When he wants to write about his life the title comes to him: Fractured. He is a priest, a good priest, liberal, kind, with a vodka bottle hidden in the confessional and a telling breath at Sunday Mass. It's all role play. When he hasn't got a part to play he doesn't know what to do with himself so he plays it harder, relentlessly, the priestly role that he is beginning to hate. It's not a matter of faith. Faith is easy. It's being put on a piedestal that is difficult. He is falling, falling; hence the fractures. He wants them to see his ugly face, he wants his friend the bottle to betray him but all they seem to be aware of is good Father Chris.
And Mother Teresa comes to town. They line up, all the eight priests, Father Chris last. She is small and wrinkled, has an ear for everyone. But she wants a benediction and the priest she singles out is him, Father Chris ”Why me? Take somebody else. I'm the last in line,” he says. She shakes her head. ”I want you,” she says. ”You are the broken one.”
They distance themselves from the others and she explains: ”Only a broken vase can let in the light.” She kneels before him, he raises her up with his hands. ”I should get a benediction from you,” he says and kneels in turn. The sisters have to help her to get him to his feet. The other priests see the pantomime of the whiteclad old nun and the young priest taking turns to kneel before each other. Her eyes are piercing and her low voice full of power when she insists that he shall bless her. When he takes her to a closetlike room for privacy it is not role play any longer. He is going to give this odd and saintly creature a benediction and next, when she has left or some other rainy day, he will solemnly but not soberly adress the issue of his priesthood.
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