Twists of Faith: Collected Stories

By Joseph Roccasalvo

Twists of Faith is a captivating title for stories of the spiritual life, a phrase that might conjure up people at odds with the world. But these tales are the stellar opposite. In a phrase, they’re thrilling. These twenty-one action narratives, with twists and turns, project our inner struggles: epic accounts of our journey here below—our spiritual saga.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796033304

Joseph Roccasalvo

A native New Yorker, Joseph Roccasalvo followed his graduate degrees in philosophy, English literature, and theology with a Harvard PhD in comparative religion and a specialty in Buddhism. He has lived and taught in Boston, Bangkok, and Chicago. For over ten years in New York City, he was a professor of religious studies at Fordham University´s Bronx and Lincoln Center campuses. He was also a visiting professor of Buddhism at Columbia University in New York City and Franklin University in Lugano, Switzerland. Now engaged in graduate school mentoring, he is also a fiction writer. He has published five novels: Fire in a Windless Place, Chartreuse, Portrait of a Woman, The Odor of Sanctity, and The Devil’s Interval. Two novellas, The Powers That Be and Beyond the Pale were printed as Double Entendre. There followed three books of short stories: Outward Signs, The Mansions of Limbo, and Triple Sec. Two solo performances, Waging Waugh and Gospel Limericks, appeared as Two for One and were followed by a memoir, As It Were. Two further novellas have been published: Island of the Assassin and Alina in Ecstasy. These novellas were followed by a book of poetry, Poems for Two Violins, and the collected short stories, Twists of Faith. He has guided students in journalism and international studies at The New School for Social Research and has contributed essays to the New School’s newspaper in his online column, A Word to the Wise.

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Copyright © 2019 by Joseph Roccasalvo.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2019942646

ISBN:              Hardcover           978-1-7960-3332-8

                         Softcover            978-1-7960-3331-1

                         eBook                 978-1-7960-3330-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover design by Peter Hanley.

Rev. date: 06/05/2019

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Contents

The Blow of Mercy

Yvette of the Altars

Too Much of a Good Thing

Lifecycle

The Benefit of the Doubt

The Beautiful Priest

Conjugal Visit

Gemini

Grammar Patrol

Organ Recital

Pure Gold

Anathema

My Antinous

Coptic Cat

What’s Bad or Good

The Vital Impulse

Sign of the Archer

The Blue Hours

The Fourth Letter

The Sun That Is Young Once Only

A Weekend Away

The Blow of Mercy

That’s very striking, she said, pointing to the medal around his neck. I’ve never seen one quite like it. Did you buy it in Europe?

No, he replied. I had it made by a jeweler in New York. I submitted a design, and he cast it for me in gold. The result was exactly what I wanted. I always wear it.

It’s a good opening for a conversation, she said.

Not often, he corrected her. You’re one of the few people who’ve really noticed it. Why did it catch your attention?

It has the symbols of the cross and Jewish star. I’ve never seen them worked together so deftly. The arm of the cross overlaps the base of the inverted triangle so that it’s hard to tell which is coming from which. It’s as if the medal were saying it’s a question of both together, not one or the other. She smiled and added, My answer is a little evasive. I couldn’t help but notice. You see, I was raised in two traditions. My mother was Jewish, while my father was Roman Catholic. My name is Judith Casey—Sr. Judith Casey.

Mine is Saul Levin. I’m happy to meet you. They shook hands. Intrigued by her autobiographical comments, he pressed her for more.

"Did you say sister?"

Yes. I’m a member of a religious congregation in the Catholic Church. A prime concern of ours is dialogue between Christians and Jews.

Do members of your community come from mixed marriages?

A small number. For those who do, the congregation is a providential match, not unlike this meeting.

It could be a coincidence.

You may call it that if you like, but coincidence restates the situation rather than explains it. I prefer Providence. I’m on my way to a conference at Catholic University. We’ll be discussing key biblical concepts. Providence is bound to come up.

The Amtrak train on which they were traveling stopped at Delaware on its way to Washington. As it paused to receive new passengers, Saul had a chance to study his companion. A woman in her sixties, her abundant gray hair was swept back with combs, framing sensitive brown eyes. Her face was as earnest as it was kind and intelligent. She sat erect but without stiffness, mindful of the public constraints imposed by her religious rule. The overall effect on the spectator was quiet dignity. While he gathered his impressions of her, she formulated her own of him. He was in his early twenties on his way back to school after the Christmas vacation. Of average height, he had brown hair slicked back by gel, hazel eyes, and regular features. Inquisitive, he was easily disposed to meeting strangers.

