The Jew's Wife & Other Stories

by Thomas J. Hubschman

  “And I’ll tell you something, Richard Walther. You’ve had too much red wine.”

  “Not at all.”

  She stood facing him, her hands on her hips.

  “Well, I had a pretty nice time myself.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure.”

  He leaned his head against the back of the armchair where he was seated. The ceiling began to move. He lifted his head. It stopped.

  “I suggest we both get some sleep. If you want another blanket it’s on the chair.”

  “Thanks.”

  She hesitated. “Are you alright?”

  He smiled, but a great sadness had suddenly taken hold of him. He couldn’t put a name to it, and it hardly made sense, considering how happy he had just said he was. “I’m fine.”

  But after she had said goodnight and he had turned off the lamp, the same feeling came over him again. Only, this time he understood why. At this time tomorrow he would be back in his rectory, getting ready to resume his duties as assistant pastor. The Monsignor would be snoring down the hall. Margaret would be finishing up her chores in the kitchen. Another year of saying mass for the superannuated women of the parish, of account-checking and invoice-filing, would begin. The dreamlike existence he had been leading for the past two weeks would become a preposterous memory. As he lay on the uneven cushions of Rosalie’s sofa, staring up at the ceiling dappled with streetlight, the idea of this short episode ending seemed suddenly too much to bear. Was this the Pain of Loss, the consciousness of eternal deprivation he had been warned all his life was a pain more acute than the physical suffering of hell? It had never occurred to him that he could feel it while his soul and body were still joined. Why couldn’t he serve God and still remain a member of the human race? He had been taught no one could serve both God and Mammon. But surely the pain he felt at being severed from this world of ordinary people could not just be a temptation of the devil. Could he only freely be himself after he had safely drawn his last breath?

  A car motored quietly down the suburban street. Rosalie flicked off a light switch on the floor above him. He began to feel sleepy. He was back in Rosalie’s yard again, admiring her lilac bushes and enjoying the cool sunny evening. His border collie—his heart skipped with joy to see her after all these years—bounded suddenly across the grass in pursuit of sparrows. He had only had the animal a few months before the family doctor said he was allergic to dog hair and advised his mother to get rid of it. One afternoon he returned home from school, and she was gone. No house ever again seemed so silent and empty as his did that day. And yet, he hadn’t thought about that animal for years. Why this sudden joy at being reunited with her shade in this half-waking dream? he wondered. He tried to conjure up the dog’s image again, but she had turned into something else—a different dog entirely, older, unfriendly, even vicious.

  The local church was a nineteenth-century stone building that reminded him of the old church in the parish where he had grown up. It did not, like the original in his memory, stand on top a high point overlooking the lower Hudson Valley. But a large tract of undeveloped land surrounded it, and the view to the west was of rolling hills tinted orange by early sun.

  He had awakened at five a.m. refreshed, despite the wine he had drunk the night before and the late hour he had gotten to sleep. He fixed himself a cup of instant coffee in Rosalie’s kitchen, taking care not to disturb her. Then he drove the couple miles to church, delighting in the scenery and anticipating with pleasure, for the first time in months, the rite he was about to perform.

  The church’s front door was open, but he could see no one inside, where the only light was provided by a big stained glass window above the organ loft. Even his unschooled eye could tell the glass was old. The quality of the reds and blues was beyond anything he had seen in any of the newer churches. The scene itself, of the Madonna ascending to heaven, was Italianate, a copy or at least approximation of a renaissance painting.

  He walked down the short main aisle. The dark pews were vacant. When he called last night to ask permission to say mass, the curate told him there was no need for him to stop by the rectory, which was located a couple miles from the church. Someone would come by to open up. But whoever it was that had unlocked the church had not remained.

  He unhooked the gate that formed the central part of the communion rail and stepped into the sanctuary. A red vigil light flickered beside the altar. He genuflected and offered a prayer.

