Francis eased his tired Volkswagen up to the curb and parked at an awkward angle. Leaning over to the passenger seat, he plucked up his Bible and black leather bag, then climbed out of the car. Cool, rain-sweetened air ruffled his hair and sent a wayward lock into his eyes. He stood there for a moment, watching the goings-on in the yard. He could hear the familiar thump-scrape of metal walkers being pushed along the sidewalks and the distant, motorized whine of a mechanical wheelchair. Orderlies in crisp white uniforms milled casually among the patients, stopping here and there to offer assistance.
He walked up to the entrance and went into the yard. The gate closed behind him with a clang that cut through the conversations. A dozen heads turned to him, and he saw expectation light up every pair of eyes—all of them hoping, hoping, it would be a family member visiting.
“Father Francis!” Old Mrs. Bertolucci squealed, clapping her gnarled, arthritic hands.
He smiled at her. She looked so pretty right now, the sunlight tangled in her white hair, joy in her rheumy eyes. The left half of her face was paralyzed, but it didn’t detract from her beauty. He’d known her for fifteen years—like so many of the people who resided here, she’d lived and worked in Francis’s old neighborhood. He’d taken Communion alongside her for years, and now he was here to give it.
One by one, they shuffled toward him. He smiled. This was what he lived for.
And in that instant he felt at peace, blanketed once again by the comforting heat of his faith. He was meant to be here, had always been meant to be here. It was now, doing the work of the Lord, that he felt whole and content.
He knew that tonight, when he lay alone in bed, listening to the wind through the eaves and the rattling of the windowpanes, he would be vulnerable again. The doubt would creep through the ragged curtains and nibble at his soul, and he would wonder and worry…. He would think of Madelaine and Lina and all the choices he had made in his life; he would think of how he’d encouraged Madelaine to keep the truth from Lina, and the shame would suffocate him. And most of all, loneliness would close in on him like the walls of a fortress. But for now he was happy. It was why he’d hurried over to the home, an hour early. Here and now, with the white collar taut around his throat and a Bible tucked under his arm, he felt safe.
He knelt on the hard carpet of grass, and they gathered around him, all talking at once.
Fred Tubbs hacked out a cough, then pulled a worn pack of cards from his breast pocket—the same pack he’d been brandishing for years. “Time for a quick game of cards, Father?”
Francis grinned. “You cleaned me out last week, Freddy.”
The old man winked. “I love to play cards with a man who has taken a vow of poverty.”
“Well, maybe just one hand …” Francis said, knowing he’d spend hours in the recreation room, playing cards, looking at the same family photographs he’d seen a million times, rereading Christmas cards and letters from loved ones who never had the time to visit.
And they knew it, too—he could see the joy in their faces, the pleasure of simply being remembered on this sunny autumn afternoon.
He got to his feet and took hold of Mrs. Bertolucci’s wheelchair. They were still talking to him, one at a time now, in their crackly, paper-thin voices as they moved toward the front door. Me started up the ramp, then paused, looking around. “Where’s Selma?”
Silence. And he knew. The usual sadness welled up in his chest.
“Yesterday,” Sally MacMahon said, shaking her dyed head of jet-black hair. “Her daughter was with her.”
There was a murmur of relief that Selma hadn’t been alone.
“We thought maybe you could say a special Mass for her, Father,” Fred said. “Miss Brine said it would be fine—in the rec room at four o’clock.”
Francis reached out for the man and squeezed his rail-thin shoulder. He glanced at the faces around him, one by one, at the wrinkled, age-spotted skin and thinning hair, at the thick glasses and hearing aids and strands of Kmart pearls, and knew what they needed from him now.
Faith. Hope. Strength.
And he had it to give. The smile he gave them was slow and came from the depths of his heart. “She is beyond her pain now,” he said softly, believing the words that he’d repeated many times before. “She is with God and the angels and her husband. It is we who feel the pain at her passing.”
Mrs. Costanza laid her purplish, big-knuckled hand on Francis’s arm and looked up at him through watery eyes. “Thank you for coming, Father,” she
said in her rickety voice. “We needed you.”
He smiled at her lovely, time-ravaged face and remembered suddenly that she used to give him flowers from her corner shop on Cleveland Street. It was a hundred years ago … and it was yesterday. “And I need you all,” he answered simply.
Carefully holding her cup of morning coffee, Madelaine waved at the nurses as she made her way down the wide, linoleum-floored hallway. She turned in to her office, a small, box-shaped cubicle, decorated in the English country style. Bold floral drapes in shades of burgundy and green parenthesized the small window. Heavy mahogany bookcases, filled to overflowing with hardback and paperback books and mementos from grateful patients, lined one wall. Plants huddled on the windowsill, and photographs of Francis and Lina hung in beribboned groupings on the green-striped wallpaper. A nineteenth-century dining room table served as Madeline’s desk, its glossy surface dotted with photos of Francis and Lina.
She sat at her desk and began thumbing through the stack of papers there. Before she got halfway through it, someone knocked at the door.
She didn’t look up. “Come in.”
Dr. Allenford, the transplant team’s cardiovascular surgeon, pushed through the door and strode into her small office. “I don’t suppose you have another cup of coffee?” he asked as he sat down in the floral visitor’s chair.
She shook her head. “Sorry.”
He shoved a hand through his steel-gray hair and sighed. “Ah well, Rita’s been after me to quit drinking so much.”