Saul checked his watch. It was noon, and he was feeling hungry. It would be another two hours before they reached Washington.

Sister, he said, I’m planning to get something in the dining car. Would you like anything?

Actually, yes, she said, reaching into her bag for her purse. A cup of tea—no milk or sugar, and anything but herbal.

He watched her search for change. Please don’t bother, he said. It’s on me. Tea won’t break the bank in Monte Carlo. I may be awhile. The lines tend to be long, so don’t think I’ve vanished like a Hitchcock character.

He threaded his way to the dining car and was lucky to be third in line. Within fifteen minutes, he was back to his seat. He had brought tea, coffee, and some oatmeal cookies, which they now shared.

It’s always nice to have a traveling companion, she said. It makes the time go quickly. For me, second best is a good book. Third is closing my eyes and replaying a memory.

Number 3 is what I’d be doing if we hadn’t met. I don’t have a novel, and I’ve read the newspaper cover to cover.

What would you remember?

An anniversary.

Really. Of what?

A death and a birth.

Together?

Yes. It happened a year ago this week. Would you like to hear about it?

Very much so.

You’re sure I won’t bore you?

I doubt it. It’s my biblical background. I love a good story. It’s so much better than TV. It allows the imagination to create its own visuals.

You have one visual to help you, the medal around my neck. You’re sure now?

I’m all ears. Sister Judith relaxed her posture and settled back.

I’m a graduate student in journalism at Georgetown, Saul began. "A group of us are good friends. We share rooms in the same university housing. Before mid-semester exams, we got together to discuss a tropical vacation after Christmas. Instead of skiing in Maine, we talked about Aruba, Key West, and the Virgin Islands. Then someone mentioned Mexico and how inexpensive it was. None of us had ever been there. Since the exchange rate was good, we knew we could get a reasonably priced hotel. Some of us hesitated, but in the end, everyone said yes. There were five of us: Lou Costa, Brad Colby, Rick Hatfield, and Rick’s cousin whom we didn’t know, Billy Travis. I was the fifth. Our plans were to meet on the twenty-seventh of December. I called my father’s travel agent who gave me the name of a small hotel in Acapulco. I reserved two rooms, each with two beds. One had a small alcove where I planned to sleep. The cost was fifty dollars a day per room. At twenty dollars a person, it was a steal. We figured we could lower our costs even more by occasionally buying from food vendors. The important thing was the beach. I got rave reviews about one called La Condesa. It sounded like something out of a brochure.

"I spent the holidays with my folks and thought of nothing but lying in the sun with a cold drink and the gulf lapping at my feet. Since we were flying in from different cities, we coordinated our schedules. We met at the airport in Mexico City, where we took the forty-five-minute flight to Acapulco and taxied to our hotel. For the money, the two rooms were tolerable, but the hotel was pretty run-down, seedy, even. Our schedules every day were much the same: getting up early, going to the beach to sun and surf, back for a siesta at four, and dinner at a family-run restaurant. Sunday was an exception when Rick and Billy went to the Protestant church for services. Lou and Brad heard that a mariachi band played at the mass in the local Catholic Church. Since they’re both musicians, they went to the service out of curiosity. I was the only non-Christian, so I stayed in bed. I noticed Billy’s anger when I didn’t budge for church. It bothered him. At dinner that night, he made some hostile remarks, which I ignored. He snubbed me the whole of the next day. Since we planned on being together for a week, I decided to clear the air. The most politic thing to do was to speak to Billy’s cousin. I was alone in my room when Rick walked in to borrow a portable radio. It was an opportunity not to be missed. I didn’t ease into the subject. I just asked him outright.

"‘What’s with your cousin? Ever since Sunday, he’s had it in for me. Did I say something?’

"‘It’s nothing you said,’ he replied as if he had spent time thinking about it. ‘It’s what you didn’t do.’

"‘I don’t follow.’

"‘You didn’t keep the Sabbath.’

"‘You mean the Christian Sabbath?’

"‘For Billy, it’s the only one there is.’

"‘Does he know I’m Jewish?’

"‘Yes.’

"‘And?’

"‘It doesn’t matter. To Billy, anyone who’s not certified baptized is steeped in sin, the devil’s agent, and waiting for hell. You should hear him when he preaches. Outside the church, there’s just damnation—that’s Billy at his nicest. Most of the time, he’s anti-Semitic. He talks about the Jews as Christ’s killers. My uncle and aunt are partly responsible. During the summer, they sent Billy to this fundamentalist Christian camp. It reinforced his home environment.’

"‘Doesn’t sound Christian to me.’

