Pierced by a Sword (9 page)

"Never crossed my mind. Not my style, though I often think the Jimbo Sullivan Catechetical Method might help Nathan Payne." He could now tell by the faint gleam in her eye that she
had
been kidding. "Later I asked Jimbo what made him do that to me. He told me a story about the great French advocate of
the Rosary, Saint Louis Marie Grignion DeMontfort, who preached in the early 1700s–"

"–I can hear another story coming, Father Chet. You Irish priests are full of great stories. Go on, tell me about Saint Louis Greenwhatever de Rochefort."

"Grignion DeMontfort," Chet corrected, chagrined. Becky caught on quickly to his introductions. Not for the first time did he note that there was a pretty sharp
"somebody" living in the lovely house before him. Intelligence added to her beauty.
Old Father Duffy was right!

He cleared his throat and took a sip of beer.

"Saint Louis used to walk from town to town in rags, preaching the faith and teaching people about the Rosary. He was barefoot half the time, and didn't carry any money. He relied on God to provide his meals, if he ate any at all, through
the generosity of the people he met. Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't do the same myself."

"Hey, I'm buying! This is the nineties, you know. Besides, I make more money than you do," Becky interrupted genially.

"You don't have to do that," Chet retreated quickly. "I wasn't hinting that you should buy, I'm sorry. We'll split it. Besides, I'm on vacation."

He paused. "Hey, quit distracting me when
I'm regaling you with my fascinating stories!"

"Pardon me, Hans Christian Andersen." She gave him a tiny pout, rolling her eyes as she pretended to be mollified by his lighthearted rebuke.

Chet continued, warming to one of his favorite tales.

"Anyway, one night DeMontfort got into a little village and started preaching in the town square. Back then, the towns weren't that big, and everybody showed
up for a preacher. It was like going to the movies.

"Turns out there's a saloon just off to the side of the square with some tables outside, and some drunks were loudly and viciously catcalling DeMontfort as he tried to preach. Saint Louis ignored them as the townsfolk whispered to each other about the discipline and patience of the holy man from Montfort, who had been commissioned by the pope
himself to be an apostolic preacher! A lesser man would get angry, they said, nodding to each other.

"So DeMontfort finishes his sermon. He puts down his Bible, and calmly walks over to the saloon. He politely asks the gentlemen to stand, and then he commenced to beat the living tar out of each one of them!

"The next day, the penitent hecklers show up in bandages to hear him preach, and not a
peep came out of them. So there you have it, the original Jimbo Sullivan Right Hook Story."

Becky had obviously enjoyed it, and had laughed delightedly at the part where DeMontfort hit the drunken men. She lit a cigarette, took a puff, and raised her wine glass.

"You know what, Father Chester Sullivan?"

"Whatever may it be, Miss Rebecca Macadam?" Their eyes met. They shared wry smiles.

She clinked
his glass.

"I think tonight might be the start of a long and satisfying friendship. You remind me of my Daddy the way you make me laugh."

Father Chet blushed innocently.

"Aw shucks, Miss Macadam."

2

Sunday Afternoon
8 October
Notre Dame, Indiana

After lunch at the Oak Room, Joanie surprised Nathan when she told her father that she would like to show Nathan around the campus.

Nathan, who was normally
quite self-assured with women, found it hard to make conversation. He debated with himself a dozen times about whether or not it would be safe to take her hand. She was not giving him any physical clues. When she wasn't looking directly at him, Nathan stole glances at her willowy frame and wondered what was the matter with himself.

I've never felt this way before,
he thought.

He was terrified
that she might abruptly end her tour of the campus and walk away from him forever; he was simultaneously afraid that she
wouldn't
walk away.

He listened to Joanie relate the history of Notre Dame as they strolled about the campus. She seemed to be a walking history book of the place. Nathan soon found out that her six brothers had also attended the university. Faculty members apparently merited
steep tuition discounts for their children. Joanie had majored in History like her dad.

Half an hour after starting they found themselves in front of Moreau Hall, looking across Saint Joseph Lake at the rearward view of the Golden Dome. An awkward silence ensued.

