The Guineveres (22 page)

“Just in case,” I said.

“Yes,” The Guineveres agreed. We all breathed the dusty air of the library, heavy with old books and mothballs. “Just in case.”

*   *   *

On Gaudete Sunday, just two weeks before Christmas, the church was brimming with people, standing room only. Along the back wall of the church crowded weary parishioners, two rows deep. Holidays brought out the religion in people. Wars did, too. The combo of both was good for church attendance, and Father James seemed pleased. We could tell he'd been drinking, could smell it on him when he came to the vestry before mass. He put his violet robe on inside out, kept referring to his Bible as his “book.” “Where's my book?” he asked us. “I can't go on without my book.” We found it for him on the arm of the couch, where he'd set it down before dressing.

Alcohol affects everyone differently. Father James, at times, was a jubilant drunk, upbeat and funny. His step contained an extra bounce. He told us jokes before mass. Bad ones, mostly:

What do you call a sleepwalking nun?

A roamin' Catholic.

What do you call incense burning in mass?

Holy Smoke.

How did Eve ensure Adam wasn't cheating on her?

She counted his ribs.

Father James nearly doubled over after he delivered a punch line. His formality all but disappeared, and in these moments we felt a fondness for him. As soon as he joined the processional line, however, his demeanor changed completely. Sternness overtook his body in the form of stiffness, as though he'd sprained his neck. During mass, he wouldn't look us in the eye, as though to do so would give him away. Our demeanor changed, too. We felt so vulnerable up on the altar, so open to judgment from strangers with whom we'd never so much as exchanged a word. If they knew so much about us, knew we were the poor orphan girls from down at the convent, why didn't they offer their help? Why didn't they ask us to tea or invite us to their potluck dinners or encourage their daughters to introduce themselves to us after mass?

The sunken-faced Drexels sat in the first pew, as usual, and when the lector read the petitions and rattled off the list of boys who had recently died in the War—Sam Gordon, Andrew Winnebaker, Simon Hale, Thad Marino—they crossed themselves and nearly stumbled forward from the weight of their bowed heads. We couldn't help thinking of Our Boys at this point, knowing that hearing one's name in church is never a good sign. It means you're sick, dying, or dead. “Don't wait for a hearse to take you to church,” Sister Fran would sometimes say.

During the concluding rites, before Father James dismissed the congregation, he offered his announcements. Bake sale for charity. Coat drive for the homeless. And then he paused and nodded toward Mr. and Mrs. Drexel, who at that signal stood and faced the congregation. “As you know, Peter Drexel is missing in action, and we would appreciate your continued prayers for his safe return. The War Effort requires those on the home front to do our part—to do more than our part, as the case may be. I'm here today, along with Mr. and Mrs. Henry Drexel, to ask you to consider contributing to a letter-writing campaign on Peter's behalf. If you're so inclined during this holiday season to help those who are truly in need—as we all should do—please join me in writing to the Veterans Administration, beseeching them to provide the Drexels with information about Peter's whereabouts and more transparency in their efforts to locate him and bring him home. You'll find addresses in today's bulletin. May God bless us all.” Mr. and Mrs. Drexel resumed their seats, the organ cued, and we began our processional down the aisle and out the back of the church.

We took our time in the vestry, changing out of our robes. After the last of the congregants said their good-byes, Father James joined us. At first he was silent, and we were afraid we might be scolded. We had forgotten to light the Advent candle, and when Father James made note of it during his homily, referring to it as the flame-that-would-never-extinguish-in-our-hearts before taking notice of its dry, waxy wick, all four of us were caught with a case of the titters we could barely suppress. We laughed so hard, so silently, that Ginny looked to be having an asthma attack. Granted, it wasn't
that
funny, but something struck us about the peculiarity of that moment: the faces of the parishioners pointed reverently toward the Advent wreath, Father James's violet-robed arm bobbing toward the unlit candle, his face slack with disappointment and booze.

