The Good Life (24 page)

Father Dom pulled out a dependable scenario: the teenage boy who liked to kill cats. Once a student had sputtered, “You did
what
?” But Sipley was smooth, listening through Father Dom's resentful confession—his mother, he said, had forced him to come—and then talking about the sanctity of God's creations. “We are called to be good stewards,” Sipley said. “Our job is to protect the defenseless.”

In the discussion afterward, everyone praised Sipley's clarity. Joe said that he admired Sipley's calm demeanor. Hernandez suggested that Sipley might have spent a little more time exploring the reason the boy was tying firecrackers to cats' legs. Sipley nodded, taking notes.

An anxious silence took over the room when Father Dom asked for further comments; the air seemed to prickle. Joe was already trudging to the front of the room, where he hung the purple stole around his neck and sat down. “Okay,” he whispered.

Reciting the opening prayer and adding that it had been six years since his last confession, Father Dom wondered if he looked as nervous as he felt. He hoped so. A good priest would try to put a parishioner at ease.

“What brings you here today?” Joe finally asked. His voice was faint. Sipley jotted a note.

“I didn't think I'd ever come to confession again. I don't really believe in this. But I just saw my doctor. He says I'm HIV-positive.” Father Dom paused. “I'm twenty-six years old.”

He had gone over Joe's transcripts. Part of the young man's fourth-year field education had been hospice work; he could draw on his experience with real patients, people he'd known and liked. But now, while Father Dom waited, Joe didn't say anything. “Are you there?” Father Dom said.

“Go on.”

“Did you hear me? I'm twenty-six years old, and I'm HIV-positive. I just left the doctor. You're the first person I've told. I'm not sure I can tell anybody else.” Father Dom left room for Joe to ask about his family or to murmur that the church was a good place to come to. “How could this happen to me?”

The silence stretched and thickened until Father Dom felt anger start to buckle his thoughts. What was the matter with Joe? All he had to say was
Are you afraid? Do you feel alone? God is with you, even now. Especially now
. A kid who tied firecrackers to cats could figure out that much.

“The only place I could think to come was here,” Father Dom said bitterly. “Don't ask me why. It's not like the Church has ever helped before.”

“Have you made plans for your death?” Joe said.

Air actually seemed to fly out of Father Dom's lungs. When he looked up, every one of the students was writing. Even Sipley looked stunned.

Joe was still talking, his voice like sand. “You need to study the teachings of the Holy Father and then accord yourself with them. The Church is very clear about the sinfulness of homosexual behavior. You should have come here sooner.”

“That's not good enough,” Father Dom said. He'd never mentioned homosexuality. Twenty-six years old! Maybe that sounded old to this reedy voice behind the screen. “What am I supposed to do now? I need help.”

“There are several hospices in the area.”

“What is the
matter
with you?” Father Dom said. He stuck his face up close to the screen. “It is your job to care.”

In the long silence, Father Dom imagined Joe standing at the top of the cliff. His hands were tucked safely up his priestly sleeves while Father Dom slipped off the edge.

“Peace be with you,” Joe said.

Father Dom opened and then closed his mouth, unable to think of one more thing to say. The students were silent until Sipley, of all people, laughed. At that small, embarrassed noise the others laughed too, looking at their feet. Even Father Benni, whose lips had been tight, joined in. Only Father Dom remained silent. When Joe stood up, Father Dom saw the dark spots on the stole where the boy had sweated through it.

“I want to be a priest.” Joe's voice was desperate.

“Why?” Father Dom said.

 

Father Benni called a faculty meeting that afternoon. “What are his strengths?” he said, palming back the thick hair he was normally vain about. He didn't have to explain what had happened in the practicum. Word was out before lunch.

“He pitches in,” Father Petrus said. “He's not a shirker.”

“Or a know-it-all,” Father Wells said.

“There's a real sweetness there,” said Father Lomax, who didn't generally talk in these meetings.

