“Ah, what’s this?” the Rector said.
Joe, afraid the Rector was referring to the bag and was under the impression that it contained a gift for him, said, “No, Father,” which made sense only in the context of Joe’s thoughts. “I was just passing by, Father.”
“Were you now?” replied the Rector in a marveling tone, and looked Joe in the eye.
“As a matter of fact, Father, I wasn’t.”
The Rector smiled, and Joe felt foolish but better.
“Sit down, Joe.”
Joe managed to sit down. “How’ve you been, Father?” Oh, great! “I mean, how are you, Father?”
“I’m better, I’m told.”
You’re grayer, Joe thought, and, the way he’d been going, did well not to say so.
“What’s on your mind, Joe?”
Joe looked down at the floor, where he’d put the bag because it called attention to itself in his hands, and then back at the Rector. “Remember, Father, I was supposed to bring you the hair shirt?”
“Now that you mention it, Joe, yes.”
“Father, I want you to know I did bring it to your office that morning, but you…” Joe felt foolish again.
“I didn’t keep the appointment,” the Rector said, and smiled.
“Not your fault, Father.” As if that needed saying. Joe reached down for the bag and stood up with it. “Father, the hair shirt’s inside,” he said. “And it’s nice and clean. I washed it.”
“Not now, Joe. Not here. When I’m back. Soon enough then.”
So Joe, about to place the bag on the bed at the Rector’s feet, held on to it. He hadn’t anticipated this development, but it didn’t divert him. “Father, I have to ask you a question,” he said, and got a funny look from the Rector. “It’s about your intention, as to the hair shirt.”
“I thought you should stop wearing it, Joe, or I wouldn’t have asked for it. But in the circumstances — you’ve been wearing it, have you?”
“Yes, Father.”
“And you want me to say whether you were right or wrong to do so?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Well, I can’t, in the circumstances, Joe. You’re the one to say. I will say I was worried about you, Joe. That question of yours at the lecture!” The Rector shook his head at the thought of it. “After that, I had to ask for the hair shirt. But now I don’t know. Things look different to me now, here. And you do, Joe. So I’d say do as you think best about the hair shirt. Wear it, or don’t. I trust you. Now I’m tired. You’d better leave.”
Joe asked for the Rector’s blessing, knelt for it, and left with it, carrying the hair shirt in the plastic bag.
In the following days — the Rector had died that night — Joe sensed that he was being blamed, as a puppy might be blamed for causing an accident in which it had escaped injury and someone had died, and that more guys than before liked the sight of him less. “When,” he imagined them saying, “when will he repent and take off the hair shirt?” For he hadn’t said anything to anybody about his visit to the hospital, and would not.
Mooney, one of the few who still spoke to him, asked, “Are you getting anywhere, Joe?”
“Can’t say I am, Chuck.”
“Still wearing it?”
“Yes.”
“But not at night?”
“No.”
“That could be why you’re not getting anywhere, Joe. Ever think of that?”
“Yes.”
Yes, Joe had thought of that — oh, not as a cure, as Mooney meant, but as a pointer to the nature of his failure. He was, by the standards of saints, too fastidious, he knew — not enough of a slob. Why, for instance, should guys going about the corridors in their bare feet, or in their socks, which was somehow worse — why should this bother him so much? He kept his slippers handy by his bed and wore them or his shoes, preferably his shoes, when he went into the corridors. Yes, that could be his trouble — in a sense, the reason for his failure. Even if he did wear the hair shirt day and night — and he could — what about his feeling for others, his fellow men, who, next to God, should be his first concern? The seminary was a community, and a tight little one at that, and just wasn’t the place for all-out mysticism, for growth in holiness beyond a certain point — a low point by the standards of saints. No place he’d ever be, no parish, would be the place for that. And just this, for him, knowing what he did about the life of the spirit (not much but something) and not being able to give himself to it — wouldn’t that be a hair shirt of sorts? The Rector could have been wearing that kind for years day and night — probably all old priests did — and Joe, in feeling its prickliness already, before he was even ordained, was ahead of his time, he thought. Maybe it had been foolish to hope that he could go all the way, could get in touch with God directly, to think that he could bypass humanity, but he wasn’t giving up yet. No, he would continue to wear the hair shirt (unless asked not to by the new Rector, whoever he might be), would wear it during the day and wash it at night, until it wore out. If, by then, he was still not getting anywhere, he would simply make do with the hair shirt that so many were wearing.
5. ORDAINED
JOE HAD BEEN in the congregation the last time a new priest celebrated his first Mass in the parish church. That was some years back, but there hadn’t been a change of pastors. So Joe — and doubtless Toohey — knew what to expect when they reported to the rectory that Saturday night, to hear Father Stock’s arrangements for the next morning.
“Now, you, Michael”—Toohey—“will have the ten o’clock, and you, Joseph, the eleven. And as is the custom here”—and, to Joe’s knowledge, nowhere else in the diocese—“a special collection will be taken up by the new priest, or priests. What I mean is, since you’ll serve each other’s Mass and are both priests — don’t worry, I’ll make that clear to the congregation — server will help celebrant take up the special collection. That way, we’ll save time. Any question?”
Just one, Joe thought, Why?
“No questions. Good. Now, right after the regular collection (to be taken up by the ushers, of course), the two of you’ll come down from the altar. The communion rail gate will be open, an usher waiting for you there with the baskets. Celebrant takes one, server the other. Celebrant does one side of the middle aisle, server the other. Now you’re at the back of the church — go over to the side aisles, celebrant to one, server to the other. Remember, the two middle sections are wide and you’ve only done half of these — you still have the other half to do from the side aisles. (I’ve known ushers to forget this.) But don’t start at the back of the church, don’t come up behind people. Go to the front of the church and work back as before, so people can see you coming. The same when you do the side sections — go to the front and work back. When you’ve done those sections, come up the middle aisle together. Leave the baskets at the communion rail, on the other side, the altar side. Don’t worry, someone’ll come out of the sacristy and take the baskets away before Communion. Well, that’s about all. Any questions?”
“Just one. Why?”
“Why, Joseph? Why what?”
“Why should we take up the collection?” Joe looked to Toohey — foolishly, he saw — for support.
“‘We’?” said Father Stock. “Does Joseph speak for you, Michael?”
“No,” Joe said, dissociating himself from Toohey before Toohey did it for him. “I don’t speak for myself, either. I speak for the Church.” Wham!