"‘To hear Billy speak, you’d think he’s the only one. He talks about being born again and smitten by the Spirit. He’s like some backwoods person. Billy lives in DC, which isn’t exactly the boondocks. You’d expect some softening around the edges. But he’s as rigid as ever. I thought a trip with some regular guys might help. I underestimated the fire and brimstone.’ The conversation dropped when Lou and Brad walked in.

"‘I’m glad you’re both here,’ Brad said. ‘Lou and I have been scouting around to see what we could do after dinner. Our nights are getting pretty stale. We can still eat at the bar near the beach. Afterward, we want to try something new.’

"‘What?’ Rick asked.

"‘I’m game for a change,’ I said. It was Lou’s turn to speak up.

"‘I heard about these daredevil divers. They plunge into the sea from over a hundred feet up at a rock called La Quebrada. Let’s catch the diving tonight.’

"‘We’re halfway through our vacation. It’s not a good idea to leave without seeing them,’ Brad added.

"‘I wonder if Billy would like it,’ I said.

"‘I think he might,’ Rick confirmed. ‘He was on the swimming team in high school. He’s still in touch with the sport.’

"‘It’s worth a try. The diving might snap him out of his funk,’ Brad said.

"That night, the five of us had burgers and beers at the bar and walked to the ravine called La Quebrada. We were intrigued by the evening’s main event, but the excitement was evident in Billy’s show of interest. Whatever the sullenness of the morning, his mood grew lighter as he discussed the art of diving. He recounted his initiation into the sport.

"‘I still remember my first high dive,’ he began. ‘At some point, you have to try it. You can’t keep practicing on the lower board. I had screwed up my courage and told myself I was diving into the arms of Jesus. It was a leap of faith with no support except trust. There was no turning back, midair. The dive was total and took over completely. The early Christians did it that way. I mean, the catechumens. When they got baptized, they plunged into the pool and were immersed in the waters that washed them clean. They had dived into the blood of the Lamb and had come out the other side, new beings. There’s no way around the terror. You have to risk death by letting go if you’re going to be reborn. You need to be kept in the waters, screaming and struggling, before you rise to new life. You have to go under three times, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. As you sink, you may splash and flail. You may gag and choke and think you’re dying. And in a way, you are. The prospect of drowning’s a fearful thing. Then suddenly, something happens. The dead weight drops off, and you find yourself coasting along, light and free. You breathe in the clean air, joyous at being alive. The grace of the Lord has buoyed you up.’

"We all listened in silence, embarrassed by Billy’s fervor but fascinated by the flow of rhetoric as he preached to a captive audience. We were happy, too, that his sermonizing was cut short when we reached the gorge. The evening had cooled, and the diver next in line was shivering. Soon he would pray at the Madonna Shrine before plummeting into the sea. The drop was steep, and while the wind moaned as the waves receded, I thought of what Matthew Arnold wrote in the poem ‘Dover Beach’ of the ocean’s melancholy, long, withdrawing roar. The moon was luminous so that the diver could decide where the water deepened. Much was at stake in his judgment: the height and speed of the waves as they rolled in, the velocity of wind against his body, and the impact of entering the water at its deepest point. A miscalculation meant hitting shallows or rocks—in either case, instantaneous death.

"No more than our age, the diver stood near the edge of the ravine. I was jumpy just watching. To support him, each of us dropped the equivalent of five dollars into a hat that was passed around. About thirty spectators contributed. For a young Mexican with no other work, the collection was a small fortune. No doubt, he would give a portion of it to the master of ceremonies who drew the crowds by his rhetoric. My Spanish is not the best, but you didn’t have to be fluent to know he was pouring it on. The verbal fireworks seemed fitting. After all, the diver was courting death. He reminded me of a matador preparing to face a raging bull in the arena. What roared now was no bull but the ink-black sea.

"The master of ceremonies retrieved the hat stuffed with pesos. The diver knelt before the Virgin, said his prayers, and stood for the dive. The question absorbing us all was how accurate he would be in gauging the depth of the oncoming wave. His powers of concentration seemed beyond human reckoning. I was of a divided mind, eager to watch yet feeling sorry I’d come. Suspense was one thing, but this resembled a public execution. No matter how bright the moon or the torches flaring down the ravine, it still meant diving into the semidarkness. From my position, I could see the white waves curling toward shore. They resembled hounds closing in on their quarry.

"The diver blessed himself in one last appeal for divine help. Each devotional act underscored the danger of his intent. Moving backward, he bent his knees, rounded his pelvis, and raced to the edge of the cliff, his body taut to get the longest possible extension. He had listened for the roar and, recognizing it, determined his dive would meet the depths. He had seized a moment of exquisite timing and leapt into the darkness.

