fling the sacred chalice across the chancel in despair and rage. In
front of almost a hundred worshipers. Dear God. At least it had not
happened at one of the three later Masses, which were better attended.
Initially, when Brendan Cronin had come to St. Bette's more than a year
and a half ago, Father Wycazik had not wanted to like him.
For one thing, Cronin had been schooled at the North American College in
Rome, reputedly the most splendid educational institution within the
jurisdiction of the Church. But though it was an honor to be invited to
attend that establishment, and though its graduates were considered the
cream of the priesthood, they were often effete dainties, loath to get
their hands dirty, with much too high an opinion of themselves. They
felt that teaching catechism to children was beneath them, a waste of
their complex minds. And visiting shut-ins was a task they found
unspeakably distasteful after the glories that had been Rome.
In addition to the stigma of being trained in Rome, Father Cronin was
fat. Well, not fat, really, but certainly plump, with a round soft face
and liquid-green eyes that seemed, at first encounter, to betoken a lazy
and perhaps easily corrupted soul. Father Wycazik, on the other hand,
was a big-boned Pole whose family had not contained a single fat man.
The Wycaziks were descended from Polish miners who had emigrated to the
United States at the turn of the century, taking physically demanding
jobs in steel mills, quarries, and the construction trades. They had
produced big families that could be supported only through long hours of
honest labor, so there wasn't time to get fat. Stefan had grown up with
an instinctual sense that a real man was solid but lean, with a thick
neck, big shoulders, and joints gnarled from hard work.
To Father Wycazik's surprise, Brendan Cronin had proved to be a hard
worker. He had acquired no pretensions and no elitist opinions while in
Rome. He was bright, good-natured, amusing, and he thrived on visiting
shut-ins, teaching the children, and soliciting funds. He was the best
curate Father Wycazik had been given in eighteen years.
That was why Brendan's outburst on Sunday-and the loss of faith that had
inspired it-was so distressing to Stefan Wycazik. Of course, on another
level, he looked forward to the challenge of bringing Brendan Cronin
back into the fold. He had begun his career in the Church as a strong
right arm for priests in trouble, and now he was being called upon to
fill that role once more, which reminded him of his youth and engendered
in him a buoyant feeling of vital purpose.
Now, as he took another sip of coffee, a knock came at the office door.
He turned his gaze to the mantel clock. It was of ormolu and inlaid
mahogany with a fine Swiss movement, a gift from a parishioner. That
timepiece was the only elegant object in a room boasting strictly
utilitarian-and mismatched-furniture and a threadbare imitation-Persian
carpet. According to the clock, the time was eight-thirty, precisely,
and Stefan turned to the door, saying, "Come in, Brendan."
As he came through the door, Father Brendan Conin looked no less
distressed than he had on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday, when
they had met in this office to discuss his crisis of faith and to search
for ways to reestablish his belief. He was so pale that his freckles
burned like sparks on his skin, and by contrast his auburn hair looked
more red than usual. The bounce had left his step.
"Sit down, Brendan. Coffee?"
"Thank you, no." Brendan bypassed the tattered Chesterfield and the
Morris chair, slumping in the sag-bottomed wingback instead.
Did you eat a good breakfast? Stefan wanted to ask. Or did you just
nibble at some toast and swill it down with coffee?
But he did not want to seem to be mothering his curate, who was thirty
years old. So he said, "You've done the reading I suggested?"
"Yes."
Stefan had relieved Brendan of all parish duties and had given him books
and essays that argued for the existence of God and against the folly of
atheism from an intellectual point of view.
"And you've reflected on what you've read," Father Wycazik said. "So
have you found anything so far that . . . helps you?"
Brendan sighed. Shook his head.
"You continue to pray for guidance?"
"Yes. I receive none."
"You continue to search for the roots of this doubt?"
"There don't seem to be any."
Stefan was increasingly frustrated by Father Cronin's taciturnity, which
was utterly unlike the young priest. Usually, Brendan was open,
voluble. But since Sunday he had turned inward, and he had begun to
speak slowly, softly, and never at length, as if words were money and he
a miser who begrudged the paying out of every penny.
"There must be roots to your doubt," Father Wycazik insisted. "There
must be something from which doubt's growna seed, a beginning."
"It's just there," Brendan muttered, barely audible. "Doubt. It's just
there as if it's always been there."
"But it wasn't: you did believe. So when did doubt begin?
