When Gus thanked him for the welcome, the old priest, who tried to mask his limp with an even more pronounced swagger, pointed toward the stairs. “Your room’s directly at the top. While you’re up there, maybe you can shave your head or something.”
Gus had heard about Jack Rooney’s famous sense of humor, but he could see he was dead serious.
Nor did Gus glimpse much of his jovial nature during the next few months when the pastor found fault with nearly everything he did. If Gus turned down a beer, Jack snapped, “Watching your weight?” When he was particularly kind to an elderly parishioner, the pastor suspected it was because he’d heard about the beautiful granddaughter who visited every summer. Gus bore the needling patiently, mostly because of his growing admiration for the man.
Though Jack never bragged about it and would have been furious if anyone brought it up, his work with the poor in his former parish was legendary. When he first came to Quissett, he’d shocked his well-heeled parishioners by selling the luxurious furnishings in the rectory and replacing them with castoffs from a thrift shop. A Protestant thrift shop, no less, a member of the parish council had huffed.
Soon, however, Jack’s passionate homilies and his willingness to live the demands he asked of others had inspired his flock to give more, and do more. They boasted that St. Benedict’s fed more of the hungry, and sheltered more homeless, than any other parish. “No one with a genuine need gets turned away at our church,” they said. “No matter where they come from or what religion they are.”
But when Jack found fault with Gus’s daily runs, the younger priest finally rebelled.
“Can’t you find something better to do with your time?” the pastor heckled one morning when he saw Gus lacing up his sneakers.
Gus looked at him evenly. “To tell you the truth, Monsignor, I can’t.” He opened the door and started outside.
“I’m not surprised,” he shot back. “Vanity first, right?”
Gus slammed the door and faced him. “You want to know the reason I run? It’s my way of letting go of all the bullshit in my life. And since I’ve been here, I probably put more miles on these sneakers than I did in the last five years.”
Jack’s berry-blue eyes opened wide, and he never questioned the morning runs again. But it wasn’t until the now-retired Father D’Souza dropped in for lunch that things actually changed between them.
Gus had been livid when he’d walked in and seen the two old priests sitting at the kitchen table. Father D’Souza had grown so small that he looked like a white-haired child in the seat. Gus and Jack made eye contact, but the increasingly deaf D’Souza didn’t see or hear his former parishioner.
For the next two days, neither Gus nor Jack spoke about the visit, but at odd moments, Gus would feel the pastor’s eyes on him. Jack would turn away or offer a ready complaint every time the younger priest caught him. “Six paper towels to clean up one small spill? Ever hear of good stewardship?” Or “I happened to be in the sacristy during your nine-a.m. mass. Not a very challenging homily.”
On the evening of the second day, Jack unexpectedly asked if he’d like to watch the Patriots game with him. “Thanks, but that little radio in my room is still working,” Gus said.
Gus was startled to feel the old priest’s hand on his shoulder. “Listen, Gus. I think we got off on the wrong foot here—and it was my fault. But if we’re gonna live in this house together, we should—”
Before he could finish, Gus sunk into a chair opposite him and stopped him mid-sentence with the look in his eyes. “You think I don’t know what this is about, Monsignor?”
“It’s Jack. And if you think you’ve got my number, you can think again. Better men than you have tried to figure out this brain of mine—including me,” he said, tapping his fuzzy white skull.
“So this has got nothing to do with D’Souza’s visit and the sad story he undoubtedly told you?”
“Father D’Souza to you. I believe the man was your pastor when you were a boy. And sob stories are a dime a dozen. If I let them get to me, I would have floated away on a river of tears years ago.”
Gus studied him. “Okay, if you didn’t invite me to sit on your musty couch and watch your crappy black-and-white TV out of pity for my tragic childhood, then why?”
