The Halo Effect: A Novel

by Anne D. LeClaire

  Movement at the periphery of his vision pulled Father Gervase from his reverie, and his eyes widened. As if his preoccupation with the artist contained a conjuring power, the priest saw standing at the edge of the garden Will Light. His heartbeat quickened and with it the knowledge that he was not as afraid of failing the cardinal as he was of failing Will. Well, no time now for a quick retreat, and he vowed to do better, to reach out and . . . What? Save? No, that was not yet in his mind. To help.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Just as I entered the garden the little priest looked up and caught sight of me, and the moment for a quick retreat escaped.

  I’d planned on dropping the book at the rectory office, but it was after five by the time I arrived and the door was locked, staff departed for the day. In search of someone else to take the goddamn book off my hands, I’d wandered into the garden, where I ran into the priest.

  “Will Light,” Father Gervase said and started to rise.

  I motioned for him to sit. “No need to get up, Father. I won’t disturb you further.”

  “Not at all,” the priest said, standing. “Not at all. I was just enjoying a few minutes in the garden. Glad to have you join me. You know what they say about pleasant moments.”

  “What’s that?” The priest was even smaller than I remembered. And frailer.

  “Pleasure shared is pleasure doubled.”

  “Yes, well, I can’t stay. I just—”

  “Is Sophia with you?”

  I knew Sophie often stopped by to sit in the garden or the chapel at the end of a long day and that more than once she’d sought the priest’s counsel. If he didn’t know, I wasn’t about to tell him about Sophie’s move into a rented condo. “No, she’s having dinner with a friend.”

  “Well, please tell her I continue to hold you both in my thoughts and prayers.”

  “I’ll do that, Father.”

  A silence stretched on so long it verged on awkward before the priest broke it. “You know, Will, it’s rather amazing that you came along just now. Rather amazing.”

  “Really? Why’s that?”

  “I was just thinking about you, and then I look up and here you are.”

  I managed a noncommittal shrug.

  “Now some people would say that this is nothing more than coincidence. Happenstance.”

  “Yes, well—”

  The priest removed his glasses, held them at arm’s length, and checked the lenses. “But there are others who believe there is no such thing as coincidence.” He lifted his gaze from the glasses to me. “They believe that everything is connected and that these connections—what we call coincidences—are meaningful signals from the universe.”

  “I guess that’s not something I think about much.” I wanted to get rid of the goddamn book, not be drawn into some inane discussion about coincidence. And my head still ached from the hangover.

  “Oh, I’ve always been interested in these things.” Father Gervase slid his hand into his pants pocket and withdrew a soft green square of something that looked like silk. “You know what I mean. In astonishing occurrences of synchronicity that defy explanation.”

  “Hmmm, well—”

  “I remember reading of one story in particular. A story of identical twins who had been separated at birth and adopted by different families.” He polished the lenses with the cloth, attentive to the task until, satisfied, he returned the green square to his pocket and put the glasses back on, fitting one earpiece at a time behind each ear. “Amazing tale, really,” he said. “It was about two boys, separated at birth by adoption. They grew up to marry women with the same first name, who both gave birth to boys on the same day and named their sons the same name. Now that’s a coincidence that challenges belief.”

  “This chance meeting hardly rises to that level, Father.”

  “Perhaps not.” The priest reached out and absently stroked a fern. “Perhaps not. Still, I’ve read this interesting fact somewhere—” He looked up as if searching for an answer in the branches arcing above the bench. “Now where was it?”

  I shifted the book from one hand to the other. “Listen, Father, I just wanted to—”

  Father Gervase’s gaze again landed on me. “Well, I don’t remember where I read it, probably not important. The thing is, according to the article, and I’m probably not getting it exactly right, but the gist is that scientists believe we are hardwired to connect anomalies in meaningful ways. You see? The mind wants, even needs, to make these causal connections.”

  I remembered too late the priest’s inclination toward conversational sidetracks. “No. No, I didn’t know that.”

  “Oh yes. Yes. According to the article, researchers believe it’s this ability that’s at play when we learn a language.”

  “Interesting,” I said, my voice just short of curt. Christ, would I never be able to escape.

  “Isn’t it.” Father Gervase studied me for a moment, leaned toward me. “So here’s the question at the core of it: Are life events random, or do they represent a deeper order?”

  “And what’s your take on that, Father?” I asked in spite of myself.

  “On coincidence?” He smiled. “Well, I don’t know about the scientific aspect, but there is something at work. I think of it as spiritual timing. God’s timing.”

  I could guess where this conversation was headed and derailed it before it could pick up speed. The last thing I wanted to hear was any shite about God’s timing. “Well, I just stopped by to return this. You left it at the house.” I extended the book, but Father Gervase made no move to take it and instead headed toward the side door of the rectory, motioning for me to follow. There was a damp circle on the seat of his trousers from where he had been sitting on the bench, and this patch caused an unexpected softening in me. I found myself trailing the priest into the rectory, thinking I’d just get rid of the book and get out of there.

