The next day, paging carefully through the stacks of papers, the marriage certificates, the records of death and birth, he came across a piece of paper that told him everything. Among the carefully organized papers of Father Damien’s first years — he had been a meticulous file keeper — the birth record surfaced. Jude read the hand-printed certificate over, once, twice, again and again, absorbing its claim. Then carefully he culled it from the official records and slipped it into a manila file folder all its own. Once he found the informing document, he was too disturbed to do anything else but try to absorb its implications. He went outside to walk the dusty road that led to the high school running track, where he would circle and circle in his springy shoes. It was perhaps on the third mile, though he’d lost count of laps, that startled, he again spoke a thought:
“By God, she did answer!”
FATHER JUDE’S CONFESSION
When Damien moved aside the panel of wood and bent to the screen, he knew at once that he spoke to his fellow priest — it was the keen citrus aftershave. That gave him away, though he would have known from his voice as well. He naturally chose, as he did always, to allow Father Jude his privacy, and Damien spoke as though to a stranger. The younger priest went along with this and confessed anonymously, though he, too, knew that the screen was practically transparent and his voice was familiar to his colleague. Of course, once he spoke of Lulu, all pretense was abandoned. And anyway, Father Jude could not keep the emotion from filling his talk. He had not slept more than a few hours at a time for days.
“It is actually”—his voice was low—“a form of madness. A special aspect of which is the inability of the afflicted one to see beyond the thorns of the flesh and loving spirit. I feel ludicrous, pained, hurt, drained, exalted, and sick all at once. Ludicrous because, quite obviously, at my age I should have dispensed with and put these feelings in their places. Pained because I cannot tell her. Hurt because the hurt of unattainable intimacy lies before me constantly. Drained… well, obviously all of this emotion takes its toll on the body. Yet, thrilled! I have never felt so supremely right in my emotions, not since I took my vows. To love another human in all of her splendor and imperfect perfection, it is a magnificent task, dear Father Damien, tremendous and foolish and human. I’m sick because I can’t eat for the beauty of it, and the anguish is beautiful too. Can I have her? No, I can’t! Can she ever be with me? Just once? Of course not, unless I leave the priesthood. I’ll do it. Nothing like this has ever happened to me. Ever.”
“My dear son,” said Damien, and his heart twisted in flat-out pity.
“If I was more perfectly committed, more noble, more secure, more Christ-like, I’m sure I would be immune to her, Father.”
“No one is immune to her,” said Father Damien, quite kindly.
“There is no vaccine? No cure for the malady? I’d like a little something to ease the pain.”
“What would help?”
“Music.”
“Of course.”
“Would you play for me tomorrow?”
“I will.”
“And Father…” now there was in the sound of the younger priest’s pause something that put Damien on alert, some shift of attention and focus. It occurred to him that Jude, having admitted what he considered a great weakness, needed to extract a similar weakness from him, to put them on a more equal level. He considered tuning out and giving a huge, fake snore, but didn’t want the other man to feel he was wanting in attention to his first problem, so he quietly asked Jude to go on.
“I know your secret,” said Father Jude.
It was a wallop. Agnes’s wind left her. For a moment, she was panicked to nerveless buzzing. Then, suddenly, the air flooded into her body.
“Oh!”
“Yes, I do.”
Another pause. A yellow sheet of stars descended and Agnes thought, faintly, that she must not babble if she went unconscious. But the stars resolved to dusk air once more as Father Jude went on talking.
“I’ve already decided not to speak of it. I can’t, I won’t, though I might have before I experienced the confounding process of falling in love with Lulu Lamartine. I understand now, I actually identify to some degree with what you must have experienced. I cannot cast the first stone. Or any stone.”
“Thank you,” said Agnes, confused and unnerved.
“Don’t you want to know how I found out?”
“Yes.” Agnes’s voice was very faint.
“I found the papers,” said Jude, “while doing research on our subject. Of course, I looked up the birth certificate of Lulu, as I looked up everything about her in the church files. You didn’t bother to hide it very well.”
“Hide?”
“The birth certificate, of course. Father Damien, I know about it. You are, or would be, but of course you won’t…”
“What?”
“My father-in-law. If only… I mean, if only I could have her.”
“My dear son…”
“Yes! I saw your name on Lulu’s birth certificate. You are Lulu’s father. I know now, should have grasped before, from your words, how deeply you loved her mother, Fleur. I understand. To my great sorrow, no, joy, I truly and fervently know what it is to become undone by a woman. I shall keep your secret, as I know you’ll keep mine.”
And then, to Agnes’s astonishment, the stolid and nerveless man on the other side of the screen began to weep into his hands.
BINGO NIGHT
Father Jude was engaged in what was perhaps the greatest moral struggle over a bingo game conducted in the history of the Church. But of course, it wasn’t that alone, at all. Most things on the reservation, he was beginning to find, either connected with or came down to Lulu. Bingo was no different, especially when it concerned an invitation to accompany her to the Sweetheart Bingo Bash, with games commencing at midday and running through the night. Special prizes. Honeymoon trips. Weekend getaways in Grand Forks. Champagne suppers up in Winnipeg. A year’s worth of chocolates.
How was he supposed to define himself free of wishing now that he had a wish? How ignore the sleepless reality of the struggle in his thoughts? How configure his embarrassment? How not say a word? And accept that he was human, therefore ridiculous?
Playing bingo, she said, raising her eyebrows and sliding her eyes obliquely away, was just one of her many failings. She was sorry, but what was the harm in it after all? She never lost more than she could afford to lose or won so much that it made her act better than her friends, and if she did happen to win a lot, she spread it around with a generous hand. What was the problem, then, and did Father Jude think it was simply in the nature of gambling? If so, shouldn’t he try playing for himself and seeing how childish the game really was — just a diversion, really, like playing Monopoly, only in a vast roomful of people?
“No, I cannot go with you,” said the priest, for perhaps the tenth time.
As always, she smiled a particular smile he had come to think of as her neutral gear. She smiled that way when she was buying time. When her brain was clicking forward with a new argument.
“It’s probably better that you not go.” She said this easily, which caused his heart to catch in a stabbing and painful stitch he breathed deeply to loosen. He wanted to reach forward and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, though her hair was perfect. He wanted to lay his face against her neck, brush the curve of her throat. Instead, he pressed his fingers to his lips to contain the words that would expose his longing. Women her age were not supposed to have slim waists and smiles so joyous. And her radiant laugh! She was laughing at him, mocking his last ditch attempt at self-control.