So Marya rarely spoke of the visits to Father Shearing. She would not have wanted to be quizzed about his health, his condition—whether he was “making progress” after his operation or not. It was hateful enough if, in the corridor outside his room, or in the elevator, she found herself trapped in a conversation with one or another of Father’s parishioners: had he lost more weight?—was that new medication affecting his eyesight?—would there be a second operation, did anyone know?—but wasn’t the man a model for all to look up to: wasn’t he a saint?

Marya repeated certain exchanges to Father Shearing, offering up little nuggets, gems, for his amusement. “They’re saying now that you are a saint,” she told him daringly, and he laughed harshly, and began to cough, and said, “Will I be offered any choice?”

It was always a mild shock to see him in bed; in white; graying frizzy curls at the V of his hospital gown, forearms bare, flesh pale and bruised and needle-pricked, the elegant white collar gone; a certain haggard look about his face. He was only in his late thirties and too young for any of this: too vigorous, too well-liked, too good-humored. Wasn’t a sense of humor a protection against such bad luck . . . ? And what if it began to shade into bitterness, resentment . . . ?

One rain-darkened afternoon when Marya was his only visitor, he said suddenly, “What we’re going to have to do, Marya, is arrange some sort of abduction. ‘Roman Catholic Priest Spirited Away from Hospital.’ A secret plot. A conspiracy. And someone else can take my place in this damned bed.” The remark was meant to be jocular, half teasing, but something was wrong: the tone was flat, the words slurred. It must have been the effect of the drugs they were giving him, Marya thought. It wasn’t him. But she laughed just the same.

THIS WAS THE long arduous winter when Marya, who knew herself generally disliked below (she was rude, she was haughty and impatient, why couldn’t she help herself?), reasoned that she might have a chance with God. With Jesus Christ. With Mary most of all: Mary was a comfort, a human woman elevated to sainthood but still human, and not (so Marya supposed) inordinately bright. She loved the virtuous and the sinful alike, it was not her business to measure, to judge, to monitor thoughts and actions on earth. . . . Such intellectual vigilance belonged to men; to the male God and His Only Begotten Son.

Though Marya usually managed to impress and to please men—men of a certain type; and not often women.