Chapter 10 continued

It was impossible for me to talk to Michael amidst the noise and confusion of Mardi Gras. We worked our way through the crowd to Bourbon Street. Suddenly, Michael pulled away from me and went into an oyster bar. People were standing everywhere waiting for tables, but there was room at the bar, and that’s where Michael headed. He put his bottle down and motioned for the bartender to open some raw oysters. He made a mess trying to mix a concoction of catsup, mustard and hot sauce.
    “How did I ruin your life, Michael?”
    Michael dabbed an oyster in the sauce, put his head back and let it slip down his throat without chewing. “At prep school you had to rub everyone’s nose in it when you learned Saint Thomas called his work of little value. You couldn’t shut up even when the headmaster said you were misinterpreting Saint Thomas’ meaning.”
    “That ruined your life?”
    Michael swallowed several more whole oysters and took another drink. “At Berkeley, when you lost your faith you couldn’t stop talking about it,
    Paul. You’ve never cared who you hurt.”
    “Obviously, you weren’t affected because you became a priest…unless…unless you became a priest because you were running away from something…”
    The bartender broke open another half dozen oysters for Michael.
    “I’m beginning to get the picture. Jesus called you as he called me in Saint Matthew’s, didn’t he? Only it was years ago, while we were at Berkeley, and you refused the call, too, didn’t you, Michael?”
    Michael threw his head back, raised another oyster, stopped, put the oyster down, and stared at the bar.
    I asked the bartender, “Where’s the men’s room?” He nodded toward the back of the restaurant.
    The men’s room was packed. Michael couldn’t get to the sink or to the toilet, so he threw up on the floor. That cleared the small room. Then he knelt in front of the toilet and dry heaved for five minutes.”
    The bartender came to the door. “Hey, what’s goin’ on back here. I got customers who need to use—awwwww. Joey! Joey, get a mop and clean the men’s head.”
    “Sorry. Let me give you something for your trouble…”
    “Pay me for the oysters and take this guy out of here.”
    Remarkably, up to that point, the booze only affected Michael emotionally. The physical didn’t kick in until after he vomited. I had to practically carry him back to the Lafitte Apartments. When I put him to bed, I knew that Michael was at the end of his Mardi Gras partying for this year.
    By the time I reached Bourbon Street, the costume contest was over and I couldn’t find Maria, Ben, and Jennifer. I called Ben’s room at their hotel but there was no answer. I left a message reminding him of breakfast at the French Market in the morning, and went to dinner. Later, at the Lafitte Apartments, I sat on the balcony and watched Mardi Gras wind down.

Ash Wednesday. The first day of Lent. When I awoke, Michael was dressed and about to go out the door. “I’m going to get a cup of coffee at the French Market before I distribute ashes.”
    He left and I threw my clothes on and followed. Jackson Square is bounded on two sides by apartment buildings, and on the other two sides by the cathedral and the French Market.
    Michael had three cups of the dark, caffeine-loaded chicory coffee in front of him, and had emptied two of them by the time I arrived at his table.
    “Promise me you’ll stop looking for a Final Story,” he said.
    “You know what the Final Story is, don’t you, Michael?”
    “I accept without reservation the magisterium of Holy Mother Church. That’s what I know.”
    “I don’t think my mother’s not going to church the last five years had anything to do with me.”
    Michael was silent.
    “What’s so terrible about the Final Story that you fear my telling it?”
    Michael drained the third cup of coffee. “I have to go to work.”
    Maria approached as Michael left. I said, “Where’s Ben?”
    “He’ll be along in a few minutes. I wanted to speak to you alone.”
    “Should I be encouraged?”
    “Why did you act out at the conference?”
    “I was bored.”
    “How could you blow an opportunity to get some ideas with only a week left?”
    “Maria, it was just a rehash of same stuff they’ve been saying for thousands of years.”
    “You didn’t give it a chance, Paul.”
    “None of them can privilege their stories. They have the same problem as the physicists at Elaine’s center. And the same problem I’m having trying to privilege balance. That’s not going to change.”
    “Talk to Preacher John.”
    “John thinks I’m trying to do what only God can do.”
    “That’s a point of view, too,” she said.
    “My chances of ever succeeding are slim, and my chances of succeeding by next Tuesday are none.”
    “If you quit on me now, Paul, forget it.”
    “I’ll see it through, but at this point I’m clueless. I have no idea where to go next.”
    Jennifer arrived with Indira in time to hear that last remark. “Come to our seminar tomorrow, Paul. We’re discussing the grand cycle theories of history. It fits right in with your idea of balance.”
    I said, “It’s up to Professor Chowdury. She may not want me after my performance yesterday.”
    “You are welcome to join us anytime, Paul.”
    Jennifer said, “Then it’s settled.”
    Ben arrived, and Maria said. “I’m going to get ashes. Anyone want to join me?”
    “Not me, I’m more interested in the beignets,” Ben said as he eyed the pillow-shaped doughnuts saturated with powered-sugar being served at at the next table.
    I said, “I’ll go with you, Maria.”
    Several priests were distributing ashes from the sanctuary. Maria and I stood in Michael’s line. He acknowledged Maria with a nod before he placed the ashes on her forehead. “Dust thou art. From dust thou came and unto dust thou shalt return.”
    When it was my turn, Michael and I looked at each other. As he took a pinch of ashes, I asked again the question I put to him the day mother died. “Who can enter the Kingdom of God?”
    As he smudged the ashes on my forehead with his thumb, Michael said, “For the last time, Paul, it is the fundamental option—the sum of all our actions—that decides our spiritual fate.”

Chapter 11