"I don't know how to say this," he said tentatively. They were both facing the lake, not looking at each other.

"What is it, Nathan?"
she asked softly.

"I feel like a hypocrite going to Mass with your dad like that. I'm not a Catholic," he confessed.

"Then how did you know the responses during Mass?" Joanie didn't seem too surprised by his admission.

"I remembered them from grade school. I haven't been to Mass since seventh grade. I have a hard time forgetting things."

She turned to him. "Why are you telling me?"

Although she
was obviously no longer angry at him, her strong gaze had a unique effect on him.
She's boring in on me. I can't lie to this girl.

"Look, Mister," she continued, "if there's ever going to be anything between us, and I am definitely
not
saying there is, you're going to have to learn to level with me."

Her tone was not unkind. But the determination in her voice was still there.

"Okay," he replied.
She wins,
he thought. "What do you want to know, Joanie?"

"Let me lay out my assumptions first, okay?" she requested politely with a hint of excitement in her voice.

"Shoot."
Assumptions, what assumptions?

"First," she continued, "I assume what we did together last night, even if we didn't, uh, 'go all the way'–to use the popular phrase–was not a new thing for you. I'm probably one of a long line
of Nathan Payne's paper dolls. I also assume that you were not so drunk that you couldn't have stopped yourself. You could have–before I stopped us. If there is ever going to be any future for us, that kind of thing has got to stop. Or else I'm going to walk away and leave you right here to cry in the lake. What I want to know is why."

"Why what?" Nathan stalled.
Boy, she's got me pegged.

"You
know what I'm talking about, Mister Payne."

There's that look of hers again,
he thought.

"The truth is," he paused. "The truth is, I don't know. Sex has always been like, you know, recreation for me." He braced himself for a verbal or physical slap. It didn't come.

"That's better, Nathan," she said kindly. She was smiling. "That's the first real thing I've heard you say all day, or last night,
for that matter."

Again, Nathan felt his knees go rubbery.
I'm going to fall down,
he thought.

"That's all for today. You can stop squirming. You look terrible. Are you okay?" Joanie's concern was genuine.

"No, I mean, yes, I'm okay. Can we sit down?"

There was a bench behind them. They sat down. He lit up a smoke. He half-expected a protest to come from her. Most women hated his smoking.

Then
again, Joanie isn't "most women," is she? She's–what is she? She's
strong.

"My turn," she said.

"Your turn?"

"Truth time. Last night was almost my second time. The first and only time was ten years ago when I was sixteen, in high school. The guy was a lot like you–charming, same sad eyes, better looking, and the captain of the football team. I was drunk then, too. I didn't plan on doing what I
did–it just kind of happened after the first kiss. I shouldn't have let us get started last night, either."

Nathan said nothing. He was stunned, not at her revelation, but at her tone.
Ten years? I didn't know women like Joanie still existed. She's so different. I've never met such an honest person.

She continued, "I guess I was rebelling against my strict upbringing. I was curious and it seemed
like all my classmates had done it. The next morning, I realized that it was a mistake–no, that
I had made
a mistake. I went to confession and put it behind me. Half the problem was the alcohol. I'm a lightweight, really. My dad once told me that the real sin sometimes is letting yourself get drunk, because you impair your ability to make a moral decision after you're wasted.

"I vowed never to
let myself, uh, be compromised, ever again. Until I got married, of course. And it hasn't been hard. Until I saw you standing next to Chet Sullivan last night."

She looked at him tenderly.

I want to look into those eyes for the rest of my life,
Nathan thought, light-headed. He was amazed by his own thoughts.

"I guess the real reason why we're sitting here under the shadow of the dome, Nathan,
is that last night wasn't all your fault. I knew you were the man for me the moment I laid eyes on you. I can't describe it. I guess I ignored all the signs that you are the kind of man you are because you were friends with Chet–it's so hard to think of him as
Father
Chet!–and because I was so comfortable with you. I was hoping against hope. You've been a long time coming, Mister. All the other
men in my life just couldn't cut it. Not that there've been all that many."

