BROTHERS
Finn said an awkward goodbye to his parents and watched them drive off in the new Buick they had bought in case he changed his mind. They were pleased, of course, at Finn’s decision to study for the priesthood, but they were wary. It was 1954 and priests were still thought to be holy, and Finn… well… Finn knew that he wasn’t holy, but during a retreat in college, he had succumbed to a fit of piety and, dizzied by the idea of sacrifice, he had applied to join the Jesuits. They had put him through a series of interviews and let him know he seemed altogether too caught up in theater, but in the end they had accepted him. So now here he was, almost a Jesuit, and this annoying Brother Reilly kept calling him “Brother.”
Brother Reilly had given him a short tour of the public areas—the chapel, the guest parlor, the dining hall—and then escorted him to the front veranda where the other new men were gathered to admire the grounds. A green lawn cascaded down the hill to a small wilderness of trees, with a lake beyond. Everyone agreed it was beautiful. They stood in little groups, sweating in their jackets and ties, while the novices—the real Jesuits—made awkward attempts at conversation. Finn introduced himself to the group around Brother Reilly and, after the expected hand-shaking, silence descended. Finn was not good with silence, so he cleared his throat and wondered aloud if they all felt as strange as he did in his jacket and tie. There was eager agreement and a little self-conscious laughter that encouraged him to wonder further when they would get to wear a cassock—“If it’s okay to ask,” he said.
“A habit, Brother Finn, not a cassock,” Brother Reilly said quietly, a gentle rebuke.
“Sorry; a habit,” Finn said, “but when?”
“In good time, Brother Finn.”
Finn realized he should shut up, but he couldn’t help himself and, attempting friendliness, he said, “Just call me Finn. Brother Finn creeps me out.”
Brother Reilly, with a show of patience, explained that in the Jesuit order, all novices were called Brother—he pointed them out—Brother Quirk, Brother Matthews, Brother Lavelle, etcetera. And then, lapsing from charity, Brother Reilly added, “You are now my brother, Brother Finn, and I don’t like it any more than you do.” Nervous laughter, a fit of coughing from Brother Lavelle, and then silence.
Finn blushed and muttered to himself, “Ah have always depended on the kindness of strangers.”
That night Brother Reilly made a note in his manuductor diary about Brother Finn’s “singularity”—Jesuit speak for self-importance—and he added, “I wonder how long Brother Finn will be among us.” Then, during examination of conscience, Brother Reilly went to confession and accused himself of disedifying conduct, sins against charity, and anger against one of his new brothers. Anger was a habitual failing, he admitted. He would try harder.
Brother Reilly had been appointed manuductor—“he who leads by the hand”—because even now, as a second-year novice, he was brusque and withdrawn, inclined to hang back from group activities. He had served as a marine in Korea and he had remained gaunt and hungry-looking, with an intensity that seemed to border on the dangerous. His superiors had judged that he was ill-suited to the role of manuductor, and therefore it would be a useful trial for him and an instructive one for the novices.
“Feelings,” Father Superior explained, “are always to be distrusted. Jesuits are men of the will. The good Jesuit may feel excited or depressed, but—remember—he never shows it. He is never singular. He disappears into the long black line.”
This was a talk Father enjoyed giving. It was essential that novices learn self-denial. And denial of feelings came first.
“Agere contra—to act against—here is your safeguard against the dangers of feeling. If you feel depressed, smile. If you feel elated, exercise self-restraint. If you dislike someone, pray for him, take note of his virtues, imagine he has virtues even if he has none. Agere contra. Be a man of the will.”
Finn listened, eager and anxious, certain they would never have let him in if they knew what a shit he was.
But maybe this was a feeling he should just ignore. By an act of the will.
“Brother Reilly must be a holy man,” Brother Quirk said to Finn.
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, they chose him as manuductor, and he never violates silence.”
“Maybe he just has nothing to say.” Finn thought for a moment and added, “That was uncharitable of me. I’m sorry.”
Brother Lavelle cleared his throat and spat.
Brother Quirk and Brother Lavelle and Finn had been assigned weeding duty during recreation—weeding the tomatoes where there were in fact no weeds—and since they were outside the house, talking was allowed. Inside the house, talking was forbidden except in emergencies, and then you had to speak in Latin. If your Latin wasn’t good, you were expected to learn it or shut up.
“Also, he was in Korea,” Brother Quirk said.
