Almost.
“To be honest, Peter, I’ve not read it. Only heard the usual condemnations.”
“If you think it’s not appropriate, Andrew, I won’t read it. I swear.” I mean this. I don’t want to upset Andrew, and I don’t wish to go so far against decorum as to seem ungrateful. Or worse, defiant.
But he waves a hand at me. “It’s fine.” He seems to think for a moment, and I wait for what comes next. He looks pained, a sickly smile on his wind-reddened face. “Truth be told, it’s the letter inside the book I worry about.”
I feel myself blush and look away. My cheeks are tingling, whether from the rush of blood to my cold face or the briskness of the icy wind I don’t know. My mind untethers, and there comes a not-wholly unpleasant feeling of floating.
In an effort to focus my thoughts and emotions, I fix my sight on a faraway tree, leafless and black against the pale canvas of snow and sky. At first, I consider ignoring his remark, but something in my heart tells me that now might be the right time to bring it all into the open. To bring Andrew into my secret. We are not far from St. Vincent’s, so I decide to pursue the topic. Or, at least, shed the guilt of keeping my correspondence, and feelings, of Grace from him.
“Are you angry?”
Andrew sighs. “No, of course not. Those are your private affairs and no business of mine.”
I turn to him, surprised. “Really? I think Poole would feel different.”
A small smile—a genuine smile—lifts Andrew’s features. “I am not Father Poole,” he says forcefully, but I can see he immediately regrets making such a bald statement. “For better or worse.”
I don’t respond. Nothing I can say in answer to that will make him feel less guilty. I look for the tree again, but it seems to have disappeared. All I see now is endless sky of unbroken gray, a floor of white.
“Peter, I bring you with me to the farm for your companionship, and so we can discuss, one-on-one, the matters of your training . . .”
I swallow what feels like a stone in my throat at the mention of my training, but stay silent. I’m interested in what he has to say on the matter of my visits to the farm. We’ve never discussed it, and it’s the first time I’ve even wondered at his motivations.
“But I also bring you because of Grace. Don’t misunderstand . . . I’m not pushing you two . . .”
He’s stumbling and I can’t help but smile at him. “Go on,” I say, teasingly.
He looks at me, startled, then laughs. “Okay, thank you. What I’m trying to say is I first brought you because I thought it would be fun for you to see another child, someone outside the orphanage.”
“A girl, you mean.”
His brow furrows at that. “No, not exactly. But yes, after a few years, both John and I could see that you two were growing fond of each other, in a most natural and innocent way. It’s a beautiful thing to witness, honestly. God’s greatest gift to us is our ability to love others, and to see it happening before your eyes . . . it’s like watching a garden grow.”
I’m confused at his tone, his words. “But it’s not allowed.”
“For priests, Peter. But you’re not a priest yet, are you? Besides, we can have friends who are women. It’s not forbidden. But, look son, what I’m saying is . . . or trying to say . . . is that I know about your feelings for Grace, and you should not feel bad, or guilty, or in any way ashamed of those feelings.”
I’m stunned at this message, feel myself reeling. I clutch the coat in tight fists, as if trying to hold onto an old world that seems to be turning over, twisting, unraveling. It’s both heartbreaking and thrilling.
Before I can think of a response, Andrew continues. “Frederick Douglass once wrote, ‘The soul that is within me no man can degrade.’ Now, I’m shifting the context a bit. He wasn’t referring to a life in Christ, but he was talking about the power of humanity, about rising above the oppression of those who had forced him into slavery. And he was talking, I believe, about being true to himself, to the man he was at his core.” Andrew pauses a moment. When he speaks again, there’s a weary sadness in his tone that hurts my heart. “I’d like to think his statement applies here, as well. What I’m trying to express, Peter, is that whatever you decide to do with your life, you must have faith that your soul will always remain your own. It cannot be degraded, not if you stay true to yourself.”
I think about this for a moment, my mind flooding with ideas, with visions of the future, with strange ideas of my eternal soul. Of what it means to control my own destiny.
“Peter, the . . .”
Abruptly, Andrew stops talking, as if the very words catch in his throat. He turns his head away from me, studies the horizon. I can sense his tension, his inability to continue.
As if what he wants to say is physically impossible.
I almost don’t want to hear it. It’s as if I’ve waited my whole life to be let go of, but then, when the time comes, I’m stood on a ledge, and no one is there holding me back, and the world is calling from far below. All my hopes and dreams lie down there, hidden by a distant mist. But it’s a long fall. A lonely, terrifying drop into the mystery of an unknowable future.
I pretend not to notice when Andrew wipes a tear from his eye. After a moment, he clears his throat and continues, his voice a bit bolder, more confident.
“The discovery of Christ is not found in a darkened room, Peter,” he says solemnly. “It’s found in the light. God is not found through escape from a distant place, but through the arrival of where you already are. Hiding you from Grace, hiding the world from you, will not help you decide your life’s ultimate path. You must be fully aware of all aspects of each decision you make in this world. All sides. Only then can you be certain that the choice you make is the correct one.”
“I understand, Father.”
“Do you?” he says, sounding pleasantly surprised. Then he nods to himself, blows out a large breath. “Good.”
“Thank you, Andrew.”
His smile comes back, and he flicks the reins to speed up the horses. “Of course, Peter. Of course.”
Familiar landmarks begin to emerge. I recognize an approaching swell of land that, past its crest, will dip us into the valley. Our valley. We are very close to home.
“Besides,” he says, his tone light once more. “We are friends, correct? And I would not lose your trust over a few novels and a young woman’s letters of . . . well, let’s just call them letters of friendship.”
I laugh at this. I’m oddly elated, embarrassed, and somehow more confused than I’ve ever been in my life.
“Just be careful, Peter,” he says. “Guard your feelings like gold coins from those who would steal them, or pick them from your pocket.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Good, good. You know, I remember when I was your age, I . . .” Andrew’s voice trails off, and I follow his eyes to look straight ahead. “Oh no . . .”
Andrew’s eyes are focused on the orphanage, which has now come into full view.
“Oh Jesus, no . . .”
The first thing I see is that the front doors of St. Vincent’s stand wide open.