LITMIR.BIZ

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with my hair up or still hadn’t remembered I was Janine’s sister, didn’t he remember my voice? Didn’t he see how pretty I looked? How could he forget me? He was just like my father who was outside, antsy in a tux, who had barely given me his cheek for a kiss, never mind a word about how well I’d done. I’m just another parishioner, I thought, and walked out into the June sun where my sisters were posing for pictures without me.

      I had no business feeling disappointed. Father didn’t owe me anything. But he’d bumped into me at work only two months earlier. We’d had conversations. What was wrong with him? I had no idea how needy I was. On one hand, I was drawn to the purity and freedom I saw in him, what I wanted to be and to have but couldn’t accept; on the other, I desperately needed him to pay attention to me the way my father never had. Not only was I attracted to another unavailable man, this time I’d found someone completely off limits, the perfect man with whom to rebel against God and my family. Six months later on the night of the Advent concert, I got Father to remember me for good.

      I was one of five lectors reading Scripture passages that were interspersed between choir music. Four of us were there, but the fifth seat beside mine was still empty. As I looked in the program to see who it was, there was Father Infanzi’s name. I couldn’t believe it. He was going to be seated next to me for an hour. I looked at the crucifix, trying to focus on God the way I always did before I lectored but never could. I worried I’d trip over the words or that I wouldn’t be able to get my hair back if it fell in my face when I bowed. Now I was also thinking how glad I was that the pants I wore made my backside look good. That’s when I heard from the side aisle the clack of a man’s shoes against the tile. I crossed my legs and pretended to be interested in the program as Father slipped into the seat next to me wearing a black bomber jacket, the kind the boys in school used to wear.

      “Hi Father.”

      “Hello,” he said, cold air and the scent of mouthwash wafting off him. Too nervous to look in his eyes, I watched him tug the pleat of his pants, stretch his leg out, and reach in his pocket with his other hand, a movement I found as alluring as a man shaving. He took out his reading, leaned his elbows hard into his knees as he looked it over for a few seconds, and then put it back, unlike me who had practiced five times and still felt nervous. Then he removed his jacket, his left arm hovering just behind my head so that if he lowered it, it would’ve fallen right around my shoulders. Twisting around to put it on the back of his chair, he finally realized, “You’re Janine’s sister.”

      “Yes.”

      “How are she and Phil?”

      “Good.”

      “She’s a nice girl.”

      “I like her.”

      He paused, then laughed.

      For the next thirty minutes songs were sung and readings read, and then during the third reading, Father went completely still. I turned my head just enough to find him asleep. I thought about tapping him but felt too self-conscious. When the lector was done, and the flautist began to play, Father shuddered, his elbow nudging my rib, the contact waking him. “Did I just elbow you?” he whispered. “It’s okay,” I said. He didn’t apologize, just looked at me as if he was seeing for the first time. The flute fell softer and softer, cue that I was next.

      “Good luck.”

      “Thanks.”

      I bowed at the foot of the altar and with clammy palms lit the pink candle in the wreath, the one that symbolizes joy, as I tried not to think about Father. Once at the lectern, I saw the rows of people stretched out in front of me and Monsignor Brennan facing the altar in a seat that had been placed especially for him in the middle of the aisle like an island. He was wearing a straight, full-length black robe with a wide purple sash, the kind you didn’t see monsignors wear anymore, the kind that Father de Bricassart wore in The Thorn Birds.

      I adjusted the microphone even though it was fine, looked down at the paper even though I had practiced looking up. “During those days Mary set out and traveled to the hill country in haste to a town of Judah where she entered the house of Zechariah and greeted Elizabeth…,” I recited, my voice even despite the rumbling in one leg that was so terrible I leaned heavily on the other for support. I gazed up a couple of times avoiding Father’s face except toward the end when I finally looked in his eyes. I folded my reading and walked off the altar, thinking, He’s not going to forget me now, as I looked at him one last time to see if he was still watching. He was. Then I quickly looked away again and sat down but not before I saw that his face had gone from white to pink, from unaware to roused.

      Chapter Two

      After Mass

      After the concert, Father asked me if I’d light the candle on the Advent wreath at Mass. I said yes, hiding my delight. A couple of weeks later I sent him a Christmas card with Shirley Temple standing on tippy toes in her short skirt to hang an ornament on a tree. When he thanked me for it on Sunday, he looked at me like he didn’t want me to go. Then after Christmas Eve Mass, I kissed him on the cheek. The following week he asked if I’d wait until he was done greeting parishioners, so we could talk a few minutes. As he finished, he slyly popped a mint, and then walked over and said hi, his fresh breath curling into the air. He was in his clerical clothing and jacket—had taken off his vestments as soon as he reached the back of the church—and I was in my long, beige coat and a pair of heels, which I always wore so I’d look taller. The church patio had cleared out except for a straggler or two, and the ushers had locked up the heavy maple doors. With almost a foot’s difference between us, Father had his hands jammed in his pockets like he was trying to hide his excitement, and I was looking in his eyes trying to disguise mine. “You read the readings beautifully,” he said, blushing, and I said, “Your homily was great as usual.” Then he asked me about my job and family and, except for clearing his throat several times, he let me talk, which I loved. When we finally said goodbye, we hugged each other from the waist up as he nervously patted my back.

      For the next three months, I walked out the side door. There was always such a long line of parishioners out the front waiting to shake his hand. I was afraid of what I’d started. I also knew Father would be disappointed when he got through the line, and there was no me. The fact that I could have this kind of effect on a man, on him, assuaged my unhappiness, made me feel in control at least for a little while. There were times when therapy made me feel more broken, like the day I remembered when my father had taken Nellie and me to Beefsteak Charlie’s and afterwards to the hotel he was staying in on Shore Parkway until he found an apartment. The waitress told him how gorgeous Nellie was, as I cut her meat and went up to the buffet three times. Then when we walked into his room, the haze of stale cigarette smoke made us cough as Papa put on the Mets game, closed the thick, dark drapes, and snored in the chair. I thought, How sad. I sat Nellie on the bedspread dotted with burn holes and tried teaching her Miss Mary Mack, pretending I didn’t feel lonely as the sun choked its way from beneath the hems. After a few minutes, her eyes got so heavy, I laid her golden head on the pillow. Alone in the dark with the glare of the TV and Papa’s snores mixing with Ralph Kiner’s voice, I started to cry softly. After a half hour I couldn’t take it any longer. I wiped my face and nudged Nellie awake so her crying would wake my father. When I got home, I pretended I was fine. I didn’t want to bother my mother. She always had so much to do. I was afraid she wouldn’t understand. Once I told RF, I cried for hours.

      A few days before Palm Sunday, Father called me to ask if I’d fill in for a lector who had cancelled. He’d gotten my number from the parish files. Standing in my blue and white kitchen, I vaguely felt he’d crossed a line, but I was too excited to complain. When we spoke again after Mass, I looked in his hazel eyes and gushed, “Father, you listen. So many people don’t; they’re just thinking about what they’re going to say next. It’s nice.”

      Then Good Friday happened.

      I was with Janine at the three o’clock service, the hour that Jesus died. The church was cloaked in purple and swelling with people but quiet except for a sporadic cough. I was saving a seat for my friend Silvia who had something to tell me but didn’t want to wait until I got home from church. I tucked my hair

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