John dealt with all the practical aspects of a structure that was, from a technical point of view, fairly easy to run but at the same time, for different reasons, quite complex. He was the organizer, administrator and financial director. When he had agreed to take on the running of Joy for a fairly modest – and not always very punctual – salary, Father McKean had at first been incredulous and then euphoric, as if he had been given a wonderful, unexpected gift. He hadn’t been wrong in his judgement and had never had any reason to regret his choice.
‘The boys are ready, Michael.’
‘Good. Let’s go.’
He took his jacket from the rack, left the room and shut the door. He never bothered to lock it. There were no bolts or locks at Joy. What he always tried to convey to his kids was that they weren’t in a prison but in a place where everyone’s actions and movements involved freedom of choice. Each of them was autonomous and could leave the community at any moment, if he or she saw fit. Many of them had ended up in Joy for the very reason that in the places they had lived earlier they had felt imprisoned.
Father McKean was well aware that the battle against drugs was long and hard. He knew that each one of these kids was struggling with a physical need that could turn into a genuine disease. At the same time each of them had to deal with all those things, inside and around him, that had driven him into the worst kind of darkness. With the certainty that the physical torture could cease and all the rest could be hidden or forgotten with a simple gesture: taking a pill, sniffing white powder, sticking a needle in your veins.
Unfortunately, some didn’t make it. Some mornings they woke up and found themselves confronted with an empty bed. Every defeat of that kind was difficult to take. At such moments, the other kids would huddle around him. That display of affection and trust gave meaning to everything, and gave him the strength to continue, with all his bitterness absorbed as experience.
As they walked downstairs, John couldn’t help commenting on what had happened the previous evening in Manhattan.
‘Did you watch the news?’
‘Not all of it, but quite a lot.’
‘I had work to do this morning. Have there been any new developments?’
‘No. Or at least no developments the media know about.’
‘Who do you think it was? Islamic terrorists?’
‘I really don’t know. I haven’t got any clear ideas yet. I don’t think anyone has. The other time, the claim of responsibility was immediate.’
There was no need to specify. Both of them knew what theother time referred to.
‘I have a cousin in the police, actually in a precinct on the Lower East Side. I spoke to him this morning. He was on the scene. He couldn’t be specific but he told me it was really nasty.’
John stopped for a moment on the last landing, as if what he was about to say needed clarification.
‘I mean, much nastier than it seems.’
They resumed walking and reached the bottom of the stairs in silence, both wondering what on earth could possibly make an atrocity like that even worse. They crossed the kitchen. Three of the kids, who were on work duty, and Mrs Carraro, the cook, were preparing Sunday lunch.
Father McKean walked to one of the stoves. Mrs Carraro had her back to him, and did not realize he was there. He lifted the lid of a saucepan. A whirl of steam rose toward the extractor fan, carrying with it the aroma of sauce.
‘Good day to you, Mrs Carraro. What are you poisoning us with today?’
Janet Carraro, a middle-aged woman of ample dimensions – by her own definition, two pounds away from being fat – gave a start. She wiped her hands on her apron, took the lid from Father McKean’s hands and put it back on the saucepan.
‘Father McKean, for your information, this is a sauce that could be considered a sin of the throat.’
‘So we don’t have to fear only for our bodies, we have to fear for our souls, too?’
The kids who were cleaning and slicing vegetables on a cutting board on the other side of the room smiled. This kind of skirmish was common between the two of them, a little bit of play-acting born of mutual affection and offered for everyone’s amusement. Mrs Carraro picked up the wooden spoon, dipped it in the sauce, and held it out to the priest with a defiant gesture.
‘Here, try it for yourself, ye man of little faith. And remember St Thomas.’
McKean lifted the spoon to his lips, blowing on it to cool it down. His initially dubious expression changed to one of ecstasy. He immediately recognized the robust taste of Mrs Carraro’s amatriciana sauce.
‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Carraro. This is the best ragù I’ve ever tasted.’
‘It’s amatriciana.’
‘Then you’ll have to do it again, or it’ll keep tasting like ragù.’
The cook pretended to be indignant. ‘If you weren’t who you are, just for that I’d put a huge dose of chilli in your plate when the time comes. And who’s to say I won’t anyway?’
But the tone of her voice and her smiling face belied her words. She gestured towards the door with her spoon.
‘Now go and leave people to work, if you want to eat when you get back. Ragù or amatriciana or whatever.’
Father McKean rejoined John Kortighan, who was standing by the door to the forecourt, smiling at the little show he had just witnessed. As he held the door open for the priest, he gave his considered opinion.
‘Very entertaining. You and Mrs Carraro should do it for a living.’
‘Shakespeare already did it. Ragù or not ragù, that is the question, don’t you remember?’
His colleague’s sonorous laughter followed him into the open until it faded in the cool air. Once out in the forecourt, they walked towards the right-hand side of the building, where a rundown bus was waiting with the kids on board.
Father McKean stopped and raised his eyes for a moment towards the clear sky. In spite of the brief exchange of jokes, he had been overcome with a sudden feeling of unease. When he got on the bus and greeted the kids, the tenderness he felt for them and the pleasure of being together briefly dispelled the feeling that had just come over him like a bad omen. But as the old bus trundled down the unpaved drive towards the entrance to the property, leaving the house to dissolve in a cloud of dust behind it, that sense of impending threat once again took possession of his thoughts. He remembered the images he had seen on television, and had the impression that the wind that stopped angels and men from weeping had suddenly stopped blowing.
CHAPTER 14