Last August, you said. But what sparked it? There must've been a
specific incident or incidents that led you to reevaluate your
philosophy."
Brendan gave a softly exhaled "no."
Father Wycazik wanted to shout at him, shake him, shock him out of his
numbing gloom. But he patiently said, "Countless good priests have
suffered crises of faith. Even some saints wrestled angels. But they
all had two things in common: Their loss of faith was a gradual process
that continued many years before reaching a crisis; and they could all
point to specific incidents and observations from which doubt arose. The
unjust death of a child, for instance. Or a saintly mother stricken
with cancer. Murder. Rape. Why does God allow evil in the world? Why
war? The sources of doubt are innumerable if familiar, and though
Church doctrine answers them, cold doctrine is sometimes little comfort.
Brendan, doubt always springs from specific contradictions between the
concept of God's mercy and the reality of human sorrow and suffering."
"Not in my case," Brendan said.
Gently but insistently, Father Wycazik continued. "And the only way to
assuage that doubt is to focus on those contradictions that trouble you
and discuss them with a spiritual guide."
"In my case, my faith just ... collapsed under me ... suddenly ...
like a floor that seemed perfectly solid but was rotten all along."
"You don't brood about unjust death, sickness, murder, war? Like a
rotten floor, then? Just collapsed overnight?"
"That's right."
"Bullshit!" Stefan said, launching himself up from his chair.
The expletive and the sudden movement startled Father Cronin. His head
snapped up, and his eyes widened with surprise.
"Bullshit," Father Wycazik repeated, matching the word with a scowl as
he turned his back on his curate. In part he intended to shock the
younger priest and force him out of his half-trance of self-pity, but
in
part he was also irritated by Cronin's uncommunicative funk and stubborn
despair. Speaking to the curate but facing the window, where patterns of
frost decorated the panes and where wind buffeted the glass, he said,
"You didn't fall from committed priest in August to atheist in December.
Could not. Not when you claim you've had no shattering experiences that
might be responsible. There must be reasons for your change of heart,
Father, even if you're hiding them from yourself, and until you're
willing to admit them, face them, you'll remain in this wretched state."
A plumbless silence filled the room.
Then: the muffled ticking of the ormolu and mahogany clock.
At last, Brendan Cronin said, "Father, please don't be angry with me. I
have such respect... and I value our relationship so highly that your
anger..... on top of everything else . . . is too much for me right
now."
Pleased by even a thread-thin crack in Brendan's shell, delighted that
his little stratagem had produced results, Father Wycazik turned from
the window, moved quickly to the wingback chair, and put a hand on his
curate's shoulder. "I'm not angry with you, Brendan. Worried.
Concerned. Frustrated that you won't let me help you. But not angry."
The young priest looked up. "Father, believe me, I want nothing more
than your help in finding a way out of this. But in truth, my doubt
doesn't spring from any of the things you mentioned. I really don't
know where it comes from. It remains . . . well, mysterious."
Stefan nodded, squeezed Brendan's shoulder, returned to his chair behind
the desk, sat down, and closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.
"All right, Brendan, your inability to identify the cause of your
collapsed faith indicates it's not an intellectual problem, so no amount
of inspirational reading will help. If it's a psychological problem,
the roots lie in your subconscious, awaiting revelation."
When he opened his eyes, Stefan saw that his curate was intrigued by the
suggestion that his own inner mind was simply malfunctioning. Which
meant God hadn't failed Brendan, after all: Brendan had failed God.
Personal responsibility was far easier to deal with than the thought
that God was unreal or had turned His back.
Stefan said, "As you may know, the Illinois Provincial of the Society of
Jesus is Lee Kellog. But you may not know that he oversees two
psychiatrists, both Jesuits themselves, who deal with the mental and
emotional problems of priests within our order. I could arrange for you
to begin analysis with one of those psychiatrists."
"Would you?" Brendan asked, leaning forward in his chair.
"Yes. Eventually. But not right away. If you begin analysis, the
Provincial will refer your name to the province's Prefect of Discipline,
who will begin to pick through your actions of the past year to see if
you've violated any of your vows."
"But I never-"
"I know you never," Stefan said reassuringly. "But the Prefect of
Discipline's job is to be suspicious. The worst thing is . . . even
if your analysis leads to a cure, the Prefect will scrutinize you for
years to come, to guard against a lapse into unpriestly conduct. Which
would limit your prospects. And until your current problem, Father, you
struck me as a priest who'd go far-monsignor, perhaps higher."
