Page 9 of The Elements

“Well, think about it,” I say. “Ireland has long been a Catholic country. Almost everybody born here was christened Catholic but had no say in the matter. Some take to it like a duck to water and build their lives around it. Others wear it as a winter coat. Then there are those who have no interest in it whatsoever but still send their children to make their First Holy Communion or their Confirmation. But if they’d been born in Israel, say, or Tehran, or Moscow, they never would have been Catholic to begin with, would they?

Even the Pope, and all his predecessors, are only Catholics because of where they came from.

All those Italians for so many centuries.

Would any of them have discovered Catholicism if they’d been brought up in Tokyo? ”

“Some, perhaps,” he says. “Faith has a way of finding you.”

“And what about you?” I ask. “Were you born into it?”

“In my country,” he says, “there are two tribes. Muslims in the north, some Sunni, some Shia, and Christians in the south. But most of those Christians are Protestant, not Catholic. Maybe only one in five people in Nigeria consider themselves Catholic. I myself was brought up Protestant.”

“Really?” I say, surprised. “So what made you defect, if that’s the right word?”

He turns his face toward the bright blue sky above us, or perhaps toward heaven, and smiles. I understand. He’s not going to tell me. He too has secrets.

From the door of the church, the teenage boy emerges, pulling a cheap pair of sunglasses from the open neck of his T-shirt.

He’s taller than I realized, and very good-looking, with an athletic build, blond curly hair, and smooth skin.

He glances in our direction and raises a hand to Ifechi, who nods back as the boy pulls his backpack on and continues on his way.

“That can’t be very common,” I say.

“And what is that?” he asks.

“A boy his age. Going to confession.”

He says nothing. Although I witnessed it with my own eyes, the boy’s business inside the church is not something he can discuss with me.

“It is true,” he says, after much thought, “that I do not see as many youthful faces in my congregation on a Sunday as I would wish. But there are some. That boy, Evan, is one.”

“Brought by his parents, I suppose.”

“Some are interested, even if they would never dare to admit it.”

“When I was his age, we all had to go,” I tell him. “It would have been unheard-of not to. And I brought my own children too, even though I’m not a believer. So I suppose that makes me just as big a hypocrite.”

“But something must have made you bring them,” he insists. “Perhaps some part of you was hoping to receive the Spirit, even if you didn’t realize it?”

“I brought them to keep my husband happy,” I tell him. “I don’t know how much you know about Irishwomen, Ifechi, but that’s what we do. It’s what we’ve been doing for centuries now, and look where it’s got us.”

“And where is that?”

“Here. To some godforsaken island in the Atlantic Ocean, where we know no one and no one knows us.”

“This island is not godforsaken,” he tells me quietly, placing a hand gently atop my own. “No place is.”

“It was a turn of phrase, that’s all,” I tell him, for I don’t want to offend the man, who seems kind and devoted to his calling. Although, God knows, I’m no judge of character. “I’m sure you bring a lot of support to your congregation.”

Another exit from the church. This time, it’s the publican. He’s walking quickly, his head bowed, unsettled by whatever interactions inside he had with the Lord. He doesn’t look in our direction but makes his way toward the gate before turning left, in the direction of his place of business.

“Is he all right?” I ask, and Ifechi raises an eyebrow.

“In what sense?”

“He seemed upset. I saw him banging his fist against his leg.”

“Mr. Devlin has been through much trauma,” he tells me.

“Has he indeed?” I ask, intrigued now. I’m not a gossip, I never have been, not even when I lived in Terenure and counted the other mothers in the parish among my friends. But life moves slowly on the island and a little bit of scandal would liven things up. As long as it’s not my scandal, that is.

“Oh yes,” replied Ifechi quietly, but I can tell from his tone that he’s not going to elaborate. I don’t ask anything further. It would be beneath me even to try.

“Well, Ifechi,” I say, rising to my feet now. “I should be on my way.”

“Will I see you here again, Willow?” he asks, and I think about it.

“It’s not impossible.”

“If you ever want to talk, you can always knock on my door, and I will be happy to converse.”

“Thank you… Father,” I say, employing his correct title for the first time. He is a man worthy of my respect.

“Whatever has brought you here will one day be little more than a memory. Trust in the Lord, Willow. He trusts in you.”

I shake my head, disappointed that he would end our conversation in such a way. “I’d never trust a man again, Ifechi,” I tell him, reverting to his given name. “I’m not that stupid.”