influenced my perception; still, I pitied the engaged couples reporting for their mandatory Pre-Cana counseling, squirming for hours in those punishingly uncomfortable chairs. Art felt at ease only in the cluttered front room, which served as the parish office, and in Fran Conlonâs kitchen, with its lingering smell of breakfast. He spent the rest of his time in his bedroom, which heâd outfitted with a stereo and portable TV. Also a cordless telephone, from which he returned my call.
He left a message I now know by heart. I have replayed it several times, analyzing the tone of his voice. Sheila, itâs me, Brother Father. The man in black. Iâve escaped from a hostage situation, three hours with the parish council. Iâm slammed tomorrow, so Iâll try you on Friday. If he had any inkling of what was about to happen, he gave no indication. There was no hint of distress in his voice.
I HAVE reconstructed his movements the next day, Holy Thursday. I have in my possession Artâs desk planner, its black leather cover embossed with the numerals 2002. From long practice I decipher his cramped handwriting (he too, it seems, was given a pass on penmanship). At 9 A.M. he attended a fellowship breakfast at St. Thomas Presbyterian, sponsored by the local Ecumenical Council. In the afternoon he heard confessions and gave the sacrament at Mountain View nursing home. On the same page, I found a yellow Post-it note: Drop by choir rehearsal. He had doubts about the new director and feared a disaster on Sunday morning, her first Easter at Sacred Heart. Thursday evening he celebrated the annual Mass of the Lordâs Supper, a ninety-minute extravaganza complete with full choir, trumpets from the eighth-grade orchestra and the ritual foot-washing, Art kneeling at the altar before twelve barefoot parishioners, like Christ bathing the feet of the Apostles. Afterward the Eucharist would be carried, in solemn procession, to the Repository. With luck heâd eat supper by midnight. Fran would be long gone, and heâd have no chance to question her about Kevin Vick. He would sit in the kitchen with the Atlantic Monthly , eating whatever sheâd left in the refrigerator, then rush through his prayers and fall exhausted into bed.
Which brings us to Friday morning, the Friday in question. Good Friday, if you are raised Catholic, is something of a trialâan endless day to be loathed and dreaded, if you are the Catholic child of Mary McGann. Each year Mike and I suffered it together: a day of no school, no television, no loud playing; a day of rosaries and soggy fried fish. My mother took a certain pleasure in disparaging our flimsy modern devotionsâput to shame, she claimed, by the extreme rites of her girlhood, Good Friday as it was meant to be observed, at her childhood parish in Roxbury. From noon to 3 P.M. , the hours Our Lord spent hanging on the cross, young Mary Devine had knelt in prayer, with nothing but a piece of toast in her stomach. (Having strictly observed the Friday fast, one full meal per day, and that without meat.)
Off to church now , sheâd conclude sourly. Whatâs left of it. At this Mike would stare at me with mournful pious eyes and we would both fall out laughing, and Ma would bemoan the fate of our souls.
Though it was rough going for the faithful, a priestâs Good Friday duties were light. Mass could not be celebrated, which was itself a rare freedom. Years ago, when Art was a lowly cleric at Holy Redeemer, Frank Lynch had declared Holy Thursday an all-night poker game. Priests from the surrounding parishes drank until dawn and slept until noon, the one day of the year they were excused from morning Mass.
In Artâs datebook, that morning is blank. At 2 P.M. he would lead the Solemn Commemoration of the Lordâs Passion. In the evening he was expected at the newly concocted Family Service, led by parishioners, and the elementary schoolâs performance of the
He left a message I now know by heart. I have replayed it several times, analyzing the tone of his voice. Sheila, itâs me, Brother Father. The man in black. Iâve escaped from a hostage situation, three hours with the parish council. Iâm slammed tomorrow, so Iâll try you on Friday. If he had any inkling of what was about to happen, he gave no indication. There was no hint of distress in his voice.
I HAVE reconstructed his movements the next day, Holy Thursday. I have in my possession Artâs desk planner, its black leather cover embossed with the numerals 2002. From long practice I decipher his cramped handwriting (he too, it seems, was given a pass on penmanship). At 9 A.M. he attended a fellowship breakfast at St. Thomas Presbyterian, sponsored by the local Ecumenical Council. In the afternoon he heard confessions and gave the sacrament at Mountain View nursing home. On the same page, I found a yellow Post-it note: Drop by choir rehearsal. He had doubts about the new director and feared a disaster on Sunday morning, her first Easter at Sacred Heart. Thursday evening he celebrated the annual Mass of the Lordâs Supper, a ninety-minute extravaganza complete with full choir, trumpets from the eighth-grade orchestra and the ritual foot-washing, Art kneeling at the altar before twelve barefoot parishioners, like Christ bathing the feet of the Apostles. Afterward the Eucharist would be carried, in solemn procession, to the Repository. With luck heâd eat supper by midnight. Fran would be long gone, and heâd have no chance to question her about Kevin Vick. He would sit in the kitchen with the Atlantic Monthly , eating whatever sheâd left in the refrigerator, then rush through his prayers and fall exhausted into bed.
Which brings us to Friday morning, the Friday in question. Good Friday, if you are raised Catholic, is something of a trialâan endless day to be loathed and dreaded, if you are the Catholic child of Mary McGann. Each year Mike and I suffered it together: a day of no school, no television, no loud playing; a day of rosaries and soggy fried fish. My mother took a certain pleasure in disparaging our flimsy modern devotionsâput to shame, she claimed, by the extreme rites of her girlhood, Good Friday as it was meant to be observed, at her childhood parish in Roxbury. From noon to 3 P.M. , the hours Our Lord spent hanging on the cross, young Mary Devine had knelt in prayer, with nothing but a piece of toast in her stomach. (Having strictly observed the Friday fast, one full meal per day, and that without meat.)
Off to church now , sheâd conclude sourly. Whatâs left of it. At this Mike would stare at me with mournful pious eyes and we would both fall out laughing, and Ma would bemoan the fate of our souls.
Though it was rough going for the faithful, a priestâs Good Friday duties were light. Mass could not be celebrated, which was itself a rare freedom. Years ago, when Art was a lowly cleric at Holy Redeemer, Frank Lynch had declared Holy Thursday an all-night poker game. Priests from the surrounding parishes drank until dawn and slept until noon, the one day of the year they were excused from morning Mass.
In Artâs datebook, that morning is blank. At 2 P.M. he would lead the Solemn Commemoration of the Lordâs Passion. In the evening he was expected at the newly concocted Family Service, led by parishioners, and the elementary schoolâs performance of the
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