“God help the Koreans.” Then, to change the subject, Finn added, “These tomatoes are on their last legs. What do you think, Lavelle?”
Brother Lavelle never talked, but now he sat back on his heels and said, slowly, deliberately, “I think this whole fucking thing is a mistake.” He stood up and looked around. “Christ,” he said, and without asking anyone’s permission, he walked back to the house.
Finn, for once, remained silent, but later he noticed that Brother Lavelle was absent from dinner and evening prayers.
“One down,” Finn said as they left chapel that night. Brother Reilly heard him and gave him a hard, knowing look.
In conference, Father Superior explained the use of what were facetiously called “scroop beads.” A tiny string of beads attached to a safety pin and worn inside the habit allowed you, unobtrusively, to pull down a single bead each time you broke silence or sinned against charity or had an unkind thought. The beads kept you scrupulously aware—hence scroop—of your failings and came in handy at the twice-daily examination of conscience. Wearing them was, of course, optional.
Finn waited for Father Superior to say “Just joking,” but Father Superior was not given to jokes.
The new men, still wearing jackets and ties, finally began their eight-day retreat. Silence was absolute and time stretched out endlessly before them. Their whole world contracted to an intense focus on Father Superior’s conferences, three a day, followed by an hour of private meditation in which they tried to engage each of their five senses in the day’s topic: sin, heaven and hell, the life and teachings of Christ, the Gospel mysteries, the wonders of living the Christian life.
Finn thought of Brother Lavelle. Maybe this was all a fucking mistake. But as the eight days passed Finn found himself surrendering to the power of silence and meditation.
Most nights he lay awake while the others slept. On the last of the eight nights, his mind wandered from Christ’s resurrection and the empty tomb to the summer theater in Vermont. Gillian Cantrell was his girlfriend that summer, a sophomore at Brown. She was a good actress, full of life and wit, and she was very sexy—too sexy for him. Gillian. Sexy Gillian. He thought of that last night with her. He found that he was getting aroused and forced himself to think of Mary Magdalene at the empty tomb.
The problem was that Finn had always wanted to be an actor. He had spent the summer after high school studying at the New Theatre Academy in New York, and after his first year of college he had acted in summer stock in Vermont. Acting was fun. Acting was thrilling. In his sophomore year he acted in every play the Drama Department put on. At the same time, he had this secret life in which he gave himself over to prayer. One night on his way back from the library he’d decided to make a quick stop at the college chapel. The place was black with only the red sanctuary light blinking next to the altar. It was sort of spooky and Finn was glad that nobody could see him. He knelt in the back pew and closed his eyes. After a while he felt foolish, as if he was faking some kind of piety, so he decided to leave. But when he opened his eyes he was startled to see the flickering red altar light move toward him. He blinked and it moved again. The dark, and the single red light moving toward him in that dark: it had to be just an optical illusion. But for a moment his heart stumbled and, looking back, he knew that that was when he’d seen it clearly: acting was not enough. The best thing he could do with his life was sacrifice it, and what better way to sacrifice it than as a Jesuit.
Suddenly from the bed nearest the door, there came a terrible shout. It was more than a shout; it was a wail of pure terror and it seemed to go on and on before trailing away into silence.
Someone turned on the light. Someone else said, “It’s Brother Reilly. It’s the manuductor.”
Brother Reilly, the manuductor, still fighting his way out of his dream, pulled himself together and said in a shaking voice, “Everything’s fine. There’s nothing the matter.” He turned off the light, saying, “Sleep, everybody,” and he left the room. Incredibly, they all slept, even Finn.
The next morning, their trial period behind them, the new novices were accepted into the common life of the Jesuit community. It was a free day, with a sung mass in the morning and a special feast in the evening and Benediction before bed.
Finn was at last a member of the long black line.
ONCE IN A DARK WOOD
Brother Reilly had had a fit. The word went around during laborandum, the afternoon work period.
“It happened once before,” Brother Quirk said, “when he was in his first year.”
“It was worse,” Brother Matthews said. “He woke us all up howling. He dreams he’s back in Korea.”
“My brother was in Korea and my father was in the last war—in Germany—but they never wake up howling.”
“I wonder why he does it. Why it happens, I mean.”
“It’s a cross to bear.” Brother Quirk paused, then added, grimly, “The real cross is that he may have to postpone vows. For a year.”
“For howling?”
