The Jew's Wife & Other Stories (24 page)

   “
Administration,” he said. “Charity work.” He couldn’t see
enough of his companion’s face to see how he had
reacted.

   “
Yourself?”

   “
Teaching.
Mathematics.” For the next few seconds there was only the hiss of
the vents pouring still more steam into the chamber. Father Walther
decided he would stick it out another five minutes. He couldn’t
imagine why anyone would subject himself to this kind of punishment
voluntarily. “I used to be a Catholic priest.”

   
Only parts of
the man’s body were visible, and they were constantly changing—now
a patch of hair, now a square of pink shoulder. Father Walther
wondered if he had heard correctly. Until that moment he had
considered the man a typical suburban husband, more quiet than
most, but who wouldn’t be with the likes of Les around? By his name
he had taken him for Irish American. But there was nothing clerical
about him, none of that public, on-stage manner most priests
affected.

   “
For almost ten
years,” Bernie went on, apparently oblivious to the steam. For
those who can take it, it’s a wonderful life.”

   “’
Take it’ in
what sense?”

   
The man’s face
seemed to glide in and out of a cloud of steam. Father Walther
could discern no particular expression on it.

   “
The sacraments,
mass, sick calls. Are you a Catholic by any chance?”

   “
Yes, I
am.”

   “
Well, then you
know what I mean. You know how a Catholic looks up to a priest or
nun. You don’t realize it when you’re up there on the altar or
sitting in the confessional, but it’s kind of like playing God, or
at least like God’s specially chosen representative. That was
actually how we were encouraged to see ourselves. You must have
gotten those same lectures if you attended Catholic grammar school,
about the hierarchy of callings: nuns and priests on top and
everyone else a distant second. Most kids didn’t take that sort of
thing seriously, or if they did they outgrew it when they left
Catholic school. But I took it all literally. For me there was only
one really noble thing to do with your life, and that was to have a
vocation. I never realized the word could be used in any other
sense until I was in senior year of high school. Somebody said he
intended to pursue a vocation in ...I think it was medicine. I felt
like saying to him, ‘You don’t mean a vocation, man,’ because a
vocation was what I had, or thought I had, and that could mean only
one thing. Only much later did I realize what fantastic arrogance
is involved in that way of thinking.”

   
Father Walther
was as surprised by the man’s sudden volubility as he was by the
revelation he was a priest. What had possessed him to unburden
himself to a stranger in these absurd circumstances? Was it the
anonymous, confessional aspect of the place (it seemed more like an
anteroom to hell than a confession box)? Or had he unconsciously
sensed the presence of another cleric, sniffed it out the way cops
claimed they could pick out one of their own in a crowd of
strangers?

   “
So, now you’re
starting a new life.”

   “
Born-again.
Isn’t that how our Protestant brethren put it?”

   
Father Walther
detected a note of self-mockery, as if disillusionment about the
lay life was also setting in. It suddenly struck him that in this
steam room he was being presented with the life that would be his
own if he should ever turn his back on his vows and become the
Everyman he fantasized about. Bernie had known both worlds—priest
and layman. Father Walther wanted to know if he was happy (the
self-mockery proved nothing, he knew from experience), if he felt
damned, if he stopped at the scenes of accidents to give last
rites. But he didn’t know how to ask any of these questions without
seeming impertinent or revealing his own identity.

   “
You have
children?”

   “
Two. A boy and
a girl. The ideal number. Minus the point-five. What’s become of
Les?”

   
For all his
new-found garrulousness, there was a restless quality about the man
that suggested deeper complication. Were those nerves the result of
constant self-examination, even of remorse? Did his decision to
leave the priesthood hang over him like a murder victim’s ghost? Or
was his moodiness the cause, rather than the result, of his
decision to take off his roman collar? Whatever the case, Father
Walther suspected there were going to be no further revelations
from him. He felt both relief and chagrin—relief at not having to
continue the pretense of being someone he was not, chagrin because
he may never again come this close to knowing the heart of such a
man.

    “
I don’t know
about you, but I’m ready to exit this inferno.”

   
Despite his
earlier decision Father Walther remained behind in the steam room
until he thought Bernie had finished showering. When he exited he
found he was all alone in the cavernous basement. All that was left
of the ex-priest was a dripping shower nozzle.

   
He suffered the
icy water for a few seconds, then toweled off and dressed. He was
combing his hair when he heard a noise at the other end of the
basement. Les was sitting there on a low divan, shaking his head
like a fighter who had just gotten up from a long count.

   “
Fell sound
asleep,” he said not so much in apology as wonder. “Too much gin.”
He seemed unaware he had left two houseguests in a steam-filled
sauna. He got to his feet, momentarily lost his balance, then
stumbled across the wine-colored wall-to-wall carpet. When he
reached the shower stall, he blinked hard and shook his head again.
“You turned the steam off?”

   “
I didn’t know
how. Besides, I thought you would be going in yourself. Maybe it
would clear your head.”

   
Les shivered a
reply and made his way toward the sauna controls. Then he stumbled
into the the shower stall, his trunk-heavy body hunched like a
bear’s.

   “
How’d you like
it?” he asked.

   “
Good. I feel
refreshed.”

   
Les removed the
tight knit shirt he wore open to the belt and threw it on the floor
behind him. “Good,” he said, turning on the shower. Still in his
trousers, he stuck his head under the cold spray. “Ahh,” he
groaned. “Good, good. I’m glad.”

    CHAPTER FIFTEEN

   
Father Walther
assumed that the party was over. His host was certainly in no shape
for more jollifying, and when he returned upstairs he discovered
Bernie and his wife had gone home. It was just as well, he
decided.

   
But Les wouldn’t
hear of his leaving.

   “
All I needed
was that little nap. I’m as good as new.”