  The day’s vestments were already laid out in the sacristy. They were white, because it was still within the octave of a major feast. The satin and brocade chasuble was on the bottom, trimmed in gold with a big “IHS” on the back. Then came stole and alb, laid out in opposite order to which he would put them on. His own sexton or one of the nuns arranged vestments for him and his fellow priests in a similar fashion every morning. And yet, he could sense the care with which these had been handled, as if their arrangement, no less than his own performance on the altar, were part of the ceremony.

  He turned on the altar lights and lit the candles. Whoever had arranged the vestments had also filled the cruets with wine and water. He began mass facing the pews, as he had been doing ever since the vernacular liturgy was mandated. Turned toward the congregation instead of facing an altar set flush against the rear wall of a church was the only way he had ever said mass, unlike most of the older clergy. For some of them the difficulty was not so much adjusting to the exposure which facing the congregation involved; after all, much of a priest’s life already involved public appearances of one sort or another. The problem for those men had been one of religious, not physical orientation. All their clerical lives they men had shown their backs to the congregation as if leading them in a petition to the deity. The faithful had been separated from the sacrament both by the sanctuary and locked altar rail as well as by the celebrant’s own person. It was as if what happened on the altar was strictly between the priest and God, with the laity only allowed to observe from a distance. Facing the pews, though, meant inviting the congregation to participate. In a sense, the change democratized the mass, and for some of the clergy this reorientation, more than the use of English instead of Latin, was like asking a royalist to accept government by popular election.

  He took his time, making something special of the liturgy, the way he did when he was newly ordained or, even earlier, when he used to play priest on his mother’s metal kitchen table. A pew creaked as the advancing sun warmed the old wood by degrees, but otherwise he felt totally alone in the church, like a monk in his monastery cell. His words, spoken in an undertone or even, at the consecration, in a stage whisper, echoed back from the old stone walls. There was no sermon, so the mass was short, a mere fifteen or twenty minutes. But as he approached its conclusion he found himself slowing the pace, regretting its end. How different this was from the way he had been saying mass in Holy Name. There he had rushed through the service as fast as was decently possible, the tension in him rising as if what he were doing were something by its nature disagreeable. He had scarcely been conscious of the dozens, sometimes hundreds of faces in front of him, although he was obliged to wait for their responses at several points in the liturgy. But that had been a very different kind of solitude from what he was now feeling. He would have welcomed a few parishioners to share the experience with him this morning. He might even be able to preach a halfway decent sermon, something along the lines of his conversation on the beach with Rosalie.

  Finally there was nothing left but the Last Gospel, his favorite part of the mass. When he served as altar boy, the rhythm of the verses used to thrill him long before he knew their meaning. They seemed like the grand finale to a symphony, a pell-mell rush to joyful climax. He anticipated them every time he served mass and, after his ordination, when he celebrated it himself. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. In Him all things were made, and nothing has been made without Him. In Him was the light of man, and th
e light shineth in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it. There was a man, one sent from God, whose name was John...”

  Tears filled his eyes as he recited the words from memory. They seemed every bit as beautiful as they did in his childhood. It was like seeing an old friend he had given up for dead. His voice broke when he reached the last verses. “And we saw His glory, the glory as of the only-begotten of the Father, full of grace and of truth.” He paused to collect himself. Then he raised his hand as if in benediction of the vacant, dark church.

  As if in response, one of the back pews again creaked.

  “You were there the whole time?”

  “I hope you don’t mind. I couldn’t help wondering what you looked like as a priest.”

  “Did I come up to snuff?”

  “You were wonderful. I mean, I guess you know I’m not a Catholic. But that was the most beautiful service I’ve ever attended.”

  “Thank you.”

  They were in a local diner, having driven there separately by arrangement the night before.

  “The mass means a lot to you,” she said, sipping her coffee and regarding him with a deference he was of two minds about. He was pleased she had been present, but afraid she might begin treating him differently now. “I could tell by how you said the words and performed all the different gestures. It was beautiful to watch.”

  “Actually, you were present at one of my better performances, if I might use that word. Ordinarily, I’m not able to get into it so deeply. Sometimes I wonder if I wasn’t miscast for the role.”