"Oh, no. Certainly not. Not me," Brendan said self-deprecatingly.
"Yes, you. And if you beat this problem, you could still go far. But
once you're on the Prefect's danger list, you'll always be suspect. At
best you'll wind up no better than me, a simple parish priest."
A smile flickered at the corners of Brendan's mouth. "It would be an
honor-and a life well spent-to be, as you say, no better than you."
"But you can go farther and be of great service to the Church. And I'm
determined you'll have that chance. So I want you to give me until
Christmas to help you find a way out of this hole. No more pep talks.
No debates about the nature of good and evil. Instead, I'll apply some
of my own theories about psychological disorders. You'll get amateur
treatment from me, but give it a chance. Just until Christmas. Then, if
your distress is still as great, if we're no nearer an answer, I'll put
you in the hands of a Jesuit psychiatrist. Deal?"
Brendan nodded. "Deal."
"Terrific!" Father Wycazik said, sitting up straight, rubbing his hands
together briskly, as if about to chop wood or perform some other
invigorating exercise. "That gives us more than three weeks. For the
first week, you'll put away your ecclesiastical suits, dress in ordinary
clothes, and report to Dr. James McMurtry at St. Joseph's Hospital for
Children. He'll see that you're assigned to the hospital staff."
"As chaplain?"
"As an orderly-emptying bedpans, dhanging bedclothes, whatever is
Brendan blinked. "But what's the point of this?"
"You'll figure it out before the week is up," Stefan said happily. "And
when you understand why I sent you to the hospital, you'll have one
important key to help you unlock your psyche, a key that'll open doors
and give you a look inside yourself, and maybe then you'll see the cause
of your loss of faith-and overcome it."
Brendan looked doubtful.
Father Wycazik said, "You promised me three weeks."
"All right." Brendan unconsciously fingered his Roman collar and seemed
disturbed by the thought of removing it, which was a good sign.
"You'll move out of the rectory until Christmas. I'll give you funds to
pay for meals and an inexpensive hotel room. You'll work and live in the
real world, beyond the shelter of the ecclesiastic life. Now, change
clothes, pack your suitcases, and report back to me. Meanwhile, I'll
call Dr. McMurtry and make the necessary arrangements."
Brendan sighed, got up, went to the door. "There's one thing maybe
supports the notion that my problem's psychological, not intellectual.
I've been having these dreams ...
actually the same dream every time."
"A recurring dream. That's very Freudian."
"I've had it several times a month since August. But this week it's
become a regular occurrence-three out of the last four nights. It's a
bad one, too-a short dream that I have over and over again in one night.
Short, but . . . intense. It's about these black gloves."
"Black gloves?"
Brendan grimaced. "I'm in a strange place. Don't know where. I'm
lying in bed, I think. I seem to be ... restrained. My arms are held
down. And my legs. I want to move, run, get out of there, but I can't.
The light is dim. Can't see much. Then these hands . . ." He
shuddered.
"Hands wearing black gloves?" Father Wycazik prompted.
"Yes. Shiny black gloves. Vinyl or rubber. Tightly fitted and shiny,
not like ordinary gloves." Brendan let go of the doorknob, took two
steps toward the middle of the room, and stood with his hands raised
before his face, as if the sight of them would help him recollect the
details of the me
nacing hands in his dream. "I can't see whose hands
they are. Something wrong with my vision. I can see the hands ... the
gloves ... but only up to the wrists. Beyond that, it's all ...
blurry."
By the offhanded way that Brendan had mentioned the dream, almost as an
afterthought, he obviously wanted to believe that it was of no
consequence. However, his face was paler than before, and there was a
vague but unmistakable flutter of fear in his voice.
A burst of winter wind rattled a loose window pane, and Stefan said,
"The man with black gloves-does he say anything to you?"
"He never speaks." Another shudder. Brendan lowered his hands, thrust
them in his pockets. "He touches me. The gloves are cold, slick." The
curate looked as if he could feel those gloves even now.
Acutely interested, Father Wycazik leaned forward in his chair and said,
"Where do these gloves touch you?"
The young priest's eyes glazed. "They touch . . . my face. Forehead.
Cheeks, neck . . . chest. Cold. They touch me almost everywhere."
"They don't hurt you?"
"No."
"But you're afraid of these gloves, of the man wearing them?"
"Terrified. But I don't know why."
"One can't help but see how Freudian a dream it is."
"I suppose," the curate said.