Like a Prayer

Chapter 4

Not that I expected Father Patrick to be a bad teacher. I just had some vague idea that a music lesson would be like a chorus rehearsal — the yelling, the angry gestures, the barely-veiled threats, the inability to believe anyone could be so utterly lacking in basic intelligence. Some nights it's a wonder we sing at all.

But Father Patrick's study isn't a tide pool; it's more like a sheltered cove. He's got handouts, he's borrowed a keyboard, he's all but set up a chalkboard and drawn diagrams like a coach teaching football plays and he reviews staffs, clefs, measure numbers, and note values with incredible patience and good humor. By the time he's gotten me through time signatures I'm feeling, not overwhelmed and discouraged, but like I'm actually learning something. He even gives me homework — I'm supposed to mark up my score more systematically, numbering measures and highlighting the alto line and where the tempo changes and circling anyplace where the altos can pick up their entrance note from the sopranos or tenors.

It hardly seems like a fair exchange, but as I put my music away in my drawstring backpack I hand him a takeout container of brownies. He grins. "Are these —?"

"Made with cocoa powder. Dad polled all his co-workers for recipes, so if these don't taste like your mom's, I'll keep trying until we find it."

"Won't you stay and have some with me?" he asks.

Like I have anything better to do. But so he won't think I'm easy I swing the backpack onto my shoulder. "I have — " and something inside jabs me and I remember what else I'm carrying. "— something else for you."

I hand him a set of three keys, each neatly color coded with a different key cap, and explain, "The brown one is for the outside door to my building — brown, like the dirt in the garden that's outside. And green is for the bottom lock to my apartment — green like the grass, on the ground. And blue is the top lock — blue like the sky, up…high."

He's trying really hard not to laugh at me. Finally he manages, "May I see your keys?"

I dig them out and hand them to him. They are, of course, color coded just like his. He nods, as if it suddenly all makes sense. Then he asks, more seriously, "Are you sure you want me to have a set, Miri?"

"Sure, why not? I mean, if you can't trust the camerlengo with the keys to your place, who can you trust?"

"I'm pleased you trust me that much, but do you really want me walking in and out of your apartment at will?"

The mental picture is intriguing, but I shrug. "I lived most of my life with either a brother and sister or a bunch of roommates charging around the place. This is actually the first time I've lived alone, and it'd be kind of nice to have someone around again. It gets a little too quiet sometimes."

He smiles. "Your father was right — he thought you'd be getting homesick about now."

"I'm not homesick! Well, not yet. Give me a couple more months."

"And what sort of fish is that?" he asks, handing back my keychain. I got Father Patrick's keychain of the Colosseum at the hardware store where I had the keys made, but mine is —

"A mola mola. It's in the same order as pufferfish but — " Then something he said sinks in. "What do you mean, my dad was right?"

"In his last email to me your father mentioned that — "

I'm instantly indignant. "My dad is emailing you? About me?"

He gives me a mild look. "Among other things."

Of course he is! Geez, Miri, you egomaniac! I hasten to assure Father Patrick, "I know you two must have a lot in common — "

"— even if you can't think what they might be."

"Exactly! I mean — " I grimace, not sure how many times I've put my foot in my mouth, and Father Patrick takes pity on me.

"Your father had my email address from when you wrote to him using my account." Oh, yeah. "He shared with me the story of how he and a friend had tried to become priests — "

"He and his best friend Louis Olorenshaw, after high school they applied to a seminary together but were rejected," I suddenly remember. He and Dad tell the story every time Uncle Lou visits, how could I forget it?

Father Patrick nods. "Your father enjoys having someone with whom he can discuss theological issues." That makes sense — Dad's always been a philosopher at heart. "And in some ways he still wonders what it would have been like to be a priest."

"Really?" After all these years? "Wow."I mean, if Dad had actually gone through with it, become "Father Edward," then what about Mom? What about me? And Carolyn and Leo, too, but mostly what about me?

He looks at me kindly, as if he can read my mind. Or maybe I'm just that transparent. "He hasn't expressed any regret about being married or having a family. It's more curiosity than anything."

And then he takes my hand in both of his. "Your father loves you very much, Miri. He does ask about you, wants to know that you're doing well. And he's sending you a package with some ingredients so you can make your favorite foods and have a taste of home in case you're getting homesick." He smiles at me. "So can you stay for a little longer and have some brownies with me?"

