Small Acts of Faith

Bridget lit a candle in the church alcove, her 90-year-old knees aching in protest at kneeling before the Madonna. She ignored the unpleasantness, her lifelong response to things she couldn't control—no sense dwelling on spilled milk.

She couldn't ignore the wrinkled hand with little liver spots dotted across the wrist that reached in front of her vision to light a candle of its own. The body landed on the hassock next to her and expelled a grunt and woof of air. The person came within inches of bumping into Bridget. She held up her right palm as a barrier. Fingers clasped hers, a ring, a hunk of gold, and onyx flashed in her peripheral vision. 

"Oh, my," she said. She turned her fingers in the man's grasp and pulled the jewel towards her. Yes, it was the same ring. It was one of a kind just like the man who used to own it.

"Madam, please." He tried to pull away, but she kept her grip.

She looked over at the man next to her. His eyes connected with hers, and she stared at him. 

"Nicolo," she said.

Over seven decades dropped away as she looked into those dark brown eyes, almost black in their velvety color, which had not dimmed over time.

She was sixteen again, kneeling in this same spot in the Holy Mother's alcove in Old St. Joseph's Catholic Church in Philadelphia. She experienced the same annoyance then, too, when someone genuflected beside her. She came here to be alone, to get away from her suffocating family and parochial school. 

She looked at the stranger out of the corner of her eye. What was a dark-haired and dark-eyed young man, an Italian, doing at the secluded Irish Catholic Church? His features were dramatic with well-defined cheekbones and a chiseled jaw. He looked a little older than her, but not by much, his face devoid of beard or mustache, and without the roughness of often shaved facial skin. His hair looked soft, curly, and thick. She wanted to touch it, to smooth back his wavy bangs. She wanted him to look at her, curious about his voice and his mouth.

He lifted his left hand, and a big gold ring with an onyx stone flashed at her as he brushed his hair from his forehead, turned his head, and locked gazes with her. He was beautiful. His lips were full and well defined. His eyes were heavy-lidded as if he were looking deep into her soul.

"You're beautiful," he said. His voice was a rich baritone, and it caressed Bridget deep in her stomach.

He turned to face her, and she saw his collar. 

"You're a priest," she said.

"A seminarian," he said.

"And Italian." 

"Yes, Italian." He laughed. 

Her heart fluttered. She was already in love.

"Which is worse?" He brushed away his hair. It kept falling over his dreamy eyes.

"They are both terrible things. Forbidden," Bridget said.

They met every day in Washington Square Park, strolling the tree-lined paths, spending time with each other instead of going to church to pray. They considered their meetings as a different kind of worship. They lied to their families and their schoolmasters and made plans to run away together. 

On July 7th, 1946, Catholics all over the United States celebrated the canonization of Frances Xavier Cabrini. Bridget packed a small bag of her belongings, left her school uniform behind, and went to meet Nicolo at the rooming house near the train station. They would spend one night there before catching the train the next morning to Canada. Since he was no longer going to be a priest, he was not sheltered from the wartime draft, and they needed time to make their plans.

He set a little table in their room with a crocheted doily his mother had made. On it, a candle burned. They had their first meal together, provolone cheese and prosciutto on crusty, warm bread, and a small bottle of red Sangiovese wine. They talked about everything and nothing as they always did, hours passing without notice. When the candle burned itself out, they shyly removed their outer garments, folded them neatly over the one chair in the room, and climbed into the bed from opposite sides. The springs screeched, and they giggled.

They held each other, stroking the naked skin on their arms, faces, necks, lips, and eyelids. They kissed; soft flutters of their mouths. They whispered the Act of Contrition together and fell asleep with sighs.

The door to the room crashed to the floor. Big men grabbed them and hauled them out of bed. Nicolo fought, striking the dark shapes with his fists. He was punched in the face and cuffed on the side of the head, knocking him unconscious. Bridget screamed. A rough hand covered her mouth. She was tucked under someone's hard arm and carried out of the building, kicking and scratching. She drew blood.

They took her home; banged on the door of her parents' house. When her father opened the door, her captor threw her to the ground.

"Keep your red-headed harlot away from our brother," he said. "The boy is for the church."

Her father locked her in her room. 

The next day (the day meant to be the beginning of all her dreams) saw her dressed head to toe in black. Bridget's mother sobbed inconsolably in the background. Her burly, red-headed father and uncles escorted Bridget to the school and convent, Ursuline Academy, in New Orleans, where she lived for over forty years. 

"Bridget?" The voice from her one and only love: that soothing yet exciting baritone that she had never forgotten. It brought her back to the aches and pains and loneliness of the present moment. She looked at his neck. It was wrapped in a blue silken ascot, not a white clerical collar.

He touched the spot at his throat with fingers that shook.

"I gave up the priesthood when the last of my family that might have cared passed on to their eternal rest," he said. "I came here because I never forgot about you." Tears filled his eyes. "I never hoped to see you again in this lifetime."

She leaned into him. A sob escaped from her as she brushed her mouth against his. He held her right hand in his left as if afraid to let go. She might disappear again for another seventy years or eternity. He leaned on his cane and helped her to stand. They linked their arms and walked out of the church, heading to the park.