"Yes, I'm Damien Karras"
"Well, I wouldn't go in there. She's pitchin' a fit."
He'd looked through the port at the windowless room with the naked light bulb hanging from the ceiling; padded walls; stark; no furniture save for the cot on which she raved.
"...grant her, we pray Thee, a place of refreshment, light and peace...."
As she met his gaze, she'd grown suddenly silent; moved to the port with a baffled look.
"Why you do this, Dimmy? Why?"
The eyes had been meeker than a lamb's.
"Agnus Dei..." he murmured as he bowed and struck his breast. "Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, grant her rest...."
As he closed his eyes and held the Host, he saw his mother in the hearing room, her hands clasped gentle in her lap, her expression docile and confused as the judge explained to her the Bellevue psychiatrist's report.
"Do you understand that, Mary?"
She'd nodded; wouldn't open her mouth; they had taken her dentures.
"Well, what do you say about that, Mary?'' She'd
proudly answered him:
"My boy, he speak for me."
An anguished moan escaped from Karras as he bowed his head above the Host. He struck his breast as if it were time and murmured, "Domine, no sum dignus.... I am not worthy... say but the word and my soul shall be healed."
Against all reason, against all knowledge, he prayed there was Someone to hear his prayer.
He did not think so.
After the Mass, he returned to the cottage and tried to sleep. Without success.
Later in the morning, a youngish priest that he'd never seen came by unexpectedly. He knocked and looked in the door.
"You busy? Can I see you for a while?"
In the eyes, the restless burden; in the voice, the tugging plea.
For a moment, Karras hated him.
"Come in," he said gently. And inwardly raged at this portion of his being that rendered him helpless; that he could not control; that lay coiled within him like a length of rope, always ready to fling itself unbidden at the cry of someone else's need. It gave him no peace. Not even in sleep. At the edge of his dreams, there was often a sound like a faint, brief cry of someone in distress. It was almost inaudible in the distance. Always the same. And for minutes after waking, he would feel the anxiety of some duty unfulfilled.
The young priest fumbled; faltered; seemed shy. Karras led him patiently. Offered cigarettes.
Instant coffee. Then forced a look of interest as the moody young visitor gradually unfolded a familiar problem: the terrible loneliness of priests.
Of all the anxieties that Karras encountered among the community, this one had lately become the must prevalent. Cut off from their families as well as from women, many of the Jesuits were also fearful of expressing affection for fellow priests; of forming deep and loving friendships.
"Like I'd like to put my arm around another guy's shoulder, but right away I'm scared he's going to think I'm queer. I mean, you hear all these theories about so many latents attracted to the priesthood. So I just don't do it. I won't even go to somebody's room just to listen to records; or talk; or smoke. It's not that I'm afraid of him; I'm just worried about him getting worried about me."
Karras felt the weight easing slowly from the other and onto him. He let it come; let the young priest talk. his knew he would return again and again; find relief from aloneness; make Karras his friend; and when he'd realized he had done so without fear and suspicion, perhaps he would go on to make friends among the others.
The psychiatrist grew weary; found himself drifting into private sorrow. He glanced at a plaque that someone had given him the previous Christmas. MY BROTHER HURTS. I SHARE HIS PAIN. I MEET GOD IN HIM, he read. A failed encounter. He blamed himself.
He had mapped the streets of his brother's torment, yet never had walked them; or so he believed. He thought that the pain which he felt was his own.
At last the visitor looked at his watch. It was time for lunch in the campus refectory. He rose and started to leave. Then paused to glance at a current novel on Karras' desk.
"Have you read it?" asked Karras.
The other shook his head. "No, I haven't. Should I?"
"I don't know. I just finished it and I'm not at all sure that I really understand it," Karras lied.
He picked up the book and handed it over. "Want to take along? You know, I'd really like to hear someone else's opinion."
"Well, sure," said the Jesuit, examining the copy on the flap of the dust jacket. "I'll try to get it back to you in a couple of days."
His mood seemed brighter.
As the screen door creaked with his departure, Karras felt momentary peace. He picked up his breviary and stepped out to the courtyard, where he slowly paced and said his Office.
In the afternoon, he had still another visitor, the elderly pastor of Holy Trinity, who took a chair by the desk and offered condolences on the passing of Karras' mother.
"Said a couple of Masses for her, Damien. And one for you," he wheezed with the barest trace of a brogue.
