Janice felt the wet of tears on her face and saw a disturbed look enter the priest’s eyes.
Smiling, she stammered, “I went to St. Andrew’s Church when I was a child.”
“And where was that?”
“Portland.”
“You’re a long way from Portland.” He noticed that her hands were still trembling uncontrollably, and Janice saw that he noticed.
“Is there any way of getting back?” he asked gently.
The next thing she knew, she was weeping like a child into her hands. The priest seemed disquieted and looked around nervously to see if they were being observed. He removed his neatly ironed handkerchief from his pocket and offered it to her, but Janice quickly took her own from her purse and tried to smile.
“I’m sorry, Father,” she apologized.
The old priest paused as he considered, then asked, “May I be of service to you?”
Janice attempted to rise, but her knees were frozen. The priest saw her dilemma and took her arm. Needle sharp pricks of pain coursed through her legs as she tried to stand on them, and she swayed uncertainly. The priest continued to support her and slowly guided her toward a bench in the corner of the chapel.
“Shall we sit down?”
Janice allowed herself to be seated, grateful for the positive act of assistance he was offering, yet knowing that any possible conversation with the priest was unthinkable.
“Father, I don’t know if I have any right to be asking for help. I’ve been away from the Church for a long time, and I’m not a practicing Catholic—I”—her mind sought the correct words—“I haven’t been to the sacraments for many years.…”
“How long?”
“Fifteen … sixteen years.…”
The priest was pained. “And why are you here now?”
“I’m in trouble.”
His eyes softened. “Isn’t that the way of it? Trouble always brings us to our knees.”
“I don’t know how to tell you. I don’t even know how to say these things to myself, Father.” She thought of Hoover and the difficulty he had in saying them. “It seems so ludicrous when you put it into words.…” She paused and shook her head. “But then … I see what it’s doing to us … my daughter, my husband … turning us around in all kinds of circles.…” Her eyes sought the priest’s eyes. “Father, may I ask you?”
“What is it?” There was a strained, fearful note in the old man’s voice.
“I know our faith doesn’t believe … in reincarnation … and yet things have happened that cause me to wonder if it may not be so.”
The priest measured her closely. It was the last thing he had expected to hear.
“What things?”
“My daughter …” Janice started, then stopped, and re-plotted the direction of her thoughts. “A man”—she began again—“has come into our lives. He … he has told us—my husband and me—that our daughter is … the reincarnation of his daughter who has been dead for many years.”
The old man shut his eyes and lowered his head, as in prayer. After a moment, he softly asked, “Is your husband a Catholic?”
“No, Father.”
“Your daughter, was she baptized?”
“No, Father.”
“How old is she?”
“Just over ten.”
He looked up at her through eyes that were incredulous—that had seen so much, yet apparently knew so little, and attempted to penetrate the mask of tears, seeking insight into the mind and soul of the strange, tormented woman before him.
“And you believe what this man has told you to be true?”
“Things … strange things have happened that convince me that it may be true, Father.”
Again, the priest shut his eyes and placed his hand over them, feeling bewildered, under pressure to give earnest attention to a matter that struck him as entirely absurd.
“You must know the texts. The Gospels do not substantiate such a belief. We don’t hold with such beliefs. We believe in endings, and beginnings, and middles. A life doesn’t travel around in circles. There’s a movement, there’s a drive to our life, there are goals … we’re going somewhere!”
Janice wept. “I know, Father, and yet this has come into our lives … and I’m troubled.…”
The priest looked at her suddenly with eyes that had hardened.
“You’re so troubled,” he said sternly. “Do you think you would be in this trouble if you had held onto what you were given? To what God gave you? Christ promised from the very beginning that His spirit would be with the Church. And the Church has reacted wisely for two thousand years—the only human institution to have withstood time and spaces and revolutions—and has given us something solid to hold onto.”
“I’m all mixed up, Father.”
“Because you’ve been listening to the world. You’re floating here, you’re floating there, you must stop listening to all these alien forces; you’ve got to get hold of yourself, get back to basics, get back to what God has given you … you have to get back to home.” The priest’s face had reddened, and his hands were shaking. “You must get meaning into your life, a point!”
“Until this man came, there was a point to my life, Father.” Janice sobbed into her handkerchief.
“You can’t entertain these alien thoughts … they’re evil thoughts … Our Lord said, ‘If your eye scandalizes you, cut it out.” So this man has come into your life, he is evil! You mustn’t pay attention to him! You must cut him out of your life! He is a danger to you—”
“It’s my daughter, father … she is the one in danger … she has these terrible dreams, dreams that punish her … and he is the only one who seems able to relieve her.”
The priest raised a halting hand to her tearful face.
“You must return to the institution that Christ dwells in. It will help you ward off the powers of error, to withstand lies and deceits and all the snares of the evil one.”
He gazed at the woman sitting next to him, weeping bitterly, and his voice softened. “As a girl you were told to avoid the near occasions of sin, and you have let this man and his force invade you. You must turn your back on him; you must give yourself to the truth, the one Holy Catholic Faith.”
The priest rose, concluding the interview.
“I would suggest you go to your parish priest and make a confession and throw yourself on God’s mercy. Open your hand to Christ.”
He reached down to the bench and picked up his breviary and straw hat, but did not leave. He seemed unable to escape the strange and disagreeable situation and remained gazing down at the weeping young woman, who could only nod her head in agreement to his parting advice. He tried to put it from him, to simply walk away from it, but could not. A feeling of profound failure seized him. What did he know of the matters she had brought up, the problem she had laid at his feet? Reincarnation? A never-ending cycle of lives? It was childish, if not wicked. And yet how implicitly he believed in the miracles recorded in the Bible, how carefully he regulated his life by their messages. The old priest suddenly felt very confused and … useless.
“My dear woman, let me bless you,” he said with heart-felt compassion, gently pressing the palms of his hands against the sides of Janice’s wet face. “May Almighty God bless you,” he intoned, drawing the sign of the cross in front of her eyes, “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, amen.”
Janice didn’t watch him leave. She stayed there alone, in the shadow of St. Andrew, waiting for her anguish to abate and her mind to compose itself before quietly rising and joining the stream of tourists circling the cathedral.