* * *
The interior of the old stone Church was unusually quiet, cool and safe.
Upon entering Enid’s attention was drawn to the old altar stone and the giant
Crucifix above it. Linens had been spread across the top of the stone, and
above that rested the Sanctuary. Enid approached the highly polished brass
altar railing. Her fingers pressed against it, leaving cloudy smudges as she
lowered herself to her knees. She watched Father quietly as he fussed about,
removing the linens for laundering, and dusting the altar, inside and out of
the Sanctuary.
He climbed a stool and stretched to dust the curlicues along the edges of
the giant wooden Crucifix. It was a dark, and ominous creation. Jesus pulled
out from the cross, his pained face turned up towards Heaven. One could read
the heartbreak in his eyes, the prayer on his lips and see the blood drops
slipping out from beneath the crown of thorns.
During the time of Oliver Cromwell and later Queen Elizabeth when Church
property was confiscated, the people of Killelea worshipped like many in
Ireland had, about an altar made of stone, in the wind and the rain, warm
weather and cold. When the restrictions were eased and people were allowed
worship as they wished, residents began a slow process of erecting the building
about the altar stone. It took nearly as long to build this wee Church as it
might have taken to build the grandest Cathedrals in all of Europe. But maybe
that made this square building without windows along either side,
more meaningful. They stood to worship, and knelt on the cold limestone floor.
Still, this was something no one could take away. They were Irish, and this was
their heritage.
A wealthy American had returned to visit his relatives. As a gesture of
what? Guilt at having survived famines and British occupation, maybe? The man
planned to build a new church, but gave into the will of the community. Instead
he saw to the installation of the railing and the Crucifix, and purchased items
like linens and chalices.
When Father Patrick finished sweeping, he genuflected, and then joined
Enid at the railing for a quick payer. “Is there something I can help you
with?’ he asked once he crossed himself again.
She cleared her throat, not sure how to approach this subject. “About the
ride back here last night.” She cleared her throat again. It took several
moments to continue. “It would be m’fault, wouldn’t it?”
“What would be your fault, Enid?”
“That woman. And that lad. He.. The lad.
He could be Brendan as a child.” Father swallowed, his Adam’s apple
bobbing. “I’m frightened by this. I wouldn’t be a good mother. I know it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I mean she’s a better mother than I would be.”
“You are comparing yourself to a pub maid. The woman doesn’t concern
herself with who she mates with, or how many pints she consumes. You don’t
think that wouldn’t be affecting how she’s raising that child?”
“I don’t know what I could do.”
“Again, Enid. Be a wife to that man.”
“I am a good wife,” she insisted, her throat threatening to close. “I
clean. I cook. I’ll help him with his garden and with his animals. I’ll do
whatever he needs me to.” She shook her head as a tear escaped. “I don’t know
why either of you insist… I mean you’ve learned to live without it. Why can’t
Brendan?”
Father Patrick closed his eyes, almost withering next to her. “Enid,” he
began slowly. She shouldn’t have pushed him. He’d be screaming again before
they finished this. “You have no idea what ‘tis you’re demanding of him. And
you have no idea how hard ‘tis not to react when a woman like Molly O’Sullivan
flaunts herself before you.”
“I don’t find it attractive.”
“You aren’t a man!”
“Still you aren’t running off with her. Making bairnes, or making a fool
of yourself. Why can’t he be more like you and hold it in?”
“Dear God in Heaven,” Father Patrick began, dropping his head and banging
it against the altar rail. “Give me patience. And make this woman understand what
she’s asking of himself.”
No comments:
Post a Comment