Now, in the vestry, Father James scrutinized us, as though trying to read the intentions of our souls. As he did this, he teetered in his vestments, his hands tucked beneath his sleeves. He'd recently dyed his hair black to cover his premature grays; faded dye traced his hairline, and he smelled like furniture polish.

“We're sorry about the candle, Father,” Gwen said. We were sitting on the couch, our knees pressed together at the bone.

“You certainly need to be more attuned to such details in the future.”

“And the laughing, Father,” Ginny said. “We're sorry about that, too.”

“This isn't a penance session, girls, though I'm certain church canon is such for a reason. Altar
boys
rarely succumb to fits of giggles. This is the house of God, and though He enjoys mirth, he's prone to earnestness during the service.” Father James released a long sigh, and with it a cloud of sour breath. “Such times call for the lowly to step into higher positions, do they not?”

We nodded our heads, then lowered them completely.

Father James stumbled to his closet, the one where he kept his own vestments. He swung open the door and staggered backward a little, knocking into the processional cross that was propped against the wall. He took hold of the cross with one hand to steady himself, but it rocked back and forth on its one wooden leg. At that point, The Guineveres jumped from our seats to help him. We grabbed him beneath the armpits, the way we did with the old folks in the Sick Ward. That's when we noticed the bottle of wine beneath his robe, leaking dark liquid around its crooked cork like the slow dripping of blood down Father James's vestment.

We led Father James to the couch and sat him down. He thanked us by patting our hips, which seemed impious, but could have just been the angle at which we were standing. “Tell me, girls,” he said. “Do you believe that God is fair and just? That He's a good guy?”

“A good guy?” we asked.

“A good God,” he corrected.

“Yes, Father,” said Gwen, licking her lips until they were shiny.

“Yes, Father,” the rest of us replied.

“Then you'll know, girls, that there are certain things God asks us to keep to ourselves—personal sufferings, you may consider it. But personal joys, too, and the sufferings and joys of others. God already knows all—and so He can read even the deepest of our thoughts without our having to say them aloud. Do you understand?”

“We understand, Father,” said Gwen. “Don't we, girls?” When she said “girls” she held on to the
s
just like Father James.

“Yes,” the rest of us said. “He's omnipotent.” We did understand, which is why we didn't feel compelled to tell anyone about Our Boys. How we loved them. How we intended to locate their families and go home with them, finally leaving the convent for good.

“There is no church law governing the taking of wine as a sin,” Father James explained. “In fact, the Good Book tells us, ‘Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake and thine often infirmities.'”

“If it's not a sin, then, can we try some?” Gwen asked. “For our stomach's sake.” She batted her eyelashes and wrapped her fingers around the neck of the wine bottle as she sat down beside Father James on the couch. “It just may help us keep these sufferings to ourselves,” she said. Without waiting for a response, she raised the bottle to her lips and took a swig. Then she passed the bottle to us.

At first the rest of us didn't know what to do. We'd never drunk alcohol before, except for sips from the communion chalice, and we weren't really sure that we wanted to. But Gwen kept prodding us on, and to resist would have seemed a betrayal. “Bottoms up,” she said. One by one we closed our eyes and lifted the rim to our lips. And, like that, we were baptized in wine.

Still today, I don't drink much, maybe because I can never replicate the euphoria of that first time. There was a bit of magic to it. The warmth from the wine washed over me; it spread down my body, through my stomach, and out to my limbs. It's the closest I've come to feeling aglow with the Holy Spirit. My body melted into a relaxation I can only compare to the deepest meditation. The bottle passed from hand to hand, and each time, bottoms up.

The wine quickly numbed us—a good kind of numb. Our muscles relaxed. We didn't cross our legs as we sat, didn't bother pressing our knees together, and this, to us, was a release. We felt loose and free to speak without first being spoken to, and so we did.

“Father James,” asked Gwen as he opened another bottle of wine from his closet and passed it around again, “Did you ever have a girlfriend, before you took your vows?”

