Page 8 of The Elements

I take Ifechi’s advice and decide to make a pilgrimage to the church, standing outside for a long time before deciding whether to enter.

If there is a God, I want to make it clear to Him that I’m not here for spiritual reasons, but simply to understand the island better.

It’s a small stone building, the right size, I suppose, for such a tiny population, and, unlike the much grander one I attended throughout my married life, it has a humility to it.

The front doors are open, but from where I stand, with the sun shining before me, I can see nothing but darkness ahead. Still, something summons me inside.

It takes a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the interior gloom, and I instinctively reach out to dip my index finger into the holy-water font before touching it to my forehead.

It was hot outside but it’s cool in here.

On a cold day, I imagine those conditions are reversed, as if the church is a place of opposites.

I remain at the back for a few moments, my attention taken by a wire rack holding a collection of information booklets that look as if they’re even older than the building itself.

I notice the familiar figure of Padre Pio, his hands joined in prayer, on the cover of one; the Virgin Mary, her arms outstretched in supplication, on another.

Beneath my feet, the ground is tiled with what appears to be a granite mosaic, sprinkled with an occasional floral design.

There are few people present. A man seated at the end of the second pew, hunched over with his head in his hands.

A woman, six rows behind him, on her knees and clicking a set of rosary beads between her fingers as her lips move soundlessly.

Most surprising of all is the sight of a teenage boy seated only a few feet from where I stand, next to the confession box.

I glance in his direction and, at the same moment, a light flicks on above the box and the boy stands, opens the door, and makes his way inside.

He can’t be more than seventeen, and not only does it surprise me that he would have sins to confess, but, if he does, that he would have any interest in doing so.

Churchgoing, as I have mentioned, was more Brendan’s area than mine, because Fr. Yates’s friendship mattered to him, and the parishioners’ recognition of him strengthened his belief in his own importance. What he never understood, however, is that religion begins in the soul, not the ego.

I’m drawn to the Stations of the Cross, seven hanging on one wall, and seven on the other.

I’ve always been intrigued by these, for an artistic priest can use a little imagination in the commissioning of a design as there seems to be no demands on their style and they differ from church to church.

Here hangs a set of fabrics, painted in black ink upon a linen background, that recall the work of Japanese calligraphers.

They are very beautiful. As I cross the nave to the right-hand side and examine the tenth station, Jesus Is Stripped of His Garments , I am struck by the expression the artist has imposed upon His face, blending confusion, dismay, and humiliation.

For once, the Son of God appears almost human.

The whole business of the Twelve Apostles has always bothered me, the hard-nosed maleness of their clique, the decision from the start to exclude women from their number.

Most became saints, I think, but did that prevent them from leering at the women who served their food, or making vulgar remarks about girls they noticed on the streets?

Did James lose interest during the Sermon on the Mount, his attention captured by the breasts of a young woman seated near him?

Did John lure a serving girl at the Wedding at Cana into an anteroom and press himself against her, ignoring her pleas to be released?

And what of Andrew, or Matthew, or Judas Iscariot?

Did they take women without permission, forcing their unwashed parts into unwilling bodies whenever they felt so moved?

All these men, all these fucking men. Sacred and hallowed and venerated for two thousand years.

And yet it was the women, and only the women, who were there for Him at the end when the men betrayed Him, denied Him, ran from Him, pocketed their thirty pieces of silver for traducing Him.

Here is Veronica wiping His face. Here are the women of Jerusalem greeting Him as He carries His burden.

Here is Mary, weeping at the base of the cross.

Loyal women; unfaithful and treacherous men.

The former left to gather up His soiled and bloody clothes; the latter sanctified.

Oh, I feel such anger.

It’s now that my mind turns to Gareth Wilson and Niamh Loomis.

Gareth, that formidable man, six foot four in height and built of pure iron, standing in the dock of the Four Courts in Dublin, focused entirely on salvaging his reputation as he spoke of the man he personally installed as director of the National Swimming Federation, and by whose side he stood for years.

Swearing that he knew nothing of my husband’s behavior and can still hardly believe it, for a more dedicated servant of the sport he cannot imagine.

And then Niamh, his secretary of fifteen years, being questioned by Brendan’s barrister, who feigned disbelief that such crimes could have taken place without her noticing any of it.

“You never had any children yourself, Miss Loomis, did you?” he asked, as if this had any relevance to the matter at hand. “Or married, for that matter. Was there a reason for that?”

Objections raised, the question left unanswered, but the implication of her nature left to settle in the minds of the jury. It is imperative to find a woman to blame for a man’s crimes.

Then my own interrogation, of course, the questions approved by my husband, where the culpability was extended to me.

Did you love your husband, Mrs. Carvin?

Did you have a natural sexual relationship with your husband, Mrs. Carvin?

Were you ever unfaithful to your husband, Mrs. Carvin? You struggled to conceive your first child, didn’t you, Mrs. Carvin?

Were you affectionate with your husband, Mrs. Carvin, or could you be, shall we say, prone to mood swings?

Would you call yourself a good wife, Mrs. Carvin?

From above, the chorus of hissing from a group of mothers who would have tumbled into the dock to tear my husband limb from limb if they could, turning their fury on anyone who tried to stop them, their teeth bared, their fingers curled like claws.

Next to me during all these testimonies sat Rebecca, her body rigid, her face set like stone, grinding her teeth in so annoying a fashion that I wanted to slap her.

And finally, after his conviction, after his sentencing and his disgrace, the pundit who wrote in his newspaper column that while his actions should be condemned, no one should forget just how much Brendan Carvin had done for Irish sport and that, in the end, we should be grateful for that at least. Outrage, of course.

Social media up in arms. The usual half-hearted apology— if I offended anyone —but he meant what he had written.

The sound of someone releasing a cry of pain drags me from my reminiscences, and I look ahead and realize that the man at the end of the second pew is Tim Devlin, proprietor of the new pub, the man who always seems inclined to talk to me when he brings me my sandwich and bowl of soup, and whose eye I deliberately avoid so as not to give him false hope.

His right hand has transformed into a fist, and he is lifting and dropping it onto his knee with metronomic insistence.

This is a man in pain. This is a man with something on his conscience.

The church turns claustrophobic, and I move away from the Stations, making my way back along the nave toward the doors.

As I do so, I notice the teenage boy once again, for he has emerged from the confessional now, and is on his knees, his eyes closed, muttering his penance.

I wonder what his friends would say if they could see him.

They would mock him, I expect, but I find myself moved by such piety, which is rare in the young.

It’s rare in the old too, for that matter.

Outside, emerging into the sunlight, I inhale deeply, filling my lungs with air, and feel a sense of relief to have escaped a building that exists solely to comfort the troubled.

There is birdsong in the air and a playful scurrying somewhere in the grass beneath me, which needs cutting but, in its unshorn state, provides a useful hiding place for unseen life.

I sit down on a bench and am enjoying the feeling of the sunshine on my face when Fr.

Onkin appears from the church and strolls toward me, smiling, as ever.

“Good morning, Willow,” he says, opening his arms wide, displaying the palms of his hands. “You changed your mind, I see.”

“Think of me as a tourist, Ifechi,” I say, nodding toward the space next to me and inviting him to sit down. “I’m only here to gawk at the splendor of the place and see if I can grab the smell of incense.”

“You are nothing as transitory as a tourist,” he says, settling himself beside me. “I think there is much more to you than that.”

“That’s only because you don’t know me. Inside, I’m completely empty.”

He shakes his head. He’s not going to argue with me.

“Has it ever occurred to you,” I ask after an awkward silence, “that faith is little more than a matter of geography?”

“In what way?” he asks.