The Saint
“You know there are like a million old ladies in this church who would have packed up the office for you.”
“I know, but I said I would do it, and I feel only another priest should take care of his personal things for him.”
“That’s really nice of you.” She winced. Really nice of you? Could she sound like a bigger suck-up or idiot? “I should go home, I guess. Mom might call and wonder where I am.”
“Where is your mother?”
“Working.” Eleanor followed him out of the sanctuary.
“She works this late often?”
“This early. She works the late shift a lot. It pays more.”
“Does your father not help out financially?”
Eleanor stood in the doorway of the office again while Søren got back to work packing the boxes.
“Mom won’t take a cent from him even if he offered, which I doubt he would. He says he’s broke.”
“I take it the divorce was not entirely amicable.”
“She hates him.”
“Do you?”
“Hate Dad? No way. I love him.”
“Why does your mother hate him? If these questions are too personal you don’t have to answer them.”
“No, it’s okay.” She liked answering Søren’s questions. They were personal but not embarrassing. “Mom and Dad got married when she was eight months pregnant with me.”
“Eight? Talk about waiting until the last minute.”
Eleanor tried to smile but couldn’t.
“What is it?” Søren asked.
“She waited that long because she was hoping she’d have a miscarriage.”
Søren dropped the book on the desk with a loud thud.
“Surely not.”
“It’s true. I overheard her talking to my grandmother one night about some guy named Thomas Martin. She said she felt bad about thinking it, but she had once wished God would handle the pregnancy the way he handled Thomas Martin, whoever that is.”
“Thomas Merton,” Søren corrected.
“You know him?”
“He was a Trappist monk at the Abbey of Gethsemani in Bardstown, Kentucky. He’s arguably the most famous Catholic writer of the twentieth century. When he was a young man, he fathered a child out of wedlock, but the mother and child were both killed during an air raid in World War II, which allowed him to eventually become a monk without the familial obligations of fatherhood.”
“Makes sense, I guess. She was hoping God would kill me so she could be a nun.”
Søren gave her a look of such deep and profound sympathy she couldn’t stand to look at it.
“Eleanor … I’m so—”
“Sorry. I know. Don’t be. She loves me now. I think.” Eleanor laughed. “Anyway, it was young lust with Dad. She was seventeen. A year after she had me, she found out what my dad does for a living. They got divorced. She didn’t want any of his money because she said it’s all dirty.”
“Dirty money? What does your father do for a living?”
“He …” Eleanor paused and considered the best way to say it. “He’s a mechanic, sort of. Works with cars.”
“Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“They’re not always his cars.”
Søren nodded. “I see.”
“He’s been in prison a couple times.”
“Does that trouble you?”
“No,” she said. “Not too much anyway.”
They looked at each other a moment without speaking. It wasn’t an awkward silence, but a meaningful silence.
“Anyway, I’ll let you get back to packing.” Eleanor wanted to stay and keep talking to him. But she didn’t want to be a nuisance either, and wear out her welcome.
“I’ll see you Sunday?” he asked.
“What’s Sunday?”
“Mass? Church? Holy Day of Obligation?”
“Right. Sunday. I’ll check with my secretary,” she said. “You know, see if I’m free.”
“Do you have the office number here?”
“It’s on the fridge.”
“Call my number when you get home. I want to know you’ve arrived safely.”
She stared at him.
“Seriously?”
“How long does it take for you to walk home?”
“I don’t know. Twenty minutes?”
“Then I’ll expect to hear from you within the half hour. Please be safe.”
She gave him a wave and took a step back. It hurt walking away from him. That cord she felt last Sunday, she felt it again now, felt it in his presence, felt it even more when she moved to leave him.
“Three more things, Eleanor, before you go.”
“What?” She turned back to face him. Once more he stood in the doorway to his office.
“One.” He held up one finger. “Earlier you said you wished you to be six feet tall and have long straight hair. Don’t ever wish that again. God created you. Don’t argue aesthetics with the Creator. Do you understand?”
“Sure, I guess,” she said although she didn’t.
“Two.” He held up a second finger. “Don’t be troubled I said were you dangerous. It wasn’t an insult.”
“If you say so.”
“I do. And three.” He took a step back into the office. “I’ve been at Sacred Heart four days and already half the parish has made it abundantly clear to me that I am not wanted here. Father Gregory is much beloved. The parish is not ready to let him go and accept a new pastor. You aren’t the only one who knows what it’s like to feel unwanted.”