chapter 23
Gus, the Elevation of the Cross
“You know, Dad, Saint Constantine converted on his deathbed. It’s never too late. I’ve always wanted to give my father Holy Communion.”
“Not quite on my deathbed yet, though, am I?” He sat in the front pew as I drank down the remnants of the Eucharist.
“If you don’t convert by then, I’ll christen you against your will. I’ll force feed you the Body and Blood of Christ.”
“It’s as good a time as any. At least there won’t be a thousand people watching me.”
“Now I know where Soula gets it from.”
His eyes glowed with their usual spark, but I’d noticed several times throughout the service that he had to hold on to the side of the pew for support.
Protein. That was what he needed. I’d do a better job with his meal planning. Include more lean protein in his snacks.
“Come with me while I divest?“ I didn’t go as far as using air quotes, but it was basically implied whenever I used an overtly pastoral word with my dad.
Truthfully, it would take a while before it sunk in that I was a priest. That I could be anyone’s spiritual father.
He nodded, and I helped him up the solea steps, ushering him behind the altar.
Dad was technically Episcopalian and not Greek Orthodox, even though he’d been coming to this church since he’d met my mother.
He couldn’t receive communion in this church, but he was allowed behind the icon screen because he had a penis. It was one of the few dogmatic qualms I had about my religion. Only men were allowed to occupy certain areas and be ordained as clergy. It seemed barbaric to me, especially since, in the early days of the church, women had not been prohibited from serving in those roles. But it was something I could only hope to fight from inside.
Dad followed me around the large stone altar table and into the vestment room. It was nothing but a small, cramped closet with a not-so-temporary clothing rack on one wall. I doubted anything had changed in this room—even the dust bunnies—since the sixties.
Dad looked relieved to get off his feet when I pulled out a chair for him. The service had been long, but this was worrisome.
“You look tired, Dad.” I tried to keep my voice upbeat as I unbuttoned the neck of my cape and lifted the heavy brocade garment over my head. “You’re not still helping George and Bethany, are you?”
“I couldn’t help, even if I wanted to. This treatment’s zapped the rest of my strength. I can hardly lift myself, let alone a mortuary cot.”
“You getting enough to eat? The meals I left for you—”
“I eat plenty, son. Stop worrying.”
I nodded, staring at his gaunt face. I unlaced my cuffs and unbuttoned the sticharion, the gold robe worn beneath the cape.
Dad had another one of his coughing fits while I removed the rest of my liturgical vestments.
I handed him a bottle of water. “Better?”
He nodded, but his face told me a different story. “I’m good. Except that my lungs have stopped working after inhaling almost fifty years worth of embalming fluid in the days before ventilators. I don’t have much of an appetite, despite your newfound cooking skills. And my bones ache and can’t support my body longer than three minutes. Other than that, I’m good.” He stood as I replaced my white liturgical cassock for my everyday black, priest-in-the-wild cassock, the anderí.
“Listen, Dad, I know you like Dr. Sayers, and that’s important. We buried his mom and you’ve already finished a few courses of treatment. You’re loyal, and that’s fine, but I think maybe someone else—”
“Gus…” His eyes pleaded with me for a moment before softening into something else. “You did a fine job today. I still don’t have a clue what this service is all about, but you looked like you knew what you were doing.”
He didn’t want to talk about cancer right now. I got it. Denial was a powerful drug. I wanted to deny his cancer, too. But that didn’t get us into clinical trials.
“You’ve only been coming to church with Ma for thirty-five years. You should probably have the Lord’s prayer memorized in Greek by now, even if you don’t know what the words mean.”
“I know more Greek than you think I do.”
“You’re not helping your case against conversion” I said, tying a side string of my robe.
He chuckled. “You sounded good, too. No mess-ups.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I knew better. The long Cherubic hymn needed a bit more vocal choreography between myself and the choir, but overall, I was pleased with my first Nativity of the Virgin Mary. It was an important day on the Orthodox calendar. The church was full. Maybe some people would keep attending throughout the rest of the year.
“I better know what I’m doing by now. I’ve only been practicing for five years. Not counting ten years as an altar boy, studying other priests. Though that was more to see what I could get away with when they weren’t looking.”
“Was Vasili ever not looking?”
“No.” I smiled. “He has eyes in the back of his head.”
He smiled, nodding, his head dropping low on his shoulders as he studied his shoes. “He always knew how to set you boys on the right track.” He raised his head, looking into my eyes with sincerity and sadness. “I’m glad he was there for you. Even when I wasn’t. And I wasn’t there for you a lot. Don’t think I don’t know it. Or regret every one of those lost minutes.” He sniffed. “Not that apologies make it better.”
“You were there, Dad.” I gathered the length of my robe to sit on the desk facing my father. “You were just busy. Working. A hard job. An impossible job. You’re basically a public servant. It’s not like you ran out on Ma and left us. You never deserted us—emotionally or otherwise—never let us suffer for any reason. You never even raised your voice—not even to Ma, and you know how wrong she can be. Stubborn about it, too.”
