“Because at last he understood that what he had aimed to be was not a man . . . I can never be God; it was a delusion, that life in search of godhead . . .”

Anne tossed the book on the end table and moved toward her purse and the B & Hs. Instead she retrieved a square of gum from a yellow box of Chiclets. These goddamn priests. All fragile, fallen angels.

She couldn’t read, she couldn’t drink, she couldn’t think about him, and so—and who knows how this plan came to her—she went to the laundry closet and pulled out the phone book. She found the number for St. Monica’s.

“A church named for a woman who just sat ’round weeping for her son Augustine, the big Church father,” Anne muttered to the washer and dryer. “Always kowtowing, venerating the venerated, that’s your role, Monica.”

She dialed the main number for the church, figuring the call would bounce to the rectory. She hadn’t checked the clock in the kitchen, but it was past nine and closer to ten. Borderline too late.

“Hello?”

“Yes, is Father Timmerman there?”

“This is he.”

Anne felt like hanging up then and there. She had already jammed the line for someone on their deathbed who needed last rites. No, keep your nerve.

“Listen, Father, I was at Mass this evening, and I have to take issue with your homily.”

“Who is this?”

Arrogant from the get-go, Anne thought. Before embellishing her complaint, Anne craned her neck to check that neither Pat nor Dan was lurking in the kitchen.

“Father, that’s not important. What’s important is that your homily, quite frankly, was offensive.”

“Listen, ma’am, unless you can tell me—”

“No, Father, this isn’t about me, it’s about what you said this evening.”

“It’s rather late.” His tone was trying to wrap up and conclude. “If you want to come to my office and discuss this in person . . .”

Anne nervously stretched the tangles in the phone cord. Here we go . . .

“Father, do you think of all women as prostitutes?”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe because you are celibate you don’t understand us, but the least you can do, Father”—Anne coughed, her throat dry from the cigarette and the rush of excitement—“the least you can do for half your congregation is treat them with respect.”

“I always treat women in my ministry—”

“Then stop telling stories about how we are all sinners,” Anne said, her voice rising. “We’re not all whores put on this earth to wash your feet with our goddamn hair.”

Okay, that was a little aggressive, Anne realized. And there was a pause as Timmerman considered hanging up. He exhaled heavily and switched ears with the receiver.

“That was not the point of the story,” he said in a grim tone.