The Trinity (24 page)

Father Crowley has called him. Crowley needs him and Chris, needs them for battle.

“I want you to bring him out here. Give whatever reason you wish. We have to introduce him slowly; we don’t want him to shy away from us—and we don’t want him to talk about us. Tell him you come here for comfort, as a place to get away from all your problems. Call it Bible study.”

Hinckley, like Crowley, is growing bored. He doesn’t really like Chris; he prefers his company to be more abrasive, somewhat like himself. But they need a third to make their Trinity complete.

Hinckley, too, is ready to do battle, to carry the white man’s burden. He misses the company of Crowley and the thrill of war. He misses the flattery that the priest lavishes upon him.

The night in Aberdeen is uneventful except that they do manage to get drunk in the pub in front of a television screen displaying a soccer match.

In between comments about the superiority of the white race, Hinckley exclaims that soccer is the most boring sport in the world.

Chris somewhat agrees, but he admires the zeal the patrons of the pub display in regard to the game. He notices their intense concentration, their boisterous exclamations when a shot on goal is attempted, and their constant, seemingly intelligent observations of the game.

“All they do is run around the field and try to kick the damn ball,” Hinckley says. “There ain’t no strategy, not like football. Just a bunch of damn little blokes running around trying to kick the ball. Hell, there ain’t no tackling or anything, and these bloke fellers get all worked up over a bunch of men running around in shorts. I hate this country. It’s white, but I hate it.”

They return to the base as the pub begins to empty. The sky is unusually clear and the northern night is thick with stars. Chris stares straight up while waiting for a taxi to pass by, noticing constellations that he never saw before in the perpetually hazy suburban sky of his youth. Hinckley knows the stars; he saw them so many times over the Nebraska prairie. He thinks Chris is odd, odder than he thought before.

Chris had ignored Hinckley’s diatribe on race and the inferiority of Scotland. He expected Chris to go along with what he said, to agree with him, to show enthusiasm. All Chris did was stare at the people in the pub, watch the soccer match, drink beer, and smoke cigarettes.

Brad realizes that he misses Lee, someone apt to follow his lead. But Crowley needs a third and no other candidates have presented themselves, and he noticed that Chris was friendless, not unlike himself.

A Sunday morning comes, a hangover laden Sunday after Chris’s night in Aberdeen. He manages to rise early, and he awakes to the sound of Brad snoring in his rack, asleep on top of the sheets and still fully clothed. He is curled up in a sort of fetal position, with his back to Chris, and through the darkened room Chris can see the paleness of Brad’s lower back and the top of his fleshy buttocks as his pants sag beneath his waist.

Chris turns away and decides to leave the room and start the day. He showers, gets dressed as neatly as he can in his constant gray jeans, white shirt, and high-top sneakers. He enters the galley as it opens and, despite his queasiness, eats a large breakfast consisting of an omelet with ham and cheese and onions and green peppers, hash browns smothered in ketchup, and a Coke. He dines alone, but as it is Sunday and the galley is nearly empty, this doesn’t bother him. He doesn’t feel as conspicuous.

He eats slowly and thoughtfully and decides to go to church, to Father Crowley’s nine o’clock Mass. He enjoyed it his previous visit, liked the peacefulness of it, and he thinks Father Crowley must be a very nice man.

And there must be something more to this life than drinking beer and waiting for a girl to come along.

He arrives at the chapel a few minutes before nine. He smokes a cigarette outside, shivering because he forgot his coat. Only a handful of people approach the chapel. The pews are even emptier than they were during his previous visit, so empty that the tape recorder playing organ music echoes off the low ceiling. There may be fifteen people in the church. Chris sits in the darkest pew in the back.

Crowley enters, and at first Chris thinks he looks irritated, but his face brightens as he stands behind the podium that serves as an altar. He sees Chris and smiles, and his gaze doesn’t leave him.

“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” Crowley begins, and the congregation responds by crossing themselves. Chris does this in imitation.

The service is brief, a few hymns sung along with the tape recorder, Crowley’s voice rising above the collective voices of the congregation. Chris sings very softly, almost only mouthing the words.

It is the season of Lent, and that is what Crowley’s homily pertains to. He talks quickly about sacrifice and the importance of giving up the things that interfere with what you believe in. He doesn’t mention Jesus; he doesn’t mention the great sacrifice that is the cornerstone of Lent and the upcoming Easter holiday. He talks vaguely about personal belief and the strength that comes from discipline in that belief. He then dispenses with the Eucharist. After just half an hour, the Mass is over.

Crowley is waiting by the door as Chris leaves, and he invites him into his office. Uncomfortable for being singled out, Chris obliges.

Crowley pulls off his robe as he and Chris enter the office. He is dressed casually but neatly underneath, corduroy pants with a burgundy hue, and a yellow long-sleeved collared shirt. He retrieves a burgundy cardigan from the closet after discarding his robe.

Crowley sits at his desk and indicates the other chair. Chris takes the chair. He looks at everything in the room except for Father Crowley.

Crowley props his feet up on his desk, and this casual gesture puts Chris more at ease.

He wonders what the priest wants, and he half expects him to say he doesn’t want Chris to attend service unless he’s a serious Catholic.

“Well, well,” Crowley begins. “I am surprised to see you here—especially twice.”