Jack circled the room the way he’d once danced around an opponent in the ring. “Listen, Gus, I’m gonna say this once and once only. What you went through as a boy or as a teenager—all of that means nothing to me. Hell, I’ve heard worse stories. Much worse. What struck me is how you reacted to them. And the boy D’Souza described? The man you grew up to be? Well, he sounds like someone who deserves more respect than I’ve given him. Even sounds like someone I might want as a friend.”
Gus eyed him for a long moment before he said, “Don’t you think you should call him Father D’Souza? After all, he’s probably the only priest in the diocese who’s older than you.”
Then he got up and turned on the TV.
But for the past three mornings, neither of them had even opened the paper. Nor did Jack ask any probing questions. They moved around the kitchen uneasily. “You know where she keeps the sugar? The bowl needs to be refilled,” Jack said, staring into the cupboard.
“Nope. And we’re out of butter, too.”
Neither wanted to admit what really worried them. Sandra had been hospitalized for the third time in six months; and each time she returned to them, she was a little thinner and a little paler, though still as feisty as ever. During the four years she’d been with them, she had done so well on her drug regimen that it had been easy to pretend she wasn’t sick.
“I thought people weren’t supposed to die of HIV anymore,” Jack grumbled as they sat down at the table and stared at the phone. Gus was about to call Liam Gallagher, to ask his medical advice. “You need to ask him why she keeps getting sick.”
“Whoa, Jack. You sound like it’s Liam’s fault,” Gus said, defending the friend who had conferred with Sandra’s doctors as a personal favor.
His eyes nervously glued on Jack’s, Gus picked up the phone. He was close enough to see the broken capillaries in the pastor’s passionate blue eyes as he spoke.
“It’s liver disease that’s killing AIDS patients these days,” Liam explained when Gus relayed Jack’s question. “And unfortunately, Sandra hasn’t responded to treatment.”
“You helped that guy from home get a liver transplant,” he said. “What was his name?”
“Ray Lima,” Liam supplied. “I referred him to a surgeon in Boston.”
“So why can’t you refer Sandra?” Gus asked impatiently. “Use your influence and get her name up the list. Something. The woman’s got a daughter to raise, Liam. A fine daughter, I might add.”
“Ray Lima didn’t have HIV, Gus. Unfortunately, Sandra’s not a candidate for a transplant. We’re hoping that will change, but right now . . .”
“Unfortunately. That’s his favorite word,” Jack said after Gus hung up. Both priests peered through the French doors at Julia, who was on the couch, studying, an eclectic mix of music blaring in the background, Stella nestled comfortably in her lap.
Though she had always been an excellent student, in recent months Julia spent more time studying than usual, losing herself in complex math formulas and the predictability of the periodic table.
“She’s too serious,” Jack said, his brow furrowing.
“And shy,” Gus added. “The other night she turned sixteen shades of red when we ran into a boy from school at the store. Then she went out and hid in the car.”
“She doesn’t exactly fit in with the kids around here; her mother’s dying and she lives in the apartment over a church rectory. How’s she supposed to make friends?”
They kept their voices low, but Julia got up from the couch and sauntered toward the doorway. “You two whispering about me in there?”
They both did their best to deny it, but finally Jack said, “How did you know?”
“You’v
e got the same worried look on your faces that Mami gets,” she said.
Sandra had forbidden the priests to discuss her illness in front of Julia, and with equal determination, the girl seemed to resist knowing. Even when she visited her mother in the hospital, she carried her books with her, holding them against her chest, as if they could protect her.
One morning over coffee, Jack scowled as he put down the sports page. “I stopped at the hospital to see Sandra last night when I was out.”
Gus looked up. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because she looked like hell, that’s why. I didn’t feel like talking about it.”
“Worse than ever,” Gus acknowledged. “I caught her doctor in the hallway the other day and—”
But when Julia appeared with her backpack to say she was off to school, the conversation abruptly ended.
“Not without breakfast you don’t, young lady. How do you expect to ace that history exam without proper nourishment?” Jack roared.
