The Pilot's Wife_ A Novel - Anita Shreve [51]
“There’s been a terrible death,” Robert said at once.
The priest nodded calmly and gazed from Robert to Kathryn.
“This is Kathryn Lyons,” Robert said. “Her husband died yesterday in a plane crash.”
It seemed to Kathryn that the color left the priest’s face for just a moment and then returned.
“I’m Father Paul LeFevre,” he said to both of them, extending his hand. “Please come in.”
They followed the priest into a large room with leaded glass casement windows and seemingly thousands of books. Father Paul gestured for them to take seats around a small black fire-place grate. He looked to be in his late forties, and he seemed unusually muscular and fit under his dark shirt. She wondered idly as she sat there what priests did to keep in shape, if they were allowed to go to the gym and lift weights.
“I want to honor my husband,” Kathryn said when Father Paul had seated himself. He held a pad of paper and a pen in his lap.
Kathryn searched for more explicit words but couldn’t find them. Father Paul nodded slowly and appeared to understand. Indeed, Kathryn had the distinct impression, throughout the interview, that the Catholic priest knew a great deal more about her needs and her immediate future than she herself did.
“I’m not a Catholic,” she explained. “But my husband was. He was raised a Catholic and educated in Catholic schools. I’m sorry to say that he hadn’t gone to church in quite a long time.”
There was a pause as the priest took this in. Kathryn wondered why she had felt it necessary to apologize for Jack.
“And what about yourself ?” Father Paul asked.
“I was raised a Methodist, but I haven’t been to church much either.”
No, she thought, she and Jack hadn’t gone to church on Sunday mornings. Sunday mornings, when Jack had been home, had been for waking in the bed with the burr of sleep upon them both, for the languid ease with which they’d reached for each other — without a word between them, without the day between them, trailing dreams instead of responsibilities — and then afterward, for lying in the crook of Jack’s arm while he slept.
“Are there other family members to inform?” the priest asked. Kathryn hesitated and glanced at Robert.
“No,” she said, uncomfortably aware that she was lying to a priest in a Catholic rectory.
“Tell me about your husband,” the priest said softly.
“He died yesterday when his plane exploded,” she said. “He was the pilot.”
Father Paul nodded. “I read about it in the paper,” he said softly.
Kathryn thought about how to describe Jack.
“He was a good man,” she said. “Hardworking. Loving. He had a special relationship with his daughter. . . .”
Kathryn pressed her lips together, and tears instantly filled her eyes. Robert reached over and put his hand on hers. The priest waited patiently for her to compose herself.
“He was an only child,” Kathryn said haltingly. “His mother died when he was nine, and his father died when he was in college. He grew up in Boston and went to Holy Cross. He fought in Vietnam. I met him later, when he was a cargo pilot. Now he works for . . .”
She stopped herself, shook her head.
“He liked to fish and to fool around on the computer,” she said when she could go on. “He played tennis. He spent a lot of time with Mattie, our daughter.”
These were the facts, she thought, but the real Jack, the Jack she knew and loved, wasn’t in them.
“He liked risk,” she said suddenly, surprising the priest. “He didn’t like rainy days. He blotted his pizza to get the oil off. His favorite movie was Witness. I’ve seen him cry at the end of sad movies. He couldn’t tolerate traffic jams. He’d get off the highway and go fifty miles out of his way just to avoid one. He wasn’t a particularly good dresser. He wore a uniform for work and never gave much thought to clothes. He had a leather jacket that he loved. He could be very tender and loving . . .”
She looked away.
“And what about you?” the priest asked. “How are you?” “Me?” Kathryn asked. “I feel like I’ve been beaten up.”
The priest nodded