Chris shrugs his shoulders.

“Usually, young single men aren’t exactly the churchgoing type. Do you know what I mean?”

Again, Chris shrugs his shoulders.

“If I had to guess, I would say that people like you come to church because they were brought up that way, and they come out of habit or obligation. I know this isn’t the case with you. Or they come because they’re looking for something, some answer to the deep mysteries of life, some alleviation from a kind of pain, or some redemption to soothe a guilty conscience.”

He pauses, takes a bottle of wine from one of his desk drawers, and pours it into a dirty coffee mug on top of his desk.

Chris is shocked but also impressed in a way. An officer, a figure of authority, who drinks. Very cool, he thinks, very cool.

“I always celebrate a Mass that goes off without a hitch with a bit of the blood of Christ. If I had another cup, I would offer you some, but I don’t. If you really want some, you can drink out of the bottle.”

Chris declines politely with a shake of his head.

Crowley does not take the wine in celebration. If Chris were able to keep his gaze from the floor or the ceiling, he would see the priest’s hands trembling, and trails of sweat running down his forehead. Chris somehow sends the priest’s heart racing. There is something attractive in the innocent look on Chris’s face, his air of no worldly experience, and this bothers Crowley. He drinks to deny the emotion, to kill the nerves.

Additionally, he wants Chris as the third member of his Trinity, and he wants him to be sold on his personality unequivocally.

Crowley empties half his cupful of wine and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “People such as you come to church for one of those reasons that I described. And I would say—most assuredly, as I have studied your face—that you come for fulfillment. Life isn’t leading you where you want to go, and you think there should be something more, something that maybe only God in heaven can offer. Am I right?”

“Maybe,” Chris says, having to clear his throat from the minutes of silence.

“So I thought, so I thought,” Crowley says warmly but triumphantly. “What, may I ask, are you looking for? What of this life do you feel that you have missed? What hasn’t been put upon your plate? I have answers, my good young man. I have answers to some of the great questions of life. Ask, ask away!” Upon this last statement, Crowley pounds his open palm on the top of his desk, hard and loud, so loud that Chris slightly jumps, so hard that Crowley’s hand rings.

Those questions stir so much emotion in Chris. What does he want out of life? What does he feel he’s missed? Images of his mother and father and brother and lonely days on playgrounds and classrooms and cafeterias dance and twirl in his brain.

He starts to cry.

“I don’t know,” he says, trying to turn his head in a way so that the priest doesn’t see his tears, but Crowley does, and the sight of tears rolling down Chris’s pale and pimply cheeks endears him to the young man even more.

Father Crowley is no stranger to tears, and he is not uncomfortable in their presence. The years of dealing with parishioners’ trauma have left the sight of tears and raw emotion as mundane an event as the brushing of teeth. Wisely and tenderly, he pats Chris on the back. “There, there. I didn’t mean to hit a nerve. Please, I insist, take a swallow of wine.” And Chris, doing anything to distract from his tears, takes the bottle and swallows vigorously, emptying almost a third of the nearly full bottle. The wine works almost instantly; his body starts to feel warm inside, and the effects of last night’s lager drinking start to subside.

Chris wipes his eyes and his nose with his shirtsleeve. Crowley puts his hand on his shoulder.

“You know, I’ve heard it said that tears are merely poison leaving the body, so you should feel much better. Cry more if you like.”

Chris shakes his head and he composes himself. Embarrassed, he again wipes his eyes and his nose with his sleeve. “I don’t know why I did that.”

“Well, you’re obviously looking for something. There is an emptiness in your heart that causes you pain. However,” Crowley continues, “I don’t think you will find fulfillment inside the stuffy confines of the Church. You’ll learn some songs and some prayers, but I’m afraid, my dear son, that there are no answers here that will satisfy your longings.”

Chris is shocked, and the look he gives the priest indicates as much.

“I know, I know, not the sort of answer that you expect to hear from a priest, not the rah-rah line that other men of faith live by and answer everything with. We live in an imperfect world, my young friend. This is an imperfect Church, and I am truly an imperfect man. The Church leaves me with many unanswered questions, and I know you won’t find what you’re looking for here.”

“I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.” Chris stares at the bottle of wine in hope of an invitation to drink some more. “I guess I came because you were nicer to me than anyone else when I checked in to the base. I was curious, mainly, and I have nothing else to do here. I have no friends and I’ve been too afraid to leave the base very much, though I want to. I want to travel, see Europe, the rest of Scotland, London, maybe. I don’t know if I’m looking for anything particularly. I believe in God, I just don’t know much about him.”

“Your answer tells me exactly what you’re looking for.”

“It does?”

Crowley pours another glass of wine and offers Chris the bottle. Chris takes a drink and waits for the priest’s answer.

“You are looking for the same thing that every intelligent man has been seeking since the dawn of time. You are looking for peace.”

“Peace?” Chris asks, thinking of the word only in the context of international relations or the absence of war.

“Peace of mind, a comforted heart, a clear conscience. Contentment. Satisfaction. You need to know that your life is on the right path, that what you are doing is worthwhile. You need to be loved, and you need to love someone back. That is peace. A calmness in your heart that prevails no matter what calamity befalls you. And peace can only be brought by faith, not by a church, not by a book, not by a set of rules.”