“It’s canon law. His mental state… his fits may be an impediment to ordination. Like epilepsy or schizophrenia or even facial disfigurement.”
“You mean if you’re too ugly, you can’t be ordained?” Finn doubted this. “That would mean a lot of priests got through by accident.”
“Father Taylor, for instance.”
“Or Father Hanson.”
“You’ll be a close call yourself, Quirk.”
“Very funny, Brother Finn. We should pray for Brother Reilly and we shouldn’t be talking about it anyway. It’s not charitable.”
Brother Reilly, meanwhile, was resting in the infirmary. It was called rest, but he knew that, in fact, he was under observation. Superiors wanted to know if his fits were incapacitating or if, as the neurologist had assured them, Brother Reilly was merely having a flashback to the war. They should just wait, the doctor said.
Brother Reilly knew all about waiting. When he first applied to the Jesuits, he interviewed with the psychiatrist whose job it was to vet all incoming novices, and it emerged that, as a marine lance corporal in Korea, Reilly had spent a good deal of his downtime with local prostitutes. The psychiatrist thought it wise for Reilly to see if he could get by without sex for a year, and so he recommended postponing entrance. Reilly endured his year of chastity and applied once again. This time, he was approved by the psychiatrist. He was a dutiful novice, if quiet and withdrawn, but then one night he woke up screaming. It was his first fit, which he passed off as a bad dream. But now it had happened again.
Finn was tempted to make a smart-ass remark about Reilly, but for once he held his tongue. He was briefly proud of himself. Then ashamed of his pride. Mentally he pulled down a scroop bead.
Brother Quirk was appointed manuductor. Suddenly he was everywhere, making announcements, reminding his brothers about changes in the schedule, posting a new de more notice. It was the same old schedule but elaborately printed to resemble an illuminated manuscript and translated, unnecessarily, as “Regular order.”
Finn stood before the noticeboard doing his rabbit imitation.
5.30 |
rise |
6 |
visit chapel |
6.15–7 |
meditation |
7–7.45 |
Mass 7.45–8 breakfast |
8–8.30 |
free time |
He drew a deep breath. The rest of the day was divided into blocks of time for conference, Rosary, class, examination of conscience, lunch, two hours of assigned work, study, more meditation, dinner, chores, spiritual reading, a second examination of conscience, and finally, at nine thirty, following a last visit to chapel, bedtime.
“At least they give you time to hit the toilet,” Finn said to anybody listening and, as God would have it, that happened to be Brother Reilly, who looked at him as if he were an insect.
Finn’s rabbit imitation had come to him during a visit to chapel. He was wondering what made Brother Quirk so annoying and, with no shame at all, he stared at him. He looked like Bugs Bunny. His front teeth stuck out a little and he had a nervous tic that sometimes made his lips twitch just like a rabbit’s. A pious rabbit. With a pronounced Dorchester accent.
Finn pushed his upper lip forward and exposed his front teeth, and for an awful moment he became Brother Quirk. It was unkind. He wouldn’t do it again. But later, alone in a toilet stall, he tried it one more time. Just for practice.
“Grace is God’s free gift. We can’t earn it. We can’t deserve it. God gives it to whom he wills.”
Finn knew this well and he found it depressing.
“We can open ourselves to grace by constant prayer, but we can’t merit it. It’s given gratuitously.”
Finn’s mind wandered. Was novitiate life making him infantile? Other men his age were fighting in Korea, and here he was on his knees, confessing to uncharitable thoughts. What ever happened to making his life a sacrifice?
It was visiting day. On the great south lawn, guests gathered in groups, anxious to greet the new Jesuit in the family, with his new black habit and his new air of holiness.
Finn’s group included just his parents and himself. They had brought him presents—a black sweater, winter gloves, a huge box of chocolates—and Finn thanked them lavishly. But he was proud of his new poverty and couldn’t resist telling them that gifts of any kind became common stock.
“We don’t own anything. Isn’t that wonderful? If somebody needs a sweater, he just asks, and they’ll give him this one.”
“Oh, but we got it for you.”
“There isn’t any me anymore, Mother. Not like that.”
Her eyes filled and she said, “Don’t.”
“He’s just being dramatic, Claire,” his father said. “Let it go.”
Finn bristled at “dramatic,” but he knew his father was right and found himself blushing.
“I love the sweater,” he said. “Maybe they’ll let me keep it.”
