St. Joseph’s hadn’t benefited from the renovation that, thanks to an influx of Yuppies during the eighties, had taken place in other parts of SoHo. Although small, the church’s architecture resembled a cathedral, but its sandstone exterior was black with soot, its stained-glass windows grimy, its interior badly in need of painting.
Pittman stood at the rear of the church, smelled incense, listened to an organ that sounded as if it needed repair, and surveyed the impressive amount of worshipers who, unmindful of the bleak surroundings, had come for Sunday Mass. The front of the church wasn’t bleak, though. A golden chalice gleamed on the altar. Candles glowed. A tall, intense priest wearing a crimson vestment read from the Gospel, then delivered a sermon about trusting in God and not giving in to despair.
Right, Pittman thought bleakly. He sat in a pew in back and watched the continuation of the first Mass he’d attended in many years. He had never gone to church on a regular basis, but after Jeremy had died, his indifference had turned to rejection. As a consequence, he couldn’t account for his impulse when the time came for communion and he followed parishioners toward the altar. He told himself that he wanted to get a closer look at the priest, for an assistant at the church’s rectory had told Pittman that Father Dandridge would be conducting this particular Mass.
Coming near to him, Pittman saw that the priest was in his middle fifties and that his strong features had deep lines of strain. He had a jagged scar across his chin, and his left hand was welted from what looked like the consequence of a long-ago fire.
When Pittman received communion, the emptiness inside him felt immense.
The priest ended the Mass. “Go in peace.”
Not just yet, Pittman thought.
As the parishioners left, he made his way toward the front of the church, went through a door on the right, and found himself in the sacristy, the room next to the altar where objects needed for Mass were customarily stored.