“Father,” I ventured, “I would like to
apologize for this morning.” My throat
closed up as I spoke; my voice was thin
and unfamiliar to myself.
He stared at me,
unblinking.
“I am . . . I am
ashamed,” the words came out so
distorted I could barely recognize them.
My mouth had become numb and its
workings beyond my control.
“Why?” he asked without
emotion. “What great change has come
over you since you passed out in a
stinking heap upon the steps of this
great symbol of the faith?”
Was this some test? There
was neither kindness nor pliability in
his voice. Nothing of the subtle change
in the air could be found in his creased
features, nor in the weary sigh that
accompanied his words. His breath
smelled of stale communion wine, and
when I looked into his bleary eyes for
some sense of compassion or
understanding, all I could see was a
piercing dislike.
“A maid,” I said. “A maid
who lives on Meeting House Hill.” His
immovability, like death, had commanded
instant truth. I had admitted it was a
woman and, for an instant, I expected my
zeal to be punctured. But another
realization overtook me; my answer had
corresponded entirely with a flavour I
remembered from my mother’s murmured
prayers and icons. This, at last, was
the mystery I had never understood: the
stream of poetry beneath life’s
drabness; Jesus in the clothes of a
beggar; the young woman who can alter
the world; the virgin on the donkey; the
French peasant girl and the grotto. “She
suggested I come,” I said with suddenly
growing confidence.
His expression did not
change though I willed it to. There was
another deep exhalation and then the
words: “What earthly use are you,
Fitzpatrick?” The question –
incorporating as it did its own answer –
had such thundering verity for him, it
did not even require a shake of the
head.
I gazed back at him,
helpless. Veins stood out like tiny red
maggots in the white of his eyeballs.
There was nothing for me here. No fall
from a horse for me, no blinding light.
I had told him the truth and this was
his answer.