   
To demonstrate
his recovery, he took hold of his wife and executed an ambitious
dance step. Herself a couple sheets to the wind, she allowed him to
spin her until dizziness forced them both to give it up. “Wait till
you see us tonight.”

   
Upstairs in his
Hollywood bedroom Les selected a powder-blue sports jacket from
what looked like a rainbow of fabric in the closet.

   “
Perfect.”

   
Father Walther
turned toward the mirror on the back of the closet door. There was
another one behind Tara’s vanity, ringed with frosted light bulbs,
and yet another on the ceiling over their immense oval-shaped bed.
“You don’t think it’s too...loud?”

   “
Are you
kidding?”

   
Les began
rooting through the closet, pushing aside suits and shirts as if
they were tree branches. “I’ll show you loud.” He pulled out a
bright red shirt shot through with blue, green and yellow streaks.
“That’s loud.” He draped it across his arm as if offering it for
sale, then stroked his chin and mused, “I wonder if I shouldn’t
wear it tonight.” But then he replaced it on the rack. “Better save
it for the Halloween bash.”

   
The blue jacket
did not look bad with Father Walther’s chinos, which Les said were
in style anyway. The blue sport shirt he selected was alright
too.

   “
But the socks
definitely got to go. Black is for weddings and funerals. You don’t
have another pair of shoes?”

   “
No.”

   
Les stroked his
chin again as he considered his guest’s nine double-Es.

   “
You’d swim in
my loafers. I’m afraid I can’t help in the shoe
department.”

   
Rosalie had
changed into one of Tara’s dresses, a summery shift made of some
gossamer material almost the same shade as the jacket Les had given
Father Walther. He had never seen her in a dress. It seemed a
perfect fit, but she looked somehow out of uniform, like an athlete
in a tuxedo.

   “
You look
snazzy,” she said.

   
He grinned
self-consciously. He felt as if they both had on
disguises.

   “
You look pretty
snazzy yourself.”

   
The club was in
a belt of rolling hills. The golf course looked like a postcard, so
well laid out and lush that it was hard to picture anyone actually
playing it; only, as they were pulling into the parking lot he
spotted a foursome ambling off the eighteenth green.

   “
Why would you
ever want to play anywhere else?” he asked, remembering the long
wait to tee off that morning.

   “
We play it,
alright,” Les replied, yanking up the hand brake. “Play all the
time. Sometimes we just like to get off the reservation. Go
someplace where we don’t know every face we meet, and vice versa.
Meet new people. Besides,” he said, locking the car door, a maroon
Volvo station wagon, “sometimes this place looks like a geriatric
colony. We’re not ready yet for the electric go-cart.”

   
Inside, the main
dining room was decorated with paper lanterns. French doors were
open on a terrace done up in the same fashion. The guests were
equally divided between indoors and the terrace. Many were indeed
elderly, but most were in Les’s own generation. He asked if anyone
preferred sitting inside. Everyone agreed that outside was
preferable. It was a cool evening, but without a breeze. Besides,
the band was outside.

   
Father Walther
had agreed to come along merely to please Rosalie. He had no
intention of going beyond the role of observer, clerical invisible
man on holiday. Only Rosalie knew his real identity. In that sense,
only she could see him. To everyone else, to his hosts, to the
other guests, he was Mr. Nobody. He trusted to Rosalie’s
discretion.

   “
Will Bernie be
joining us?” he asked after a waitress took their
orders.

   
Les took a pull
at his Scotch-and-water.

   “
Not a chance.
That bird never leaves his house. I was surprised he agreed to play
golf with us this morning. Do you know what he shot? Seventy-nine.
And he claims he hasn’t played since last fall.”

   “
My God, he
could be a pro,” Rosalie said.

   “
Bernie could be
a lot of things. Including a millionaire. He’s a fucking genius.
He’s wasting himself teaching in the public school system. He could
be doing research at MIT. Did you know he’s an ex-priest? A Jesuit.
You know how brainy those guys are.”

   “
Why did he
leave the priesthood?” Rosalie asked with one eye on Father
Walther. She did not seem surprised by Les’s revelation.

   
Les popped an
ice cube into his mouth and sucked meditatively.

   “
Beats me. I’ve
known the guy five years, and I still don’t have the foggiest idea
what makes him tick. What’s your take, Richie?”

   
Father Walther
shrugged. He considered what was said to him in the steam room to
be privileged information.

   “
Slightly
flipped-out is my diagnosis,” Les went on, crunching. “Don’t get me
wrong. I love the son of a bitch. But he’s obviously got a problem.
If I had half his brain power I’d be driving a Mercedes and rubbing
elbows with big shots.”

   “
Money isn’t
everything,” his wife said. Although it was Rosalie who was wearing
a borrowed dress, Tara looked as if what she had on belonged to an
older sister.

   “
Maybe. But
money sure as hell don’t hurt. Priest or no priest, we all have to
eat. If he wants to play Saint Francis, that’s fine. But what about
his kids? Can he send them to good schools on a teacher’s
salary?

   “
Does his wife
work?”

   “
Part-time.
Bernie thinks she should be home with the kids.”

   “
I don’t see
anything wrong with that,” Tara said.

   
Her husband
popped another ice cube.

   “
All I’m saying
is, his decision to live the life of a humble high-school teacher
is something his kids’ll have to pay for eventually.

   “
Maybe they’ll
get scholarships.”

   “
Maybe. And
maybe they’ll end up at second-rate public colleges. Am I right or
wrong, Richie?”

   
The subject, at
least from this side of the pulpit, suggested no easy answers. He
was having enough trouble trying to match Les’s version of Bernie
as a secular mendicant with the cynic he had shared a steam bath
with. “He may believe that somehow God will provide,” he offered
half-heartedly.