Bronx Noir

The priest, russet-faced, bearded, sixtyish, Irish, walked out again. He wasn’t wearing a chasuble, a nod to the warmth that permeated even the usual coolness of a stone church. Just an alb, and his surplice, the barest vestments of office, the merest priestliness. He had an open, kind face. He began the service, hands apart in a limp crucifix, saying, “We open up to a God who loves us.” I bowed my head as if in prayer. But no. No. No love here. I wondered how much he believed himself, and how much was a scam. I’d wondered that aloud to the prison chaplain, and toyed with the idea of vicardom or something like it myself—it could beat the library. But that was then.

I looked back at the statue. A leaning parishioner with a boozy paunch and droopy neck met my eye from the row behind me. I tilted my head down a fraction. Just another believer biding time.

A church can breed its own defiance and devotion, personal and fierce. I looked up and considered what the window to my left might mean to me, in my own dim trepidation, had I considered a metaphor of suffering for myself. In Memory of the Schmitt Family, with its scene of the Sermon on the Mount, maybe? They died too long ago for me to care, for either the paltriness of their demise or the hubris of their son remembering them in glass. What about the Doyle Family, by their brother? The incorrigible Prodigal Son. No. He would never return, at least not repentant. Or, on the right side, the window depicting Jesus’ mother at the foot of the cross? No remembrance from a guilty son or battered brother marked it. Just a generalized suffering. Mary’s face here cowed by grief, her followers propping her up, others holding Jesus’ body limp with temporary death. The words Mary Sodality were painted at the bottom. Mom’s group of rosary-wielding hysterics. She now, I thought, would be waiting sullen at the Oxford apartments just there in screaming distance on Webb Avenue. Not waiting for me. But maybe waiting for news of me. And perhaps, too, like Mary, for release. Mine, perhaps. Hers, maybe. And she too had her own ministry. Of shame. I’d be there later to serve under it. It was important. Not the service. The being there.

One of the parishioners announced a reading from the book of Hosea. I heard just a few sentences, as my thoughts wandered outside, into the glare oozing through the windows.“I will lead her into the desert, and speak to her heart…the days of her youth…The Lord is gracious and merciful…I will espouse you the right of justice.”

The gospel just after that went by quickly. It must have been a paragraph, a weekday snippet of good news. I’d missed it, turning around again, as if to look at the choir loft, as if to fool my friendly parishioner there behind me. The priest spoke. I turned to face him, settled myself, head slightly bent. His sermon. He said, “How do you see God?” He paused; not too oratorical. He meant it. “Do you remember your youth?” Do I. It’s all I ever had and squandered. “Can you awaken in yourself the love you had?” No. Because I didn’t. So many questions. Like the thoughtful believer he obviously was, the priest tried to connect the readings, to make quotidian sense of them for us in our tawdry lives, here amid the perspiration and second thoughts of Christ’s distant followers.

My mind meandered through the consecration. The key. The sanctuary. I’m sure the stash hadn’t been found. It must still be there. Had to be. We stood. The Lord’s Prayer. We all murmured it, even me, finding the words again easily enough. The people at the front were holding hands. When had this touching begun? I hadn’t been in a church since that night, ten years ago. I hadn’t attended mass for ten years before that. When had we all become so, I don’t know, Pentecostal? They’d be speaking in tongues next.

“Let us offer each other the sign of God’s peace,” the priest suggested, and the hand-holders held on and looked at each other with shy disbelief in actual forgiveness, while those of us until then blessedly free of contact turned and made nice to strangers. I reached back and grasped the fleshy hand of the man behind me, who gave me a weird little smile. No, you don’t, I thought, widening my gaze. You don’t know.