The Wanting Life

by Mark Rader

Had he fixated less on Dan and latched on to some other, more inspiring coming-out story—of which he knew there were many—maybe things would have gone differently. He’d thought about that a lot since. But chance sometimes controlled your fate, and after hearing about Dan, the air had gone out of the whole thing. Made it seem silly. After that, he’d gotten so depressed he’d taken six weeks off from the pulpit. A bad case of mono was the public story. Tim and Ed and some others had covered for him. They’d upped his meds. And eventually, yes, he’d recovered. Gotten back to it. What else was there to do?

  What he’d told himself so many times since to quiet his doubts was that instead of a Sven, he had Tim and Jean and his sister, and many other friends. All who loved him like a brother. No romantic partner but love in other forms. Filial. Agape.

  Platonic. Which was still love. What he lacked in physical and emotional intimacy with a single person he’d made up for in breadth and depth. Instead of what Jean had with her husband and Britta had with Don and Gus had with Sven, a constellation of friendships. Meaningful work. Many other priests he knew called this enough, had chosen this on purpose, so he should be able to as well. They cherished their independence and didn’t miss the other part of life, it seemed. Or didn’t miss it as much as he did, at least. Which was to say, very much.

  Curled up in bed at the cottage, Paul tried falling back to sleep to escape his thoughts but couldn’t. Instead, he forced himself to check his email. He paged lamely through On Death and Dying, revisiting the sections he always highlighted for others. He stood at the window overlooking the bay and watched the sailboats in the near distance skidding effortlessly across the surface.

  Around six, Britta, who’d been politely not bothering him, knocked on his door and announced that she’d made tarragon chicken and rainbow chard salad, if he was up for eating something. He wasn’t really, but he walked over to the table as if in a dark waking dream. When she asked him if he was all right, noticing something, he surprised himself by starting to sob.

  “Oh, honey.” She set down her fork and hustled over. She put a tentative hand on his shoulder. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know,” he said eventually. The convulsing of his chest and stomach shot more pain into his side—a barrage of little punches.

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  He did, in a way, but he said no. She looked at him tenderly, then squeezed his shoulder gently. All he knew for sure was that he wanted to be close to her, to defer to her suggestions and blindly follow. So after dinner, as she washed dishes, he stood there and dried them, mute. Then he sat beside her on the porch to watch the sun set, as she ate a bowl of popcorn and drank two big glasses of wine. When she left him to take a cooling shower, he felt the urge to stand outside the door and talk to her, like a boy afraid to be away from his mother. But instead he lay on the sofa, favoring his good left side, and closed his eyes. When Britta finally appeared in the kitchen in her pajamas, hair damp, sighing with relief, he went over to hug her. His crying jag ended quickly this time. It was like throwing up.

  “I wish you’d just tell me what’s going on,” she said. “If you don’t talk to me, I just feel…helpless.”

  “Just you being here is helping,” he said. “Really.”

  She put her hand on his back and rubbed it. Her expression didn’t change. “Maybe you should just take some Unisom and go to bed. Tomorrow’s another day.”

  The pills worked: within ten minutes, he was asleep. But when he woke up, it was dark, still not morning.

  He stared at the darkness until it brightened a bit, his eyes adjusting. It felt like the hour before sunrise, and at the thought of it being a new day, he remembered he’d blown his deadline with the Jaworskis, who had been so nice about all this. He’d have to call them later, but he still didn’t know what he’d say.

  Cool air from the rotating fan grazed his skin like a paintbrush, moving all in one direction, then the other. Paul could see it dimly—big off-white plastic design like a spoked eye—and then, elsewhere in the room, the bad beach scene painting with the chipped white frame, the pineapple-patterned wallpaper, the light fixture in the ceiling like a gold-nippled breast.

  The bed exerted a pull on him he didn’t like, so he carefully stood up and shuffled to the window, as if not under his own power, like a moth drawn dumbly to light. Under the bright full moon, a few windows, lit a pale orange, stared back across the bay, muted squares on dark square faces. Just outside the window, the tops of a few trees performed a slow sashay.

