was stunned at the coincidence, certain that it was more proof that he was my destiny. There were all the other parallels too. His phone number, except for one digit, was the same number my family had when we lived in this house. He and I often wound up in the same place at the same time without knowing, like the night we were inches away in a crowd at the mall listening to the St. Stephen’s children’s choir sing Christmas carols. There were also our results from the Myers Briggs personality inventory, which we talked about on the phone the night before. While he put me on hold to find his scores, I moved to my bed to get cucched, a half Italian, half English word my mother made up that means tucked in and cozy. When he came back, he told me he was an ISFP. I was an ISFJ (the first profession on the list of recommended matches was Roman Catholic nun). We were both introverts who preferred to focus on information rather than interpretation and to consider people and circumstances over logic, but I liked to have things planned and settled, and he liked to keep his options open. All I could focus on were the first three letters. During this same conversation, I finally asked him when he felt called to the priesthood. He said he was twenty-two and in medical school feeling lost, thinking why I am doing this? He passed a church everyday and thought maybe that’s what he was supposed to do. The school gave him a leave of absence for a year. He never went back.
“I see,” I said and then I went back to our scores, “The similarity, it’s strange.”
“I know.”
After a few more minutes in front of the house, we drove to Shore Road, parking so close to the Verrazano Bridge that the cables looked like a giant, glorious necklace over the Narrows. He asked if he could play me his favorite George Michael song, which I guessed was “Kissing a Fool.” He asked flabbergasted, “How’d you know?” I said, “It just has that sound.” When he opened the glove compartment to get the CD, I saw his dashboard sign that read CLERGY in large, black letters. I looked away, said nothing, but then as the long, sensual notes filled the car, the sign felt as if it had grown eyes and was staring me down through the closed compartment. I started to talk about the bridge to get James’ attention off me, but it was too late. He curled one of his legs on the seat, and said, “As of tonight, Brooklyn is officially my borough. I grew up here.” I looked at him crookedly and, said, “Nooo, this is my borough. You grew up in Queens. Claim an identity and stick with it,” driving my hand playfully but pointedly into his chest, dimly aware of what I was implying. Then he looked in my eyes and said, “When I was in the seminary, I used to say to myself, ‘Somewhere out there, there’s a girl’…You’re her.”
George Michael was up to the part about kisses and lies, but I only heard kisses. I turned sideways and leaned into his shoulder so that I was facing the bridge, trying to ignore the clergy sign and the sinking feeling in my gut. I was luring a priest in a parked car late at night, withholding the truth about my calling, pretending I trusted him. I knew this was terribly wrong, but there was the way he made me feel, my sense that fate had brought us together. I couldn’t fathom how celibacy would ever bring me the peace that it brought the Sisters. How could God who has no body, who is all Spirit, and no longer walks the earth in the person of Jesus fill my deepest desires? I wanted to bury myself in James, believe he was everything I’d ever wanted and needed. I wanted him to rescue me from my loneliness and calling, even though I knew he couldn’t. We spent the next half hour alternating between talking and being quiet, though I don’t remember what we spoke about. It was all surreal, the music faint in the speakers and the tree branches, like my intentions, wobbly in the wind until he said, “Maria?” We moved our faces toward each other, and then, opening his mouth wide like a novice, he kissed me.
***
I didn’t tell James about my calling for another two weeks. I was a wreck, afraid he might be considering leaving the priesthood but also afraid of how real telling him would make it. We said, “I love you,” and spent Valentine’s Day together: He presided at my mother and Tom’s church wedding—their annulments had recently come through—and after the ceremony all of us, except for Nellie who was studying in Seville, went to dinner at the restaurant where James and I had first had lunch. It was decorated with red checkered table cloths, tiny white lights, and piped-in Sinatra. My mother and Tom beamed in wedding clothes that fit them more snugly than nine years earlier when they married civilly. At the end of the night, when we dropped Father off at the rectory and watched him climb the steps, Julie asked, “You think he thinks about sex?”
“I’m sure he does,” I said, careful not to show any emotion.
“I feel bad for him,” Nick interjected, “not the older ones, the monsignors, because they always seem, I don’t know, bossy? But the young priests, I’ve always felt bad for them.” I watched him out the window until he was safe inside. Then when we pulled away, I thought about what I wrote in his Valentine’s Day card and felt overwhelming pity for us—I am more me with you than I am with anyone else. You’re a gift from God. I love you, James.
The following night I was standing at my stove nervously waiting for the kettle to whistle. James was sitting in a chair that he’d pulled out far enough that he could cross his legs, which had made the backyard sensor light go on. Even though I knew it was far from prudent, when he asked if he could come over, I said yes, hoping that in person I’d finally have the nerve to tell him.
“Last night was so nice,” he said.
“It was,” I said, smiling nervously, my thoughts drifting back to Julie’s question. I picked up the ceramic decanter from the center of the table even though it wasn’t in the way and was about to place it down on the counter when the kettle whistled. I jumped, almost dropping the decanter. James looked at me as if he should help, but he turned red instead and then looked relieved when I steadied it. I pulled out a potholder from the utensil drawer, poured the water in the mugs, and let James walk me through his mother’s secret for getting honey out of a jar without dripping it, which made him self-conscious again.
“Straight from Maria Infanzi’s kitchen,” he said. The sound of my name next to his made my hands shake again.
“How was your day?”
“Good. I met with a young guy who is thinking of converting.”
“That must be so rewarding for you. Someone who’s actually choosing the faith and not just taking it for granted, because it was handed to him.”
“It is,” he said, seeming surprised and grateful to have someone ask about his work. “Nice guy, too. Then I got a workout in. The stairmaster. Felt great.”
“Like your blood is clean.”
“Exactly.”
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