“You don’t want to ask for exceptions,” his father said. “A rule is a rule.”
It was the old family dynamic: his mother hurt and his father stepping in to lighten her disappointment and shift the blame to Finn. This was how it would go. She would be depressed tonight and need her tranquilizers. And his father would lie awake beside her, talking until she could finally get to sleep. And the unspoken blame would be laid on guess who.
Finn leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. “My sweet old Mutti,” he said. “She’s the best.” She raised a hand to protect herself, but Finn was determined to salvage their day. “Come on, Momoo,” he said and, pretending to twist her ears, he made motor sounds. “Start your engine! Come on! Lift off!” until she pushed him away, saying, “People will see!” But she laughed and his father laughed and so the visit was saved.
The afternoon was made easier by brief visits from the young priest, Father Lomax, who taught the novices Latin, and by Father Spalding, the old priest who taught them Greek. They said hello and welcome and goodbye, smiling and nodding as they moved on to the next group.
“They’re all so nice,” Finn’s mother said. “What about that young man, the one who showed us around last time? He was very nice.”
“Brother Reilly has fits.”
“Oh, no.”
Finn thought, Here’s a good story, but he knew it was a story he had no right to tell.
“He has screaming fits in the night,” he said.
“That’s awful.”
“He had one a few weeks ago. He started screaming, and I mean major full-on screaming, it was the middle of the night, and we all woke up, we were terrified, you can imagine. Reilly, of all people! Then he stopped and everything went quiet and he said—calm as could be—he said, ‘Everything’s fine. There’s nothing the matter. Just go back to sleep.’ And he left the dorm and went down to the infirmary and he was there for days. It was incredible.” Finn paused. This was all wrong. He added, lamely, “He had a fit.”
“Poor man. Isn’t there anything they can do for him?”
“It’s shell shock or something.”
They were quiet for a while, thinking.
Finn broke the silence. “I probably shouldn’t have told you that.”
“It’s sad. It’s a sad story.”
“I shouldn’t have told it,” he said again.
Toward the end of the afternoon, when they all seemed talked out, his father said—and it was obvious they had planned this—that if ever Finn wanted to leave, they would completely understand, that what they cared about was his happiness, that’s all. They wanted him to be happy. Finn assured them he was happy.
Finally it was over.
Visiting day had been a great success. Finn, however, felt sick. He had squandered what little progress he had made in the spiritual life. He had trivialized it. He had talked it away.
De more for months now. Mass and meditation, spiritual conference, and on and on until litanies in chapel, and so to bed.
Then Father Larsen arrived. He appeared one day at noon, silent, forbidding, entering the refectory behind everyone else. He looked ancient. His back was crooked and he walked slowly, bent over. His habit hung on him like a shroud. But it was his face that was shocking. A thick scar ran from his left eyebrow down to his chin, pulling his mouth a little to the side so that he appeared to be sneering.
The novices, observing custody of the eyes, pretended not to see him. They stood for the prayers before meals and when they sat down Father Superior declared “Deo gratias,” which meant they were free to talk. Finn, who was waiting on the faculty table, noted that although the priests spoke quietly among themselves, Father Larsen spoke hardly at all.
Later, as he gave out laborandum assignments, Brother Quirk explained—in English—that Father Larsen was ill. He was here for a rest and he was completely off-limits. No confessions and no spiritual advice. These were orders from Father Superior. Father Larsen had been a prisoner on the Bataan death march. He had survived torture and starvation, but he had never really recovered. So he was here to rest. Period. The other novices had many questions about the death march and about the torture—what had happened to his face?—but it was work time and Brother Quirk sent them on their way.
So Finn felt deeply betrayed the next day when, coming out of chapel, he saw Brother Reilly leave the line of novices and join Father Larsen, who was waiting for him on the veranda. They exchanged a few words and then, like old chums, took the path down to the lake. Finn went off to laborandum to dig more goddamn potatoes and wrestle with his jealousy of that fucking Reilly.
Winter was long and cold, but at last the snow melted and Lent began and Finn was a changed man. He no longer imitated Brother Quirk or broke the rule of silence or said witty things at the expense of his brothers. Moreover, he was content. He felt no need to perform. He merely listened while Brother Haberman told his stories about life in Dorchester, and he dutifully learned the names of Irish parishes in Southie, and when he and Brother Reilly were assigned to the same work crew, Finn did his best to draw him out. They were planting those everlasting potatoes.
