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“Do you mind if I stay for a moment?” he asks, and he can see the hesitancy in Sarah’s eyes. Like with Riley, the fear that he will proselytize is a powerful barrier that he can only break down bit by bit with moments that might humanize him to those who see him as more a symbol than a person. An awkward grin, a tilted head, a slight stoop so that he doesn’t seem as tall as he is. “It’s only that, well, I come to visit your mother so often, but I haven’t really gotten to talk to you.”
“What is there to talk to me about?” Her arms are crossed. Defensive. She’s been defensive with him for a long time, and she still is, even though she doesn’t know him anymore.
“You’re an extremely important part of this community. Not only because you’re a doctor, but because you went out to become a doctor, and then came back. I’ve been told that’s a rare thing; to return here.”
She shrugs a shoulder. “Not lately, it’s not.”
He knows she means Erin and Riley, but he can’t help smiling. “True, but you returned some time ago. I suppose that would make you a trailblazer, then.”
Sarah glances toward her mother in the living room, a concern on her face that comforts him and tears at him at the same time. “Is this going to be about me coming to church again? Because that’s not something I can do right now.”
He wonders if she’s remembering what he remembers; the time when she used to come to church every Sunday by her mother’s side. She had long hair then, that she always kept back. She’d spend all of mass picking at the edges of whatever dress she’d been made to wear and which never suited her. She’d whisper to her father sometimes, and they would laugh together while her mother pretended not to notice.
After Sarah left and came back from medical school, she’d cut her hair. She didn’t wear dresses anymore. She didn’t take communion. Mildred had told him in one of their in-public talks that they had, side-by-side with her arms crossed like Sarah’s arms are crossed now, acting like they were talking about something else for anyone who might be watching.
She has a girlfriend on the mainland, Mildred said. You’re not going to make her feel wrong about that. Not ever. I’ll stop bringing her to mass if you do. She already doesn’t want to come anymore.
He’d stood there, very still, hands behind his back and glad that his hat lent a shadow to his face. She’s never wanted to come to mass. She always did it for you.
He could feel Mildred glare up at him. If they were alone, maybe the moment would’ve become an argument or maybe it would’ve turned playful. But they were not alone.
“It’s not about that,” he says to Sarah.
“All right. I’ll make us some tea.”
He stands in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while she puts a kettle on to boil. There’s something about her movements that is so much like her mother that his eyes sting.
“So, what is it you want to talk about, Father?” she asks as they wait for the water.
“You can call me Paul.”
“Okay… Paul,” she says it as if she thinks it’s some kind of trick.
“I was wondering if there’s anyone else you think might have trouble making it to the church--like your mother--who might appreciate taking communion in their home.”
Sarah furrows her brow, then shakes her head. “None that I can think of. To be honest, Mom can only stay on the island because I’m here to give her live-in care. Most people in her condition would have to go somewhere off island.” She pauses, then adds, “It might be for the best that Monsignor Pruitt is getting care there now. He was getting to the point where, well. I don’t know how much longer he would’ve been able to live out in the rectory by himself like that with only Bev to... look in on him, I guess.”
He hopes that his expression is merely thoughtful, sympathetic. The other emotions simmering beneath the surface would be incongruent with who he is now.
“You… may be right,” he says. “Your mother is very lucky to have someone who cares about her the way you do.”
“I’m sure Monsignor is grateful to have you to talk to him on the phone and take care of everything here. That’s what bothered Mom when things started to go downhill. All the little things she couldn’t remember to take care of herself...” The kettle is just beginning to whistle when she adds, “I’m afraid Pruitt never liked me very much, or maybe I’d call him too. Just to give him someone else to talk to.”
She leaves him to finish making the tea, and he’s grateful.
When Sarah was seven, she used to dig little holes everywhere looking for pretty rocks and fossils. Sundays after mass, she could be found squatting in her perfect little dress, her hands filthy and Mildred pretending to scold her for it while holding back a smile. That November, during a trip to the mainland, Pruitt found a little advent calendar that had precious stones for each of the days, and he gave it to her on the Sunday before December started.
Mildred came to the rectory that evening, arms crossed. She had not come to see him alone in years, and for a moment, his heart was beating hard in his chest because he thought…
You will not give her presents. We agreed. She said as soon as the door was closed behind her.
I didn’t plan to get it for her. I only saw it, and I thought she would--
Oh, she’s over the moon, John. Of course she is. It’s a thoughtful gift, and she loves it.
Then why are you angry with me?
Mildred fixed an icy glare on him that he’d come to know was dangerous. Because you are not her father. We agreed.
I… know that and--
She adores her father, John. The man who is raising her. Her father. And he adores her. And you will not take that away from them by trying to creep into her life. You are not her father. You were just there when she was conceived.
The words were like shards of glass shot through him, and he stood, unable to speak. It must have shown on his face, because suddenly, the iciness was gone. She moved close and leaned her forehead into his chest.
What we had was just for us, and we have to live with the consequences. You cannot bring her into it, John Pruitt .
“She didn’t wake up, did she?”
He blinks himself out of his thoughts, and realizes that he’d been looking out toward the living room where Mildred is sleeping.
“Oh, um, no. No, I was just…” he gestures.
She doesn’t ask him what he means. She hands him a mug of steaming tea. “It’ll need a few more minutes to steep. Do you want sugar?”
“No.” He pulls on the string of the tea bag, watching the water darken. “May I ask you something?”