"Even to an untutored eye, it was a superb dive, the arms spread-eagle, the body straight, the ankles together. Without a diving board, he had thrust himself upward so that he seemed to soar before the descent. As his body plunged the hundred feet, it caught in quick, successive flashes the illumination of the flares on the side of the mountain. For all the integrity of the dive, my attention was diverted by the incoming wave and the meeting of the diver with the depths. Everything had slowed as human attention was spread among visual points: what was midair, what was at eye level, and what was below. I saw faces cringe and heard the gasps as the diver hit the water. Surrounding the cliff was a railing. Several in front, who were leaning against it, heard those from the rear, yelling.

"‘Did he make it?’

"‘Do you see him?’

"‘Is he alive?’

"With no one answering, fear gripped the crowd. The thought that an act conjoining courage to grace should end in tragedy was unthinkable. The diver had to be alive. He belonged to us. We had supported his flirtation with death by contributing money. He must not be defeated. For all their brevity, the passing seconds were no less punishing. The image of that young body dashed by the rocks was too horrible to imagine. We felt like relatives waiting to learn if a husband or son, a brother or friend had been a frontline casualty. We craned and peered and murmured. Nothing. While we wore our terror on our sleeves, the master of ceremonies stood to the side, cool and collected. Had time so blunted the edge of his feelings? Was human life that cheap?

"Suddenly, someone from the crowd shouted, ‘Look! Look!’ It was the diver, emerging from the rear, clambering up the last boulder. To prolong our terror, he had ascended the opposite side of the mountain. The master of ceremonies had been in collusion. Relieved, we turned around and started applauding. ‘Bravo!’ we cried in a chorus. ‘Està vivo y seguro!’ cried someone from the crowd.

"Several spectators went over—some embracing him, others pressing his hand to assure themselves he was not a ghost. The diver bowed and smiled appreciatively, the flush of satisfaction ample protection against the evening chill. As I watched the scene, I could see a swimmer walking from the road to the cliff. More bread and circuses, I thought. One more diver to test the extremities. For myself, I had had enough dread for one evening. Lou and Brad wanted to remain. Rick wavered, while I was eager to leave. None of us wanted Billy as tiebreaker. But he had yet to announce his preference.

"‘What’s your pleasure?’ Rick finally asked him.

"‘What?’ Billy replied as the question derailed him from his reverie. He had this odd glint in his eyes as if he had caught a meaning available only to him. A smile played about his lips, suggesting he had settled whatever problem had vexed him. He could now proceed accordingly.

"‘Do you want to see another diver?’ Lou asked.

"‘I’m game for a little disaster,’ Brad interjected.

"‘I’ve already shared one too many death leaps,’ I said. Billy looked over in my direction, having translated my words into what he perceived was their equivalent.

"‘You’ve shared in nothing,’ he said. ‘Your hour hasn’t come.’

"He turned away and joined the others as they walked to the railing in expectation of a new diver and a new set of thrills. Again, I was odd man out. I walked back to the hotel and went to bed. I tossed and turned while Billy’s words repeated themselves in my memory like a reluctant mantra.

"We all slept late the next morning. By the time we got up, showered, and dressed, we were ready for lunch. It was a cloudless day with low humidity and an intense desert sunshine—a day for lolling under a beach umbrella with a magazine, a cool drink, and background music. This time, none of us needed to negotiate what we should do. We were all in the mood for the beach. Lou reminded me of what had slipped my mind.

"‘Saul, what’s the name of that beach you talked about? You know, the one out of the brochure? The Mombassa, or something like that.’

"‘La Condesa,’ I corrected him. ‘It’s got the best waves in Acapulco. If you want, we can go there to swim and see the surfers. I’m told it’s dazzling to watch them ride the waves in.’

"Everyone agreed the beach was a must. Billy said nothing but seemed lost in his world of applied theology. For a few cents, we took the local bus to the end of the main drag about twenty blocks from our hotel. We were left off at a grassy knoll, which looked down toward the beach. As we took the path, we could see a line of rocks jutting into the gulf. From where we were two hundred yards away, the waves looked huge, dwarfing the surfers on boards riding them into shore. It was a startling conjunction of sky, sea, and human daring like the prior night when the diver had played the odds with darkness, water, and height.