The day was cool, but Finn felt uncomfortably hot, except for his hands, which were freezing. He was tempted to complain, but he concentrated on Brother Reilly instead.
Finn scooped out a hole and buried a chunk of potato, the eye facing up. “I guess this isn’t much like the marines,” he said.
“It is, as a matter of fact. Mindless tasks and no women.”
Finn pondered that, shocked. How about that! “I notice you walk with Father Larsen. What is it like?”
“It was an order from Father Superior. For my mental health.”
“Oh.” And then, “What do you talk about? I mean, what does he talk about?”
“Baseball. Sports.”
“Sports? But he must talk sometimes about… well… about being a prisoner.”
Brother Reilly punched a hole in the dirt and said nothing. He was pale with anger.
“Or about the death march.”
“Cut it! Would you just cut it out! All this shit! Honest to God.”
Finn fell silent, and at the end of laborandum, when Brother Reilly said, “I apologize, Brother Finn,” Finn resisted the urge to tell him to shove it and merely said, “I shouldn’t have pried. My fault.”
Later that day he learned that Brother Reilly had been told he would have to wait another year before taking vows. Poor Brother Reilly. Finn went to chapel to pray for him. He didn’t feel well. He had a pain in his chest and his breathing was strained. He was coming down with a cold. Never mind. It was another thing he could offer up.
SEMPER FIDELIS
Brother Infirmarian was old and he was tired. Over the years, he had given pills to countless novices who were dealing with doubts about their vocation by working themselves up into a fever. Finn’s temperature was 101, nothing surprising. So Brother gave him the strongest cold pills he had—the yellow and black ones—and told him to take a lie-down instead of laborandum for the next few days. A day passed and then another and, though Finn took the yellow and black pills, he was racked by a constant cough and dizzy with fever. His coughing distracted everybody during meditation so he was sent back to the infirmarian for a second round of pills. But his fever was now 103 and he was badly dehydrated so, against his instincts and principles, Brother Infirmarian admitted him as a patient deserving of antibiotics and his own devoted attention. Finn began to feel better at once, and after his second day he began to hope for visitors. Maybe someone interesting might get ill, Finn thought—just slightly ill—and he’d have a roommate to talk with. He should have guessed it would be Brother Reilly.
Brother Reilly had had another fit, even worse than the others. He woke, raging in the night, loud and obscene, with a soaring fever and a compulsion to talk. He was brought straight to the infirmary.
Far from being company for Finn, Brother Reilly continued on with his fit, mumbling angrily about whores and gooks and dead marines. This called for Seconal, Brother Infirmarian decided, along with his own private concoction of honey and water, and a little whiskey, for the love of God. Brother Reilly slept through the entire day and then through the night, muttering the whole time. By the following morning, he had quieted down and showed signs of returning to his old self. Around noon, he growled something unpleasant to the infirmarian and toward evening, with a grunt and a moan, he acknowledged the presence of Finn. At ten o’clock, lights out for the Great Silence, Brother Reilly had recovered sufficiently to attempt a chat. He was groggy but plainspoken.
“I disliked you from the day you arrived,” he said.
“I know you did. I disliked you too. But I prayed about it.”
“Did it work?”
“Not really. I’m sorry about your vows.”
“Fuck the vows.”
This was too much for Finn. “We’re not supposed to be talking during the Great Silence. I’m not going to talk.” “Fuck the Great Silence.”
Brother Reilly fell asleep then, and when he woke in the middle of the night, he was shaking with fever and his teeth were chattering. He called out to Finn.
“I’m sorry for what I said, Finn. Finn?”
“Thank you for calling me Finn.”
“I’m having a fit. How are you?”
“We’re not supposed to talk during the Great Silence.”
“We could say the Rosary together.”
Finn got out of bed and padded, barefoot, across the dark room to kneel beside Brother Reilly’s bed. They said the Glorious Mysteries, with Finn starting the prayers and Brother Reilly responding. Finn was eager to finish and prayed fast. “Amen,” Finn said finally, and Brother Reilly said, “Amen.”
Finn knelt in silence, in the dark, unsure what to do now.
Brother Reilly made a choking sound, as if he was trying not to sob.
“Are you all right?” Finn couldn’t bear the silence.
“I wanted to be a Jesuit to make up for my life.”
“To sacrifice it.”
