Free Faith by Jennifer Haigh Page A

as a relative’s: the shock of silver hair, the meaty jowls. His hooded eyes were furtive and intelligent, his heavy brows like eaves covered with snow.
    He rose—a big man, hunched and imposing in his black cassock—and took Art’s hand in both of his. It was a trademark of sorts, like the cassock’s red piping and matching buttons: the Cardinal’s famous two-handed shake.
    â€œArthur, thank you for coming,” he said, as though they were old friends. As though, in the Cardinal’s eighteen years in Boston, they had ever exchanged a word.
    Art followed him to a round table at the other end of the room. The Cardinal sat heavily. On the table was a single sheet of paper. He laid his hand upon it, as if to show off his massive gold ring.
    â€œThis arrived in yesterday’s mail.”
    From across the table Art peered at the document, a letter on law firm stationery. The text was brief, nearly covered by the Cardinal’s hand.
    The whole ordeal lasted fifteen minutes. After the initial revelation Bishop Gilman took over. His cheeks, Art noticed, were flushed; a patch of psoriasis bloomed beneath one ear. This made him look agitated, in the throes of some high anguish, yet his tone was matter-of-fact. Calmly he explained the particulars: Art would be placed on leave but would continue to receive his salary; would be covered, as always, by the Archdiocese’s health insurance. He was to vacate Church premises immediately, Gilman said with emphasis. That was the most important thing.
    â€œWhere do I go?” Art asked.
    The bishop took a business card from his chest pocket. On the back of it he wrote an address. “We took the liberty of renting you an apartment. Temporarily, of course. Until we get this straightened out.”
    In the end they told him nothing: not the name of the accuser; not even what he was supposed to have done. Art had asked both questions immediately; both times Gilman looked expectantly at the Cardinal, who silently bowed his head.
    â€œYou’ll be served with papers,” Gilman said briskly. “I imagine they’ll go to the rectory. Take care of that today, if you can. Have your mail forwarded to the new address.”
    Art stared across the room at the man’s empty desk, behind it an idyllic view of trees and lilac bushes and rolling lawn. How strange that His Eminence worked with his back to the window, as if he had no interest in the world beyond him. It was more than strange—it was somehow not quite human—that he preferred looking in.
    â€œWhat about the parishioners?” Art asked. “It’s Easter, for God’s sake. What on earth do I say to them?”
    â€œNothing,” said Gilman. “I’m serious, Arthur: you don’t say a word to anybody. You leave that to us.”
    â€œAnd this afternoon? I’m supposed to do the Passion at two.”
    â€œNo worries. We’ll send a substitute,” Gilman said.
    At that moment His Eminence got to his feet. Bishop Gilman did the same, and Art understood that the interview had ended. He took a final look around the room, the walls hung with more portraits of the Cardinal.
    Again His Eminence clasped Art’s hand.
    A RT DROVE away from Lake Street, past the news vans on Commonwealth Avenue. His dusty gray Honda attracted no attention. For the moment anyway, he was alone with his shame.
    Mindlessly, mechanically, he drove to Dover Court, a bank of brick buildings opposite the highway—the sort of apartment complex that, if you live in a North American city or suburb, you pass every day without noticing. The grounds were landscaped, the curving driveway studded with speed bumps. The property was larger than it appeared from the road—four identical structures, each three stories high, wide and deep enough to house dozens of apartments. The one closest to the road was hung with a bright green banner: NOW RENTING, SHORT OR LONG-TERM LEASE .
    He