our own places in the photographs, to stand with them, these strangers of our dreams, but less distinctly, with faces and figures difficult to make out, if not altogether invisible.
âSo I hear from Tom Pemberton and we meet for a drink at Knickerbockerâs, Ninth and University Place.
He doesnât wear the collar these days, heâs not defrocked but more or less permanently unassigned. Works at a cancer hospice on Roosevelt Island. Heâs grown heavier, the big face is more lined than I remember, but still open, candid, floridly handsome, the light, wide-set eyes moving restlessly over the room as if looking for someone to gladden his heart.
You write well enough, he says, but no writer can reproduce the actual texture of living life.
Not even Joyce?
I should look at him again. But now that I see the dissimilarity from the inside, so to speak, I think Iâll be wary of literature from here on.
Good move.
Youâre offended. But Iâm telling you youâre exemplary. Itâs a compliment. After all, I might have chalked you off as just a lousy writer. Itâs unsettling reading about me from inside my mind. Another shock to another faith.
Well, maybe I should drop the whole thing.
You donât need my approval, for Godâs sake. I agreed to thisâthatâs it, there are no strings. I wouldnât even ask you to keep thatmention of my girls out of it. Theyâre older now, of course. Apartments of their own.
Consider it done.
Trish is remarried.. . . Why didnât you say who her father is?
Thatâs to come.
I still hear from him. The usual smirk from on high, though I have to say he enjoyed having a peacenik priest in the family.
Good for the image.
I suppose. But now, listen, youâre using the real names. You told meâ
I know. Iâll change them. Just now theyâre still the best names. On the other hand they used to be the only possible names. So thatâs progress.
And it wasnât the
Times
that picked up the story of my stolen crucifix. It was only one of the free papers.
Well, Father, when you compose something, thatâs what you do, you make the composition. Bend time, change things, put things in, leave things out. Youâre not sworn to include everything. Or to make something happen the way it did. Facts can be inhibiting. Actuality is beside the point. Irrelevant.
Irrelevant actuality?
You do what the clock needs to tick.
Well there are some things just plain wrong.
Oh boy. Like what, Pem?
Iâm not telling you what to write, you understand. Itâs hands-off. But it wasnât a sermon at St. Timâs that got the bishop on my back. And what you have me saying is not really the cause. Really it was a bunch of things.
You told me a particular sermonâ
Well yes and noâIâve thought about thisâand I think it could have been a guest stint I did over in Newark that he felt was the last straw. But Iâm not sure. By the way, itâs different in that diocese, they are broad church over there. Bring in the women, the gays. . . the liberal side of the argument. My side. You donât want to oversimplify. The Anglicans are all over the lot. Thereâs actually more leeway for people like me than you give the church credit for.
What did you say?
What?
Your bishopâs last straw.
Ohâit was simple enough. I merely asked the congregation what they thought the engineered slaughter of the Jews in Europe had done to Christianity. To our story of Christ Jesus. I mean, given the meager response of our guys, is the Holocaust a problem only for Jewish theologians? But beyond that I asked themâit was a big crowd that morning, and they were with me, I could feel it, after the empty pews of St. Timâs it seemed to me like Radio CityâI asked them to imagine. . . what mortification, what ritual, what practice might have been a commensurate Christian response to the disaster.
âSo I hear from Tom Pemberton and we meet for a drink at Knickerbockerâs, Ninth and University Place.
He doesnât wear the collar these days, heâs not defrocked but more or less permanently unassigned. Works at a cancer hospice on Roosevelt Island. Heâs grown heavier, the big face is more lined than I remember, but still open, candid, floridly handsome, the light, wide-set eyes moving restlessly over the room as if looking for someone to gladden his heart.
You write well enough, he says, but no writer can reproduce the actual texture of living life.
Not even Joyce?
I should look at him again. But now that I see the dissimilarity from the inside, so to speak, I think Iâll be wary of literature from here on.
Good move.
Youâre offended. But Iâm telling you youâre exemplary. Itâs a compliment. After all, I might have chalked you off as just a lousy writer. Itâs unsettling reading about me from inside my mind. Another shock to another faith.
Well, maybe I should drop the whole thing.
You donât need my approval, for Godâs sake. I agreed to thisâthatâs it, there are no strings. I wouldnât even ask you to keep thatmention of my girls out of it. Theyâre older now, of course. Apartments of their own.
Consider it done.
Trish is remarried.. . . Why didnât you say who her father is?
Thatâs to come.
I still hear from him. The usual smirk from on high, though I have to say he enjoyed having a peacenik priest in the family.
Good for the image.
I suppose. But now, listen, youâre using the real names. You told meâ
I know. Iâll change them. Just now theyâre still the best names. On the other hand they used to be the only possible names. So thatâs progress.
And it wasnât the
Times
that picked up the story of my stolen crucifix. It was only one of the free papers.
Well, Father, when you compose something, thatâs what you do, you make the composition. Bend time, change things, put things in, leave things out. Youâre not sworn to include everything. Or to make something happen the way it did. Facts can be inhibiting. Actuality is beside the point. Irrelevant.
Irrelevant actuality?
You do what the clock needs to tick.
Well there are some things just plain wrong.
Oh boy. Like what, Pem?
Iâm not telling you what to write, you understand. Itâs hands-off. But it wasnât a sermon at St. Timâs that got the bishop on my back. And what you have me saying is not really the cause. Really it was a bunch of things.
You told me a particular sermonâ
Well yes and noâIâve thought about thisâand I think it could have been a guest stint I did over in Newark that he felt was the last straw. But Iâm not sure. By the way, itâs different in that diocese, they are broad church over there. Bring in the women, the gays. . . the liberal side of the argument. My side. You donât want to oversimplify. The Anglicans are all over the lot. Thereâs actually more leeway for people like me than you give the church credit for.
What did you say?
What?
Your bishopâs last straw.
Ohâit was simple enough. I merely asked the congregation what they thought the engineered slaughter of the Jews in Europe had done to Christianity. To our story of Christ Jesus. I mean, given the meager response of our guys, is the Holocaust a problem only for Jewish theologians? But beyond that I asked themâit was a big crowd that morning, and they were with me, I could feel it, after the empty pews of St. Timâs it seemed to me like Radio CityâI asked them to imagine. . . what mortification, what ritual, what practice might have been a commensurate Christian response to the disaster.
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