Mercy Street(72)

The priest led him into a rear office—more dark furniture, more stained glass. “Have a seat. I was going to make the announcement today, but Grantham Electric had other ideas. I’m relieved, actually. It’s hard to be the bearer of bad news.” The priest folded his hands on his desk. “The archbishop has informed me that St. Dymphna’s is slated for closure.”

The word landed with a thump.

“Closure,” Anthony repeated stupidly.

“It was a fiscal decision. St. Dymphna’s is an aging congregation. The parish gets smaller every year. And keeping the church open costs money. Utilities, maintenance, a custodian to shovel the snow. The Archdiocese can’t afford to maintain so many small parishes. Not to mention finding a priest.” Father Quentin smiled apologetically. “There’s a reason we’re always praying for vocations. We’ve had a shortage for many years, and it’s only getting worse. Most of us are already covering two parishes. I spend half my life racing back and forth between Grantham and Framingham. It’s an untenable situation.”

There was a silence.

“So what happens now?” Anthony said.

“St. Dymphna’s will be absorbed into another parish. Sacred Heart, in Dunster.”

“Dunster?” A single two-lane road connected the towns. On weekday mornings it was clogged with rush-hour traffic, commuters fighting their way to the interstate. Anthony thought of Mrs. Morrison and the McGanns, Mrs. Paone in her wheelchair. No way would they make that trek. He himself wouldn’t make it. He tried to imagine his life without the walk to St. Dymphna’s, the daily ritual that had healed his head.

“I’ll make the announcement tomorrow, assuming the weather cooperates. I imagine it will be upsetting news. You seem to have quite a rapport with the older parishioners. It would be very helpful to have you on hand.” The priest got to his feet. “I’m sorry, Anthony. Please understand, I have no say in the matter. I’m very fond of St. Dymphna’s and I’m sad to see it go.”

“Me too.” Anthony had been baptized at St. Dymphna’s. Grandma Blanchard had been married there, fresh off the boat from Ireland. Quentin the Quick had been there seven months.

“The Church has weathered storms before,” said Father Quentin. “It is, I’m afraid, a season of storms.”

OUTSIDE, THE SNOW KEPT FALLING. ANTHONY SPOTTED HIS own footsteps heading in the opposite direction, barely visible now, dusted over with fresh snow.

Grantham was silent, the streets muffled. Father Quentin was right: to the east of Lisbon Avenue, all the houses were dark. Dunkin’ Donuts looked dead, its electric sign extinguished. Only Rite Aid appeared to be open. Anthony thought of the empty house waiting for him, its many clocks ticking. Like a refugee, he trudged toward the neon sign.

For a weekday morning, the place was hopping. At the pharmacy counter he took his place in line. His doctor had called in a new prescription—another drug that would not help him, but if Medicaid was paying he might as well pick it up. As he explained this to the clerk, he noticed a stooped, balding man studying a display of knee braces.

“Dad,” he said.

His father looked startled to see him. “Antny,” he said gruffly. “What are you doing here?”

They stood a moment staring at each other. His dad looked gaunt, elderly. He wore a battered Carhartt jacket, a relic from his days at Mancini Construction that now seemed too big for him. A smell clung to it, an old-person odor of mothballs and flatulence and Halls Mentho-Lyptus.

“Getting my prescription,” Anthony said.

“How’s things?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“You working?”

“I’m on Disability.”

His dad frowned as though he had some vague memory of this. “What’s the matter with you?”

“My head,” Anthony said.

There was a silence. Somewhere a radio was playing. A woman whose name Anthony couldn’t remember sang, I haven’t got time for the pain. He wondered if the song was part of a special pharmacy playlist, each song chosen for its special relevance to the Rite Aid customer.

The old man jammed an index finger into one ear and twiddled violently, as though he had an itch in his brain. “How’s your mother?”

“She’s all right. She’s in Florida with Aunt Doris.”

“Good for her.” He turned his head and Anthony saw, then, the reason for the twiddling: a hearing aid, flesh-colored plastic, the size of a lima bean. It looked like a wad of chewing gum jammed in his ear.

No, I haven’t got time for the pain.

“There’s a storm coming,” Anthony said.

“There’s always a storm coming.”

Another silence.

There was more, much more, to say: about St. Dymphna’s and Quentin the Quick, the inexplicable betrayals of the Boston Archdiocese. Anthony couldn’t imagine saying any of it—or anything else, really—to his father.

“Anthony Blanchard!” the pharmacy clerk called from behind the desk.

“That’s me,” Anthony said to the man who had, in fact, given him this name.

They stood there staring at each other. In roughly two minutes, they’d run through all their material. After two minutes, there was nothing left to say.

“They’re closing St. Dymphna’s,” Anthony blurted.