“No. To make up for it. To atone for all I’ve done.”
“I wanted to make my life a sacrifice. Self-obliteration. For God.”
“You gotta be careful what you ask for. Sometimes you get it.”
Another long silence.
“It’s late,” Finn said.
“Do you want to get in bed with me?”
“Yes.” Finn astonished himself because that was indeed what he wanted. “But I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“It wouldn’t be anything sexual. We’d just hold each other.”
Finn felt himself getting hard.
“I just want to hold you,” Brother Reilly said.
“Yes.”
“I need to hold you.”
“I don’t think I can do it.”
“The truth is,” and Brother Reilly paused, his voice shaking, “the truth is I need to be held.”
Finn thought about this and shook his head no. “I can’t,” he said and then, determined, “I won’t.”
He padded back to his bed and tried to sleep. He could hear Brother Reilly moaning, perhaps crying. Finn blocked his ears and turned from side to side. Finally he got up and took one of the two Seconals from Brother Reilly’s nightstand and in minutes he fell soundly asleep.
Finn woke the next morning, groggy and numb, barely aware that something was happening around him. Brother Infirmarian and Father Superior were wheeling Brother Reilly out to the corridor where an ambulance was waiting to take him to the hospital. Finn turned his face to the wall, guilty. What had he done? But he had no time to consider what he had done or, more importantly, what he had not done, because Brother Infirmarian had decided it was time for Finn to go. He wanted his infirmary back the way it should be: empty.
In no time at all Finn was standing at the de more bulletin board, where a notice from Father Superior suggested that to prepare for the feast of Saint Ignatius, they should all meditate on the vows.
Finn’s meditation was distracted by thoughts of Brother Reilly. Do you want to get in bed with me? He had wanted to and he had nearly done it. He felt his face burn. He would go to confession during this evening’s examination of conscience.
But when the time came, Finn couldn’t bear to tell all this to Father Superior, so he went to old Father Spalding, the Greek teacher, who had taught at several different Jesuit colleges and had heard everything. Besides, he was a little deaf.
Finn confessed that in the infirmary one of his brother novices had asked him to get in bed with him. “He just wanted to be held, but I knew it was clearly an occasion of sin,” Finn said, “and I knew it was my own fault.” Father Spalding belched softly. “That’s all, Father.”
Father Spalding sighed and said, “I know.” He gave Finn a long talk about loneliness in religious life and the importance of chastity and the danger of friendships that became emotional. He paused and, as if he were merely distracted, he said, “Religious life is not for everyone. But be of good cheer and pray for a peaceful heart.”
Vow day came and went while Brother Reilly remained in the local hospital. After two weeks he was transferred to Shrewsbury Mental and then was released to his family.
On his first day home he shot and killed himself with his marine service pistol, but not before writing a letter to Finn saying, “My death happened years ago and has nothing to do with you. Have a happy, holy life.” It was signed, “Love, Brother Reilly.”
Father Superior opened the letter, as he opened all novice mail, and after he had considered the matter at prayer, he called in Brother Finn and told him of Brother Reilly’s death. Finn went white and slumped in the chair but said nothing. He put the letter in his inside pocket next to his scroop beads and went downstairs to chapel. He sat in the back pew and tried to think. But he didn’t know how to think any longer and old words kept circulating in his brain. Finally it came to him that he was to blame. For everything.
Finn knocked at Father Larsen’s door and waited. He knocked again and heard a kind of grunt, so he pushed the door open and entered. The room was thick with smoke and smelled of cigarettes and whiskey. Father Larsen was at his desk. He looked annoyed. He pushed his drink aside.
“I don’t hear confessions.”
“I know, Father.”
“Or give spiritual advice. Or listen to novices’ sob stories.”
“No.”
Father Larsen turned his scarred face toward Finn so that he seemed to be sneering. “Well, what then? I’m not able to help you, whatever it is.”
“It’s about Brother Reilly.”
Father Larsen pushed aside the book he had been reading, the New Testament in Latin and Greek. He lit a cigarette and told Finn to sit down.
“What’s this about Reilly?”
“It’s about his death.”
“Who told you he’s dead?”
“He wrote me a letter before he did it.”
“Reilly was a good man. A good marine.”
An awkward silence, and then Finn blurted out, “It was all my fault.” He began to sob, softly at first, then louder. He choked finally and blew his nose. He said, “I’m a mess. I’m sorry.”