“Just because you’re grown, doesn’t mean you can speak ill of your mother.”
“I’m just saying... Remember that time she got the names Christodoulopoulos and Christoyiannopoulos mixed up, and she sent you to pick up the poor man who’d just started in-home hospice?”
“That was bad,” he conceded.
“She refused to accept the blame, even though it was her signature on both sets of paperwork, and she took the death call. Ask her about it later. I bet she’ll still say something like, ‘We just saw Harry in church, and he looked fine.’”
“They still used us, though.” He shrugged, attempting but not succeeding in a smile.
“You know of any other Greek funeral home in town? In the state? Of course they were going to use us. They wanted Ma’s kouroulakia at the viewing. Anyway. It’s not like you were a deadbeat… and I feel like I’m missing out on the opportunity for a pun there, but I can’t think of one at the moment.”
“I was dead on my feet most of the time.”
“There it is.” I smiled at him, trying not to notice the wiry texture of his hair, how little of it there was left, how little of him there was left. He was never a big man—physically or otherwise. He lived a quiet life, had a quiet presence. He made himself small so his family around him could shine bigger and brighter. He was the kind of man I’d always hoped to become, and I was failing miserably at.
I was disorganized, loud, too big and brash to walk through the world unnoticed and humble, and now that I wore the garments of a holy man, it often felt like a farce. I was too much of a sinner to serve my church, my friends, my God. I longed for a way to seem smaller, to slip through life doing deeds of quiet good. I longed to be more like Dad.
I looked down at my hands, folded in my lap.
“You know, Dad... You might have been polishing the coach, or suiting up for a service, or—”
“Or in the basement,” we both said at the same time.
“I always knew where to find you. I always knew I had your ear if I needed it. I didn’t need you at every football game, or to help me with my math homework.”
“I don’t recall you ever doing your math homework.”
“I wasn’t much of a scholar back then.” I laughed.
“Hm. You may not have done your algebra but look at you now. Two Masters degrees. Probably Dr. Smythe one day. You had a rough patch, but who doesn’t? You grew into a man I’m proud of.”
I studied the dirty corner of linoleum where dust had been gathering for decades. Who else would notice, unless they were sitting in this exact spot atop an old, unused oak desk, avoiding their congregation during coffee hour?
“I still pray for forgiveness every day.” I gripped the rim of the desk tighter, my jaw growing tighter as well. This was where I usually shut down. I could casually sidestep this conversation if anyone else brought it up. I’d turn it into a joke about how I used to drink too much, or I was young and stupid. Look at me—see how far I’ve come?
But I couldn’t sidestep with Dad.
“Then I’m sure you’ve received it. From God and from George. Why not let it finally sink in? Stop hating yourself. And stop punishing Decca for what you did ten years ago.”
“What about Decca?” My heart seized.
“I see the way you look at her and the way she looks at you. Especially when you both think no one’s noticing. Then I see the way you interact. They don’t match up. Something doesn’t equate, Gus.”
“Maybe I should have done that algebra homework after all.” I stood and folded my arms across my chest.
“Don’t turn this into a joke. I rarely put anything this bluntly, but I don’t have much time, and I need you to fix this before... before I can’t say anything anymore. Be a husband to her. Love her. I know you feel it, but love is more than a feeling. You need to act on it.”
He stood, too, his blue eyes—the same as George’s—bored into mine.
I took a step back, staggering a bit. It was the same image I’d had on my wedding night.
Except it wasn’t an image. It was real.
I was back in that room. The squeaking of the wheels and the clanking of the metal were drowning out the storm outside, as the mortuary cot rocked in rhythm with my thrusts.
I swallowed, but my mouth was still too dry. I took back the bottle I’d given Dad, uncapped it, and sucked down the rest of the water.
I had almost destroyed our family. I couldn’t do that to Decca, too. Not that I’d ever use her, or cheat, or anything near as disgusting. I trusted myself that much.
But there was a disconnect. In my head, I knew sex was perfect and pure. A gift from God for pleasure. I’d talked to other priests about it. I’d counseled couples on it. I’d understood the concept beautifully.
But my sin had defiled that gift. Corrupted the very idea of sex until it was rotten.
Something was getting in the way. There was a gap in the synapses. My nerves couldn’t fire right and the information wouldn’t flow.
“I don’t know how.”
“Yes you do, son. You’re afraid you’ll end up making the same mistakes. But you won’t. You’re not twenty-something anymore. Stop hating that kid you were and accept the man you are today. He’s a really good man.” His eyes misted over. “The world deserves to know him. Decca deserves to know him. All of him.” He patted my chest and turned around.
“Fuck, Dad, this was a rollercoaster of a conversation.” I sniffed, my own eyes glassy and hot.
“Stop cursing in church, Father Constantinos.” He smiled and held the railing tight as he walked down the steps out of the back office.