The hesitancy again. “Sure.”
“Why do you think Monsignor Pruitt doesn’t like you?”
“Oh.” She chuckles a little, relieved. To her, it is an easier subject. “I don’t know. He’s from another generation, and I’m… Not that it’s really an excuse, but you have to pick your battles. I don’t know. Maybe you agree with him.”
“Your... sexuality? Is that what you mean?”
“And some other things.” She shrugs a shoulder. “I’m from Crockett, but I never really fit in.”
“I… hope you don’t mind me saying so, but you’re wrong.”
Sarah’s eyes are fixed on him, lips pressed together a little, the way her mother looked when she doubted him.
“I know this might be a little, well, personal. But he has spoken to me about you.”
“He has?” She sounds genuinely shocked. Then, she grimaces. “What did he say?”
“Oh, not very much. He’s a private man. But, well, he would say to me ‘the Doctor’-- He’d always call you Doctor.”
She laughs. “Yeah… Yeah, it was Miss Gunning before I left and then Doctor when I got back.”
“But when he’d say it to me, he’d say it with such pride. He’d say, ‘the Doctor went out into the world, and then she came back to her people to care for them.’ He’d talk about how you could make so much more money if you spent all your time on the mainland, but you took care of your community. He’d say how you probably did it for your mother, like you used to go to mass for her, but that didn’t make you coming back mean any less.”
“Are you sure you aren’t editorializing a little?” She raises her eyebrow at his confused expression. “It just doesn’t sound like something he’d say.”
Slowly, he says, “It probably isn’t the kind of thing he would say in front of you, no... When you say he’s from another generation, of course you’re not wrong about that, but I think your conclusions are wrong.”
“So, what are your conclusions, Father?” she asks, already forgetting to call him Paul. Or perhaps refusing.
“Well, it’s difficult for a priest serving in a town as small as this when, traditionally, becoming too close to those in his parish is… For one thing, he’s the one you confess to. He’s the one who leads mass. He’s a fixture in a community more than he’s part of it. At least, that’s how some see it.” He grips his mug tightly in both hands, even though it is still too hot. “I don’t see it that way. I haven’t for a while, but coming here gave me the opportunity to allow myself to get to know the people here. A-and, I know… the Monsignor himself would tell me that I’m wrong. It’s hard for people to both see you as a man and see you as the ‘image of Christ’ as they say.”
He shakes his head, feeling himself wanting to say more than he can fit into the confines of a conversation, especially this conversation. “What I mean is… there is an extent to which a priest gives up his humanity for his vocation, and perhaps Monsignor Pruitt was too willing to give up too much of his for the sake of what he thought was right for his parish. I think that is why you believe he doesn’t care about you. You’re not alone. There are others who have told me he was somewhat aloof, even before he became… ill. But I promise, he loves you-- Loves everyone in his parish. I don’t think any of you could know--truly know--how much you mean to him. He couldn’t show it without giving up what made him useful, what gave him meaning.”
Sarah watches him, and he can tell she’s really listening to him. It’s something, since he’s come back, to be listened to now that they believe he’s young.
“I think I actually understand. Not the priest part, or anything to do with God, but. A doctor has to keep her distance, too.”
He feels something bright inside of him, like a candle finally lit that had been left cold for decades. A connection between himself and--
He had baptized Sarah. It was the only time he’d held her, and the whole time he could feel Mildred’s eyes locked on him as if he might run away with the baby that was both his daughter and not his daughter. That he’d run away, and maybe she would follow.
But he didn’t. He performed the ceremony as if Sarah were any other baby. As if she were a stranger. And the baby had started crying when he handed her back to her mother.
He had clenched his jaw and made himself smile so that he would not cry with her.
“Monsignor Pruitt does care,” he says. “He’s not very good at expressing it, and he has his reasons, but he does care. He does like you.”
Sarah chuckles, still dubious. “He seems to be able to express it with you.”
“Not always,” he says, and he’s telling the truth.
From the living room, there is the sound of movement, and Mildred calls weakly for her daughter.
Sarah excuses herself and leaves him to sip the tea she made. He can hear Mildred asking if John is there. She thought she heard his voice, but Sarah tells her, no. Monsignor is on the mainland. Something shudders inside him; he knows that Mildred would hate that she called him John in front of their daughter.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah is saying in the doorway over Mildred murmuring from the couch about something he can’t quite understand. “Mom’s getting agitated… Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?”
He wants to go to her. He wants to tell her… He wants to tell them both. But he reminds himself there will be time later. So much time. All the time he missed before, if he can only be patient a little longer.
“No,” he says, setting aside his mostly empty mug. “Thank you for letting me take a little of your time. I know the way out.”
“Yeah…” She hesitates, but this time, there is a crack in the barrier between them. “Maybe I will call Monsignor Pruitt. Just to check in on him.”
He smiles. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate that,” he says on his way to the door.
The day he’d left for his pilgrimage is mostly a haze now, but he has one clear memory of passing by this house and trying to stop to catch a glimpse of Mildred or Sarah while Beverly hurried him along.
The good doctor doesn’t have time for you, Monsignor, Beverly said. And poor old Millie wouldn’t even know you were there. Probably just think you were her dead husband.
Beverly had chuckled, as if she were making a private joke to herself.
And even now, without Beverly shuffling him off to the holy land, as he walks away from that same house, he knows that he has nothing to worry about.
He knows that Sarah won’t try to call the Monsignor.