Stained Glass by Ralph McInerny

semesters from Mankato State that he became aware of the heavy aromas that filled the town, from the packing plant and the counter olfactory assault from the ethanol plant on the other side of town. What as a child had been simply the air he breathed now offended his senses. He had majored in art history; vistas had opened before him. After graduation he fled to Chicago with the vague thought of continuing his education, and so in a sense he had. He became a pilgrim of the churches in
Chicago; he spent days in many of them, making notes on the architecture, the appointments, the windows. How easily he might have narrowed his interest to stained glass. Stained glass was a passion with Jane Devere.
    â€œAngelo Menotti,” she had cried when Carl spoke to her of a particular church. It was a cry he heard more than once. In fact, he made it a practice to elicit it at least once during each visit to Jane.
    The beautiful reproductions of several Menotti windows in Sacred Art had been the seed of Jane’s suggestion, “They should all be made available to those who do not have the time to make the rounds of all those churches.”
    Carl had smiled sadly. “That would be a most expensive undertaking.”
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œI would have to look into it.”
    He looked into it; he drew up a plan; he estimated costs; he generously provided for himself as editor of the proposed book. Jane looked it over, her glasses sliding down her thin nose to its tip. She nodded and looked at him. “Do it.”
    It had been a delicate matter to draw up terms of agreement. For this Jane had enlisted the help of her attorney, Amos Cadbury. The lawyer’s manner made it difficult to tell whether he approved or disapproved of the proposed outlay of Devere Foundation money. Cadbury inserted a clause calling for half-yearly reports that Carl must make to Jane with a copy going to the lawyer. All this took months during which Carl tried not to hope, was too distracted to pray, and fell behind in preparing the next issue of Sacred Art for the printer. Jane Devere had assured him that the Menotti project would not affect her support for Sacred Art . Finally the papers were signed, and Carl celebrated with a solitary bottle of Marsala and found it in him at last to pray, sending up thanksgiving to heaven for his great good fortune.

    The beauty of the agreement was that it was open-ended, no deadline. Jane had dismissed Amos Cadbury’s suggestion. “I want this done right. I do not want it rushed. This must be a work of art in its own right.”
    Over and above his semiannual written report, Carl kept Jane abreast of his progress on the Menotti book.
    â€œWhere did you learn of Angelo Menotti, Mrs. Devere?”
    â€œWhen he designed and installed the windows for the parish church.”
    â€œWhat was your parish then?”
    She frowned at him. “The same as now. St. Hilary’s.”
    â€œHere in Fox River!”
    His tone of incredulity had been a mistake. The remark seemed to suggest that nothing worthy of aesthetic attention could possibly be found in Fox River. Carl had been surprised that the Deveres still lived there, despite the triangulation of the area by eight-lane highways and interstates along which vehicles hurtled night and day. For all that, it was a little oasis, a memorial to a better day.
    â€œThe Menotti windows in St. Hilary’s may be the peak of his achievement. I know he thought so.”
    â€œYou knew him!”
    â€œHe was still a young man at the time, not much older than myself.” She paused. “My father-in-law, August, underwrote the expense of the windows and became his champion. My enthusiasm came to rival his. I suppose we must have been a nuisance to Angelo, bothering him in his studio and then showing up every day while the windows were being installed.”
    â€œHow wonderful to have known the man himself.”
    â€œYou must visit him. He