Good Offices

“Like a family, just like a family,” the sacristan encouraged them, in spite of himself, while taking his seat. His words were not addressed to any of the Lilias, much less to Tancredo. He conscientiously fulfilled all the duties required of his office; he was a diocesan trustee, as well; he assisted the Father at every one of his Masses, acolyte and altar boy at sixty years of age, happily relieving Tancredo of that special office usually held by a child; and, once the sacrament was over, he went from row to row taking the collection, greeting the oldest parishioners, the only ones he recognized, with a respectful nod; he made sure the altar was kept in immaculate order, and took charge of every baptism, confirmation, first Communion, marriage, midnight Mass, funeral Mass, every Mass except for sung Masses, High Masses, for when Don Paco Lucio the organist died, he would let no one else touch the organ; the instrument was shut up for good, just like the music. This did not matter to the Father, but Sabina, the three Lilias and the hunchback missed the music, the canticles, Don Lucio’s velvety bass voice, the choirs of nuns whose voices blazed at Easter. But the sacristan was immutable in the face of requests for music, and thus contented himself in his deafness. “Don Paco is present at every Mass,” he said, “and his song is heard for eternity.” Tancredo has never tried to reason with him; for as long as he can remember, Sacristan Celeste Machado has hated him.

“Tancredo,” Father Almida said, pouring a little hazelnut

liqueur into his coffee, “have you lost your mind?” He blinked rapidly. Then, though his expression calmed, his voice continued to admonish. “What is the matter with you? What’s all this about the old not believing, and not heeding my missives? Who are you to claim such a thing? Do you have telepathic gifts? Can you see inside their heads? What do you know? I’m the one who hears their confessions, for God’s sake, Tancredo.” He took a sip of coffee. He huffed. Now he couldn’t help smiling. “Besides,” he said provocatively, “if you have important things to say, you must say them in Latin. Why else have we learned it? We are never going to believe you otherwise.” He passed a hand over his face, clearly preoccupied. “Well,” he sighed, “we’ll talk about this tomorrow. I think we need to hear your confession, don’t we? And today you will have to assist at Mass. Father Fitzgerald won’t be long. He will officiate, and you shall be his acolyte. Just for today.”

The sacristan was listening carefully, turning his right ear in Almida’s direction, even cupping one of his wrinkled, trembling hands around it.

“One should never refuse the honor of being an acolyte,” he said, without addressing Tancredo directly, of course. He spoke angrily, bitterly, his rage barely suppressed.

“He has not refused,” the Father said.

Sabina stood up and poured more coffee into Machado’s cup. Her hand shook. For a moment Tancredo thought she was going to spill the hot liquid. No doubt she had just understood that Almida and Machado really would be absent from the church, who knew until what time, and that she and he would be alone, after Mass, because he would be serving as acolyte, an office he had not performed in a long time — the last time had been on Easter Sunday when he was just fifteen. Which meant that Sabina and he would end up alone in the presbytery for the first time in ages. This prospect affected her deeply. Flushed, placid, Tancredo watched her pour coffee into all the cups, then return immediately to her chair, as if fleeing. She seemed to be laughing to herself.

“It’s fine with me,” Tancredo said, ignoring the sacristan in his turn. “I remember all the steps perfectly.”

“How could one forget them?” the sacristan asked, continuing to address only the Father. “Even if he were an idiot in addition to what he already is.”

“Please, Celeste.” The Father pushed his cup away. “Here in the office we are still in God’s house, not just in the church. This entire place is God’s house, every nook and cranny, every stick of furniture. We are all the Church. We cannot use words that do not honor the presence of the Almighty.”

He spoke quietly, so of course the sacristan did not hear him; he could not. The Father sometimes spoke this way to his sacristan, with the obvious wish not to be heard, as if on purpose, to express agreement with others without undermining or mocking Machado; he managed things so that Machado did not realize he was taking sides. The sacristan calmly took another sip of coffee.