Immediately, Gus was up, pouring the last of the orange juice, digging up an overripe banana, and a package of instant oatmeal.
After one bite of the banana, Julia tossed it into the trash. “That was mush. And don’t even bother with the oatmeal; the milk’s almost sour. This, I’ll drink,” she said, quaffing the orange juice. “Just to keep my two dads happy.”
Jack cringed. “As if the church didn’t have enough problems.”
The men trailed her to the door, followed closely by the dogs. As she walked down the drive, Gus called, “Do you have your lunch money?”
“Will you be home after school?” Jack added, maneuvering himself into the doorway. “You can invite a friend over if you want.”
“Yes, and maybe. I’ll call,” Julia said impatiently, but her sly smile showed that she enjoyed their awkward ministrations.
When they returned to the kitchen, the gloom returned. “What’s going to happen to Julia when her mother’s not around?” Jack said, finally broaching the question they’d avoided. “Sandra’s the only family she’s got.”
“She’ll stay here, of course. Julia’s had too much instability in her life already. And besides, you heard her. She thinks of us as her two dads.”
“That will go over great with the bishop. Are you out of your mind, Gus?”
Gus sniffed at the milk they had used in their coffee. “She’s right,” he said, pouring it into the sink. “This is on the verge. I can’t believe we didn’t notice it.”
“Incredible,” Jack said. “And I’m not talking about the milk. You actually think we could keep her here, don’t you? If it came to a fight, you’d probably give up your vocation rather than send the kid to a foster home.”
“You’re right. I wouldn’t send Julia to a foster home—no matter what. And neither would you. But don’t worry. She’s only got two more years of school, and her mother has vowed to see her graduate. No matter how bad she looks, Sandra’s got some major willpower going for her.” He cleared his coffee cup, and a half-eaten piece of toast. “If you pick up something for dinner, I’ll cook. How’s that for a deal?”
“Lousy. You know I can’t find anything in that damn grocery store. And I’ve experienced your cooking . . .”
Gus was leaving the kitchen when Jack stopped him with his rusty voice.
“I almost forgot. Yesterday when you were at the hospital, you had a call.” By his tone, Gus immediately realized who it was. Her name, as well as the dark moons beneath her eyes and the bruises on her neck hadn’t left Gus’s mind for a moment, but it was the thought of her child that affected him most. From the night he first found it, he’d carried her picture in his pocket wherever he went.
“Ava Cilento. Did she leave a number?” he asked.
“She just about hung up on me when I asked for one.”
“She’ll probably call back,” Gus said, wondering why she hadn’t tried to reach him on his cell. Then he remembered the silent message that had been left on his phone the night before.
As if he expected the ailing Sandra to appear at any moment, Jack surveyed the cluttered kitchen and glanced down the hall before he sat down with his coffee. “I just hope it’s not in the next couple of days. I’m going out to Notre Dame to receive that damn award, and I don’t think you should meet with her alone.”
The award Jack referred to was the Laeture Medal, one of the highest honors the Church bestowed. This distinction, like all the ones he had received before, would be accepted with grousing embarrassment, then tucked away into a drawer or an attic. “Why the hell did they pick me?” he would say. “There’s so many others who do more.” If his humility were not so utterly genuine, it might have been cloying.
“You saying you don’t trust me, Jack?” Gus asked.
Jack cleared the table. “It’s her I’m worried about,” he said. “She’s not a member of the parish. Why did she come to you? Hell, how does she even know you exist?” Then he looked around for his shoes.“Speaking of intractable problems, I’m off to meet with the St. Vincent de Paul Society. It seems Barbara Malloy’s been showing up at meetings half in the wrapper again . . .”
Catching sight of the kitchen clock that Sandra had picked up at a yard sale, Gus realized he was late for the hospital himself.
