Read Online Private House by Anthony Hyde - Free Book Online Page B

temptation is the essence of Protestantism, and so God, in His Wisdom, created the Catholics.” She wondered, now, what she had thought; she wasn’t sure. But she must have had some opinion, for after all she was a convert herself—a convert to the beliefs her two men had been born to; so she had more in common with both Greene and Waugh, and Eliot, too. She admitted to a little of Waugh’s zeal, also Greene’s respect for simple piety. It came out here, in prayer. Now her own belief could find expression, her private piety shine forth; she was alone with Him—and she did seize her chance with zeal. She got in touch, she always felt, in a more personal way than either Don or Murray managed, or perhaps wanted; she allowed a little of the anthropomorphic to creep in. So now, letting her mind clear, and then sink away, she began to pray, praying for the peace of her husband and Murray, whispering the words in her mind so God could hear her voice, and then softly she said a little of “Sweeney” for both of them, and herself: and then she just prayed. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t; now it did, and she felt herself, quite as herself, merge with something larger, a wonderful restfulness. And then it was over. She lifted her head and she was simply waiting, but not unhappily, for she always found that time passed to a different measure in church, not exactly the beat of eternity, but it caught her up, carried her along, so she was never the least impatient.
    In fact, Father Rodriguez appeared five minutes later, a stocky, light-skinned Cuban in a white, short-sleeved shirt worn outside of grey trousers, and displaying no obvious sign of his vocation. He came in atthe side, where the Bible students had gone out, and strode up the aisle toward her. “Lorraine Stowe?” He had a deep voice, and bowed over her hand as he shook it. This was priestly enough; but he struck her as a man of business, rather than a professional, a commercial man, a dealer, or a broker in cloth or wine or machinery. She guessed he was thirty-five or forty years old. He sat in a pew across the aisle from her and turned his body to face her, leaning forward, his compactness gathered in to itself.
    â€œDo you like our church?”
    â€œYes, very much. Murray used to talk about it. Now I see what he meant. The light and the quiet.”
    â€œHe was a quiet man.”
    â€œHe had great respect for you, Father. Your understanding . . . of who he was.”
    â€œThat he was gay, you mean?” He shrugged. “I love Jesus. Jesus is a man. What does that make me?”
    â€œWell, I told you about Almado—”
    â€œI remember him, of course, but I can’t tell you much about him. We hadn’t got that far. I have no idea where he is.”
    â€œHis family?”
    He shook his head. “No. As I say . . . I’m sorry.”
    On the phone, he’d been friendly, but now she sensed reluctance, as if he was regretting his offer to help. “You don’t think I should go ahead, do you?”
    â€œWell, I wonder. A young man like Almado . . . Murray, getting him to Canada, that was one thing. But all that money. Here. What will he do with it?”
    â€œLive.”
    â€œBut what does that mean?”
    He looked at her: his eyes were very blue and twinkling. And she returned his gaze, trying to guess its meaning. Perhaps it was simplythat she shouldn’t meddle in places she didn’t understand. . . . She said, “Father, I’m going to put you on the spot. This is a promise. If, after my best efforts, I fail to find Almado, I’ll see that your church gets Murray’s money.”
    It took him a moment, but then he grasped this and smiled. “I see. How ingenious. Your good conscience is dependent on mine. All right, then. Come along, and we’ll see what we can do.”
    Calle K was as empty and hot and dusty as it had been the previous morning,