The Jew's Wife & Other Stories (12 page)

   “Then, you knew his first
wife.”

   “No, I didn’t. Charlie and I were
out of touch for a while. Did you know her?”

   “
Sure.
We were good friends.” She turned toward him, her face barely
visible. “She was a nurse at the hospital where I used to work. In
Boonton. Do you know where that is?”

   “
Vaguely.

   “
I was in their
wedding.”

   
He would have
thought someone who had served as bridesmaid for one woman would
feel out of place in the house of the second wife, cousin or
not.

   “
Actually, I introduced Charlie to Sylvia. At about the time
he was filing his papers against Nancy. Sylvia was a real wimp in
those days, afraid of her own shadow. I knew she and Charlie would
hit it off after what he’d been through with Nancy. Of course, I
had no idea he would end up marrying her.”

   “
They
didn’t get along—Charlie and his first wife?”

   She laughed.

   “Fought like cats. Nancy and I
still keep in touch. No hard feelings. If she bears any grudge,
it’s toward Charlie’s mother.”

   “
I can
imagine.”

   “
You met Mrs.
Weeks? Well, then you know what she’s like. Needless to say, she
wasn’t thrilled about either the divorce or Charlie’s remarrying.
But you’d never know it today. She’s crazy about Sylvia. Took to
her like she was a new daughter. All she talks about is when
they’re going to give her a grandchild. Drives Charlie up the wall.
That was why he was so keyed up this morning.”

   “
Charlie doesn’t
want children?”

   “
No way. Sylvia
told me he made her agree not to have any, before they got married.
Of course, Sylvia would like nothing better than to get pregnant.
She doesn’t have many years left. But she’s so crazy about Charlie
she’ll do whatever he wants.”

   “
Unlike his
first wife.”

   “
Exactly.” She
turned toward him. “I don’t know why I’m repeating all this.
Ordinarily I don’t gossip.”

   
They
walked in silence for a while. He looked up and saw a break in the
overcast. A star darted in and out of view. When he looked down
again he thought he could see its reflection on the
waves.

   “Did you always want to be a
priest?”

   “As far back as I can recall. My
mother says I used to imitate the priest when they took me to
Sunday mass. I couldn’t have been more than two or three at the
time. The sermons seemed to have a special effect on me. Back in
those days there was a lot of thunder and lightening in the pulpit.
The church has changed a great deal in my lifetime. Mostly for the
better.”

   “
Do you
miss those captive audiences, the ones the old-timers used to
harangue when you were just a babe in arms?”

   “
Not
really.” He stopped to look at the lights of a freighter. His own
monsignor had been one of those harum-scarum types until senility
put a damper on his righteousness.

   
As if
following his thoughts, she asked, “What would your pastor say if
he saw you now?”

   “
Bust a
gut, probably. Then again, his mind is so far gone he might not
recognize me.”

   “How can you work under someone
like that?”

   “It’s not easy. Still, I get to
handle more responsibility than the ordinary assistant pastor.”

   “
You like
that.”

   “
Yes,” he
admitted, “I do.”

   “
Maybe some day
you’ll have a parish of your own.”

   
He turned to
read her expression, but by now she was just a slim
silhouette.

   “
I’ve
never been in the least bit religious,” she went on. “I don’t
suppose I should say this, you being a priest, but I don’t think I
believe in God. I’m not even sure what God is supposed to be,” she
said, as if confessing to never having understood the operation of
a simple arithmetic function.

   “
I think
that’s how it is for most people, including orthodox
Christians.”

   “
But not
for you. To you God is the man who loved Lazarus’ sister. Do you
believe he died and rose from the dead?”

   “
Yes. The
crucifixion was his most important act.”

   “
To
die?”

   “For a reason.”

   “Then, why hasn’t everything
gotten better? Why do people go on killing each other and babies
starve?”

   
He
hesitated, then said, “He didn’t come to rid the world of
suffering. He came to redeem it.”

   “
But
surely he could have done better than that. With all the pain and
deprivation in the world, surely God Almighty could have done more
than say, ‘It’s alright, your sins are forgiven’.”

   
He
hesitated again. Suffering, except as expiation, was a question
even theologians couldn’t resolve.

   “
Evil is
a mystery—physical evil, I mean. Christ came to relieve the moral
kind.”

   “
And
left us in the same mess. I’m sorry, but I can’t see how the world
is better off because your Jesus visited this planet.”

   
The
questions she was raising were familiar enough, but he seemed to be
hearing them for the first time. In fact, with her he felt as if he
were still a young priest just starting out instead of a
middle-aged curate at the end of his spiritual tether. “You could
say it’s a question of hope. Without Christ we have no hope of
being saved.”

   “
From
hellfire?”

   “
Yes, but from
ourselves too. From our worst selves—our petty selfish selves.
That’s all sin really is—selfishness—putting ourselves before God
and our fellow man and woman.”

   “
Your Jesus
keeps us from doing that?”

   “
Hardly. He just
gives us hope, that maybe tomorrow we won’t be as selfish as we are
today. And in the meantime he comforts us with forgiveness, tells
us it’s okay we haven’t done so well and not to worry about how
we’ve failed, just to concentrate on doing better.”

   
He had
never articulated his belief in words like these. Ever since
childhood he had made repeated, even heartfelt acts of faith in the
church’s doctrines, and his devotions sometimes had been fervent as
well. But more recently the joy had gone out of his faith, a
consequence, he had rationalized, of the aging process. He had
resolved that what he no longer intensely felt he would appreciate
better intellectually; what had become doctrinal cliché he would
redeem by hard work. But tonight, walking with this agnostic, he
discovered that the core of his faith was reducible to a simplicity
that transcended the boundaries of any particular religious
denomination.