  Out of habit, he tried putting his hands into his pockets, but his boxer shorts didn’t have any, so he clasped them loosely outside his fly. Find a third way: the phrase arrived unbidden, and it made him unclasp his hands, as if he might need them for something. He’d said these words at marriage retreats, the phrase stolen from a pastoral counseling seminar he’d taken once. Fighting couples got stuck in you’re right, I’m wrong, you’re dumb, I’m smart, you’re weak, I’m strong. So the challenge, he told them, was to think in terms of both/and. A third way. Not just a compromise—a reduction of possibilities—but a new creation, with contributions from both. Getting past an impasse involved humility, faith, and, possibly most important, a kind of deep imagination. The creativity to dream up a different way forward that incorporated your challenges instead of pushing them away.

  In other words, why were his only choices to stay here or go home? Wasn’t life more full of possibilities than that?

  And that was when the idea flew into his head. Rome.

  As if physically weighed down by the mere possibility, he walked stooped to the edge of his bed and sat facing the wall. The city this time of year would be scorching hot—though, of course, accommodations could be made. They’d drink lots of water, stay in a place with great A/C, hire taxis to limit their walking. If he felt like wandering the streets, they could head out after sunset, when the air was cooler. Britta, a night owl, wouldn’t mind.

  He cornered the idea, slapped it around for being ridiculous, only to find that it was still standing, unharmed, blinking and eager, like an idiot pet. They could find a direct flight out of Milwaukee or Chicago, the soonest one possible. Maybe stay in the Campo de’ Fiori—his favorite. They could leave as soon as tomorrow night if tickets were available. Pack up their stuff. Drop it off at St. Iggy’s before driving down to Chicago. None of this was impossible. If he wanted to make it happen, it could.

  For how long he sat there, waiting for the idea to turn into a decision, he couldn’t say. He saw Piazza Navona on the far wall, a flapping gush of pigeons. The sun would already be shining, seven hours ahead, so he cast light along a dusty dark stone facade, like a sideways stain. He saw the view from St. Sebastian’s. The hofbräuhaus, Antonio’s little corner place, without a real name. His little room at Il Castello. Luca’s little room in Trastevere. Luca sitting across a table from him, tucking his hair over his ear.

  He could feel it growing in him now, the thrill of being impractical, of surprising himself. It was odd to want this right now. But it had been just as odd to never go back.

  At some point he clicked on his nightstand lamp so he wouldn’t stumble as he walked across the room and into the hallway. The TV in the living room was still on, the sound low. A rerun of Magnum, P.I. was playing, Tom Selleck leaning across a table, a bad guy with a toothpick between his lips scowling back. Britta hadn’t made it to her bedroom again; she was snoring loudly on the couch, head awkwardly on a pillow, one thick arm reaching up, another thick arm bent, hand pressed demurely to the drooping belly peeking under her shirt. Another empty bottle on the coffee table, her pack of Mistys on the magazine beside the glass.

  He stood over her for a while, watching her breathe. It seemed wrong to disturb her. She seemed as though she was somewhere good.

  But he really didn’t have a choice. He needed her help to see this through. So as carefully as he could, Paul lowered himself to the floor, one leg at a time, and gently shook her shoulder un
til she opened her eyes.

  II. The Pilgrimage

  He was too nervous and excited to read the books in his carry-on, so during the first few hours of the Alitalia flight Paul watched programs on the little console embedded in the seat in front of him, and gazed out his little window at the pink-edged clouds, and looked, trying not to stare, at his fellow passengers. A motley group of people of all ages, all quietly facing the same direction, all there for the same purpose; they reminded him of his congregation, whom he had not seen for almost a month and whom he missed. Across the aisle, a freckled boy kept showing his mom his video game player. In the seat in front of the boy, a hunched old man in a green sweater and matching cap stared blankly and sadly at his gnarled hands. Three rows up he could see the tops of the heads of two young Carmelite nuns in their black habits—making a pilgrimage, no doubt. As was he, in his way.

  The second half of the flight, he mostly slept, like the sick person he was. When he was awake, Britta read or drank wine beside him. The plane surged over the ocean. Dinner was bland. At one point, he awoke to see Angelina Jolie in a leather jumpsuit, holding a gun in each hand, shouting silently at some bad guys not long for this world.

  And then, finally, the descent.