Jane and Stella took their spots at their respective windows as Gus started the car. He played back his most recent cell-phone messages. There were two from Sandra, one sounding woeful, the second simply determined:
Listen, Gus, you got to get over here. Things ain’t lookin’ good. I need the Last Rites—or whatever it is you call it these days. And then, when you’re done praying over me, you can get me the hell out of here.
Then, an hour later: Hey, Gus, forget that damsel-in-distress call I made a little while ago. These people been poking at me and bothering me so much, I’m too pissed off to die. And I won’t be needing a ride, either. I got my own plans.
The elevator at the hospital was so slow in coming that finally Gus took the stairs two at a time. He burst through the third-floor door with his usual greeting to the nurses and aides. Cocking his head in the direction of Sandra’s room, he asked, “How’s she doing?”
“She called a cab about ten minutes ago,” a nurse named Robin said. “I’m surprised you didn’t run into her. Barely able to stand, but she wobbled out of here on those spike heels of hers, holding the cabbie’s arm like they were heading for a dance.”
“AMA?” Gus said, using the hospital shorthand for against medical advice. It wasn’t the first time that Sandra had gotten impatient with her illness and left without a discharge.
“You got it,” Robin said while two aides nodded their head in semi-amused agreement.
“Thanks, Rob. I’ll give Jack a buzz and let him know.” Gus set out on his rounds in a distracted state, but as always his work made him forget everything else. In the pediatric ward, Gus retold the old fishing legends his father had recounted when he was a boy, fantastic stories about fishermen in the Azores who had hauled in mythical creatures and monsters instead of fish, who disappeared for years into kingdoms beneath the sea only to be returned to their families full of mystical knowing and secret powers.
In the adult wards, he prayed with and anointed those who wanted it, and listened to those who had grown bitter at the Church, but who accepted his obvious kindness. The old, and those who had forgotten any identity but pain, clung to him with particular fervor. “Everything’s going to be all right,” he said gently, but with conviction. “I promise.” The healing words he’d learned from Nick when he was a boy never failed to soothe.
In the car, he checked his cell. A few new messages had accumulated during the hours he’d spent at the hospital, including two from a blocked number that were silent.
He was thinking of Ava and her daughter when Neil’s voice burst through the phone, reminding him again about the reunion at the Last Knot.
Gus couldn’t help smiling. Though he enjoyed Liam’s stories about Neil,
he never expected to rekindle the relationship with his childhood friend. Then one night when he and Liam had stopped off at a local bar for a beer after a game of pickup basketball, the subject came up.
“You were more of a brother to him than I ever was, Gus,” Liam said. “I tried. We all did. But when it came to the family, Neil seemed to be born with a chip on his shoulder.”
Gus stared into his brew. “Your parents didn’t even show up when he was nominated for a Tony. Isn’t that what you told me?”
“Guess it all comes down to that old conundrum about the chicken and the egg.”
“Yeah, and in this case, I know what came first,” Gus said. He finished his beer and rose from his stool.
“See what I mean? You always stood up for him—no matter what. You’re still doing it.”
“It was the other way around. I was the kid from the bad family, remember?”
“Okay, it worked both ways, then. Do you have any idea how rare that is?” Liam said. “Sure, Neil’s got a ton of friends in the city, but he’s never really gotten close to anyone since he left Ptown.”
“I think about him and pray for him every day—even though I know he’d hate that. Last summer, I even went to see him when they did The Importance of Being Earnest. He was terrific.”
“He saw you in the audience, but then you disappeared. I think he’s afraid you’ve never forgiven him for—”
“Of course I have,” Gus said uncomfortably. “Neil was so drunk that night he probably doesn’t even recall what he did. Unfortunately, I remember my actions.”
“So why don’t you call him?”
“Maybe I will,” Gus said.
Before he had a chance to follow through, Neil called him. “I hear you’ve been hanging out with my tightass brother,” he said, as if ten years hadn’t passed. As if they’d just spent a night driving around, or hanging out at the beach. “Is what he said true? Do you really forgive me?”
The Orphans of Race Point: A Novel Page 15