“Muslim,” she said, “with a bit of my father’s German Protestantism in the mix. Mostly these days I must confess to being more of a pantheist.”

“You ain’t alone, sister,” Grabowski said. “Still, you want this of your own free will?”

“Yes, Father,” she said. “With only one condition.”

I felt my heart skip a beat.

She told the old man her condition. Grabowski let loose with a belly laugh that bounced off the marble walls of the cavern of the church.

“Darlin’,” Grabowski finally said while pointing an arthritically bent finger at me, “I’ve been pushing that agenda for the past ten years with this guy. Hope you got more pull than me. Does she, August?”

I swallowed hard and said, “Yes.”

After a moment of staring at us, the old man laughed, gave his hands a clap and said, “Well, all right! What are we waiting for? Let’s do this thing, people!”

After blessing the two Pomellato eighteen-karat bands we’d quickly bought and had sized, Father Grabowski performed a brilliantly improvised “commitment” ceremony including scripture from Proverbs 16:3, Philippians 3:13–14 and Corinthians 13:7. He told Tatina stories about me as a boy that had my cheeks flushed and brought her to both laughter and tears. And after Tatina and I exchanged rings, Grabowski said, “I now declare you committed in the eyes of the Lord to each other. No secrets or jealousies, fears or challenges of heart, mind, body and soul shall break this bond. And if you do decide to close the deal with actual marriage later on, tell whoever performs the ceremony I’ve already cut about thirty minutes from whatever they would do, so you get a thirty percent discount.”

Tatina wanted a few minutes alone to pray at the altar, so Father Grabowski and I sat in a pew at the back of the church.

“Well, son,” the old man began, “ya done gone and almost did it. Just remember what Saint Francis said.”

“That being?”

“A man doesn’t know what happiness is until he’s married. By then, it’s too late.”

“Ah,” I said. “The Gospel according to Saint Francis Sinatra.”

After a quiet moment, Father Grabowski said, “Thanks for this, August.”

“For what, old man?”

“This,” he said. “My last service here. The diocese is making some—changes. Old sandal-and-frock-wearing hippie Franciscans like me are out. Bringing in some youngblood who’s never held a chalice in his life. Figure he’ll appeal more to the new monied kids that have moved back to the city.”

“That’s bullshit,” I said.

“This is still a House of God, August, so watch your freakin’ mouth,” the old priest said. “I guess I’ve been ready to go for a while. And I think God’s had a pasture ready for me for the past ten, twelve years.”

“You baptized me,” I heard myself say quietly.