  The waitress arrived with eggs and toast. She set the plates down, then refilled their coffee cups.

  “How can you say that? You have such a feeling for the mass. You make it seem like a work of art. Watching you was like being at a really fine opera performance of. Do you know opera?”

  “I’ve never been to one.”

  “You should go. You’d see what I mean.”

  By the time they left the diner, the sunny day had clouded over. Rosalie led the way, driving very fast down the deserted country roads. Father Walther would have preferred to linger over the cow pastures and rolling hills. This was the last day of his vacation. But he did not mind having to return to his parish as much as he would have if he had not had these two days with Rosalie. He hated to think what his attitude would have been if he had returned right after his disastrous visit with the mechanic and his wife. How remarkably his luck had turned the moment he had exited the Turnpike and called Rosalie. There were plenty of people—he’d rather not think how many—who would cluck their tongues at the idea of a Catholic priest spending a weekend in the company of an attractive single woman. And yet, the most serious indictment anyone could fairly advance was the scandal he might have caused if someone had recognized him last night on the dance floor.

  “Do you think it’ll rain?” he asked as he closed the trunk of Rosalie’s car after she had deposited her clubs inside.

  “Not a chance. That sky is much too high for rain. Perfect golf weather.”

  He arched his neck for a better look at the cloud cover but could see no difference between this kind of overcast and the kind that led to a downpour.

  “If you play as much golf as I do, “she said, “you get to be a pretty good weatherperson. Take my word. We’ll get in eighteen holes easy.”

  He believed her, not that he would have dreamed of canceling the day even if the weather were more threatening. She always seemed to know what she was about, whether it was frying an egg or handling a tricky wedge shot.

  He got in on the passenger side of her car (there was no sense using his own, she argued, since he had a limit on the mileage he could accumulate). She was about to get in herself, then hesitated, scowling at the house entrance.

  “Damn.”

  “You forgot something?”

  “No. The phone is ringing.”

  He could just barely make out the faint sound, like the tinkle of an oriental mobile.

  “I’ll be right back.”

  She was gone long enough to conclude a brief conversation. But instead of returning to the driver’s seat, she approached the open window on his side.

  “It’s for you. Your darling Margaret.”

  He got out of the car quickly. He knew that, harridan or no, his housekeeper would only telephone if something serious had happened. That could mean his mother had taken a bad turn.

  “Hello, Margaret.”

  “Father! Thank God I’ve reached you. I’ve been trying this number all morning.”

  “What is it, Margaret? Is something wrong?”

  “It’s himself, Father. He’s bad. Very bad.”

  It took a moment before he reconnected with Margaret’s codes for the other priests of the parish.

  “His heart?”

  “We don’t know,” she went on, struggling between honest hysteria and her natural bent for milking every dramatic moment for all it was worth. “He collapsed at mass. By the time we found him he was unconscious. Doctor Rafferty thinks it might be a stroke, but we won’t know for sure until they run some tests.”

  “Which hospital is he in?”

  She told him the county hospital. That could only mean there wasn’t time to get him to the Catholic hospital in Teaneck. He glanced toward the screen door and the lavender sedan waiting in the driveway. The news of the Monsignor’s collapse did not surprise him; the old man had been on his last legs for some time. What did concern him was that his housekeeper had made a copy of Rosalie’s telephone number; he still had the original note in his pants pocket.

  He told her he would drive directly to the hospital. “Father George can take charge at the rectory.”

  “Alright, Father. But you know how he is.”

  “I know he’s a perfectly capable man, as you should yourself by this time. Tell him I’ll be on my way shortly and will stop at the hospital before I return to the rectory. Do you have Rafferty’s number handy? A number where he can be reached right now?”

  He heard a flutter of activity on the other end of the line. He could not recall ever speaking so firmly to his housekeeper.

  “Here it is,” she said, her voice unnaturally submissive. She read him the number.

  “That’s his service, I suppose.”

