Chapter 7

Poor Dario. He knows so much but sees so little, like all those silly, self-important scholars who once upon a time caroused around the dungy gutters in the shadow of the Sorbonne.

Hance said nothing as his friend spoke a dissertation about the Church’s obligation to protect the poor, and how the ancient concept of sanctuary forbade the town from evicting the homeless from church property. The two had gone into Dario’s office, which overlooked the yard and the improvised dwelling place in the woods. Hance could not help waiting for one of the “residents,” as Dario had begun calling them, to swing from the branches, shouting “Asile! Asile!” like Hugo’s hunchback in Nôtre Dame de Paris.

“We’re building them a shelter,” Dario was saying. “So far, we’ve got the architectural plans and the contractors. All we need is the town’s permission.”

Hance almost suggested it would be less expensive and more practical to let everyone live in the rectory. He tried to figure out how many acres were involved but saw no end or border to the bare mass of trees that shivered in a sudden gust. “How did the diocese come to own so much vacant land?” He could never grow accustomed to the notion of the Church as an investor of real estate.

“A monastery once stood there. Burned to the ground in the early 1960s. The order had planned to build a seminary in its place, but the diocese, acting on the tenets of the Second Vatican Council, moved the seminary to the inner city, where the students could better serve the poor. What the architects call the footprint of the site remains. You can’t see it from here because the woods grew over it.”

“How big was it?”

“The monastery itself had four wings around a courtyard with a formal garden. The roof was terracotta, and the chapel had a bell tower. Very Romanesque.”

“How extensive was the site, about the size of a city block?”

“At least.”

“How big will the shelter be?”

“There will never be enough room.”

“What are you starting at?”

“Something similar to the monastery, with four wings around a courtyard.”

“A courtyard with a formal garden and a few marble birdbaths?”

“Yes. Half a wing would be devoted to a retreat house. We need an inspirational environment to remind the homeless of their dignity as children of God.”

No, it's not the homeless you need to inspire. You need to give the faithful a good reason to attend a retreat in a homeless shelter.

Hance had mentioned the formal garden in the spirit of cynicism. He was not surprised that his veiled malice was lost on Dario, who spoke of the retreat house as if fearing to drop a fragile teacup––or to incite Hance’s disapproval.

Hance did not disapprove of Dario’s grand scheme. What disturbed him was Dario’s ignorance. The homeless were not persons. They were the scarification of humanity, inflicted by the failure to achieve what society demanded of its participants. A shelter set upon pretty acreage owned by a church would never cut away the disfigurement. The mutilation was per omnia saecula saeculorum, for ever and ever, maintained by the greed and arrogance that formed society’s mandates.

Dario was just another one of those people fired by the commandment to love one another and deluded by the premise that love alone could relieve suffering. Nothing could relieve suffering. Suffering, not the rood to which Christ was nailed, was the One True Cross. Without suffering we could not hunger for joy, and hungering for joy, knowing we could never earn or keep that joy, led to suffering that could have no end.

Hance despised Dario for his ignorance, and knowing he willfully despised Dario made him despise himself. He was supposed to despise no one. But he could love no one. He refused to love anyone, not even himself, and surely, not God. He could not love the agent of his torment. He would endure. It was the only way he could fight back.

“You’re too quiet, John. Maybe this will change your mind.”

Hance had no interest in the rolls of blue architectural paper Dario unfurled atop the desk. The designs meant nothing to him. The children had continued running around the rectory as if they were in their own private playground, chased by a giggling Emmy Kydd. He needed to speak to her. He did not know what he would do if she vanished again. Still with his attention on the ruckus, he asked Dario how much the project would cost.

“So far, everything’s donated.”

“Everything? Labor? Furnishings?”

“Everything.”

“Monthly maintenance? Who’s going do the laundry and clean the toilets?”

“Some social workers have proposed assigning chores to the residents.”

“Your residents will be individuals who have demonstrated that they can’t see to themselves. How can they be expected to look after others?” Was that too harsh? “And what about utilities? How will utilities be funded?”

“There are plans for that, too.”

“Plans involving the residents?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve thought of everything. There’s nothing I can possibly do to help you.”

Dario followed Hance to the study door. “There’s not ‘nothing,’ John. We were hoping you could help raise funds.”

Don’t. He resisted spluttering in contempt. “How?”

“How else? Benefit concerts with musicians from the college.”

No. “My schedule might not allow it.”

“It doesn’t have to be this semester. The town hasn’t approved the plans yet—though it would be nice to proceed as though it had and pursue all manner of funding sooner than later.”

No. “I can’t promise anything.”

“Can you at least promise me you’ll think about it?”

Foolish man. We have no control over our own lives, never mind the lives of others. “I’ll speak to you later.”

A little boy scampered by, pursued by Emmy Kydd. Hance reached out and caught her by the arm. Another girl might have screamed. The look on Emmy's face made him think she had been waiting for him.