"We spread the beach blankets close to the water. Lou and Brad walked over to a vendor and rented two umbrellas to provide shade from the blistering sun. They returned, set up the umbrellas, and spread the blankets underneath. I shared one with Lou and Brad, making sure to keep my distance from Billy. As soon as we had secured the blankets with our sneakers, we ran down to the surf. The water was cool and refreshing, and we splashed and dove like seals. Our antics managed to crowbar Billy out of his cogitation, and for a while, he let go of his self-absorption. So we passed the afternoon taking the sun, racing into the water to cool off, and listening to music. Periodically, young boys came by selling Cokes, which Lou and Brad spiked with overproof rum. The liquor loosened us up, and even I, who don’t drink much, was enjoying the bonhomie.

"‘Saul, I’m glad we came here,’ Rick said to me. ‘It’s a great beach. I can’t believe this weather. When I think of what I left in Minnesota, I feel like I’m on another planet. I phoned my folks yesterday. It’s five degrees with a windchill of minus ten. And here, we are under an umbrella, hiding from the sun.’

"‘It’s hard to imagine we’ll be back in the deep freeze,’ Lou said, taking another gulp of his second rum ’n’ Coke. ‘Hey, Billy,’ he needled, ‘how do you guys baptize in winter? Do you cut an ice hole the way Eskimos do when they fish and lower your victim in?’

"‘Suppose you don’t have water,’ Brad said, ‘would rum ’n’ Coke do the trick?’ Billy reddened. He wasn’t so much embarrassed by the banter as angered by it.

"‘It has to be water,’ he said solemnly, ‘and it has to be flowing. It’s the same as washing. Only grace does the cleansing.’

"‘Don’t be so serious, Billy, we were kidding around,’ Lou said.

"‘If you have to be baptized, why not do it right? I mean, in a resort in the sun. A place like this is perfect,’ Brad continued. ‘Resorts and churches should get together. Something for body and soul.’

"‘I fell for you, body and soul,’ Rick crooned, lifting up his glass and clinking the others. I joined in while Billy abstained. Suddenly, he jumped up.

"‘Let’s take a boat out,’ he said. ‘We can row to the end of the rocks and back. I need to do something strenuous. How about it?’

"It was the first time Billy had recommended anything with enthusiasm. The forcefulness of his suggestion surprised us, so no one wanted to disappoint him. Several boats were available near the shoreline, and the water looked calm near the rocks. Nothing was holding us back.

"‘I’m for it,’ Rick said.

"‘Why not?’ I added.

"‘Count us in,’ Lou and Brad said. ‘But don’t forget the drinks.’

"We walked down to the beach while Billy and Rick raced ahead to the rental stand where they haggled with the owner over a price. They selected a boat that was spacious enough for five. They paid the vendor. Lou, Brad, and I got in. Rick joined us while Billy pushed it into the tide as we helped with the oars. In no time, we were about thirty feet from shore as the undercurrent pulled us out.

"Now that we were afloat, I noticed that the gulf was less calm than it looked. My guidebook on Mexico cautioned that on some days, the winds became strong, making the waves enormous and the boating and swimming difficult. The description was apt, but not where we were. The waves were manageable. However, fifty yards to the right, they swelled to over six feet and broke in frenzied tides on the shore. Since we planned to stay within distance from the rocks, we felt secure.

"Lou and Brad stopped rowing to enjoy the view of the palm-lined esplanade and the sand sweeping down to the shore. Rick poured more drinks, and we toasted Acapulco and the easy life. I noticed we had been pulled farther from shore than we intended. So I turned to Lou and Brad and alerted them.

"‘I think you’d better row closer. The undercurrent is dragging us out.’

"Presently, we found ourselves where we were earlier. The water was inviting, and you could see clear down to the bottom the waving flora and tropical fish. The sun overhead was uncomfortably hot. I was feeling overexposed.

"‘I’m sorry I didn’t wear a shirt and cap for cover.’

"‘If you’re so hot,’ Billy replied, ‘why not dive in? We’ll take turns. The boat’s not going anywhere.’ The others suggested I do the same. Billy watched for my response.

"I stepped on to the back seat. With a spring of my ankles, I dove and swam underwater. It felt refreshing, and I was glad I had set aside my reluctance. I came up for air and dove under again. When I surfaced, I realized I was fifteen feet from the boat, so I swam toward it. The choppy waves broke about my neck. The sea was colder in spots, and the undertow proved formidable. I was glad I had reached the boat again. I was about to invite someone else to join me when Billy, with his oar in hand, changed seats with Rick at the back. He stood up and, to my amazement, started quoting scripture.