  Outside the airport, as the cabbie stuffed their shared suitcase in the trunk of the taxi, Paul asked him in Italian to drive carefully—that he was feeling ill—and to his surprise, the man obeyed. Cars and Vespas flowed around them, beeping, accelerating, impatient, and he remembered the wild taxi ride he’d taken into the city more than forty years before, the day he’d arrived as a graduate student, so jarring after the long, calm hours he’d spent reading John Ruskin on the flight in from New York. As their driver swung wildly from lane to lane, honking his horn, barely watching the road, Fred Womack, the second-year assigned to accompany him from the airport to the residence, had sat with short legs crossed, calm as a monk. He smoked four cigarettes, one after another, and only when almost an inch’s worth of ash accumulated would he tap his cigarette out the window. Every time, Paul worried that it would fall into his lap, but it never did. Fred was from Wisconsin too, a suburb of Milwaukee, but seemed to him that day as exotic as Rome itself. A vision of a possible, more civilized future self.

  Back then, in 1967, Rome was poor, an epic city in decline. The shacks with their corrugated tin roofs along the autostrada had shocked him. Though it was also true that seeing them first had, by contrast, only enhanced the grandeur of the Arch of Constantine and the Colosseum as they glided past his window, impossibly real. Since then, he’d seen a fair share of the world. The Holy Land. India, to visit the sister church St. Iggy’s had there. Maybe ten countries in Europe. But there was nothing like your first time abroad, feeling strange in another world.

  At a stoplight, Paul asked the driver the temperature.

  “Trentatré,” said the driver, “trentaquattro.”

  “Ai, molto caldo,” Paul replied. Very hot.

  The cabbie shrugged. “Eh. Juli.”

  The hostess from the internet, Amalia, was pleased to see them but not mawkishly so, like an American hostess would be, and Paul appreciated that, because it confirmed he was really here. As promised, the apartment was two stories above the Campo de’ Fiori, the rooms pleasantly cool. Everything was just as it had appeared in the photos online: the white library in the main room, the oval mahogany dining room table, the gnarlytreed Constable reproductions on the walls. Amalia showed them the two bedrooms, the coolest rooms of all, and the narrow bathroom with a stylish shower. Some iced coffee and half a rum cake was in the fridge, she told them, and handed over the keys.

  Britta wanted a quick shower, and as she did, Paul sat on the bed in his room, then laid down. For a while the air was healing, but then he began to feel too cold, so walked back into the living room and stood by the big bay window to warm up.

  Down below, the morning market was in full swing: an encampment of plain beige tents with bright things beneath them: slick silver fish, yellow tomatoes, maroon hunks of prosciutto hung with twine. Locals and tourists flowed in the aisles; vendors stewed in the golden shade of the café table umbrellas. A horse and buggy for tourists clomped past the tents, the age-old pock of hooves on stone, a faint whiff of manure on a gust of wind. And lording over it all, on the far side, was the black brooding statue of hooded Giordano Bruno the heretic, eyes cast down, as if deep in thought.

  Convincing Britta to make this trip had taken most of a morning and afternoon. She’d been alarmed when he’d woken her on the couch, thinking something was wrong, then confused, then annoyed, before she told him they could talk about it in the morning, which did seem like the sensible thing to do. Why now? she asked, and he said, Because I’ve put it off too long. I want to see it again.

  Over eggs, she’d raised practical concerns, as he would have had their roles been reversed. What if they found themselves stuck there because of some complication with his health, unable to risk a flight back? She shared a story about a friend’s sister who’d insisted on camping up in Manitoba two weeks before her baby was due and died during childbirth on the two-hour drive to the nearest clinic.

  Keep in mind I’m not pregnant, he’d said.

  You know what I mean.