   “
The part about
selfishness and hope is nice,” she said. “But could we head home
now? I’m getting cold.”

   
When
they got back to the house Rosalie slung a sleeping bag over her
shoulder and headed up to the deck without making an issue over his
declining to share the night breezes there. He bid her good night
and sat down in the living room to finish his office. By the time
he concluded the day’s reading his eyes were already half
shut.

   
When he
opened them in bed sometime later, he had no idea what had caused
him to awaken. He had not been dreaming, at least not about
anything that might startle him into consciousness. He lay on his
side, facing the bedroom window. At first he thought it must be
near dawn, because a bluish light showed between the break of the
dark curtains. Then he remembered that the moon had risen late in a
clearing sky. He turned onto his back. As he did so his shoulder
touched something smooth. He lay absolutely still, allowing his
mind to sort through itself for an explanation.

   “
It’s
me,” a familiar but misplaced voice whispered. He was too
frightened to reply, or even move, as frightened as he had been as
a child of the dark—only, now something really had come out of it.
There was a scent he associated with mass. “Hold me.” Cool fingers
found his own and locked into them. He tried to free himself, but
she held tight. “Please. I had a terrible nightmare.” Her body
trembled against his own. “Just for a minute. I’m such a baby about
nightmares.”

   
When he
awoke the next morning the room was ablaze with light, as if the
morning sun were hovering just outside the window. What had
happened during the night seemed all too real. He had allowed the
woman to lie beside him. She had even fallen asleep there. He had
lain motionless, listening to her breathing. Her mouth made a wet
spot on his pajama top.

   
But she
had either returned to the deck again or had awakened before him
and was downstairs brewing morning coffee. He lingered beneath the
bedclothes, trying to make sense of the queer feeling he had, until
he realized that his failure to appear might cause her to return to
his bedroom. He got up and dressed quickly.

   She was gone. A brief note
said that she was returning home. In a postscript she added that
Charlie and Sylvia would be back by early afternoon. A pot of fresh
coffee was still hot on the stove.

   
It was
not like him to run off with no more of an apology than the note he
had left, just as Rosalie had done. But this was not an ordinary
morning. After reading her own message at first he felt relieved.
There would be no awkward confrontation over breakfast, no
embarrassing apologies. But as he poured himself a cup of her good
coffee, relief turned to irritation. Everyone seemed to be doing as
he or she pleased. He carried the coffee along with his office out
onto the balcony, but the bright sun made reading impossible. Back
inside, the house seemed unnaturally quiet. He turned on a radio,
turned it off, fixed himself a second cup of coffee. But it was no
use. He was becoming increasingly restless. It was then that he
decided to leave. The sun was not yet high in the sky, but to avoid
running into Charlie and Sylvia in case they returned sooner than
expected he hiked half a mile south before he set his suitcase down
on the highway and stuck out his thumb.

   
The note
he left said that he had been called back to his parish. He
regretted that untruth as he nervously scanned the deserted road.
At the time it seemed merely a white lie, since he had assumed he
would indeed return to Holy Name. But now the prospect of putting
up with Margaret, even for a couple hours, seemed nothing short of
appalling. He considered heading for his mother’s instead, but she
would only just be back from her vacation and would need a couple
days respite.

   
He had
promised himself never again to hitchhike, but by now felt an old
hand at it. He had learned how to establish eye contact with the
driver of an oncoming vehicle and maintain it until the car or
truck passed by, adding a personal appeal to the boldly extended
thumb. He could even see the flicker of guilt on a driver’s face
when he or she failed to slow down.

   
His
first ride, an unemployed schoolteacher, took him as far as
Manasquan. He had trouble, though, getting a second ride,
apparently because people were reluctant to pick up a hitchhiker
inside town limits. He also had to be on the lookout for police. He
didn’t want to spend a day in jail or, worse, have them contact his
parish. But despite the hot sun beating down, he felt better than
he did before he had set out. His mind was clear now about what had
happened. He had been a victim of circumstances: first, Charlie’s
deception about his divorce, then his producing a second houseguest
and leaving them alone together, ending with the woman climbing
into his bed.

   
But
then, like a dream suddenly remembered, he recalled Rosalie’s soft
cheek against his chest and the trembling of her small hand in his
own. The recollection was too stark to be imagined, too
preposterous to be real. His heart began to beat hard with
embarrassment, but also with something else—a kind of exaltation he
hadn’t felt since he was a young priest in the thrall of his first
consecrations.

   
A tan SUVpulled
up.

   “
How far you
going?”

   “New York.”

   “I’ll take you as far as Asbury.”
He got in and the driver, a short-haired man in his early twenties,
told him to roll up the window he had just lowered because the car
was air-conditioned. “You’re lucky today’s my day off.” He reached
into his shirt pocket and flipped open a plastic identification
wallet. The priest glimpsed what looked like a high school
photograph and silver badge. “You could get thirty days for
hitchhiking on city streets.”

   “
I’m much
obliged.”

   “
I can’t be
bothered going to court today,” the young man went on
self-importantly. “Otherwise you could find your ass in jail.” He
punctuated his remark with a big, not altogether friendly grin.
“Live in the Big Apple?”

   “
Northern New Jersey. My car broke down. I stayed overnight
with a friend.”

   “
That
so? What’s the matter with your friend, he couldn’t give you a
lift?”

   “
His mother took
ill in Philadelphia.”