He looked at her with a cocked head and a confused look.

"I'm getting to the point," she continued. "The point is, I'm pretty sure I
let myself
drink too much last night. I've got to take some of the responsibility. You know the old saying, It takes two to tango. In the same way, I let you huddle me into your car afterwards
and drive me here. If I was so sure you were like all the others, I wouldn't have done that. If I wanted to be a hypocrite, I could have let you go on your merry way after lunch today and blamed last night on you and the booze."

"Why didn't you?"

"It wouldn't be right." She looked down briefly. "At least you were living according to your libertine principles. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. You're
so honest with yourself, Joanie. I wish I could be more like that," he heard himself saying. Then he added, "What does libertine mean?"

She laughed to herself.

"It means that seeking pleasure is the highest goal of living. A Roman coined the term, I think."

Joanie looked toward the dome. Her smile faded. Nathan noticed a line form between her eyebrows.

"Nathan, we have to set two ground rules.
If you agree to them, we can see each other. If not, forget it. I'm not making any promises, mind you. I just want to start off with a clean slate. Like last night never happened."

"What are the rules?" Nathan asked, curious and terrified at the same time.
I've never been much for anyone's rules except my own.
The image of Sister Lardo suddenly popped into his head.
Where does she keep coming
from?
He blinked and focused on Joanie again.

Joanie was now looking at him.
It's like she knew I was daydreaming and is waiting patiently for me to finish with my thoughts.

"First, what happened last night can't happen again, or I might not be able to stop myself," she told him, rather tenderly. "Ever. I wouldn't be able to live with myself, and I know this might sound crazy, but I don't believe
I would ever get to really know you if we slept with each other. We are going to have to follow the Tom Wheat Rule for what's permissible during courtship, as my father terms it."

"And what is the Tom Wheat Rule?" Now Nathan was very curious. And to his own surprise, willing to obey this rule before he heard it.

"Don't kiss anyone you wouldn't marry the next day." She squinted at him, waiting.

"Huh?"

"It means no physical affection except holding hands until we're engaged. And I'm not saying we're engaged or anywhere near it! And then, after we're engaged, nothing more than a kiss like you'd give your mom."

When Joanie said
mom
Nathan's eyes clouded over, which she mistook for disagreement.

"Too tough for you, Mister?" she asked.

"No! Not at all!" For what seemed like the hundredth time
today, Nathan surprised himself.

"Then what is it?" she asked sweetly, taking his hand into her own.

"I never kissed my mom," he said as much to himself as to her. Nathan didn't often think about his mother. It was obviously painful for him to even speak about her.

My God, he's on the verge of tears!
she thought.
What kind of childhood did you have, Nathan Payne?

Automatically, she started praying
a Hail Mary for him.

"Look, I don't want to talk about her," he said finally, but not defensively. "Not today. Maybe later. Too much is happening to me today. Inside me. I haven't slept in two days, and to tell you the truth, you're blowing me away."

He took a deep breath and fell silent. She waited patiently. The late afternoon sun was beginning its slow slide toward the horizon, glimmering off
the statue on the dome. The wind was still. A perfect reflection of Mary was on the lake in front of them.

A long silence ensued. Nathan broke it, "I don't understand the Tom Wheat Rule, but I'm willing to go along with it if that's what you want, Joanie."

She could tell he meant it.

"What's rule number two?" he asked tentatively.

"I don't expect you to understand this one either, Nathan."

For
the first time she was a little hesitant.

"I'm a big boy, Joanie. What is it? Do I have to do push-ups in my skivvies in front of the football team while humming the fight song?" Nathan hummed the first bar of Notre Dame's famous fight song.

Joanie did not quite laugh at his forced joke, but she did smile. She broke her grip and tapped him on the thigh with a mock slap. "No, it's actually easier
than that and harder at the same time," she answered. She decided to take a plunge. "I want you to seriously consider practicing your faith again. You
are
a Catholic, by the way. You were baptized and probably confirmed. You just don't practice it. I could never get serious with a non-practicing Catholic. Like I said, I don't expect you to understand."