Earthquake I.D. by John Domini Page B

home a DVD put together by the relief agencies, a documentary on the quake damage. Some of the scenes had disturbed her as deeply as the materials from the Samaritan Center.
    â€œGood work, well. God’s work, rather.”
    â€œYes, Father, but for Jay and me that was just the cover story.”
    â€œCesare, please.”
    â€œCesare, that was our story , doing God’s work. But then came our first morning in Naples, our first time out in the sunlight. As soon as Jay went down, I saw this trip for the farce that it was.”
    The old priest eyed her, his mouth a red fold in a wall of limestone or chalk. Barbara had to remind herself that he had no trouble with her English; he’d done his seminary work in Dublin.
    â€œThough the Jaybird,” she went on, “he’s sticking to the story. He keeps talking about the Refugee Center, saying the kids and I, we should visit.”
    â€œAs indeed you ought,” Cesare said, “if you do intend to stay.”
    Barbara’s dress was binding under the arms again. She wished that she and this man were using the confession booth.
    â€œIf you do intend to stay…”
    â€œCesare, what am I telling you? I’m telling you, it’s not so easy for me.”
    â€œNo need to shout.” He waved a heavy-nailed hand at the empty pews.
    â€œI know what I need to do. I can feel it, Father, like I can feel a prayer. Like when the rosary’s working, you understand? That’s the way it came over me, my marriage is shot. But now what? The logistics, New York and a lawyer, it isn’t easy.”
    There: her confession. The old man shifted closer, his crossed legs flopping like drumsticks inside a musician’s black tote.
    â€œI mean, Father, Cesare, what’s it like for other people? When they’ve been married twenty years, is it just, boom, one day it’s off?”
    â€œOther people, oh my. You ask a priest about other people.”
    This visit was Barbara’s third in as many days, but her first without the children.
    â€œThe will of God, don’t you know, it’s got nothing to do with the polls.”
    â€œCome on, what’s so bad about looking for some kind of model, out there? I’m asking, just for example, what do other people do about the kids?”
    A touch of self-consciousness softened his long face: you ask a priest about kids.
    â€œI’m saying, the will of God, in my case that could cut either way. On the one hand, do I live a lie so that the Jaybird won’t be disturbed, while he gives food and shelter to the terramotati? Or on the other hand, do I remain true to my conscience? The conscience that God gave me?”
    Cesare turned thoughtful, putting the choice under the calipers of his Jesuit training. He must’ve spent a lot of time up in his head, or over in the library—like all Barb’s favorite church people, over the years. The Signore must’ve turned so many pages, the paper had softened the edges of his testosterone. Not that Barbara was handling him gently, showing respect, the way she’d been raised. Her work at the Sam Center, she realized, had gotten her into the practice of being blunt. Especially the time one-on-one with Nettie, her mentor. A Bride of Christ, a Franciscan, Nettie had nonetheless taught Barbara not to pussyfoot around just because there was crucifix on the wall. Then too, when it came to Cesare here, one of the connections she’d felt from the first was his distaste for pat answers.
    â€œPerhaps,” he said finally, “it would help if you didn’t always think in such personal terms. Try putting some distance between yourself and these vicissitudes. Imagine that it were some other family, in which a successful executive gives up all that he has, or he gives up a—”
    â€œCome on, do you really believe it’s that simple? Give up all your worldly goods, for the sake of the least among you?