“I know we all like Joe,” Father Benni said, “but this sounds like we're describing the president of the Altar Society. How would he do with a headstrong parishioner? With a parish council? Can he lead?”

“He hears a call,” Father Dom muttered.

“Calls can be misheard,” Father Benni said.

“You think he doesn't know that?” Father Dom stared at the whorls in the table's laminated surface. “He goes around listening all the time. Priesthood is the one thing he wants, and he's terrified that we're going to take it away from him.”

“That's hardly our job. Still, when I compare him to some of the other men—” Father Benni shook his head.

“That's exactly why it's important for Joe to be here,” Father Dom said. He wished he could curb the desperation rocketing through his voice. “He has his own gifts. The seminary isn't supposed to turn out identical priests, each one perfectly sure of himself, rolling off an assembly line with his collar in place and his opinions set for life.” He stopped under the weight of the rector's sharp gaze, then added, “A little uncertainty isn't a bad thing.”

“What I saw in your classroom was not enough uncertainty,” Father Benni said. “If that had been a real confession, the poor man would have left the church and walked in front of a bus. Joe did everything but push him.”

“Why don't we assign him a mentor?” said Father Lomax. “Someone he can talk to, who has better judgment.”

Father Dom couldn't hold back his sigh. Was the mentor going to follow Joe to his parish and slip into the confessional with him? But Father Benni was steepling his fingers, pondering the suggestion, and Father Dom's imprudent heart lifted.

“Joe might improve if he's taken in hand by someone at his own level,” the rector said. “He might be less defensive. Some of the men have volunteered to help.”

“Greg, you're not thinking of assigning one of the students?” Father Dom said.

The rector nodded, apparently indifferent to the horror in Father Dom's voice. “It's win-win. A fine opportunity for growth on both sides. Besides, none of us wants to stay up as late as the students do.”

Fathers Wells and Berton, those toadies, laughed. Father Dom said, “Students don't have the experience. They think they know more than they do. Joe needs trustworthy guidance.”

“He's had the benefit of your guidance for four years,” Father Benni said. “I'd say it's time for a new approach.”

“Just not this one,” Father Dom said. The priests laughed and pushed back their chairs. Dependable Dom, always good for a joke. He stayed at the table until he and the rector were alone in the room. “Nobody wants Joe to succeed more than I do,” Father Dom said. “But it's going to take a miracle.”

“Good. That's our turf.”

“Right,” Father Dom said bitterly. “I keep forgetting.”

 

Father Benni chose Sipley to be Joe's mentor. And he chose Father Dom to oversee Sipley—to mentor the mentor. Father Dom was overscheduled with classes and field experience and his outreach program at the youth center, but he was glad for the assignment. Every night Sipley came to him to describe Joe's progress, and Father Dom imagined Joe as a fragile boat that he could still see in his spyglass.

“He's shy, is all. Once you get him in a situation where he's comfortable, he opens up.” Sipley was sitting in Father Dom's office, cradling between his big hands the cup of coffee Father Dom had offered.

“Where is he comfortable?”

“You should have seen him in the soup kitchen. He was jawing with everybody who came through. ‘Hey, how's it going, you want gravy with that?' And nobody gave him a hard time. I think they could see what he is.” Sipley shifted his bulky thighs on the hard chair. “In his way, he really brings out the best in people.”

“But can you imagine Joe setting up the soup kitchen and overseeing it? A priest needs to show initiative.”

Sipley shifted again. Even in his discomfort he gave the impression of being fundamentally comfortable. “He's heard a call, Father. It isn't up to me to question that.”

“It is up to the rector and me to question that.” Looking at Sipley's polite, averted face, Father Dom added, “In the service of the Church. Joe will be a representative of the Holy Father. And we're asking you to help us make sure he can be a good representative.”

The speech had the desired effect: Sipley leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. When he spoke, his resonant voice was confiding. “Joe's never going to be a take-charge guy. He's all heart. But if he's working with somebody who can direct him, he'll give a hundred percent. He wants this so much.”

