the consequences of Original Sin. That is true and the Lord would have known this would happen because He knows all. But yet He created her for Adam? Why? Ask yourselves that—why?”
Joe glanced around the church, tried to find someone besides Tomas who genuinely appeared to be contemplating the question. Most parishioners looked like they were contemplating grocery lists or the evening meal.
“He made Eve,” Father Ruttle said, “because seeing Adam alone was more than He could bear. Being alone, you see, is the worst of hell’s punishments.” He hit the pulpit with the side of his fist and the congregation woke up. “Hell is the absence of God.” Again the side of his fist found the ornate wood. “It is the absence of light. It is the absence of love.” His neck strained as he looked out on the eight hundred souls arrayed before him. “Do you understand?”
They weren’t Baptists; they weren’t supposed to answer. But murmurs rolled through the throng.
“Believe in the Lord,” the priest said.
“Honor Him, and repent your sins,” he said, “and you shall know Him in heaven.”
“But repent not?” He looked out at them again. “And you shall be cast from His sight.”
It was his voice, Joe realized, that had gripped them. Normally it was dry and benign, but the morning’s sermon had altered it, had altered him. He’d spoken with an air of desperation and loss, as if what he’d preached—hell as an infinite and impregnable void—was almost too despairing for the aging priest to contemplate.
“All rise.”
Joe and Tomas stood with the rest of the congregation. Joe hadnever had trouble repenting. In so far as a man with his sins could repent, he had poured tens of thousands of dollars into hospitals, schools, shelters, roads, and plumbing, not just in Boston, where he’d grown up and owned several interests, or in Ybor City, his adopted hometown, but in Cuba, where he lived much of the year in the western tobacco country.
But for the next few minutes, he did think the old priest might have a point. One of Joe’s deepest secrets was how completely he feared loneliness. He didn’t fear being alone—in fact he liked it—but the solitude he constructed was one that could always be broken with the snap of his fingers. He surrounded his solitude with work, philanthropy, parenting. He controlled it.
As a child, he’d had no control over it. It was foisted upon him, along with the irony that those who seemed most adamant that he grow up a lonely child slept in the next room.
He looked down at his son and ran his hand down the back of his head. Tomas gave him a slightly startled, curious look but followed it with a soft smile. Then he turned his head back toward the altar.
You will have a lot of doubts about me as you grow older, Joe thought as he put his hand on the back of his son’s neck and left it there, but you will never feel unloved, unwanted, or alone.
C HAPTER F IVE
Negotiations
THE MILLING ABOUT after mass often lasted as long as the mass itself.
In the fresh morning light outside the church, Mayor Belgrave and his wife paused at the top of the steps, and the crowd swarmed them. Dion acknowledged Joe with a tilt of his head and Joe returned the nod. He and Tomas worked their way through the crowd, turned the corner of the church, and headed for the back. Behind the church was the parochial school with a fenced-in school yard where The Boys met every Sunday to discuss business. There was a second school yard attached to the first, a smaller one for the kids in the early grades, and that’s where the wives and the children gathered.
As Joe stopped outside the first school yard, Tomas headed for the second to join the other children. A feeling of helplessness, even minor grief, passed through Joe as he watched his son walk away.Life was loss; Joe understood this. But lately he’d felt it more acutely than ever before. His son was eight years away from entering college, and
Joe glanced around the church, tried to find someone besides Tomas who genuinely appeared to be contemplating the question. Most parishioners looked like they were contemplating grocery lists or the evening meal.
“He made Eve,” Father Ruttle said, “because seeing Adam alone was more than He could bear. Being alone, you see, is the worst of hell’s punishments.” He hit the pulpit with the side of his fist and the congregation woke up. “Hell is the absence of God.” Again the side of his fist found the ornate wood. “It is the absence of light. It is the absence of love.” His neck strained as he looked out on the eight hundred souls arrayed before him. “Do you understand?”
They weren’t Baptists; they weren’t supposed to answer. But murmurs rolled through the throng.
“Believe in the Lord,” the priest said.
“Honor Him, and repent your sins,” he said, “and you shall know Him in heaven.”
“But repent not?” He looked out at them again. “And you shall be cast from His sight.”
It was his voice, Joe realized, that had gripped them. Normally it was dry and benign, but the morning’s sermon had altered it, had altered him. He’d spoken with an air of desperation and loss, as if what he’d preached—hell as an infinite and impregnable void—was almost too despairing for the aging priest to contemplate.
“All rise.”
Joe and Tomas stood with the rest of the congregation. Joe hadnever had trouble repenting. In so far as a man with his sins could repent, he had poured tens of thousands of dollars into hospitals, schools, shelters, roads, and plumbing, not just in Boston, where he’d grown up and owned several interests, or in Ybor City, his adopted hometown, but in Cuba, where he lived much of the year in the western tobacco country.
But for the next few minutes, he did think the old priest might have a point. One of Joe’s deepest secrets was how completely he feared loneliness. He didn’t fear being alone—in fact he liked it—but the solitude he constructed was one that could always be broken with the snap of his fingers. He surrounded his solitude with work, philanthropy, parenting. He controlled it.
As a child, he’d had no control over it. It was foisted upon him, along with the irony that those who seemed most adamant that he grow up a lonely child slept in the next room.
He looked down at his son and ran his hand down the back of his head. Tomas gave him a slightly startled, curious look but followed it with a soft smile. Then he turned his head back toward the altar.
You will have a lot of doubts about me as you grow older, Joe thought as he put his hand on the back of his son’s neck and left it there, but you will never feel unloved, unwanted, or alone.
C HAPTER F IVE
Negotiations
THE MILLING ABOUT after mass often lasted as long as the mass itself.
In the fresh morning light outside the church, Mayor Belgrave and his wife paused at the top of the steps, and the crowd swarmed them. Dion acknowledged Joe with a tilt of his head and Joe returned the nod. He and Tomas worked their way through the crowd, turned the corner of the church, and headed for the back. Behind the church was the parochial school with a fenced-in school yard where The Boys met every Sunday to discuss business. There was a second school yard attached to the first, a smaller one for the kids in the early grades, and that’s where the wives and the children gathered.
As Joe stopped outside the first school yard, Tomas headed for the second to join the other children. A feeling of helplessness, even minor grief, passed through Joe as he watched his son walk away.Life was loss; Joe understood this. But lately he’d felt it more acutely than ever before. His son was eight years away from entering college, and
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