"‘Unless a man be born again of water and the Holy Ghost, he cannot enter the kingdom of God. For those baptized into Christ have been baptized into his death and shall walk in newness of life.’ Lou and Brad laughed, thinking the rum ’n’ Coke had gone to Billy’s head. They thought he was doing a self-caricature. Only Rick looked startled. Before anyone could react, Billy turned to the side of the boat to which I clung and pushed me under the first time: ‘I baptize you in the name of the Father.’ I came up for air. At which point, he pushed me down a second time. ‘And of the Son,’ he continued. I surfaced again only to be thrust under a third time. ‘And of the Holy Ghost,’ he said, completing the formula.

"Whether Rick tried to restrain his cousin or whether Billy staved off my friends with his oar, I can’t say. Between my desperation to get into the boat—for I had swallowed water—and the scuffle that followed, the boat capsized, and an oar struck my head. I was dizzy from the blow but kept treading water. Meanwhile, I lost sight of my friends and feared the worst. I was scarcely able to help myself, let alone them, as I tried swimming toward shore. This was more readily imagined than executed, for the waves were like fingers enticing me out. My efforts to resist the undercurrent exhausted me, so I stopped to rest. I marshaled my energies in one last attempt and swam against the tide. The waves broke in irregular patterns, crisscrossing my body like lashes from a whip. I felt like a runner on a treadmill racing nowhere. The numbing in my arms made it difficult to stroke, and my legs felt like hundred-pound pistons.

"The thought occurred: perhaps the others are drowning, now it’s my turn. I tried warding off the panic, but I was close to defeat. Looking up again, I saw that my effort to swim closer had brought me twenty yards from shore. Without another attempt, the undertow would triumph. At this point, I was emptied of all volition and conceded defeat. Terrified, I began to flail.

"I chanced to look back and saw a wave of prodigious height approaching. This is the blow of mercy, I thought. Watching it advance at a terrifying speed, I turned toward the shoreline, expecting the worst. What happened next is my own surmise. With fastidious timing, the wave bore me aloft as I coasted aimlessly, my body propelled with dizzying speed. When I regained consciousness, I found myself on shore. My chest was scraped red from the abrupt halt. Despite the abrasions, I was intact. I lay there motionless as the water licked my heels and the sun consoled my body. When I mustered enough strength to stand, I dragged myself to the umbrellas but collapsed on the beach. Astonishment at being alive had not yet registered. Nor had I the presence of mind to search for my friends. I was too drained from my bout with the sea to do anything but lie there."

Saul paused in his story and seemed reluctant to go on. Sister Judith saw his facial discomfort.

You needn’t continue, Saul, if you don’t want to.

No, Sister, he replied, I’d like to. It’s helpful to talk about it. He looked away, breathed deeply, and turned back.

When I awoke, I found myself in a Mexican hospital. I’m still vague about how I got there. A nurse told me later I had been brought in on a stretcher by medics. I had water in my lungs, which I eventually discharged. But I was in shock. When I asked the nurse about my friends, I learned that three of them had drowned.

Who survived? Judith asked.

Since none of the bodies had identification on them, the authorities couldn’t tell. One survivor was in intensive care and in and out of consciousness. I asked them to let me visit the ward. They denied my request, saying I could go the next day when I was stronger. As I lay there that night, the suspense was killing. I dreamed of diving off a cliff onto jagged rocks and saw myself baptized with my own blood in the name of the Christian trinity. In my dream, I kept repeating, ‘Remember, Israel, the Lord your God is one … one … one.’ I woke in a sweat, screaming the word, terrified I would be punished for betraying my Jewish faith. The next morning, when they wheeled me to the intensive ward and I approached the bed hidden behind curtains, I felt I was part of some ghastly lottery. Finally, the nurse drew back the curtain. Saul paused while Judith contained her urgency to ask.

It was Billy. Saul’s voice cracked a little when he spoke the name. His eyes filled as he recalled the loss of his friends—of three lives snuffed out because of one man’s fanaticism.

On analysis, Sister, what happened seems so unfair, so dicey. I mean, why Billy? Shouldn’t he have drowned and the others been saved? And why was I chosen as solitary witness?

So you see yourself as chosen, Judith interjected. Despite your reluctant baptism, Saul, or maybe because of it, you still talk like a Jew. You’ve obviously explored this since last year. I can’t imagine you inert. You have too active an intellect. What did you discover? Saul started fingering the chain around his neck.

This medal.

What preceded it? she asked, eager to have him complete his story.

