The Fifth Gospel(235)

            The words crush him. As soon as she takes the baby from him, Simon murmurs his congratulations to Leo and Sofia, then finds his way to the door.

            I find him upstairs, in the hallway outside our apartment, sitting numbly among the packing boxes. I should have told him. I should have, but I knew he wasn’t ready.

            Simon stands. He says, They can’t do this to you. He says, They can’t make you move out.

            I explain. No one is making us. We want to be a family again. There are just too many ghosts in this place.

            He stares at the door to the apartment, the door to which his key no longer works, and he listens as I describe the new place we’ve found. On the way back from visiting him at Domine Quo Vadis, I tell him, I fell in love with one of the neighborhoods. Two of Peter’s school friends live in the same building. It’s Church-owned, which means rent control. And with two incomes now, Mona and I can afford it.

            Simon blinks. He says something convoluted about a savings account he opened for Peter. It’s not much, he says, but Mona and I are welcome to use it for our deposit.

            I have to turn away. He looks harrowed. I begin to say I’m sorry, I meant to tell him, but he interrupts and tells me: “Alex, I asked for a new posting.”

            Our eyes search each other. We seem so far away.

            A new posting: back into Secretariat service. Domine, quo vadis? To Rome, to be crucified again.

            When I ask him where he requested to be sent, he tells me it’s nowhere specific. Anywhere far from the Orthodox world. With sudden passion he says there are Christians being killed in the Middle East, Catholics being persecuted in China. There is always a cause, and the cause is still all. I look at the open box beside him, on which Peter has tried to write the word kitchen. Our own little china, swaddled in butcher paper. I offer him a hand up. I ask him to join us for Christmas dinner.



* * *



            THE CURTAIN FALLS ON Christmas Eve. The nativity scene in Saint Peter’s Square is grander than ever, a stable as big as an inn. Peter is delighted by the life-size ox and sheep that surround the manger. Mona and I take him ice-skating at Castel Sant’Angelo. We return only for Holy Supper.

            According to Eastern tradition, the youngest child keeps lookout for the first star in the sky on Christmas Eve. So Peter keeps watch at his bedroom window while I scatter straw on our table and Mona lays the white tablecloth, symbols of the manger in which the baby Jesus was placed. Simon places a lit candle in the loaf of bread in the center of the table, symbol of Christ, the light of the world. As we sit down to eat, we leave the door cracked and an unoccupied chair at the table, recalling that Jesus’ parents were travelers in this season, dependent on the hospitality of others. In past years, this was a melancholy moment, peering across at empty chair and unclosed door. An occasion for brooding on Mona. Tonight, my heart brims. If only Simon could experience the same peace.

            Just as we’re about to eat, a sound interrupts us. A knock. Followed by a creaking of the door.

            I look up. My hand drops its piece of bread. Monsignor Mignatto is standing in the doorway.

            I stumble to my feet. “Please,” I say, “come in.”

            Mignatto looks nervous. “Buon Natale,” he says. “My apologies for intruding.”

            Without seeming to realize it, Simon whispers, “Not this. Not tonight.”

            The monsignor’s face is lifeless. He glances around the room, seeming to notice the absence of furniture except this table and these chairs. The walls are a quilt of ghostly patterns where picture frames have been removed and packed up.

            “This is our last dinner here,” I say under my breath.

            “Yes,” he says, “your uncle told me.”