  The living room where he led me held the smell I associated with my father’s home after my mother died, a place of men who lived without women, a stale, slightly sterile smell that made me feel claustrophobic. The room was furnished with two couches, a rather discouraged looking recliner, and a television—one of those new flat-screen jobs. Plasma? LCD? Not that I knew the difference. Our television was so old it was surprising the Smithsonian hadn’t requested it. There were a couple of side tables and a coffee table on which were magazines and a newspaper folded open to the television guide, a room not unlike that of an average family. I had pictured something more austere, more monk-like. There was the requisite crucifix on one wall, a box of tissues on one of the side tables along with a framed photograph of two men in clerical garb. I wondered if this was where parishioners came for counseling or if there were more formal offices for that. I tried to imagine the priest spending evenings here, watching television, waiting until it was time for bed, and I thought what a lonely existence it must be. I suppose not unlike mine during those days.

  Father Gervase set the book he had been reading down on one of the side tables. “Can I get you something to drink, Will? Coffee? Or a glass of wine? Sherry, perhaps.”

  Before I could respond, another priest entered the room, his clerical collar nearly concealed by a crewneck sweater. He was balding, younger, and beefier than Father Gervase, and he wore the bright smile of the perpetually cheerful, and beneath it a barely concealed air that verged on preoccupation, as if his thoughts were often somewhere else. Someone you might imagine managing a minor league baseball team.

  “Oh, sorry to interrupt,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” Father Gervase said. “Perfectly all right. In fact, if you care to join us, we were just about to enjoy a glass of wine. Have you two met? No? Will, this is Father Burns. Father Burns, Will Light.”

  The younger priest extended a hand. His grasp was firm, the skin of his palm slightly rough. “Please,” he said. “Just call me Father Joe.” A flash of recognition crossed his fa
ce. “Will Light,” he said. “The artist.”

  I nodded. Extricating myself was becoming more and more difficult, and I regretted the impulse to follow the older priest into the rectory.

  “Have a seat,” Father Gervase said. “Have a seat. I’ll get the wine and be right back.” Then, elusive as quicksilver, he slipped away.

  “I’m so glad to meet you,” Father Joe said. “Paul has told me about you.”

  Paul? It took a moment to realize he meant Father Gervase.

  “He tells me I must get over to the art association and see your paintings. He was quite taken with them, I gather.”

  “Yes, well, most of them are older work. Not the kind of thing I do anymore.”

  Father Joe checked his watch. “I’d like to stay and talk, but I’m due at Rose Hall Manor. It’s my turn for pastoral calls. We’ll have to talk another time.”

  Not bloody likely, I thought.

  “My apologies for dashing off, but I’m sure Paul will be right back.” He slipped out as quickly as Father Gervase had.

  All the comings and goings—it might as well have been a French farce. The only things missing were housemaids and mismatched lovers. I crossed to the framed photo and recognized the two figures in it. The former pope—the one with the Nazi past who shocked everyone by retiring from the job—and Father Burns at his side. I turned from it and picked up the book Father Gervase had set on the table, assuming it was a volume of scripture, and saw it was a collection of poetry by Neruda. The little priest was full of surprises.

  I was trying to decide whether I should just slip away when he returned, carrying a tray with a carafe of wine, three small cut-glass goblets, and a plate of biscotti, which he set on the coffee table.

  “Father Burns has left?”

  “Off to Rose Hall Manor.” I noticed that the priest had changed into dry trousers.

  “Of course. Of course. I forgot it’s his evening there.” He poured the wine.

  “I hope you like sherry.”

  “Really, I can’t stay. I only stopped by to return this.” I set The Illustrated Book of the Saints on the table next to the tray, relieved to finally be rid of it.

  “No need to return it. I meant it for you.” Father Gervase held out a glass. “Here you go. I hope you like sherry. Amontillado. A gift from one of our parishioners.”

  I took it. One glass. Hair of the dog, I thought. And then I would be out of there.

  “To your health,” Father Gervase said.

  “And yours, Father.” I took a deep swallow, winced at the sweetness of it.

  The priest offered the biscuits, which I refused, then settled himself in the recliner. “You know, I went to the art association this week. I found your work remarkable.”

  “Thank you,” I said, refusing false modesty.

  “I see now why Cardinal Kneeland wants you to paint the series of the saints.”

  I set my glass down so sharply the remaining wine slopped over the rim, wetting my fingers. “I told you I’m not interested. I don’t give a damn what your cardinal wants.”

  Father Gervase reached for the tissues, pulled one from the box, got up, and brought it to me.