  “Yes, I think it is.”

  “Is anyone with the Monsignor now?”

  “Father George went up there after the eight o’clock mass. But of course he has to be back to say the ten.”

  “What about Donovan?”—the fill-in for Father Walther’s own Sunday duties, a philosophy instructor at Seton Hall.

  “He’s scheduled for the eleven and twelve. He hasn’t arrived yet.”

  George would indeed be in a dither. There was nothing to do but leave right away. He would never forgive himself if the old man died alone in that hospital room. Everyone had a right to have someone at their side when their time came. It was not just a question of getting the last rites—George would already have attended to that. What he was thinking of had to do with a more basic human need.

  “Alright, Margaret. I’ll be there shortly.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she said. Then she added, “I didn’t know what else to do. I tried your mother, but she said you left on Friday. And your friend, Mr. Weeks, said he hasn’t seen you in a week.”

  She had certainly been scouting about, he thought as he heard the old impertinence return to her voice. She would love to know what he had been up to, but he would not give her the satisfaction of even a cursory explanation. If she wanted to take the matter up with someone else, let her. Who would she go to? The comatose pastor? The chancery? He couldn’t care less. What had seemed important to him two weeks ago—getting a parish of his own—now seemed empty ambition. Why should he aspire to such an achievement? So that he could learn how to squeeze the extra buck out of Mr. and Mrs. Parishioner the way the Monsignor had done? So that one day, if a stroke didn’t claim him first, he could receive a red cloak
from the bishop and gain the right to wear a miter and carry a crook a couple times a year like His Excellency? Or should he aspire to the bishop’s see itself, become an ecclesiastic chief-executive-officer and wheel and deal in real estate and the bond market? He had had his fill of all that. His life would be different from now on—it had to be, or he would end up spending the rest of his life drinking tea with the blue-haired ladies of the Rosary Society and keeping accounts of the take from the Sunday collections, all the while ruled over by Margaret or one of her sisters.

  “You have to leave right away?” Rosalie asked.

  “I’m afraid so. The other curate is alone. Score a birdie for me,” he said, checking to see that all his belongings were stowed in his blue two-door. After he had slammed the trunk closed he noted that her eyes had become moist. He held out his hand. She hesitated, then took it without feeling, and his spirits sank. He wanted her to let him go willingly, or at least without resentment. He needed to take away intact what she had given him in order to be able to face what was waiting for him. If she refused to let that part of him go, he would perish as surely as any soul damned to hell. But he couldn’t explain any of this to her. She had to sense it and give him back himself freely.

  Her hand tightened on his own. Tears filled her eyes. Then her arms were around his neck and she was holding him the way she did the night she had her nightmare. This time he responded more generously.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Monsignor was either comatose or heavily sedated. His mouth hung slack like a dead man’s, but his breathing was strong and regular. The small, wasted body lay carefully arranged beneath the hospital sheet, the feet scarcely reaching to within a foot of the bed’s end. His hands were placed as if by a mortician across his oddly protruding chest. It was hard to believe this was the same fiery man who had made life so difficult for the young curates assigned to him. He looked more like a sleeping child—an ancient child, to be sure, but hardly the guileful and grasping old man who watched his collection baskets the way a miser did his hoard of gold. Father Walther considered that he could pick the comatose form up as easily as he would a doll. Would he then be holding half a century of priesthood, not to mention the wheelings and dealings with how many bishops?—plus all the confessions, masses and last rites administered in his younger and perhaps idealistic days? Never once in the last seven years had this man offered him a word of spiritual advice. Their conversations had always been about business—incomes and outgoes, debits and credits. The Monsignor might as well have been a tax accountant, one of those fawning, effeminate yes-men the archdiocese seemed exclusively to employ whenever it hired laymen. Only, there was nothing obsequious about this old bird. He was willful as they came. The only person he deferred to was the archbishop himself, whose ring he kissed on bended knee as if it were the pope’s. Even his attitude toward the sacrament was cursory, businesslike, almost belligerent.