“Brackton? It was sweet. Different from what we’re used to. A funky pastoral nowhere. And everything was paid for—even my dress. Even my manicure! It was an offer that was hard to refuse, as they say.”
“How ’bout the rings? Were they included?”
“Just gold bands from a local who makes handcrafted jewelry.”
“No engagement ring?”
“It’s not exactly The Bachelorette, where they give away three carat diamonds. Anyway I told them I’d be using your grandmother’s. I am bad.” Her speech has become thick as she starts on her second pint.
“Well, we’ve still got that. You were nice enough to give it back.”
Ryan waits for the waitress, who’s come to take Jason’s order for another, to leave.
“What are you saying, Jase?”
“I mean, it’s not like we just met. God, we’ve known each other long enough.”
“Who are you talking to?” Her eyes follow his up to the ceiling.
“Cut the shit,” he says. “Don’t read religion into everything, okay?”
“Okay. But you’ve been back a day, Jason. One day.”
“Happier than I’ve been in I don’t know how long.”
“You weren’t happy in the seminary?”
“I was—at times. But there was always this unrest. I couldn’t sustain the happiness, the peace.”
“That’s not necessarily because I wasn’t around.”
“That’s what I kept telling myself. I prayed for clarity. What am I supposed to do when my prayers are answered? Say, sorry, no thank you, you’re mistaken. Is that faith?”
“You’re asking the wrong person.”
“Now you’re a nonbeliever?”
“I am what I’ve always been—a bit of a skeptic, a bit of an agnostic. Why would you even want to be with me, come to think of it?”
“What happened to: We’re perfect together? We balance each other out?”
“”I’ve had to do my own soul-searching.”
“What do you think of the new Pope?”
“That’s random.”
“Not really. I’ve been reading up on him. I love that he’s a Jesuit, with the ideals of a Franciscan. He’s like Buddha and St. Francis of Assisi in one.”
“He’s the Pope.”
“But he’s different. You like St. Francis, right? I remember you brought your grandmother Toscano that statue of him back from Assisi when we went to Europe.”
She smiles. That was a happy time for them both. Just out of college, working odd jobs to earn money to travel. They were in step on that trip, leading one another through metros and ferry rides, maneuvering in different languages, depending on who had the better command at the time.
“He understands the church has to change to survive,” Jason says.
“He talks a good line, and I do like him. But when it comes down to dogma, he hasn’t changed anything. Can he? Can he make the church accept LGBT?”
She is more like a Jesuit than he is at times, always asking for data to back things up. “He says he can’t pass judgment.”
“That’s not changing anything.”
“There are celibate straight and gay men in the church who want to change things.”
“Really? That’s good, because my boss’s lesbian sister just got fired from the Catholic school she teaches at. You’re more optimistic than me, but then you always have been—about everything.”
“It’ll take time.”
“All the Catholic schools will be closed by then. The churches too. He doesn’t give me much hope.”
“You think I’m just talking myself into something?”
“Nothing I’m not guilty of myself at times,” she says laughing and holding up her hands.
“So when do we go to Brackton?”
“Jason, can’t we just be for a while?”
“This is a real turnaround. Getting nervous now that I’m actually back? Isn’t your time running out?”
“Fuck Brackton. This is our life.”
“Ryan, I’m here with you. I’m happy. And I’m willing to make compromises—and a commitment. Nothing’s perfect.”
“What?” she asks, because the college guys at the bar have begun taking Fireball shots. Holding up their glasses, they let out a deafening toast of “Heyyyyy!” every ten minutes when one of them offers to buy a round.
“Nothing’s perfect!” he shouts, putting his face directly in front of hers, inhaling his breath like the air from an empty ale keg.
“You’re on a schedule. You can’t stand not knowing what comes next. You need a plan. And you can’t keep the Jebbies dangling forever.” She takes a sip of beer. She’s getting hoarse from competing with the boys and the music and the clicking of the dancer’s hard shoes.
“They don’t want me half in,” he says.
“Nor do I.”
“Seems like you’ve left your own party dangling in Vermont, babe.” He smiles.
“They are dying to meet you, Jason,” she says, as though about to give him new information. “Faye is getting married.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“Why would Faye do that at her age?”
“Why shouldn’t she?”
“Jason, maybe he wants her money.”
“I got the impression he’s pretty well heeled, with no survivors to speak of. Where’s he going to go with Faye’s money, anyway? And if they go together, good for them.”
“But why marriage?”
“You talking about them—or us? Look, I’m not afraid to go for it either. I just wasn’t sure which ring to grab, excuse the metaphor. But I know now. Let’s not lose any more time. You still have over three months to back out.”
“And then just crap out on Brackton like that?”
“Weren’t you going to do that anyway? Cut the shit, Ryan. You haven’t been sitting on this whole thing for nothing. Look, if you change your mind, Faye and Harold can take our place. She was so distraught about Anthony’s being closed, she’d be happy to get married twice. I asked you once before and I’ll ask you again. Ryan Toscano, will you marry me?”
“Can’t hear you.”
He goes down on one knee, drawing the attention of those around them, including the boys at the bar. Taking her hand and shouting, he asks again.
