been joking, of course; his parents had never doubted his sincerity, even back in high school. But Pearse knew the jabs meant that they’d never really get it. They were far more comfortable with the intellectual detachment, debating the minutiae, reveling in the ambiguity. Not surprising. It was how they’d always dealt with their own faith, as something to be held at arm’s length.
And Pearse knew that wasn’t going to work for him. He’d switched to theology, spent a couple of summers working for the archdiocese in Chicago, and taken his first real steps beyond the rituals. The first steps beyond the games of scholarship, and into the trenches with the church.
And with John J.
Even now, four thousand miles away, and crouched up against a ragged pile of bricks, Pearse couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Father John Joseph Blaney, rector of the Church of the Sacred Heart-that shock of white hair, those eyebrows always in need of a good clipping. The first time they’d met, Pearse had actually had trouble not staring at the wisps sitting there like spider’s legs, curling to the lids, though never daring too far. It was as if even they somehow recognized Blaney’s authority, hulking shoulders over an ever-thinning body, all of it an echo of the once-imposing figure.
It had been the same with the priest’s flock, even among the rougher elements-no one willing to cross the sixty-five-year-old Father. Blaney had actually gone on a drug bust once, aware that several of his younger parishioners had gotten caught up in something beyond their control. Naturally, he’d brought Pearse along with him, the two of them sweating it out with three cops in a cramped basement for hours. And, in typical John J. fashion, he’d made Pearse spend the time whispering word games back and forth, a mania with the priest, a necessary passion for anyone under his tutelage. The two, it seemed, had been made for each other.
Pearse wouldn’t have minded a little of that right about now.
“Faith’s a puzzle,” Blaney had always said. “Have to keep the mind active for it.”
When the kids had finally arrived after three hours, and with what amounted to two ounces of marijuana, Pearse had nearly had to restrain one of the cops from going after John J.
“Three frickin’ hours, Father, for two ounces of …”
Blaney had known all along what the “bust” would entail (although, of course, he’d never told Pearse). He’d also known that the sight of three undercover cops ready to explode would have a lasting effect on his twelve- year-old “dealers.” Three hours for six kids. A nice trade-off, according to John J. It had taken him a little time to convince the cops of the math, but they’d eventually come around. They’d also left the offenders in John J.’s hands. The look on the boys’ faces on hearing that the Father would be handling their “rehabilitation” had said it all.
Pearse had loved those summers with John J. Another kind of wonder and delight. After that, there’d really been no question.
His dad, however, had been another story.
“You’re sure?” he’d asked. “I mean, absolutely sure?”
“Yeah, Pop, I’m sure.” Sitting around the kitchen table that last Thanksgiving break-the two of them alone- Pearse had experienced something he never thought he’d see: his dad at a loss for words. It was the first time he’d ever felt on a par with the man.
“So I guess you were hoping I’d get sidetracked by something else.”
“No. …Yes. I don’t know.”
“That’s a first.”
A smile. “Wiseass.”
“Holy ass, I think, would be more appropriate now.” He watched his father laugh. “It’s what makes sense to me, Dad.”
“I understand that. It’s just … it can be a very lonely life, Ian. Priests are a different breed. I’m sure Father Blaney would be the first to tell you that.”
“Is that why they get the fancy flea collar?”
“I’m being serious.”
“I know. And I’m trying to tell you that I don’t see it that way. Look … remember those summer games in the Newton league?” A nod. “Remember how I used to tell you how much I loved that feeling when there was just enough sun to see the ball but not enough to really trust it? And they’d hit one out to me, and I’d race after it, and just when I thought I had it, I’d close my eyes and see if it would fall into my glove.”
A smile. “You were a cocky son of a bitch.”
Now Pearse laughed. “Yeah. Well, remember what I told you it was like when I opened my eyes and the ball was there?”
Another nod.
“It’s like that, except maybe a thousand times better. You can’t quite see it, but you know it’s there. All the time. How can that be lonely?”
For just an instant, Pearse thought he’d seen a hint of regret in his father’s eyes. Not for the son who’d “gone wrong,” but for himself. A longing for a sensation he’d never know.
Even so, Dad had been the one to suggest the relief mission. Ecstatic baseball moments and summers with priests were one thing; Bosnian raids were another. Test those convictions in a place where faith seemed to be at a minimum. Before taking the plunge. It was why he had come.
Numb wasn’t a possibility.
“Over here.” A voice from behind one of the piles of rubble called out. “We’ve found them.” Pearse knew the voice, Salko Mendravic, a bear of a man, who had taken Pearse under his wing within the first week of his arrival. A man who had gone to great lengths to cross himself with gusto at every opportunity during those first two days the American priests and their young entourage had stopped in the village-“Yes, Eminence, I’ll make sure to take excellent care of these young men, so brave, so generous of spirit….” Mendravic, an artist until the war, had been equally enthusiastic about teaching them how to dismantle and clean a Kalashnikov rifle once the priests had moved on. Not exactly the usual fare for seminary-bound young men. Six of them. The other five had lasted two weeks. For some reason, Pearse had remained.
Stronger convictions, he’d told himself.
“There’s a problem.” Mendravic had moved into the open, the glow from the fuel depot giving shape to his immense body. “It’s Josip.” He was now by Pearse’s side, his voice hushed. “There was a struggle….” He let the words trail off. “He won’t make it. He wants a priest.”
“I’m not a priest,” answered Pearse.
“I know … but you came with the priests. And right now, he wants a priest. You’re as close as he’ll get. He needs absolution.”
“I can’t give him absolution.”
The two men stared at each other for a few moments.
“Petra is with him.” Mendravic tried a smile. “She’s doing her best to make him comfortable.”
“We’ll take him with us.” Pearse started to move off. “Find him a priest in Slitna.”
Mendravic grabbed his arm. “It’d take two of us to carry him; even then, there’s little chance he’d come through it. How many boxes are you willing to leave behind to save him, Ian?” The smile was gone, the grip powerful. “He wants to die at peace. Don’t you think God will understand?”
Pearse tried to answer, but he was cut short by a sudden explosion at the church’s outer wall. Mendravic pulled him to the ground, aimed his tommy gun through the onetime window, and let go with a volley. Two seconds later, they were on their feet, shadows on the far wall darting in and out to the sound of machine-gun fire. Both men dived behind a mound of wood and brick-on closer inspection, a slab of the roof now planted three feet deep in the cement floor. Bullets ricocheted behind them as they tried to catch their breath.
“Petra.” Mendravic spoke in a loud whisper.
From the darkness, a woman’s voice. “Here.”
“How many boxes can you carry?”
“What?”
“How many boxes of the penicillin?”
There was a pause before she answered. “What are you asking? We each take one-”
“If Ian and I carry Josip, how many boxes?”
Again a pause. “Josip’s dead.”
For a moment, Mendravic said nothing; he then turned to Pearse. “Then we each take one.”