  Back at the cottage that morning, he’d felt a surge of purpose. He left a voice mail with Dr. Shah, who returned the call within the hour to confirm that there was no medical reason he couldn’t go. Then, as if it were the easiest thing in the world, the other dominoes fell: he told the Jaworskis he’d be leaving Tuesday, as planned, then Tim and Jean at the church, to make the news official—something she could share with the parish. Before he knew it, he was sitting beside Britta as they scrolled through travel sites, making a plan. A flight. This apartment, four days, three nights. Full breakfast every morning, a great view of the square. Day one he’d show her his old haunts: the university, the residence where he’d lived, the German bar they’d go to for a beer. Do a little sightseeing along the way. Day two they’d go wherever Britta wanted to go; this being her first (and possibly last) time in Rome, that seemed only fair. And then, on day three, at last, he would visit the places that reminded him most of Luca. Borghese Park. Trastevere…maybe he could even find the old apartment. If they were up for it, a train ride out to Sperlonga, where they could sit on the beach, staring out at the same slice of ocean, feeling the same sand between their toes. Britta, oblivious to the mission she was accompanying him on, but hopefully enjoying herself all the same.

  After Britta dried her hair and changed into a fresh shirt, they descended the stairs slowly to the square. If they needed to take pit stops where it was cool every fifteen minutes, so be it. With her weight and his condition, whatever was needed, they’d do. They’d already agreed to be sensible.

  Down at the market Britta bought a little bag of nectarines to eat on the way, and at a fountain along one of the alleys, they filled their water bottles, as Amalia had suggested they do, and walked east along the narrower streets, partially in shade. Forty years ago, he’d walked this city to death; in three years he’d had his brown shoes resoled five times. The walks were both exercise and his best way to empty his mind after jamming it full or to jog it back to life. As he walked carefully beside Britta, both of them veering toward the shady patches, Paul felt, faintly, in the knife-bright parts of the street, the anxiety he’d lived with back then. It was mostly self-imposed: he’d been so tightly wound. Not that people would exactly call him mellow now; he still worried over little things, took seriously all the tasks asked of him, big and small, had his moody side. To put it mildly, considering the past month. But in the years since then, he’d come to understand that his mission in life was bigger than perfecting his mind. His heart had expanded, making room for all forms of human weakness, especially his own.

  The Pantheon was only a few blocks out of the way, so they killed two birds with one stone. Ogled the dome, passed the farmacia where he used to buy his cigarettes, passed Santa Maria
sopra Minerva. One of the three great doors that led into the front of Gregorian University was open, and as they walked into the cooler atrium, Paul heard two men’s muffled voices. Summer classes were in session, but only a few. Forty years ago, it was like a beehive when classes let out, but now the only other person here was a plain teenaged girl sitting against the wall in very short red shorts, legs flared open like wings, reading a book, absently but provocatively mouthing an orange Popsicle. His first thought was that she came here because it was cool and quiet. But it was possible too, wasn’t it, that she came here to tempt the young priests. Here where she held more power than she did in the world outside, this plain girl who would seem prettier for being so available.

  The graduate student residence he’d called home for three years—a place they’d nicknamed Il Castello—was just down the street. But when Paul rang the doorbell, no one answered, so they continued to Trevi Fountain. The crowd around the fountain was only three or four people deep, not nearly as thick as it would have been in May or September. The glaring noon sun cast harsh shadows on heroic Neptune and his tritons. In the open area beyond the ring, sometimes venturing their way into it, African men in bright silk shirts hawked spinning whirligigs, hats with propellers on them—junk Paul couldn’t imagine anyone would want. Those at the front sloshed their hands in the water or tossed coins over their shoulders, smiling for their Facebook photo op. They pressed forward through the docile crowd, Britta smoking a cigarette like a local. Sunlight blinked and flashed off the water.

  And then they were beside it. A blazing pool of aquamarine, the impossible blue of a hot springs, but cool. Paul cupped some water, splashed it on his neck and face, like aftershave, and sighed at the pleasure of it. Britta dug through her purse and found two quarters.

  “Want one?”

  Paul shook his head. “That’s okay. You go ahead.”

  Throw a coin over your shoulder, they said, and you’d return to Rome. Yeah, well, he thought, unlikely. He watched his sister face the fountain with the coins clasped in her hand, hypnotized by the water. She didn’t move. So much to wish for, Paul thought: peace for him, a merciful death. Some resolution or clarity for Maura. Maybe something for herself too. Though what would that be? Strength to deal with it all? Something completely unrelated? He didn’t really know what she wanted in life anymore, beyond avoiding more heartbreak. But maybe that was wish enough.