Father Larsen pulled deeply on his cigarette and waited.
Finn told him of their instant mutual dislike, Brother Reilly and himself. “Mostly my fault,” Finn said. He searched for the least offensive words and told Father Larsen about the encounter in the infirmary and his refusal to get in bed with Reilly. “He wanted to be held,” Finn said, “and I refused.” He looked at Father Larsen and the scar running from his brow to his chin and said, “It’s all my fault.”
“Is it?” Father Larsen said. “That would make you more important than you are.” This caught Finn’s attention.
Father Larsen tapped the ash from his cigarette and looked at him. As if that were an invitation to tell him everything, Finn began with wanting to be an actor and exchanging that for scroop beads and his struggle with the rules and on and on until he reached that desperate scene with Brother Reilly.
“He wanted to be held. What he said was he needed to be held. And I refused.”
Father Larsen sat back in his chair. He said to Finn, “Would it have been so bad to get in bed with Reilly? Would there have been terrible harm to anyone?”
“Do you mean I should have? Is that what you’re saying?”
Father Larsen hesitated and then said, “I would have, poor shit that I am. Sometimes we have to risk our soul to save somebody else.”
“But it would have been a mortal sin.” Finn blushed. “Because I wanted it.” He paused. “I wanted to get in bed with him. I was aroused. I had an erection. So I walked away and left him there.” He paused again. “I stole one of his pills and went to bed, trying not to think of Reilly or my erection. The next morning they took him to the hospital. I’m to blame. I blame myself.”
“A man kills himself. A sick man. And you—in a monstrous act of proprietary guilt—you blame yourself.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “You. You. You. It’s all about you. I really think you should go. I think you should leave now before it’s too late.”
Finn made a choking sound.
“Leave. Before you turn totally inward… and rot.”
“Leave,” Finn said.
“Everything you’ve told me is about you. Your guilt. Your blame. Your pitiful erection.”
“But I was following the Jesuit rule. Or trying to.”
“You’ve turned it inside out. You’re supposed to be growing in Christ and instead you’ve been growing in self-satisfaction.”
The clock ticked on Father Larsen’s desk and from the chapel came the sound of the bell for litanies. Then there was silence in the room and it was terrifying.
“Is this because of Reilly?” Finn asked.
“Reilly has nothing to do with it.”
Father Larsen lowered his voice to a near whisper. He made as if to wash his hands. “You should go. You should leave the Jesuits. That’s the only help I can offer. That’s it. Finis. The end.”
Father Larsen sat back in his chair. He was done with Finn. He had said the hard and necessary thing and now they both had to live with it. He lit a cigarette. He was exhausted. It was Bataan again, every day of his life. He said, “This is why they don’t want me dealing with novices.”
Finn thought, So this is despair.
Reading his mind, Father Larsen said in a hard voice, “Don’t despair, kiddo. There are plenty of other ways to sacrifice your life.”
Two days went by. Finn found he could not pray. He went through the motions of meditation, Mass, and thanksgiving, but he was not conscious of praying. He was existing, merely, a testament to shame and disgrace. And then on the third day, he woke at five thirty, de more, yawned, and before going back to sleep—at that precise moment and with a joyful heart—he decided to leave the Jesuits, admit his failure, and let sacrifice find him when he was ready for it. He slept until nearly eight and got up just in time for breakfast.
It was Friday, which meant pancakes, and he had three of them with extra syrup. He looked frankly around the refectory at his brother Jesuits. He admired them this morning, men who had made a free choice and, at great cost, were trying to disappear into the long back line. Finn did not want to disappear.
“I’m free,” he said aloud. The other novices continued to concentrate on breakfast. Everyone knew Brother Finn was impossible.
Finn left that afternoon in a burst of freedom. He had Father Superior’s blessing and he made a last visit to chapel with no feeling of regret. He felt comfortable in his jacket and tie.
As he stood alone at the train station, he was visited suddenly by feelings of remorse. He wouldn’t have it. “I’m free,” he said aloud, just to hear it. And then he shouted it—the platform was empty—and it felt good and true. But with a year’s grace behind him—unearned, undeserved—he recognized that this new freedom was only temporary and the words he shouted to the empty air would in time come back to him, and back, in a pale echo: Brother Reilly, Father Larsen. But for now life was good and Finn chose it.
The train arrived and Finn got on and left.