Father Dom analyzed the young man's ruddy face and broad, chapped hands. Everything about him breathed with vibrancy. Had he ever wondered why quailing Joe could be drawn to the same priesthood Sipley was so confident about? Had he thought about the role of a man in society but not of it, safely shut away from human contact by vestments and a collar? Probably not. Sipley himself wanted to be a priest so he could tell people what to do.

“I can't believe there's no place for him,” Sipley was saying.

“We're still looking,” Father Dom said.

Sipley nodded. “If you don't mind my asking, Father—did you question my call, too?”

Startled, Father Dom said, “You don't present the same issues.”

“But still.”

Sipley's wide-set eyes were alit with new curiosity. This chance would not come again. “Of course we did,” said Father Dom. “There's no such thing as an automatic priest.”

“All my life people have told me I was born to be a priest. My mother, for one. Half the time it's a compliment.”

“It's not something to be taken for granted.”

“So I'm being tested? Is that why you asked me to help with Joe?”

“You're likely to pass,” Father Dom said. “Don't lose any sleep over this.” But he could see already, as Sipley stood and shook Father Dom's hand, how the young man's body was bright with new energy. Father Dom should have been grateful; his own weariness had increased a hundredfold.

In the days that followed, Father Dom expected Sipley to lay siege to Joe, intent on their mutual salvation. But Sipley was a better psychologist than Father Dom had given him credit for. He met Joe casually, in the halls or over coffee, and twice he reported to Father Dom that he hadn't spoken with Joe that day. “Figured he could use a vacation from me.”

Father Dom was giving Joe a vacation, too. Aside from the weekly meetings of the practicum, he saw Joe only from a distance—in the library, the dining commons, on the walkway in front of the soccer field. When he believed himself unobserved, Joe took his place easily with the other men, and from time to time he tipped back his head in laughter. But as soon as he saw Father Dom, his gaze dropped again, and dread clung to his pale, chewed mouth. Father Dom understood that Joe had assigned him the role of the enemy, obstacle to Joe's happiness. The perception wasn't wrong, but still Father Dom felt stung.

Every day he defended Joe to one priest or another, pointing out how the young man was the first to help clear tables, the first to donate to clothing drives for countries rent by earthquakes. He heard the words' puniness as they rolled out of his mouth. Everyone in the seminary was waiting for Joe to prove himself with something more than a clothing drive. In these priest-starved days, when Father Lomax predicted that St. Boniface would have to start ordaining dogs, it was a special humiliation to be reevaluated, and Father Dom knew that Joe felt persecuted.

So Father Dom was relieved when, after three weeks of mentoring, Sipley told him that he had a new idea about Joe, a breakthrough plan. “It's nothing that you'll object to. I've put in a few phone calls, and I'm waiting to hear.”

“Give me a hint, in case the rector asks.”

Sipley paused. “The battle is not to the strong.”

“That's not going to be much help if he presses me for details.”

“Joe just needs the right chance to shine.” Sipley beamed. As always, he was confident in the goodness of his actions. But Father Dom wondered if the young man remembered the end of the passage he had quoted: “all are subject to time and mischance.”

 

A week passed before Father Dom returned to his office and found a note tacked to the corkboard.
Could you join Joe and me in the dining room? We'd like to propose something
. Father Dom turned left, toward the cafeteria, worrying at a hangnail as he walked.
We
.

The dining room was empty except for the two men sitting by the window, whose heads swung up in unison at the creak of the swinging door. Sipley said, “Thank you for coming, Father.”

Father Dom seated himself beside Joe. Since the young man was pretending he hadn't edged away from the table, Father Dom pretended he didn't notice.

“An opportunity has come up,” Sipley said after Father Dom turned down coffee or iced tea. “I think it's too special to miss. One of the staff members at St. Thérèse House had to leave, and they need someone to step in right away. Joe and I could go together.”

“Are you serious?” Father Dom said.

“It's a special opportunity.” Joe's voice was dim. “Our men don't usually go there.”