Free The Jew's Wife & Other Stories by Thomas J. Hubschman Page B

himself, but he seemed incapable of
talking any other way.
       “ Well,
we work through the sacraments: Penance, or confession. The
Eucharist. Baptism. A social worker, from what I know, deals more
with the more temporal needs of his patient.” He reached for his
wine glass, which he realized too late he had declined to have
refilled. “When it comes right down to it, most of what I do is
routine, like any other job. “What,” he asked, his usually pliable
smile refusing to bend, “is your own line of work?”
        Rosalie regarded
him with amusement.
       “I’m a hospital
administrator.”
       He had dealt with priest-baiters
before. Usually they were lapsed Catholics trying to salve guilty
consciences. When they were allowed to vent their anger they
usually ended by asking to have their confessions heard, claiming
that he was not like the rest of the clergy, and if only other
priests were as liberal-minded... But they never relented when
there was an audience present. It all seemed to boil down to some
trauma in their religious upbringing—too much emphasis on the
church’s unique path to salvation; too much harping about
masturbation just when their bodies were becoming sexual furnaces.
And it was reassurance they needed that they would not again be
humiliated before they could agree again to accept even a modicum
of the church’s authority. Privately, though, a bit of patience
went a long way toward reaching the lost soul that hadn’t known a
real home since it had turned its back on the faith.
        Rosalie
showed signs of being one of these fallen-away Catholics, he
decided as the conversation turned to other topics. She had been
disillusioned by men or by sex or by both, but not disillusioned
enough not to still feel nostalgic about old-fashioned values. If
she was indeed an ex-Catholic she was also probably resentful about
assenting to a morality she saw largely as the concoction of
celibate males.
        Sylvia
suggested a walk on the beach. By now the narrow boardwalk,
obscured by sand during the day, was totally invisible. Charlie had
to lead the way with a flashlight. The only other illumination was
from a neighbor’s living room. This was midweek, Father Walther
reminded himself. Even Fords Pointe had been deserted on
weekdays.
        They
were not alone. Someone was surf-casting just inside the breakers,
his high boots glistening like shark fins. Someone else was running
a dog. “There’s the Milky Way,” Charlie announced, arching his neck
and pointing. Father Walther looked up at the riot of stars. He had
forgotten how full the sky looked when there was no city glare. A
band of faint whiteness indicated Charlie’s Milky Way.
        Rosalie
was also bent-necked for the view. She had taken off her sandals to
go barefoot in the wet sand. She had declined a sweater for her
halter top but had put a wrap-around skirt over her shorts. Sylvia
was more interested in shells than celestial splendor.
       “ You are
now looking at the heart of the galaxy,” Charlie declared as if he
were a voice-over for a planetarium show.
       “ The
heart of which galaxy?” Everything had always looked the same to
Richard Walther—planets, stars, satellites. Except the sunlight and
shadow on the mountain peaks of the moon.
       “ This
galaxy, of course. Do you suppose you could see some other galaxy
so plainly?”
       Charlie’s tone was that of a
petulant teacher with a slow student.
       “You mean the Earth isn’t located
at the middle of the galaxy?”
        “Of course not. My God, Richie.
Where have you been?”    “Actually, we didn’t get
all that much astronomy in the seminary.”
       “ I’ll
say you didn’t. The Earth is on the galaxy’s outer rim. That’s why
we can stand here and look into it.”
       “If we were able to look
in the opposite direction,” Rosalie asked, her voice sounding as
disembodied as her silhouette, “could we see into the