Oh, that smile. I manage, "Don't you have to get up early tomorrow, Father?"

"I do. But I'd like to spend a little more time with you."

He wants to spend time with me. And I'm already busy melting from him holding my hand. "Then sure," I give in.

"Good." Father Patrick pats my hand in the most avuncular way possible, dampening my ardor, and goes to put on some water for tea. "Do you have any plans for the weekend?" he calls from the other room.

I take a deep breath to settle my nerves and gather my thoughts. "The soup kitchen first thing on Saturday, then my mom wants me to go to a demonstration against offshore oil drilling, so — "

"Do you often go to demonstrations at your mother's behest?"

"Well, usually the family protests all together, but I'm the only one in Italy." Father Patrick comes back into the room, clearly finding the Stannis tradition of saving the ocean through dissent odd. "I guess most popes don't bring up their sons to do a lot of sign-making and marching, huh?"

"Most popes don't bring up sons, period."

"Right." I flounder for something to say that isn't stupid. "Right. And then…with any luck I'll get back in time to go to confession —"

"Be sure to tell your confessor about the list of people that you've been working on," he reminds me. I nod obediently; no need to tell him I'm still working on it. It's a lot harder than I expected, coming up with four columns of people I like! "Did I perchance make the list?" he asks.

"Of course you did, Father!" Apologetic, I add, "After my family," then quickly offer as compensation, "but before Randy Johnson!"

"Thank you for that, Miri," he murmurs, and even pressing his lips together he can't hide a slight smile. Well, better than a guffaw in my face, I guess.

"And then I figured, with you gone this weekend it'd be the perfect time to take in a — "

I need to shut up! I needed to shut up about half a dozen words ago but I never can in front of this man!

He regards me with eyebrows raised, wanting to hear the rest, and I can't think of any other way to finish my sentence except with the truth.

"— a ball game," I say in a really, really small voice. And oh, look, it gets better and better — there's Christopher Cardinal Meloni in the corner, giving me the fish eye.

The electric kettle whistles, and Father Patrick gives me an unreadable look before he gets up. I slump over and bury my face against my knees with a groan. Is there something clinically wrong with me? I mean, it's not even that I have to lie to him, I just have to not say anything!

After a while I hear Father Patrick's measured step as he reenters the study, and then the slight rattle of china as he sets the tea tray on the side table. The wingback chair creaks as he sits down. He says slowly, "I…suppose…it's a good thing that you don't seem to be able to dissemble when you're with me."

"I think I'm absolutely incapable of dissembling when I'm with you, Father," I correct him, my voice muffled because I'm still slumped over and refusing to look at him.

"So I can believe anything you tell me."

"Pretty much."

"Then…am I so intimidating, Miri?"

I'm so startled by his question my head jerks up. I catch a glimpse of a concerned Javier Cardinal Bardem standing beside Cardinal Meloni as I involuntarily meet Father Patrick's troubled gaze, which is the gray-blue of the Atlantic on an overcast day. Did I hurt his feelings? I didn't mean to! "I'm not afraid of you, Father Patrick! I like you tons!"

"But why do you feel that the only time you can go to a baseball game is when I'm out of town? Why do you feel you must hide from me that you're going at all?"

"Because you're Captain Kirk!"

Liam Cardinal Neeson looks just as nonplussed as Cardinal Meloni and Cardinal Bardem as Father Patrick repeats, "Because I'm…?"

"…Captain Kirk, and only the best of the best can serve under him Kirk and you don't want to be unworthy of that because there are at least a dozen other people just waiting back at Starfleet Academy for you to fail so they can take your place and you don't want him to think badly of you because he's, you know, a legend so you try not to do a single thing that would make you look less than absolutely perfect, even off-duty." I frown. "That's not the best analogy — "

"Not least since the Vatican is not the Enterprise." Cardinal Bardem snorts at that but Cardinal Meloni shoots the fish eye his way and he quickly straightens up and looks grave.

"I just mean that you're up here — " I measure off up around my head. "—and I'm down here — " I drop my hand. " — and I just don't want to disappoint you."

Father Patrick opens his mouth, thinks better of whatever he was going to say, and instead pours tea for us both. I sip nervously and watch as he doctors his cup with cream and sugar then takes a slow, meditative sip.

