Free Faith by Jennifer Haigh Page B

parked behind a small outbuilding marked OFFICE . Inside, a young Indian woman sat behind a desk. Her hair was long enough to sit on. She wore thick glasses and a colorful blouse.
    â€œHello,” said Art. “I think you have some keys for me.”
    â€œOh, yes. Mr. Breen.”
    He blinked, startled by the Mister. The Roman collar was a symbol everyone recognized: Sikh cab drivers, Muslim women in headscarves. But the morning was cold and damp; he wore a trench coat over his clericals, a plaid muffler at his throat.
    She reached into the desk drawer and handed him a bright green envelope, labeled Welcome . “You’re in the A building, the first on your left. The smaller key is for the mailbox. I left a copy of your lease there.” Her voice was low and soothing, with a musical lilt.
    Art took the envelope. Outside a brisk wind had started. Rain blew across the parking lot in sheets. He crossed to the A building. The front door was propped open, the lobby piled with cardboard boxes marked BEDROOM, STUDY, KITCHEN. He spotted a hive of mailboxes and turned his key in the one marked 310. Inside was another green envelope.
    As he stood waiting for the elevator, a man came through the door carrying another box. A young guy, big and red-haired, in a Boston College sweatshirt.
    â€œJesus,” he breathed, setting down the box. “I picked a great day to move.” He eyed the green envelope in Art’s hand. “You too?”
    Art nodded.
    The man offered his hand. “I guess we’re neighbors. Chuck Farrell.”
    â€œArt Breen. Let me give you a hand.”
    The elevator doors opened. Together they piled the boxes inside.
    â€œThat’s it, I guess,” said Chuck. “I don’t have much. I got kicked out of my house,” he said out the side of his mouth, like a comedian telling a secret.
    â€œMe too,” said Art.
    Chuck grinned sheepishly. “Lot of that going on. They call this place Divorce Court.” Again he offered his hand. “Thanks, man. I’ll see you around.”
    â€œGood luck to you,” said Art, heading for the stairs.
    Apartment 310 was on the third floor, halfway down a long hallway. The corridor was very dark, the carpet and wallpaper navy blue. Art turned his key in the lock.
    He stepped into a large, empty living room. The blinds were closed, the carpet and walls an identical shade of beige.
    He tore open the envelope in his hands. A sheaf of stapled papers, legal sized. Stuck to the top sheet was a yellow Post-it note, inscribed with feminine cursive, the sort of round, buoyant letters the nuns had deplored.
    Rent paid through Oct. 1.
    Six months ? Art thought.
    It was the first clue he’d been given about his future.
    T HAT AFTERNOON, desperate to escape the empty apartment, he drove around aimlessly. By habit or instinct he found himself in Grantham. To his relief, Ma’s Escort was gone from the carport. Well, of course: on Good Friday she’d be in church. Her parish, St. Dymphna’s, had a Passion service at three o’clock. Home alone, Ted McGann rarely answered the door.
    He waited until dark before driving to the rectory. Upstairs in his bedroom, he unplugged the portable television, its screen the size of an index card. He filled a duffel bag with shaving gear, socks and underwear and a random selection of secular clothes: a few odd shirts, a single pair of blue jeans, a windbreaker emblazoned SACRED HEART BASKETBALL . He left behind a garish Hawaiian shirt and a closetful of black clericals, unsure when—or if—he’d wear them again.

Chapter 6
    I t’s time, now, to turn our attention to Aidan Conlon and his mother. It may seem strange that I have avoided speaking of them until now. I will admit that I find the subject difficult, as Art himself did. Three years ago, without warning, Art turned up on my doorstep in Philly; and late that night, over many glasses of wine, he spoke of them at