“Okay . . . ,” I say, not sure I understand what he means.
“I see it this way. I remember going to the Louvre and seeing The Raft of the Medusa by Théodore Géricault, something I’d always believed was a perfect masterpiece. But up close, only a few feet away from the canvas, if I put my toes right up against the line on the floor that kept the public from touching it, I could see the final brushstrokes on the surface of the painting, which I’d never seen from far away, or in a book, or through a screen. But you know what those strokes helped me understand?”
“Maybe?” I think I know where he’s going with the analogy, but I want to hear him say it. The way he talks is so steady, and the way he thinks, so much more reflective than what I’m used to.
“That Géricault was a man, just like me. His hand wasn’t a gilded creation free of the constraints of human frailty. His brush wasn’t a magical instrument endowed with mythical powers. Everything I do as a man is covered in textures, and seeing that in Géricault’s work reminded me it’s okay to be imperfect.”
“So, a ‘we’re all flawed, so God needs to fix us’ kind of a thing?” I push back, catching on to his undercover sermon in the nick of time.
Father Patrick tilts his head and assesses me for a moment, which I’m learning is a habit of his. I stare back at him without flinching.
“Not everything I think about has to do with God.” He returns my unbroken stare.
“So that wasn’t a replay of one of your sermons?” I raise my eyebrow in a blatant challenge.
“Not a replay. But . . .”
“But . . . ? Remember, you can’t lie.” I take a bite of my cold food, knowing I’ve found a chink in his armor.
“It’s an idea I’ve been playing around with for a long time.” He’s not looking at me now. He’s focused on a spot in the air above my head, or something behind me.
“How long?” I ask, and take another bite.
“A while, I guess.”
“No lying . . . ,” I remind him, pointing at him with my fork.
“That’s not how it works,” he says, laughing.
“I guess you’ve never heard of the Ten Commandments.” I shovel another bite into my mouth, knowing I’m being ridiculous. But he’s playing along. And I like that.
“Nope. Never.” He’s back from whatever far-off place I’d lost him to momentarily. “I went to the Louvre my senior year of college.”
“Before all this, then?” I gesture at his collar.
“Yes, before I was ordained.”
“Hmm.” It’s my turn to evaluate him. “So, a million years ago, then?”
“It’s been a while, but the moment stuck with me.”
“Did you finish? Your degree?”
“I did, actually.” He nods without providing any further information.
“What did you major in?” I pop one of the fried pieces of dough into my mouth and crunch through the crispy edge, crumpling with pleasure when its airy sweetness hits me.
“I have a master’s in divinity.”
“And—” I don’t let him off the hook, tossing another treat into my mouth.
“Fine. My BA was art history, and I had a minor in secondary education.”
“You went from art to religion? That’s an unexpected jump.”
“It was very unexpected.”
“Oh yeah? Not part of your five-year plan after your undergrad?”
He shakes his head and looks into the space beyond again.
“No. Not at all. Things changed pretty soon after that trip.” I don’t know why, but I’m relieved when he looks at me again.
“And that made you change your trajectory?” I match his generalities.
“It did.”
“Must’ve been monumental.”
“Completely.” I can see the emotional fences around him. I want to break through. His title and his vestments must work well to keep the world out, but I’m longing to sound a trumpet and make his walls come crashing down.
“There are no cameras here, Father. No silent partners or mics or lights.” I fold my arms on the table and close the space between us so no one else can hear our conversation. His breath brushes against my cheek, and my elbow grazes his as he matches my position. The walls wobble ever so slightly.
“It’s hard for me to talk about—it’s easier to . . .” He cuts his sentence off like he’s struggling against invisible restraints.
“Talk about everyone else’s problems?”
“I was going to say, ‘get lost in service,’ but yes, when it comes down to it, I’d rather focus outward.”
“But . . . honest question.” I touch his sleeve. “How do you ever learn how to help others resolve their trauma if you’re still caught up in your own?”
He’s going to say God, I think, knowing how easy it is to look to a supernatural power to self-medicate the pain.
“Well . . .” I hang on the edge of his silence, ready for the story to pour out, when a tap on my shoulder sucks me back to reality.
It’s Conrad, live and in person. Swear words flash through my mind, but I smile instead of saying them, though I wouldn’t be surprised if it looks more like I’m gritting my teeth.
“There you are. Food’s ready on set.” He gives a side glance to my empty tray but doesn’t call me out. “And Mac is ready, so I need to get you back in hair and makeup.”
“Thanks. I’ll be out in a few minutes,” I say, hoping he’ll wait for me in the car. He checks his watch and doesn’t move.
“It’s a little more urgent than that,” he replies, pushing.
I catch Dottie out of the corner of my eye. She’s leaving with another assistant, and I understand I won’t be finishing this conversation with Father Patrick today. I pat his forearm in closing.
“To be continued?” I ask, arranging my used utensils and garbage on the tray.
“Absolutely,” he says, and then, “Let me get that for you.”
I waver, not wanting to look entitled or like I’m treating him as a servant. But that’s my work mind talking. Hunter is right—I don’t know how to let go and enjoy a moment.
“Well, thank you.” I offer the tray up, and he takes it from my hands.
“Yeah, thanks,” Conrad says from behind me, and his kindness, in contrast to Father Patrick’s, sounds forced and formal.
“No problem,” Father Patrick says as he walks toward the gray bins.
I don’t wait for him to return, mostly because I think Conrad might murder me if I don’t get out the door. As we walk to the car, he fills me in on the complications with the cameras and his personal frustrations as an assistant. I listen patiently and climb into the back seat, Dottie already loaded in the front. She turns around and shows me her dentures in a sweet smile. We’re friends now, and that makes me feel a little less lonely.
“It’s such a shame,” she says with a little sigh.
“Yes! I want to know so much more about this part of the camp. If there’s a gap in our filming schedule, could I volunteer?”