Dont give up, Smithy Ide. Fight it. Fight it. I have to fight my- self, too. Every day. I
want to stand up and say, Ive had it. But I dont. I go on. I push on through, you see. I
push. An archaic church, an unappreciative little town, an empty rectory. I dont know. I
had envisioned a kind of pastor-and-flock situation, a Bing Crosby thing. An amazed
congregation, but . . . well, I just dont know. Are you Catholic?
Sure, I said. Actually not, but they use the word Catholic all the time in the Episcopal
Church.
Three, he said, holding up three fingers with an edge in his voice, count them, three guys
made monsignor this year, and every one of them graduated seminary with me and took vows
with Bishop Fuget with me, and now theyre monsignor. Ive had Holy Ghost in Hope Valley for
eleven years, and still Im only an assistant pastor and theres no damn pastor here at all.
See? What Im . . . what Im trying to say here is, you cant give up.
Okay. Poverty, homelessness, a simple bicycle My bike, I said. Is it . . . ? One of the
boys said he and his dad would take it home and see
if they could fix it. The pitcher, I think. Baptist. And its not, by the way, that I feel
any resentment whatsoever toward the good bishop, but one would have to ask about the
blatant effeminacy shared by all three brand-spanking-new monsignors and Queenie Fuget.
You see what it is, is the absolute inability of the diocese to forgive and forget.
Father Benny paused and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. Suddenly I was as
tired as Id ever been. I could feel my heart slowing.
Nineteen eighty-six. Nineteen eighty-six. Things were going fine. Great. I was working
mass and confession at the Scout camp up the road, maintaining Holy Ghost here. Church
school. Commis- sioner of girls softball, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Then, well . .
. I dont know. Well, to be honest, Jeneen Dovrance. Jeneen Dovrance. God!
Father Benny stood up and slapped his chest. This was a womannot, no, not a married woman,
no, just a mother of one of the Scouts, and she cornered me after mass at the camp to ask
me about her boys God and Country Award. Jeneen was a divorced mother with two boys and
this little beauty spot, here, on her cheek,
and violet eyes. I swear to God. Violet. Lashes this long. You know, a priest trains
himself to look away. Not unlike a married man, to look away. And I looked away, even
though, as I said, the eyes seemed to me almost an aberration of beauty. Violet.
Later that evening she . . . called again. Providence. East side. Family money and all.
She said she needed to ask a couple of ques- tions about the God and Country. The Catholic
award is called Ad Altare Dei. I explained that although its given in conjunction with
Scouts, its not really a Scouting award. Its bestowed by a religious leader. It involves
special service and so forth. She was extremely keen on the idea of her Scout earning the
award and asked me if I thought her priest, the guy over at Immaculate Conception, was up
to helping the boy earn the award.
He paced a little. I felt tired. Sleepy.
I dont know why, but I said Id come over and maybe we could set up an independent course
of study and he could essentially earn the award independently. Well, it was one of those
grand houses. Thayer Street. Actual Tiffany stained glass above the front door. Ele- gant.
It was Saturday afternoon. April. There was a light drizzle, and the damn old Volkswagen
of mine with the bald tires . . . I mean . . . I slipped all over the place, but I finally
made it. She met me at the front door in these, oh, simple yet stylish yellow linen slacks
with a rose-colored blouse. Her hair, her fine brown hair, was pulled high, and a few
strands waved carelessly in the breeze of
kind of priest who umpired Little League games.
Dont give up, Smithy Ide. Fight it. Fight it. I have to fight my- self, too. Every day. I
want to stand up and say, Ive had it. But I dont. I go on. I push on through, you see. I
push. An archaic church, an unappreciative little town, an empty rectory. I dont know. I
had envisioned a kind of pastor-and-flock situation, a Bing Crosby thing. An amazed
congregation, but . . . well, I just dont know. Are you Catholic?
Sure, I said. Actually not, but they use the word Catholic all the time in the Episcopal
Church.
Three, he said, holding up three fingers with an edge in his voice, count them, three guys
made monsignor this year, and every one of them graduated seminary with me and took vows
with Bishop Fuget with me, and now theyre monsignor. Ive had Holy Ghost in Hope Valley for
eleven years, and still Im only an assistant pastor and theres no damn pastor here at all.
See? What Im . . . what Im trying to say here is, you cant give up.
Okay. Poverty, homelessness, a simple bicycle My bike, I said. Is it . . . ? One of the
boys said he and his dad would take it home and see
if they could fix it. The pitcher, I think. Baptist. And its not, by the way, that I feel
any resentment whatsoever toward the good bishop, but one would have to ask about the
blatant effeminacy shared by all three brand-spanking-new monsignors and Queenie Fuget.
You see what it is, is the absolute inability of the diocese to forgive and forget.
Father Benny paused and rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. Suddenly I was as
tired as Id ever been. I could feel my heart slowing.
Nineteen eighty-six. Nineteen eighty-six. Things were going fine. Great. I was working
mass and confession at the Scout camp up the road, maintaining Holy Ghost here. Church
school. Commis- sioner of girls softball, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Then, well . .
. I dont know. Well, to be honest, Jeneen Dovrance. Jeneen Dovrance. God!
Father Benny stood up and slapped his chest. This was a womannot, no, not a married woman,
no, just a mother of one of the Scouts, and she cornered me after mass at the camp to ask
me about her boys God and Country Award. Jeneen was a divorced mother with two boys and
this little beauty spot, here, on her cheek,
and violet eyes. I swear to God. Violet. Lashes this long. You know, a priest trains
himself to look away. Not unlike a married man, to look away. And I looked away, even
though, as I said, the eyes seemed to me almost an aberration of beauty. Violet.
Later that evening she . . . called again. Providence. East side. Family money and all.
She said she needed to ask a couple of ques- tions about the God and Country. The Catholic
award is called Ad Altare Dei. I explained that although its given in conjunction with
Scouts, its not really a Scouting award. Its bestowed by a religious leader. It involves
special service and so forth. She was extremely keen on the idea of her Scout earning the
award and asked me if I thought her priest, the guy over at Immaculate Conception, was up
to helping the boy earn the award.
He paced a little. I felt tired. Sleepy.
I dont know why, but I said Id come over and maybe we could set up an independent course
of study and he could essentially earn the award independently. Well, it was one of those
grand houses. Thayer Street. Actual Tiffany stained glass above the front door. Ele- gant.
It was Saturday afternoon. April. There was a light drizzle, and the damn old Volkswagen
of mine with the bald tires . . . I mean . . . I slipped all over the place, but I finally
made it. She met me at the front door in these, oh, simple yet stylish yellow linen slacks
with a rose-colored blouse. Her hair, her fine brown hair, was pulled high, and a few
strands waved carelessly in the breeze of
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