"Miri." He puts his cup down and regards me soberly. "I am a priest, and your spiritual advisor, but that's the only way in which I might be at all superior to you. There's not the — huge gulf between us you're imagining."

He's mistaken, of course. That Mariana Trench-sized gulf is what keeps me on my side of the table and his virtue intact.

"And if I gave you the impression that I didn't think you should ever go to another baseball game…I apologize for that, I didn't mean to. In any case, you're an adult, and able to make your own decisions about how to live your life. I can…guide you, I can give you my opinion, but that's all."

"But, Father, if I know you don't approve then shouldn't I — "

"It's not that I do or don't approve of you attending baseball games. It's that I want you to be aware of the negativity of your emotions and try to turn them into something positive." The cardinals' disappointment in me is tangible; how, exactly, did I so totally misunderstand the camerlengo? Father Patrick goes on, thoughtful, "Going to a game might even be a good thing if it tests your ability to master your emotions, rather than letting them master you."

"A good thing?"

"A good thing," he assures me.

I'm so relieved I blurt out, "Then do you want to come with me next time?" Cardinal Neeson struggles with a laugh and manages to swallow it; he knows better than to bust up in front of Cardinal Meloni.

Father Patrick's eyes are once again the blue-green of sunny Monterey Bay as he says, "You really do like me tons," and there's something in his voice that makes me think he hasn't heard that a lot. Aww…

He adds, his expression diffident and adorable, "I enjoy your company as well, Miri. I'm glad you're a part of my life. I laugh more when I'm with you than with anyone else I've known."

I could do worse than be his comic relief. Actually, a jester's hat would be kinda cute, the brightly colored motley and a jingle bell on each —

Cardinal Meloni, looking disgusted with me, reaches over Father Patrick's shoulder and helps himself to brownies, handing one to Cardinal Neeson and one to Cardinal Bardem and taking a healthy bite out of his own. To my surprise he gives me the tiniest begrudging nod of approval.

And I ask Father Patrick, "Are you sure it's me and not that I make you brownies?"

"Ah, there is that, too…" He holds out the plate towards me then takes a piece for himself. When he doesn't burst into tears at the taste I know it's back to the drawing board, but he sighs contentedly anyway, always happy, it seems, with chocolate.

We talk about brownies, music, the books he borrowed from me. I'm not surprised to find he's a formalist at heart but even so he's able to give credit where credit's due when it comes to free verse. When we've drained the teapot he hands my books back and when I can't figure out why they aren't fitting in my backpack I finally pull out two "Star Trek" paperbacks that are taking up room.

"I'll trade you," I offer, holding them out. "You'll probably need a fun read this weekend that won't take too much thought." He turns one of the novels over to read the blurb but I switch them quickly. "This one is the first one; that one is the sequel."

"Ah." He scans the blurb and then glances up at me. "I remember this episode — Captain Kirk went back in time to when people hunted witches, but Mr. Spock and Doctor McCoy went back even farther in time, to an ice age — "

"And would have died if they hadn't been rescued by a woman named Zarabeth. I'm her namesake. I mean, I'm Miri's namesake, too. I mean, my full name's Miri Zarabeth." At his raised eyebrows I shrug. "My parents got better at naming kids as they went along."

"So Carolyn's middle name is…?"

"Amanda, as in Spock's mother. And Leo's is James."

"After Captain Kirk." I nod. "Mine is Michael, I believe after my grandfather."

I sigh, jealous. "That's so normal."

"I never really thought about it, Miri. But it is, isn't it?" There's a glint in his eyes and I know he's teasing me. "I look forward to reading about Spock and Zarabeth's son."

I start down the steps to the passageway, then turn around. "Have a good time — is that appropriate? Learn a lot? Rescue lots of people?"

He smiles at me. "Go to the baseball game, Miri, have fun, tell me about it when I get back," he says. "And we'll talk about seeing one together after I have a better idea of my schedule coming up."

"Really?"

"I think seeing a baseball game with you would be — an interesting experience."

I risk a peek at the cardinals. Cardinal Meloni thinks I need some serious prayer, but Cardinal Bardem is beaming with approval. And Cardinal Neeson tips me a wink.

"It'll be a blast," I promise them all.

end Chapter 4