My first impression was of darkness. Dark pews, dark carpeting, the overhead lights dimmed to obscurity, the flicker of votive candles at various altars serving only to emphasize the absence of light. It was a big, high-ceilinged room, the walls bearing large, stained-glass windows that depicted episodes from the ministry of Jesus in scarlet, azure, emerald and gold. Beneath the windows, oil paintings illustrated the fourteen stations of the cross. There were maybe fifty people in the pews, clumped together or solitary, some sitting, some kneeling. Exposed on the altar was an ornate gold vessel designed like a sunburst. I slipped into a pew at the back of the church and picked up a prayer card:

Blessed are you, Lord of All, giving new life and health to those who call upon you.

Usher in your kingdom and manifest your power to heal those with AIDS.

Blessed are You, Lord of Wisdom, who pushes back the borders of darkness and disease.

Enlighten those who search for a cure for AIDS

And strengthen those who care for our suffering brothers and sisters.

Blessed are you, Lord of Love and Peace.

Be with the families and loved ones of those who live with this disease.

Touch us all with your love and make us instruments of your healing…

“Henry, is that you?”

“Hello, Peg.”

I scooted over to make room for Peg Donohue. She carefully removed her coat, scarf, and gloves, beamed at me, and said, “You’re a Catholic boy.”

“Lapsed. What is this service?”

“The forty hours. It’s a very old devotion. Father Toby says it goes back to the Middle Ages when people prayed for forty hours in front of the Blessed Sacrament to stop the black plague. And, well, we have another plague today, so we started it up again here.”

“You mean these people,” I said, indicating the other parishioners, “are going to pray nonstop for forty hours?”

“Not the same people,” she laughed. “We’re all too old or tired, but the church stays open for forty hours and someone will come, even if it’s in the middle of the night, to pray for a cure for AIDS and for the people who are suffering from it. Did you find Nick?”

“Yes. His family’s taking care of him.”

She nodded. “They’re good people, those Trejos.”

“I wanted to talk to Bill’s ex-boyfriend, Michael. Do you know where I can find him?”

She nodded, “I have his address.”

At that moment the man I had seen earlier, the one who advertised his sexual specialty with the blue hankie in his left pocket, made his way to the pulpit, unfolded a sheet of paper, set it down and began intoning names.

“What’s he doing?” I asked Peg.