“I wish to dedicate the next Mystery to the upperclassmen at Saint John’s,” he said. “For more maturity in certain juniors and seniors so they won’t pick on kids smaller than them this year. Hail, Mary, full of grace...”
At the end of rosary Jon nudged my shoulder and gestured to the stairwell where Father Gregory was beckoning me. I squeezed out of the pew and genuflected toward the Blessed Sacrament. Then Father Gregory led me down the empty hallway past the open classrooms, the hem of his habit fluttering nervously behind him.
Father Gregory was the rector or headmaster of the seminary. That meant our day-to-day welfare was in his hands. He was our surrogate parent/prison guard. He was also a serious man who had about twelve doctorates and who read the Latin version of the Bible—with the Greek and Hebrew cross references in the margins—just for fun.
He had bad dandruff, and it collected on the inside of his glasses in a filthy haze. Trying to establish eye contact with him was frustrating. I wanted to take his glasses off, wipe them on his habit, then put them back on his face so I could see him better. Let’s just say he wasn’t one of those monks you could imagine boozing it up with Robin Hood and the Merry Men after hijacking the king’s coach. Besides, he was too old—at least 108, it seemed. He often mentioned living through eight popes in much the same way other old people talked about having survived both world wars. But despite his age he was strong and imposing. He was still over six feet tall.
Father Gregory’s office was known as the Cave. Although it was right off the foyer in the heart of the seminary, we rarely had cause to enter. It was both intimidating and exotic. This was the place your dad came on Parents’ Day and sat with you across the desk from Father Gregory. It was here that you suddenly realized your old man was almost as afraid as you were.
The door to the Cave opened on a long, narrow hallway that led to a dimly lit office with about two thousand books covering grey stone walls. Only half of the titles were in English. Everything was neat, dusted, and in its place. The only thing betraying human habitation was a newspaper tossed a little haphazardly onto the Naugahyde couch. Presiding sorrowfully over everything was a big Russian icon of the Madonna and Child.
Behind Father Gregory’s teak desk was a large window that looked out onto the middle of a colossal rhododendron that had grown into a small forest. The Cave was on the main floor of the seminary, and the dormitory wing above—particularly the window over the sinks in the washroom—could be clearly seen from my seat. I knew Jon, Connor, and Eric were probably up there with the lights turned out, watching us and making up dialogue as they saw my lips move. I tried to keep from looking.
“How are you settling in this year?” Father Gregory had my file out. It, and an antique fountain pen, were the only things on the desk. Every seminarian had one of these neat dossiers with lists and dates and records of everything you’d ever done or were likely to do. He hovered over a page, scratched something in there with his old pen, then finally looked up, waiting for my answer.
“Uh, fine. I guess.”
“Doesn’t sound very definitive to me.”
“Great. Everything’s great.”
“Have you had time to put any more thought toward your vocation?”
At the end of the previous year I was invited not to return to Saint John the Divine. The inventory of reasons included attitudinal problems, a questionable dedication toward a religious vocation, a general lack of respect, a tendency to incite rebellion, and the “liaison” with Mary. I was given the summer to pray, think things through, search my heart, and try to come to some conclusion about whether I should return for my third year a “new man” or stay at home and make the best of public school.
“I’m back, aren’t I? I want to be back.”
Father Gregory scribbled something else. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?” It was the priesthood question in another guise.
“Well, maybe teaching religion someplace like Rwanda. Maybe I’ll become a Jesuit.” The monks hated the Jesuits, only they couldn’t admit it. We said things like this just to make them mad. “But I’m not even a senior yet. Who knows what they’re going to be when they’re sixteen?”
He squinted a little, then leaned back in his cushy chair. Shadows moved in the washroom window above his head. “Don’t you miss your family and friends back in Calgary?”
Well, actually, my only friends were interred here on Saint John’s thousand acres. Father Gregory knew that. The group I had grown up with back home had gone off in such entirely different directions that I hardly had anything to say to them. My brother and sisters were all off in their own lives, busy putting our family behind them. For some reason much was expected from parents who’d done almost nothing themselves. My mother worked at the Calgary “International” School of Beauty. My father, a postal worker and regional union representative, believed in progress and often said he’d be damned if he was going to let his kids grow up to sort mail or tint hair.
“No one expects you to take vows yet,” Father Gregory said.
“We’re already living a life of poverty, chastity, and obedience, aren’t we?”
He smiled, took a deep breath, and carefully placed the pen on the file. Locking his gaze between my eyes, he dared me to look away. “Let’s be specific. Do you see yourself as a brother or a priest?”
I hesitated only for a moment. I felt I could trust him. “I don’t know, Father. Were you absolutely sure when you were my age?”
“Fifty-two years ago—1930—I was your age. I was living at St. Cuthbert’s Abbey in New Brunswick, and there was nothing I wanted more in the world than to become a priest.”
He rested his hands on the desk and looked over my head at the ceiling, thinking back half a century. I glanced above his head and through the darkness, squinting into the third-story washroom window, certain I could see something move. The lights came on and there they were, waving, jumping up and down, making faces. Then the lights went out again.
“My parents were killed in a train wreck when I was eleven,” Father Gregory said without the slightest hint of emotion. “My sister was sent to a convent and I was sent to the abbey. The monks raised me to love God and to listen to Him, to listen for a calling. But from my earliest recollection I knew I’d become a priest. I also wanted to become a professional baseball player, mind you, but I knew that wasn’t in the cards... So, no, I don’t think it’s outside the realm of possibility for a young man your age to have some inkling God may be calling him.”
This was the offer of a fresh start, the hand of friendship extended. It was my chance to suck it up, to submit. But something inside me wouldn’t let it happen.
“Did you ever think, even for a second, that the death of your parents had something to do with your decision to become a monk?” I asked. “You practically grew up in a monastery. I mean, it wasn’t a normal childhood. And maybe if your parents had lived...”
He didn’t say anything, just stared at me. Then he bent over and wrote something in the file, paused again, noted something else, flipped it closed, and pushed it aside.
“I mean, I see your point, with your story and all, but—”
He raised his hand to stop me from making it worse. “This is a pivotal year for you, William. A pivotal semester. We’re here to show young men what a religious life is like, to help them find their vocation. That’s what this place is all about. It’s a seminary, not a cheap boarding school. You have some more thinking and praying to do.” He gestured toward the door. “Join your confreres, but understand, you won’t be indulged any longer. You’re a young man. Being a man means having to make decisions. I’ll pray for you. Please pray for me.”
At 12:07 a.m. the sound of a distant splash made it all the way to the open window of our