  I mopped at my hand, shamed at my outburst. “Sophie tells me I have anger issues,” I said and stopped before I could blurt out more.

  The priest returned to the recliner. “Yes, well. Sometimes it is hard—” He fell silent.

  I waited. “What’s hard?” I finally asked.

  “To distinguish anger from grief.”

  “Oh, believe me, Father, I know very well what grief is.” I lifted the sherry, drained the glass.

  “Yes. Yes, I would guess that you do.” Father Gervase took a sip of wine, looked into the distance, sat for a long minute. “What do you think of it?” he finally said.

  “Grief?” My voice was sharp with disbelief that I would be asked this.

  “The book.” The priest nodded toward the table where I had placed The Illustrated Book of the Saints.

  For an instant, I considered lying, saying I hadn’t opened it. Instead I said, “Frankly, I found it repugnant.”

  Father Gervase leaned forward, smiling as if nothing I might have said could have given him greater pleasure. “Really? Tell me more, Will.”

  “What else do you want to know? I found it repellent.”

  “Ah. And what was particularly disturbing about the book?”

  “Christ,” I said. An image from the book materialized in my mind—Saint Agatha, breasts torn with pincers—and a heat of rage began to rise. I recalled Sophie’s view that the glorification of violence edged near pornographic. Murdertainment. “All of it. The violence. People stoned to death. Burned. Beheaded. Hunted and haunted. Tortured.” Lucy’s ruined body. The bloody book tote. My worst fantasies of what she must have suffered rose up.

  “Ah, the early saints,” the priest said. “Yes, there was a good deal of that. Of course, we have to read the stories through the lens of their times. Actually, the range of saints is quite wide.”

  “I have no interest in your saints, Father.”

  “They came from all races,” the priest continued as if I had not spoken. “All ages. Those born into poverty and those born into wealth. Hermits and kings.”

  I set the empty glass on the table. “Let’s get this straight, Father. I have no interest in your saints, and you can tell your archbishop I’m not interested in your commission. I don’t paint saints.”

  Father Gervase made a flicking motion with his fingers. “But you do, you know.”

  “What?”

  “You do paint saints. I saw them at the exhibit.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your portraits.” The priest rested his head back against the chair back and stared at the ceiling, reflecting. “The fisherman mending nets,” he said. “The young woman at the coffee shop. The woman at her vanity. Go back and look at their faces, Will. You were capturing the faces that could be saints.”

  “Oh, spare the sentimental shite,” I said. I no longer worried about offending this priest. All I wanted was escape. “What you saw, what I painted were just people. Ordinary people.”

  “And that is my point, Will. The saints were ordinary people.”

  I didn’t bother with a response.

  “They were people just like us. They worked hard. They tried to find solutions. Some of them were sinners. A good many of them, in fact. Sinners who kept on trying.”

  I had had enough. I was so full of rage my hands trembled with it. “I mean it, Father. I’m finished with this. Find another artist. Tell your cardinal to find someone else to paint your goddamn saints.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Find someone else to paint your goddamn saints.

  I supposed I should have felt feel ashamed at my outburst and the way I’d stormed out of the rectory, but I felt only relief at escaping from Father Gervase and his sanctimonious talk of saints. In weakening daylight that muted the outlines of the buildings along Main Street, I walked home. The air had turned cool. Porch lights cast a soft glow through windows and reflected in puddles from the earlier storm. As I continued, the cloying taste of the sherry lingered in my throat, just as anger continued to simmer. I need you to understand, as Sophie so clearly did, the source of my rage. It wasn’t the little priest’s conversation or his persistence about the saints. It was the truth of what had happened to Lucy that simply couldn’t be borne, so weighty and opaque I was surprised I was able to walk upright or speak. I had a keen need to wash it all away and thought the hell with promises I’d made to Sophie. The hell with everything. Much later, I would wonder how events might have been altered if I had gone straight home, if she still lived there instead of renting a condo. But of course blaming her for my behavior was an easy way to ease my conscience. I switched directions and headed toward the Crow’s Nest.

  When I entered the tavern, the highlights from the previous night’s Sox game were showing on ESPN, the sound muted. It w
as early for the dinner crowd, but business was brisk at the bar. There were two empty stools at the far end, and I slid onto one. A bartender I didn’t recognize approached. She was tall—at least five eleven—with one arm covered from wrist to elbow with a sleeve of tattoos that looked like a piece of garish fabric. She looked too young to be serving legally, but it was getting more and more difficult to gauge ages. Half the ball players playing for the majors looked like they belonged on a Little League team.

  “What can I get for you?”

  “A draft.”

  “Anything in particular?” Her voice held a husky undertone.

  “Sam Adams,” I said.

  When she crossed to the tap, I observed the others at the bar watching her. “Why do men do that?” Sophie had asked me once. “Why do they check out every woman who walks by?”