The Jew's Wife & Other Stories (22 page)

   
Rosalie had been
right to question all that. As the first refinery towns appeared
beside the highway, belching tongues of flame into the afternoon
sky, he recalled the conversations they had had about Jesus and
Lazarus’ sisters. He had spoken more eloquently to her than he ever
did while preaching. His sermons seemed cribbed homework
assignments by comparison. Rosalie would never know what she had
inspired.

   
As a huge
tractor-trailer roared past him, he wished he could speak like that
any time he chose. Perhaps if he had an audience as interested,
even though antagonistic, he could. But no one in Holy Name Parish
cared that deeply about Christ. They accepted whatever they were
told like schoolchildren—dull, unquestioning children. They didn’t
like everything they heard—the pope’s policy on birth control, the
celibate priesthood—but there were no budding Martin Luthers among
them. That type had either left the Church altogether or had been
frightened out of their natural curiosity by the nuns’ hellfire.
Preaching to what was left, the vacant-eyed old folks and their
spineless children, was like reading astrology charts to movie
stars.

   
He blinked hard.
Even during the most trying periods of his priesthood he had never
put together such an indictment of his church. If anything, he had
been all too willing to rationalize its shortcomings, contenting
himself with private bitching. He had never dared to question the
basics. How could he, when the line between freedom of thought and
sin was drawn so fine that neither he nor anyone but a Jesuit could
know how far it was permissible to go? The church was supposed to
have changed since the Council. But as far as he could see, the
only people Vatican II had affected were those who had removed
themselves altogether from the church’s authority. For the rest,
for him and all the other so-called faithful, it was business as
usual under a post-Council veneer of vernacularism and ecumenical
pretense.

   
The car’s air
conditioning was going full-blast, but sweat had broken out on his
brow. He was approaching an exit near Newark. He had, it seemed,
only a short time left to think such thoughts, to decide whether he
would return to his old life or try to begin over again. But how,
and where? He flipped on the directional signal and pulled into the
rightmost lane. He needed to slow down, literally and
mentally.

   
He followed a
winding exit ramp to the intersection of a four-lane truck route. A
green-and-white sign indicated mileages to points west and east.
One of the towns listed caught his eye, but it wasn’t until the
light had turned green that he recalled why it stood out. He was
out of lane for a left-hand turn, but held his ground against the
chorus of horns sounding behind him until he had a clear path onto
the west bound highway. It wasn’t until then, his heart pounding as
if he had just run a red light, that he gave conscious thought to
what he had done. He spotted a Burger King and turned in for a cup
of coffee.

   
It was not yet
dinnertime and he had the place almost to himself. He sat down in a
booth facing the westbound lanes of the highway. A steady
procession of rush-hour traffic passed by. On the other side of the
road a restaurant in the shape of a Chinese temple flashed a neon
welcome. Beside it stood an electronics store. He sipped his coffee
and recalled the sweet corn and ham Martha had served him a week
ago. He was no longer welcome there, thanks to the poison
Anne-Marie had poured in their ears and because of his own innocent
deception about his identity. Or had it been innocent? Did he have
any right to expect people not to feel outraged if he deliberately
kept from them who he really was? Could he expect them to
understand his notions about going native for a few days? Martha’s
censure today had burned him as much as if he were guilty of some
truly criminal act or of having succumbed to Anne-Marie’s obscene
propositions. Only Rosalie had known what he was and accepted him
for the man beneath the roman collar. He ought to have answered her
call to the rectory. His fear of what Margaret might think had
stopped him—Margaret, that overbearing old maid with no life of her
own beyond the rectory and its three hostages to her will. Wasn’t
it time he emancipated himself from his housekeeper? Forty was late
to be asserting his independence, but better now and late than
never at all.

   
He left the
coffee half-drunk in its plastic container.

   
There was a
public telephone outside the restaurant’s rear entrance. He began
fishing in his pants pocket for the telephone number Margaret had
handed him when he returned from the retreat house, but then
realized he already knew it by heart.

    CHAPTER THIRTEEN

   “All this happened just
this past week?”

   
He was sitting
in Rosalie’s kitchen, finishing a plate of coq au vin. He hadn’t
expected she would have an entire house to herself. He had imagined
her in a studio or one-bedroom apartment.

   “
You’ve
certainly bounced around. It’s a wonder you’re not in a hospital
yourself,” she said, pouring him more wine against his half-hearted
objection. “I’m sorry about my leaving Sylvia’s like
that.”

   “
You had to get
back to your job.”

   “
Well, yes...and
no. It could have kept till Monday. Just some purchasing orders I
forgot to tell my assistant about.”

   “
I
understand.”

   
She regarded him
critically.

   “
No, you don’t.
You thought me very rude for taking off without any explanation.
And you’re right. You deserve an explanation, and an apology.
Only”—she shrugged her shoulders—“I don’t have any...explanation, I
mean.”

   
He would prefer
she dropped the subject. The memory of her shivering body against
his own was still quite vivid.

   “
Could I trouble
you for some coffee?”

   “
Of course,” she
replied, snapping out of her dark muse. “Black, right?

   “
One thing I
don’t understand,” she said after they had moved to the living
room, a snug, well-furnished room which reminded him of the house
where he had grown up. There was a staircase leading to the second
floor and an upright piano standing against the base of it. He used
to play on the rug of a room just like this. The family Christmas
tree sometimes stood in the corner beside the piano, which his
brother took lessons on for a couple years but then abandoned. He
used to feel sorry for that lonely piano. “Why didn’t you ask
Charlie to pick you up instead of taking a bus from Toms
River?”

   “
I had reasons
for not going into how I had ended up at the shore.”