When I flew back to the States, my first duty was to attend three funerals. The Georgetown chapel overflowed with family and friends for the joint service. Billy was flown back in a stretcher attended by his parents and a private nurse. His concussion was severe, so the prognosis was guarded. I was the only one around to tell the story. I felt guilty at being alive, embarrassed too at having to repeat my baptism to family and relatives. They insisted on knowing the circumstances of the boat’s capsizing. Somehow, I couldn’t escape their judgment that I had been changed—that I was a part of them yet apart from them. At best, I was an outsider in the midst. At worst, I was a collaborator. Nothing was said, you see. And maybe it was in my mind. But that was what I felt. I had been born again as a kind of mutation, neither one thing nor the other. It was as if I were being stretched between opposite shores.

You mean, a bridge.

How so?

Just that—a causeway giving access to both sides. Saul, I’ve felt that way for most of my life. Doubly chosen—baptized at birth, bat mitzvahed at twelve, a religious sister since my twenties, and a Hebrew scholar for almost as long. Some of us go through life as simultaneous translators. We’re bilinguists. My sense is that you’ve joined the ranks. Your consciousness needs to catch up, that’s all. Then with genial irony, she added, Perhaps that’s why I’ve met you. To encourage the process.

Providence again?

I’m afraid so, she said, smiling.

And my friends’ drowning? Billy’s survival?

There are no easy answers, Saul. Eventually you’ll know more. If not here, then finally, at the end.

How can you be so sure?

I can’t, but faith can.

You seem to have it both ways.

Yes, she said, another bridge.

A voice over the loudspeaker announced their arrival in Washington. Without saying so, it implied the end of their travel. Each would leave the other and return to a separate world. It was not unlikely they would hear from each other. After all, there were emails, fax machines, and a cell phone in a pinch. But her immediate presence, that he would do without. It was as if he had journeyed from a catastrophic event till he had fallen in with a gracious stranger who opened up its meaning while his heart burned within him. As the Amtrak train pulled into the station, Saul helped Judith with her bags and assembled his own. They climbed the stairs to the lobby and exited to the street.

Sister, the taxis are up ahead. Shall I walk you to one?

It won’t be necessary, Saul. A sister from my community is picking me up. It’s best if I stay put. She reached into her pocket and gave him her card.

I’d like to reciprocate, he said, but I’m changing my address this semester. When I’m moved in and settled, I’ll be in touch. They shook hands. It’s been a pleasure, Sister. How lucky we met. Her smile made him reconsider his words. Looks like I’m still getting it wrong, he said. Habits die slowly.

That you see the difference is what matters. Most of all, she said, you’ll have something to remember when you’re minus a book and you’ve read the newspaper.

Yes, he agreed, but only if you’re not here.

Yvette of the Altars

You can’t run a hospital entirely on alms, he said. You’re inviting disaster. It’s reckless to expect new doctors and nurses every day. How can you presume food and medicine will arrive just by advertising on a corkboard?

It’s been functioning that way for five years. The problem is with you Americans. You bolster your charity with so much money. You leave nothing for Providence to do. Thank God for Alma Hospital. Some afternoon, I’d like to take you. Going would suit your maxim that seeing is believing.

This conversation took place between Robert Kirkland and Henri Fouvière at Shalom House in Montreal. Each was facile at arguing and adept at winning. A lawyer who volunteered at the house, Henri had a successful practice in one of Montreal’s suburbs. Robert, a syndicated columnist, was on assignment covering medical facilities whose purpose was to care for incurables. In their thirties, both were friends from their undergraduate days at McGill. Henri, who had invited Robert to visit Montreal, had arranged with Anselm Walsh, the founder of Shalom House, to have Robert stay during April, thus providing him an intimate view of work with the homeless. Robert and Henri were seated in the dining room. It was Friday afternoon, and they had just helped Anselm feed fifty men and women. They had collected the dishes and silverware, washed and dried them, and returned the room to a semblance of order. They were now the only two remaining. Anselm had left for the weekend to attend a workshop. Alone with Henri, Robert picked up the threads of their conversation.

Of course, I’ll visit the hospital, but don’t expect me to convert to your viewpoint. I’m an agnostic. All that interests me is how people treat each other.

I expect nothing, Henri replied, but if you’re as agnostic as you say, you should be agnostic about your agnosticism. Otherwise, you’ve no right to call yourself one. To admit that is to allow an opening.

Stop being so Jesuitical, Henri.

I was taking your language seriously, Robert. I’m trained as a lawyer, remember?

Yes, and law is an imprecise art.

Human law is. But there’s another that surpasses our efforts to make society cohere. I remember a time during law school when I viewed life with a closed humanism. Everything was locked in space and time. My hospital experience changed me.

I’m not surprised. Religious institutions tend to coerce.

That’s not what I meant. A woman lives there whose goodness confirmed my faith. It’s useless to talk about her. Come and see.

When can we go?

