Isaiah 45:7
Thursday 13th September. Partner's. Brunch. Father Sebastian had agreed to this second meeting with Mrs Patricia Hartnett with little hesitation. She was comfortable here. And he liked brunch at Partner's - combining breakfast and lunch had always appealed to his sense of economy. This time a few eggs over easy, some pancakes, a little maple syrup, some bacon. Exquisite. He'd once toyed with the idea of becoming vegetarian on ethical grounds, on a sanctity of all life basis, like Dr Albert Schweitzer. The bacon at Partner's had weighed heavy in the balance, could even be said to have been the straw that broke the camel's back. He felt like St Augustine when he said, "Make me good Lord, but not just yet."
But Trish Hartnett was today's issue. The parameters of the problem had been laid out last Sunday. And at least there were no more tears. Not this time. Father Sebastian had had his fill of tears. Everyone he met seemed to be crying these days. He tried not to begrudge them their grief. But it was a little tiring and even a priest needs respite from raw human misery from time to time.
Trish was smiling now as she sat opposite him, every inch the successful businesswoman. Power dressing in black, her jacket barely contained her buxom form. She'd not been Springfield's Classical High Beauty Queen for nothing. She knew where her assets lay and she traded on them, shamelessly, even with Father Sebastian.
Not that Father David Sebastian minded in the least. If asked he would readilly claim to be an adherent of the Mary Wollstonecraft view of the sexes, whereby men and women were viewed as equal and sexuality confined to the arena of romantic love and expressed nowhere else. If asked that was. In reality, like all the males of the species, his head was turned by a flirtatious woman. And Trish knew how to be flirtatious with the best of them. Seb was grateful to see she had pulled herself together, got back some semblance of direction. No histrionics today, God willing.
Tough though, this business. Trish was newly married to Sean. Trish still loved him. Trish was aware that Sean was playing away, that he had a lover. Of that she was certain. Indeed Sean was almost flaunting the fact. So Trish had done the expected thing and tried to be kind and understanding, and in the process allowed herself to appear a little stupid. Trish had not challenged him directly over the issue. And she was afraid to do so. But all this was breaking her apart. She couldn't even sleep anymore, or so she told Seb.
What Sebastian knew was that Sean Hartnett was walking on the wild side. AC/DC. Whatever way you wanted to put it, this didn't bode well. But the confessional was the confessional. After last Sunday's brunch with Trish he'd promised to pray on the matter. And pray he had, despite Officer Donna White's interruption. What was all that about? He brushed the thought aside.
"What should I do Father Seb?" asked Trish Hartnett as she watched him consume his last morsel of pancake. She was so redolent with tension you could smell it.
He finished his mouthful, still uncertain how to answer. He liked the woman. Even had he not, he'd have wanted to help her. He sipped his coffee, giving himself time.
As Father Sebastian viewed things, there were three ways to deal with this, or indeed any other such circumstance. One was to advise her to please the other: To serve Sean regardless, and to hope for his reform. The second was to please herself, to act in her own interest. An annulment might serve her best, given what Father Sebastian knew and she did not. The third option, the preferable option in this and every circumstance, was to do what was right. That might or might not differ from one or other or both of the above.
When Father Sebastian had been a year or two younger he'd had no problem knowing what was right. That still small voice had shone into his night prayer, telling him what should be done. But not now. Like St John of the Cross, he was enduring his own dark night of the soul. God no longer talked to him. Perhaps he never would again. Not with that burning clarity that Seb so loved and remembered. And it saddened him. So, all he had was his own instinct to go on. And his instinct told him what?
"Trish." He hesitated. He had too much authority perhaps. If he told her what to do she'd do it. He tried the Socratic approach. "What do you think is right?"
Trish looked understandably exasperated. "That's what I hoped you'd tell me, Father."
"And I will. But first I want to hear you say it."
Trish looked at him then, those normally wide green-grey eyes were small and mean and nervous. "Should I leave him?"
"Is that what you think you should do?"
Trish was irritated. "I don't know what to do. That's why I'm here." The last three words were almost shouted. One or two of the other diners looked round. "Perhaps I expected far too much from marriage. Perhaps wild absolute love is illusory. I just don't know what to believe anymore."
"Very well Trish. No. You should not leave him. I will talk to him. You should give him one last chance. Tell him you want to make your marriage work. Give him a little time. Don't expect him to change at once. We will meet here again a month from now. And you can phone me, meet me, anytime, day or night between now and then. Anytime. I mean that. Indeed I expect that. Even in the middle of the night, call me if you need to."
"And if he doesn't change?"
Seb spread his arms. The gesture was one of great warmth and simplicity, large and full like a blessing. But the words that came with it were as cold as ice. "If he doesn't change, the marriage must be annulled. To do otherwise is wrong. That is absolute. I cannot countenance your continued suffering in a sham relationship."
And Trish Hartnett didn't cry. Indeed it seemed to her as if a weight of congealed jealousy had been lifted off her shoulders. "And you will talk to him?"
Father Sebastian nodded.
And Father Seb could do nothing but smile as she got to her feet, came round the table and enveloped him in an extravagant hug.
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