wasn’t giving me a husband—if He expected me to lead a celibate life—then at the very least He owed me a special male friend. He owed me Father.
Once the pasta was done, I reached into the cabinet to get the colander, and that’s when I saw the bulletin from St. Stephen’s sticking out beneath it. I tried not to read the list of priests’ names but saw Father James Infanzi, Parochial Vicar. I shut the cabinet quickly and ate my dinner staring at the wall. It’s not a big deal if I call him. He’s celibate and looks happy. Maybe he can help me. But it’s going to look like I’m interested in him that way. No it won’t. I haven’t done anything wrong. But what would I start by calling him? He’ll probably ask me to lunch again and then what? I looked at the phone, then away, and then back again. It’s not unusual to call a priest when your grandfather has died. Before I knew it, I was dialing the number and asking for Father Infanzi. He expressed his condolences, but I could hear a breathless excitement in his voice. We spoke for a half hour about my grandfather and how difficult Janine was taking it, and about how hard I found dating, though I implied that I had turned Sam down. Sounding relieved, Father said, “He must be crushed.” I said, “I don’t know about that” and he said, “That’s hard to believe,” which made me smile. When I asked him how his week was going, he said he got stuck late a couple of nights doing more repairs for the single mom.
“The same woman whose husband left and has three sons?” I asked, disappointed that she was still in the picture.
“I told you about her?”
“Yes, of course. Why? Is anything—” I stopped and waited until he was done clearing his throat, expecting his perfect attention. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, no, I just didn’t remember telling you about her.”
“Did you do contracting work before the seminary?”
“Yes, in fact my two good friends, Matt and Roger? I told you about them.”
“Sure.”
“The three of us were talking about going into contracting, but then I decided to become a priest. Matt was pretty upset.”
“He probably felt abandoned.”
“I think you’re exactly right.”
“Father, does this woman plan on paying you at all?” I asked, growing angry at her.
“No, nothing like that. I told her I wouldn’t charge her.”
Before I could think or say anything else, he was telling me how happy he was that I’d called, that it was Sam’s loss, that he’d pray for my grandfather, and then, “Maria, is there any way we could go to lunch again? I promise not to make any more inappropriate comments.”
I clutched the receiver, my doubts erased by the sound of my name in his voice. “Do you think that’s the best idea?”
“I don’t see why it has to be a problem.”
And then as if it was any less dangerous, “What about coffee instead?”
I let him pick me up at my apartment on a Thursday night, though I waited outside for him. I ordered cappuccino, and he ordered tea before he brought the waitress back, “You know what, can you make that an Irish coffee?” Facing me from behind him was Audrey Hepburn from the scene in Breakfast at Tiffany’s in which her character, a call girl named Holly Golightly who’s still dressed in the black gown from the night before, is looking into the window of Tiffany’s to soothe her fears. She’s beautiful and polished and goes to a lot of great parties, but as the movie unfolds we learn she’s running from the truth. Father asked me how I went about helping students get jobs, so I told him about the company visits, the on-campus recruitment, the job consortia, as I tried my best not to get foam on my lips. He remarked admiringly, “You’re so together.”
After that night, I called him to wish him a Happy Thanksgiving, and in December we saw each other four nights in a row at the parish mission and spoke twice for an hour. I still didn’t say a word about my calling. A week before Christmas when we went for coffee a second time, I asked him in to bless my apartment. He shook holy water and made the sign of the cross in each of the rooms including my bedroom where the floor lamp cast a dim glow on the ceiling as I stood in the doorway, so he couldn’t see me and my bed at the same time. Turning around, he looked in my eyes and said, “What a cozy place you keep.”
A few days later I was at a rectory near work telling a priest I didn’t know that I had a vocation. The sight of Father liking my bedroom had unnerved me that much. But sitting across from the trim, forty-something Father Relici who was donning an Augustinian black capuchin, I couldn’t bring myself to say “nun.” It wasn’t just celibacy that troubled me. I didn’t want to take a vow of poverty either. I didn’t want to wear a habit or live in a convent. If I had to have a vocation, I wanted to be like a diocesan priest, like Father Infanzi who got to keep his paycheck and had his own car and bank account. The only way a Catholic woman could give her life to God and be independent was to remain single, but what was the use of that? Even if I were certain the single life could be a real vocation, people would never understand. They’d ask me, “Haven’t you met anyone?” or think, What a shame she never married. I wanted a title, something that would explain me, a life that would make me feel worthy and visible. I blurted, “Father, I feel called to the clergy.”
“Are you saying you want to convert, so you can become a female minister? Because in the Catholic Church, clergy means priests and deacons, men only.”
“Oh no, I’m Catholic. I think I just got my words mixed up,” I said feeling humiliated but determined. I told him how my relationships lasted three months tops and how I thought that was a sign from God that I wasn’t meant to get married. I said nothing about Father Infanzi. What would I have said, I’m falling for a priest, and I think this confirms I have a calling? Then I added half-jokingly, “Not all the guys I dated were losers,” but Father Relici didn’t grin, not even a slight upturn of his lips. I tried to recover with, “Some were very nice guys.”
“Nuns serve in so many capacities. They work in hospitals, schools, they’re presidents of colleges.”
“Father, I’m really struggling with the idea of celibacy.”
“There are so many good women religious out there who you could talk to,” he said, dabbing his pointer finger into a piece of dust on his mahogany desk and then flicking it off.
“Is it hard, Father? Do you find it difficult?” desperate for him to say something consoling like, The struggle will go away.
“I could allow myself to think about what my wife would have looked like, my children, my house, where I’d be now, but I don’t. I try not to think about what I’m missing. What would be the use?” He dabbed and flicked another piece of dust off his finger. “You know, it’s a good life. You get the privilege of touching so many people’s lives.”
“I’m just really afraid I’ll have to commit to something before I’m ready,” I said, feeling the sting of tears in my nose.
“It’s not like that. Discernment takes a long time. The nuns—the Sisters—they wouldn’t rush you.” Then, maybe because he sensed my independence, he told me that some nuns rent apartments if it’s convenient to their ministry and there isn’t a convent nearby, which made me feel a little relieved. He got up from his desk, walked over to his shelf where the books were in perfect size order and pulled out a royal blue, soft covered book, A Guide
