opening up a space to receive him. If only the mattress could magically grow a little receptacle, something wet for him to slip into. He rolled closer, and as he did so, a trickle of perspiration ran down through the hair on his abdomen, mimicking the rapid steps of an insect. His torso jerked, his eyes flew open, his free hand let go of the breasts, swatted at the distraction, jiggling the bed, and his full hand suddenly emptied. Goddamn!
Defeated and ashamed, Jerome rolled onto his back. He felt like a grown man who could not overcome a temptation meant for a child. Exasperated, he closed his eyes, but it was clear that he was not going to fall asleep again. If he got up, he could at least occupy himself with making a cup of hot chocolate. The thought of the hot chocolate reminded him that a new housekeeper was coming in the morning. The daughter of a former parishioner of Ralph’s. They were low on cocoa and he should leave her a note to get a new tin. The trouble was his limbs were heavy as wet sandbags and the kitchen seemed a very long way away.
Outside, tires approached on the wet pavement. Jerome wondered where another human being could have been until this hour. What did people find to do that detained them until nearly dawn? Or was this someone just going out at this hour? He opened his eyes to watch which way the blocks of light from the headlights were going to travel around the walls. Right to left or left to right? If left to right, which way was the car travelling? Up or down the street? The squares appeared above his desk and began their curious ritual, travelling slowly across the wall to the corner. Then, like live things, they flashed into the mirror on the back of the door, raced past his head and shot out the window. Absurdly, he imagined that they had fled from the gloomy solitude of his life.
Finally he swung his feet over the edge of the bed to the linoleum floor. He pushed himself up and stood facing the window. They had warned him in the seminary that a priest’s life was one of constant temptation. But then they had ordained him; they must have seen something in him, must have believed in his vocation. It couldn’t have just evaporated. Churches had always attracted him. Their cool, cavernous solitude drew him inside, even when he was a young boy. He liked the crisp echo of footsteps retorting from stone walls, the silent little eddies of scented air that surprised him. That was something, wasn’t it? Some sort of sign?
Surely this insomnia was just something temporary. It had to be; he could not live out the rest of his life on so little sleep. He just needed to get back on track. A simple, small catalyst could knock him back into the right orbit. Maybe he should make a list of things that he could do to spark himself back to life. Things like painting this dull little room and getting rid of that annoying bald-headed man on his ceiling. He fished under the bed for his slippers and lifted his robe off of the back of the door. It would be cooler in the kitchen with the back door open.
The kitchen was located on the ground floor, at the back of the rectory. When Jerome pulled open the heavy wooden door leading to the backyard, the sharp smell of damp mouldy earth and the cool moist air that pressed against him like a wet cloth startled him. The sensation was so pleasant, so welcome after the stifling heat of his room that he remained standing at the door, looking out into the yard, mesmerized.
He had never really looked closely at the yard before now, although he had cut across it hundreds of times. His impression, by day, was of a grubby sad little patch of bare dirt and weeds, not worth a second glance. It had been years since anyone had cut the grass regularly and turned the soil in the gardens every spring. Now, the yard was ringed with trees of heaven and a few old maples that had long ago knitted a dense canopy overhead. The trees’ hundreds of unchecked suckers had braided themselves into the chain link fence, causing it to twist and bow outward in some places and to sag inward in others. Neglect and overgrowth had nearly erased the outlines of the original flowerbeds. The only thing that remained fresh and groomed was the path that ran from the gap in the fence in the back corner where the garage stood to the back door.
But now, lit by the pale glow of the yellow street light slanting through the rusting fence, Jerome found the yard strangely enchanting. Every illuminated surface outside of the yard glistened with rain: the sidewalk, the visible corner of the garage eaves, the grey metal garbage pails standing beside the garage wall, plant foliage growing outside the ambit of the canopy, a bit of the top rail of the fence. But beneath the canopy, the yard remained a haven of dryness, a compelling high-ceilinged green grotto. Looking back and forth between the wet and the dry surfaces, indulging in the sharp contrast between the two, Jerome suddenly perceived this reverse oasis as a small miracle. Dryness in a surround of glistening wetness. Then his mind leapt. Contrast. That’s all miracles were. Simple, startling contrasts. Dead Lazarus rising to life, the sick restored to health, one fish and one loaf, then fish and loaves in abundance.
Jerome pushed the screen door out into the fresh early morning air, descended the sagging back porch steps, and arrived, puffing with excitement, into the dead centre of this miraculous outdoor room beneath the magical green roof. His loosely tied robe had fallen open and cool air wandered deliciously into the folds of material and over his skin. He looked up. The treetops were alive with movement and sound. A party was underway. In the slumbering silence of the early morning. Another contrast. The trees were engaged in a joyous whispering conversation, every leaf and branch having something to say to its neighbour, while hundreds of gossiping water droplets slithered across smooth and rough surfaces, dropping down onto the next level to repeat what had just been said above. Now and again a little breeze wandered through the canopy, and hundreds of raindrops clattered softly to the ground. Jerome thought they sounded like hundreds of little feet, as if invisible elves or leprechauns were jumping out of the treetops and landing unseen bedside him.
He twirled around slowly, his head thrown full back so he could see the canopy that covered him. How freeing it was just to stand there in the cool temperature beneath the protective arch of foliage. He wondered why he hadn’t ever even noticed the yard’s chapel-like quality before. Had he known, he could have come out here every time it rained, stood here in the delightful chill and filled himself up on the thrill of this secret place. His mind leapt again. Of course. How could he not have seen it until now? This domed green chapel had been created just for him. Look how it contrasted to his room: large, cool, airy, filled with the present. Listen to the whispers. How joyous! The overhead trees must be filled with birds and insects. They must be tucked in up there, alongside one another, waiting for dawn. They would be beginning to groom themselves now, rooting beneath their wings, burbling softly to one another. Life. Bustling. What he so desperately desired. It was clear now what was going on. He was meant to discover this place. This humble little outdoor grotto was God speaking to him.
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