Damn, he’s good. Pleased-with-himself good. They’ve both spent enough time around the legal world to know how to persuade. In college he even managed to talk the dean out of failing a friend accused of plagiarizing. He knows he can go the distance, and it feels pretty fine. He won’t stop until he wins.
“You know I will.” Her answer brings clapping and another “Heyyyyy!” from the boys, who are really messed up by now and lifting their glasses because they’re here to celebrate—anything.
“How about I go to Filene’s basement tomorrow?” he says. “I can use some new outfits for the north country.”
“You’re so out of it.” She laughs. “You’ve never been a shopper. Filene’s closed a long time ago.”
“Don’t tell Faye.”
“She already knows.”
Chapter 16
Tuesday, March 18
RYAN HAS ALREADY left for work when Jason and Tiffany meet for the first time in the bathroom while he’s taking a shower.
“Do you mind if I pee?” she asks, though he can hear she’s begun to take care of business without his permission. “I won’t flush. The water will scald you if I do.”
That’s considerate of her, he thinks, but then she begins to brush her teeth.
“Can you turn down the hot water some?” she asks. “The steam makes my hair frizz.”
Now he’s getting cold. He rinses quickly and turns off the water, assuming that’s enough of a hint, but water is still running into the sink.
“Will you hand me a towel? I’ve been using the blue one,” he says, sticking his hairy black arm around the edge of the shower curtain. He ducks a pair of dripping pantyhose flung ove
r the rod to hang; the towel follows. He steps out of the tub to find her still standing there in an athletic T-shirt that barely covers her private parts. Arms folded, she leans against the sink, wiping away wisps of gray hair with pink tips that spout from an elastic band on the top of her head like burning lava and ash from a volcano.
“Nice to meet you, Jason. I’ve seen your picture.”
“I’ve seen yours too, Tiffany. The one on the refrigerator. Except your hair is blue in it.”
She nods. “In the one on my dresser it’s green.” She continues to size him up. “I’m making French toast. Gluten-free. Coffee or tea?”
“Actually, I don’t drink either. There’s some OJ in the fridge. I bought it yesterday.” He wants her to know he’s no moocher.
“Gotcha.”
And she’s gone.
He was about to tell her to help herself to the juice, but it’s apparent that she won’t have any scruples about doing that if she so desires.
Dressed in a clean pair of jeans and a collared shirt that resembles graph paper, he is surprised to see the table neatly set when he enters the kitchen. Ryan was never particular about that, even when they had company. Like her mother, she never makes the bed either. He’s relieved to see that Tiffany has put on a pair of leggings.
“Nice,” he says. “Real napkins.”
“They’re cloth. All napkins are real.”
“Right. But they’re special. Nice flowers.” He’s referring to the sunflower print on the napkins, which he couldn’t care less about.
“It’s how I am, Jason. They match the flowers.” She points to a tall green vase in the center of the table.
“Wow. Yeah. I see that.”
“You should wear the shirt outside of your jeans.”
“What?”
“You shouldn’t tuck in your shirt. It’s casual. You’re not going to work. Or are you?”
“No. No work—yet.” He starts pulling the shirt out of his pants.
“Do it quickly so it doesn’t wrinkle.”
“I’m afraid all my clothes are pretty wrinkled.”
“It’s a good length, though—you want mid-fly. But it’s a little too relaxed; needs to be more tapered. Next time, buy a slim fit. The jeans are nice.”
“My mother gave them to me.”
“Great taste.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
She pours herself a steaming mug of coffee and sits at the table. “This is real,” she says, passing him a petite crystal pitcher of syrup. “From Vermont.”
“Oh yeah. Ryan told me you went up there with her.”
Tiffany smiles. At least his mentioning Vermont seems to have pleased her.
“So what’d you think?” he asks.
“About what?”
“The free wedding. The whole thing.” He helps himself to two perfect triangles of French toast.
“My parents have a friend whose family was Scientologist. When he and his wife got divorced, he left the religion. That was the end of his family for him, because you can’t have a relationship with anyone who leaves. Then the wife and daughter ask him to pay for the daughter’s wedding: apparently that is allowed. He refused to pay. They wanted this free wedding.”
“I see.” Ryan has not nearly prepared him for Tiffany.
“My point is that money isn’t everything. You were a fucking asshole. The fact that Ryan’s been pining for you all this time has been painful to watch and very disconcerting. Do I have to go to confession for saying that to you?”
He swallows quickly so as not to choke on the laugh he can’t hold back and shakes his head more in disbelief than as an answer.
“Good. Because I’m not Catholic.”
“So, Jason—Father—what do I call you?”
“It’s Jason.”
“How long will you be staying?”
“I know it’s an imposition, but if it’s okay with you, I’d like to stay until I get a job and Ryan and I can get a place of our own. If that’s what Ryan wants.”
“Stay as long as you like. Like I’m in and out these days.”
“Can I ask you something?” He realizes Tiffany and Ryan haven’t known each other all that long, but women are quicker than men to share intimate information. “You think we have a chance?”