   “
Why? Your car
broke down, so you decided to spend a little time looking around
before returning to your parish. What’s so terrible about that?”
She was curled up on a high-backed easy chair, in much the same
feline attitude he had first seen her at Charlie’s. Only, tonight
she was wearing a pair of slacks and a sweater. “Because as a
priest you aren’t supposed to get notions like that—visiting your
adolescent stomping grounds?”

   “
That’s part of
it.””

   “
What’s the
other?”

   
He crossed one
foot over the other and slumped down on the sofa. He was flattered
and discomforted by her questions. It felt good to unburden himself
of these innocent secrets; but such frankness, at least with a lay
person, was new for him.

   “
I’m not sure I
can explain so you’d understand.”

   “
Try me.” Her
eyes took on the hard glint they had shown at Charlie’s dinner
table. He had reacted pompously then, the result of too much wine.
He didn’t want to make a fool of himself again.

   “
I guess I was
afraid he’d think I was acting irresponsibly.”

   “
You care so
much what Charlie Weeks thinks?”

   “
Indirectly, I
do. Sure.”

   
She regarded him
with a curious smile. The nasty sparkle was gone from her
eyes.

   “
You must have
thought yourself quite the bad little boy. Do you still feel that
way?”

   “
Not any
more.”

   
She showed him
the back yard, where she had planted rose bushes and tried
unsuccessfully to get tomato plants to bear fruit. “I must have
bought all male plants—or all female.” A flock of sparrows were
quarreling in a lilac bush. Other shrubbery gave the yard a sense
of privacy from those abutting it, even of seclusion. They sat down
on garden chairs in the middle of a ragged lawn. It was his
favorite part of the day and his favorite place to spend it,
reminiscent of that precious time of childhood between supper and
bedtime when he had been allowed to play out-of-doors during the
long summer evenings.

   “
So, it’s back
to the old grind on Monday,” she said, sipping wine she had brought
with her from the house.

   “
But you have
this lovely garden to come home to,” he replied. “The roses and
tomato plants. You even have your own birds to keep you
company.”

   “
Some company.
You should hear them at six a.m. when all you want is a few minutes
extra sleep.”

   
He thought of
his static-ridden clock radio and the smell of Margaret’s
unpalatable coffee.

   “
You have a
little Eden here, Rosalie. Some people would give their right arm
for this.”

   
She looked
around the yard as if for the first time.

   “
Even with the
grass chewed up like it is?”

   “
Of course. This
is what Americans work all their lives for—a house with a yard,
some flowers, a couple tomato plants.”

   “
Actually, I
hardly ever come out here by myself. Maybe that’s why I don’t
appreciate it. I don’t enjoy doing things alone. What do you look
forward to? Apart from these wild excursions you take in the
summer.”

   
He laughed. If
someone had told him a few hours ago he would feel this contented
before the day was over, he would have thought them
insane.

   “
Nothing as
idyllic as this.” He contemplated the lilac bush, its flowers
long-gone but its leaves showing a rich green. He tried to think of
some pleasure comparable, but again had to go back to his childhood
to come up with any thing. “Sometimes the work itself,” he said
finally. “Doing something well. Being able to help when someone
needs it.” He turned toward her. “Golf. Or at least golf courses. I
guess I’m in love with grass, the more the better.”

   “
There’s a
couple nice courses near here. Maybe we could play them
sometime.”

   “
Why
not?”

   
They said
nothing for a while. But the silence did not seem awkward, as he
continued to enjoy the yard’s muted beauty and Rosalie seemed
absorbed in her own thoughts.

   
Then she said,
“I wasn’t quite telling the truth when I said I had no explanation
for the way I left Sylvia’s. I know exactly why I left, and I want
to tell you.”

   
He wasn’t sure
he wanted to hear. He was afraid what she was about to say might
ruin the sparrow’s chatter and darken the summer light prematurely.
She sat up straight in her garden chair, causing its plastic straps
to creak ominously. Her face, ordinarily lineless as a child’s, was
creased with tension.

   “
Charlie is
having an affair,” she said matter-of-factly. “Nothing serious.
Nothing likely to break up his marriage. A girl in the office,
fresh out of college. He told me the day before you
arrived.”

   “
He told
you?”

   “
Sylvia doesn’t
know anything. At first I thought she did.”

   “
But why was he
telling you?”

   “
Exactly,” she
said. “Why me? What did I have to do with his seedy little
interlude? I was a friend of the bride.”

   “
My God, he and
Sylvia are only married—how long?”

   “
A little over a
year.”

   “
And already
he’s playing around?”

   “
Right. But the
question I kept asking myself was, Why bother telling anyone? But
then I put two and two together: I was the one who introduced him
to Sylvia. And I was Nancy’s—his first wife’s—friend as well. In
Charlie’s twisted brain that all must add up to my being some kind
of father confessor, you should pardon the expression.”

   “
What did you
say to him?”

   “
What could I
say? I was shocked, embarrassed. The only thought in my head was,
‘I’ve got to get out of here.’ But then he told me he had invited
you to spend a few days with us. He made no secret about your being
a priest, so I figured you would let me off the hook. I mean, I
wasn’t morally outraged by his peccadillo. I just didn’t want to
get involved. I’ve got my own life to worry about. Besides, how
could I be a friend to Sylvia and also be a party to Charlie’s
little secret?”

   
All the time she
had been talking, his mind had been going back to his walk with
Charlie on the beach. Was this what Charlie had been leading up to?
Suddenly he could no longer hear the birds’ chatter. He looked
around the yard and saw that the sparrows had indeed departed. “He
never said a word to me. Not about any girl in the office—or any
other, either. Maybe he was too busy straightening me out about his
marriages. I didn’t realize he had remarried.”