Monday morning. Anselm will be here to supervise lunch, so we can both leave the house. There’ll be a third person joining us. He’s a drug addict from Montreal who’s attempted suicide. I’ve made an appointment with the woman I mentioned to see him.

Is she a therapist?

Smiling quizzically, Henri massaged the nape of his neck with his left hand. It was a gesture to which Robert was accustomed. It was Henri’s meditative pause—a ritual moment in which to ponder a question and answer.

You might call her that, he replied, but she’s so much more. You can meet her and draw your own conclusion.

It’s not your style to be coy, Henri. Why so mysterious?

"Your word mysterious is apt. She points in two directions the way sages do as signs of what’s timeless in time. But it doesn’t make her less real. In fact, I’ve never known anyone to fill a space with so much presence. Her humanity is remarkable."

You sound as if you’re in love. If she’s as beautiful as you say, you may have found your soul mate.

It’s crossed my mind but not as an option, only as something that might have been. Looking dreamily away, he added, The subjunctive is such a wistful mood.

One learns to live with yearning.

I’ve never been good at it. I could see where, if circumstances became intolerable, suicide might be an option. That’s what happened to the young man who’ll join us on Monday. His past brought him to the edge, and he saw no reason for not stepping over. Hope could change him.

How did you meet him?

I was assigned Damien through the courts. He was a recidivist drug dealer. He was picked up three months ago for selling heroin. While I waited for a trial date, he decided not to bother and swallowed a near-lethal dose of sleeping pills. I found him, stone cold, on a tenement floor. The medics pumped his stomach just in time. After pleading his case in court, I asked the judge to alter his sentence to community service at Shalom House. Earlier, I had discussed it with Anselm, who offered to take charge, and the judge concurred. I’ve become Damien’s lawyer, parole officer, and ersatz father. What I can’t give this twenty-two-year-old is a reason to go on. That’s where Yvette des Autels comes in.

Yvette?

Yes. She’s the woman at the hospital. Her sensitivity is penetrating, and Damien is as hard as they get.

Henri looked at his watch. I hadn’t realized it was so late, he said. I have to get back to my apartment. I’ve been spending so much time here, I should move in. I gave my Siamese cat Picatso to friends last week. He was languishing from loneliness. I’ll see you Monday, Robert. Plan for around ten. We’ll drive over to Alma, where I’ll meet Damien. I’ve arranged for us to have lunch while he sees Yvette. By the way, I hope I’m not deserting you. What are you planning for this evening?

It’s awhile since I’ve been to Montreal, but I remember my favorite haunts. Remember how I’d escape the dorm noise by taking class notes to a cocktail lounge? I loved studying in lavish hotels. It took the edge off academics. The next few days will be as demanding.

Where are you going tonight?

Les Quatre Saisons.

The hotel is on my way, Robert. I can drive you. My car’s in front. In fifteen minutes, Henri had dropped Robert off at Sherbrooke Street West.

See you Monday, Henri said as Robert left the car.

While Henri drove off, Robert stood out front and examined the facade. The hotel had not changed. It was still architecturally riveting and in his favorite part of town. Noted for its galleries, museums, and private clubs, the neighborhood married the commerce of Fifth Avenue to the refinement of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré. It will be fun, he thought, to move at leisure in this North American version of Paris.

Robert walked through the hotel lobby to the lounge, sat down, and studied the decor. Carrara marble, oriental rugs, velvet sofas, and Belgian tapestries—all of it suggested palatial grandeur made serviceable by Canadian comfort. He stood up and walked through the lobby to Le Rhapsodie. In his undergraduate years, it had been more a hideaway than a discotheque. As he entered, he saw men and women in couples—some eating, others playing backgammon, and others talking or dancing. He sat down in a leather chair in a dimly lit corner, ordered a whiskey and soda, and listened to a piano-bass combo. If I have to spend the evening alone, Robert thought, it will be to my liking, and a visit here is precisely the escape I’ve sought. It was as if he had come to console himself for an imminent loss. Of what, he could not say. He knew that Henri’s rediscovered faith was a complication he could have done without. In his undergraduate days, Robert had viewed this faith as an oddity, in much the same way he judged his friend’s work with the poor at Shalom House or the sick at Alma Hospital. At McGill, Robert was fond of saying, It’s one of Henri’s things, as if the best way to treat his piety was to dismiss it with good-natured tolerance.

Robert had no religion. His attitude was a case of studied indifference. Religion had no place in his quotidian world of scoops, assignments, and deadlines. As a student at an Episcopal boarding school, he had to attend morning prayer and evensong and to take communion once a month. But during vacation, he refused