Father James blushed. “That isn't the the kind of question you're supposed to ask a priest,” he said.

“Sister Fran says there are no stupid questions,” Win said. She ran her tongue along the underside of her lips as though her mouth were losing feeling, like mine was.

“Okay, I will answer, then. Yes, I did once.”

“What happened to her?” we asked.

“What happened to her,” he repeated. He looked sidelong as though someone were waiting in the wings, then hummed for a moment and touched the scar on his lip. “What happened is that I decided to join the priesthood. I had a calling. One's vocation is stronger than one's earthly desires, you know. That's why it's considered a sacrifice of the highest blessing.”

“Do you think all sacrifice is a blessing?” one of us asked. “Like those soldiers. Or like us.”

“Like you?” Father James laughed. “Girls, you haven't sacrificed anything yet. Just wait until you're older, and then you'll see what real sacrifice is.”

“We
were
sacrificed,” someone said. “By our parents.”

“And do you know who else was sacrificed by His parent? Consider yourself in very good company.”

“Sister Margaret says God approves of the War,” I said.

“Sister Margaret is still learning,” he said.

“What did she look like?” we asked. “Your girlfriend?”

“Oh, girls.” He sat up and tried to remove his arms from his robe, but thought better of it and settled back into the couch.

“At least tell us her name,” we said.

Father James grinned, then looked out the window as if he were remembering something funny. “I suggest the four of you get back to Sister Fran. These times are not ones in which we'd wish to create unnecessary worry.”

“Why do you always say ‘these times'?” one of us asked. I'm not sure who; the alcohol had softened us. “Why don't you just say wartime?” Father James shook his head, then passed the bottle, and we drank once again; this time Ginny spilled some down the front of her blouse. Father James handed her his handkerchief.

“There's a time for everything,” he said. His body relaxed, and he swept a hand through his hair. “A season for every single activity you can think of under the heavens. And I mean every single activity.”

“A time for killing?” we asked.

“And a time to heal,” he replied. “Dear girls. One domino falls, the others go.” Here he stopped to flick an imaginary domino suspended midair.

“But how long will it last?” one of us asked.

“Nobody knows.”

“Do you think they'll find Peter Drexel?”

“I certainly hope so. For his parents' sake, as much as his. The home front can be as brutal as the battlefield.”

“If the VA knows where Peter is, why wouldn't they just say so?”

“Maybe they don't know that they know. Lots of information gets lost in a bureaucracy during wartime.”

“Do you think the soldiers in the convalescent wing will wake up?” Ginny asked.

“Girls, I've learned not to ask myself questions that only God can answer. It's a futile endeavor.”

Ginny curled herself into a ball on her chair. Gwen shut her eyes. Win plucked out strands of hair from her head without flinching. Suddenly we felt very afraid, as if the whole world comprised a tiny point and we were sitting on the edge of it. As if at any moment the room might explode, sending small bits of shrapnel through our hearts. The radiator clicked in the corner. We unbuttoned our sweaters.

“You needn't worry about the War,” he said.

“But we want to worry about the War, Father,” we said. “We're part of the War Effort.”

“Then perhaps the greatest effort of this War will be understanding your place in it. And there is no place for girls like yourselves.” Father James burped beneath his breath. “There's a difference between what we want and what we must do. That's why God created both desire and duty.” He burped again. “And now you, my dear girls, must return to the convent.
That
is your duty. And it is my desire to send you back.”

“At least tell us your girlfriend's name,” we said. “Just that one detail.”

He paused before he spoke, his smile the shape of an orange slice. “Her name was Guinevere.”

“Guinevere?” we said. We couldn't tell if he was being serious. But then he laughed, and then we laughed, too, and soon we were all laughing in the vestry, our torsos bent, our arms crossed over our bellies to contain ourselves.

“Oh, the bounty of Guineveres,” Father James said.

“Was she pretty?” we asked.