She looks directly into his blue eyes. “Jason, I’m a believer in fate—karma. Things will turn out the way they should. And I hope it’s what makes Ryan happy.” She carries her half-finished plate to the sink. “Have to get to my kickboxing class.”
“I’ll clean up.”
“Thanks. I was hoping you would. Good talking to you.”
It troubles Jason that she has doubts about his and Ryan’s relationship. She knows things, this woman.
* * *
He uses his phone to check email: no word from Father Curran, no word from any of the other novices. Not that he expected to hear from them. That was the deal: no communication. They were putting up a fence. Some might say they were giving him space, but the Society of Jesus looked at it differently. It was the same way they had looked at the three-month technology fast inflicted on novices, which wasn’t meant to eradicate modern technology from their lives, since each one of them owned a cell phone and had a computer in his room. It was understood that they could keep up long-distance relationships and watch movies other than the limited selection offered in the seminary. The fast was aimed at having them learn the value of those modern tools, while concentrating on what was essential and on forming new relationships.
Some novices complained that the fast was equivalent to being castrated, but Father Curran and other advisors looked at it as a form of education. They needed to learn to relish their prayer time as an encounter with God, an encounter more satisfying than any film or video game. They needed to give themselves in totality to new relationships, which would be more difficult if they continued to be too involved in their former ones. They had to learn that technology couldn’t give order to life, but that it was life that had to order technology.
Now Jason was engaged in another fast, the inverse of the one instituted within the seminary. He was being urged to fully immerse himself in this outer world and use technology at his own discretion, to restrict relationships within his newfound religious family and dive into an old one. And he was being asked to decide, with every step, how to establish order in his life.
There is an email from his mother—the weekly one he’s limited her to. She agrees with his taking a break from the novitiate and will support his decision either way; that’s how she’s always been. She has one question for him: Did he get ashes on Ash Wednesday? There’s usually a method to her madness; she is one of the few whose vision is not limited to seeing things the way she would like them to appear. He makes an exception to his rule and calls her.
“Got your email, Mom.”
“What about the ashes? Did you get them too?”
“Of course.”
“And did you wipe them off afterwards?”
“Why would I do that?”
“Maybe you’ve become ashamed of your faith. Of having put so much on the line for something you’re not sure of.”
“I changed my mind about my vocation—not my faith,” he says, trying to mask annoyance.
“So it’s a done deal?”
“Pretty much.” A long silence follows; she knows him better than he cares to admit.
“Are you anxious about you and Ryan?” she asks.
And now it is he who hesitates.
“It’s all right,” she tells the man who, as a little boy, suffered tummy aches about how he might have mistreated others, or not lifted them up when they needed to be lifted, or not listened to them enough. “One can always make a case for doubting. Whatever you decide—or have decided, Jason. It’s OK. Thank you for calling. I’ll email next week. Love you.”
“Love you too, Mom.”
No word yet from his brother, who is saving tortoises in the Galáp
agos and who is on the monthly (sometimes two-month) email plan. His brother has no use for social networking, does not do well with human networking in general. Nothing from his father; hardly ever is. He’s only seen him annually since the divorce eight years ago. Once a year is okay. Any more and Jason would become too demanding, and his father (who finds Jason a bit soft) would probably stop seeing him altogether. His father is a loner, and Jason accepted that a long time ago.
There is a freedom in not having to attend 5 p.m. Mass, not having to meditate or read or play according to schedule. He’s like a kid who at the end of June anticipates a lazy summer. He does miss some of the guys, but this isn’t Scientology, and he’ll be in touch with them again in time. He has no need to meet up with any old friends in the Boston area. As Ryan used to say, he was a friend to everyone yet intimate with no one—but her. Still, like that kid who has been programmed with seven hours of school, several more after-school, and a weekend of sports and other outside activities, he soon finds himself lost and guilty. It’s as though he’s wandering through that familiar nightmare, searching for the class for which he has missed an entire semester of lectures and now faces the final exam.
He picks up a bottle of Ryan’s perfume from the dresser, closes his eyes, and takes in a deep breath. He meditates—on her—and he feels himself swelling and rising, threatening to burst out of his pants. A racehorse at the gate. Christ emerging from the tomb. He is sacrilegious. Pure animal. Everything is overlapping, blending. Keep moving, keep moving, he tells himself, like a freight train that cuts through the scenery, reducing it to a blur, and leaving it to fall behind in a new order. Keep moving. That’s the mantra that allowed him to leave Ryan in the first place. Keep moving until it all falls into place. And so he heads to Downtown Crossing to lunch with Ryan, to a new store that she said has unbelievable bargains, to the neighborhood with the only church he knows that will be open at this hour.
The moment he enters St. Stephen’s he’s calmed with the familiar scents of snuffed-out beeswax candles; the sweet-smelling incense burned at high masses and benedictions and funerals; the stale cigarettes of the homeless who must leave their shelters in early morning and continue their sleep on the hard mahogany pews. Is there ever an end to craving what has gone before and no longer exists—out of sight, out of reach? He is worse than an addict: so many cravings that can’t be satisfied beyond the moment. No sooner has he satiated one than another makes itself known.
A Day in June Page 15