The Fifth Gospel(236)

            His trepidation is so heavy. I look for some sign of why he’s here, but I see no briefcase, no court documents.

            Mignatto clears his throat. “The Holy Father’s decision will be issued tonight.”

            Simon stares at him.

            “I’ve been asked to confirm,” Mignatto says, pressing on, “where the news should be sent.”

            “Right here,” I say.

            Mignatto adds, “I would like to be present when it comes.”

            I start to agree, but he continues, “However, I was instructed otherwise. So whatever the news may be, I hope you’ll call me, Father Andreou.”

            Faintly, my brother says, “Thank you, Monsignor. But there’s no need. I know there’s no appeal.”

            Mignatto’s eyes fall. He says, “Even so, I may be able to offer perspective. Or comfort.”

            Simon nods, but in a way that says there will be no phone call. We will not see the monsignor again.

            For a moment, the silence is perforated only by the muted caroling of our neighbors, by the sound of children shouting excitedly in the stairwell. There is joy tonight, elsewhere.

            “Monsignor,” Simon says, “I’m grateful for everything you did for me.”

            Mignatto gently bows his head. He steps forward and gives Simon a handshake. He repeats, “Buon Natale. All of you.”



* * *



            LICK BY LICK, THE candles on the table hollow themselves out. Mona and I read Peter the gospel stories of Jesus’ birth—Luke’s story of the manger, Matthew’s story of the three wise men—but Simon merely stares. His eyes are empty. The light in them is dying. It is just past eleven when Peter falls asleep. We place him on a sheet on the floor. The bed frames and mattresses are already in the moving truck.

            Mona turns on the television for the broadcast from Saint Peter’s Square. Midnight Mass used to be our tradition with Simon until having a newborn made it impossible. People are queued in the piazza, thousands of them, black silhouettes dwarfed by the century-old Alpine fir that has been mounted in the square as John Paul’s Christmas tree. Mona’s fingers slip between mine and squeeze my hand. I kiss her on the forehead. Her eyes never leave the screen; she hangs on every word of the broadcast. But I go to the kitchen and pour drinks. Simon, who has delivered toasts for cardinals and ambassadors, raises his glass but can think of nothing to say. I lower myself beside him.

            “Whatever happens,” I say, tapping his glass.

            He nods. He smiles.

            “We’ll get through it,” I say.

            He drapes a hand across my shoulders. Out the window, in the darkness high over John Paul’s palace, there is a star in the east. His stare is locked on it. I close my eyes. Somehow, this is the moment I know. My brother is gone. His body is beside me, but the rest has slipped away. He is here only for our sake, to let us believe we’ve kept him afloat.

            “We love you,” I say.

            His eyes seem blank. He says, “Thank you for always making me feel like part of your family.”

            When he finishes his drink, he stands to wash out the glass. I think to myself: eleven years. That is how long the priesthood has been his family. Since his first year of seminary. One-third of his life. Which means tonight he may experience what no man ever should: to become an orphan for the second time. He reaches for his pack of cigarettes, but he’s interrupted by a knock at the door.

            The sound makes Peter wake up.

            I look at Simon. The glaze in his stare is gone.