Delfina was crying. I was crying. Behind us, the sun rose merrily in the eastern sky, oblivious to our anguished hearts. As I embraced her, tasting the bitter sweetness of her tears, I felt her fingertips desperately clutching mine—first to her brow, then her bosom, her left shoulder then her right. She shuddered, and a fresh torrent of sobs broke over her like a wave in the ocean she was forming on my shoulder.
"Frank? Will you lead us in prayer?" My mother's sparkling, cornflower-blue eyes fixed on my face. I could practically feel the joy radiating off her in waves as we sat around the antique oak dining table for a lavish lunch. My brothers and sisters and my father completed the loving circle of my family.
"Sure," I nodded agreeably, eyeing the delicious prime rib Mother had fussed over since early that morning. "Are we ready?" I made the Sign of the Cross, extended a hand to Patrick on my left and Maggie on my right, and began a prayer I had engraved on my consciousness since I was an infant. "Bless us, O Lord, for these thy gifts, which we are about to receive..."
Outside, the warm spring afternoon sprinkled delicate raindrops down upon our city as if bestowing its own blessing upon my life. And my life was so filled with blessings that I didn't know if it could accommodate any more without deliriously collapsing beneath all their dizzying weight .
It seemed that I had been born, twenty-six years ago, for the path unfolding before me. When delicate, fair, ginger-haired Colleen O'Reardon had nuzzled me to her bosom, she had prayed for her dear wee Francis to devote himself to God, as God had shown her tender mercy, and not taken me away from her despite a very dangerous and difficult labor and delivery.
Ours was a very devout household—our parents wouldn't have it any other way. Neither would our grandparents, who weren't above hopping the earliest flight out of Dublin to fly in and pile on more grief and guilt if we weren't good Catholics, or good children, or both.
They had done this trick when little Margaret got herself into some almost irreparable trouble with Toni Mancino a few years back. My father caught them in "terrible and disgusting acts" with each other. My mother fell to her knees and prayed as Tony hastily drew his pants back up and, followed by my roaring father, retreated to the back door. My brother Peter appeared with the cordless, and hand it to my mother. Her fingers flew over the buttons. Her heavily accented American English was being overtaken by her Gaelic as she frantically sobbed to her own mother over the thousands of miles.
Thank God, Mary and all the Blessed Saints that Maggie hadn't gone all the way with Tony—I think they truly would have packed her off to some rustic Irish convent and never let her see the light of day again. As it was, she was subjected to a constant stream of rage and sobbing from Mother, an endless run of her silver rosary from Father Flannery, and a lot of hushed and intense conversations behind closed doors with our stern, quiet Gram. Most of these resulted in Maggie sobbing hysterically and running to Mother's arms, begging for forgiveness. For forgiveness, and for the Blessed Virgin to help her find the strength to renew her slightly tarnished purity.
Out of all six children, I had been the only one who really found comfort in our faith. Perhaps it was due to my traumatic entrance into this world, but I can recall the peace and wonder I felt sitting upon my Dad's knee during Mass, watching the priest as he swung the censer and intoned the sacred chants that priests have uttered for centuries. It was the depth of devotion and adherence to ceremony that our congregation embraced so happily which made such sacrifices as Lent and even chastity bearable. I understood and embraced the reasons behind them.
Whatever the cause, I had never been as tempted as my siblings to stray. Margaret had always enjoyed pushing the envelope. She began at a very early age—she found a tube of candy-pink lipstick that belonged to her best friend's older sister. Not only did she steal it, but she also applied it in secret when she thought no one would catch her. Unfortunately for her, Mother did. And then there were all the low-cut shirts and short skirts that she managed to smuggle into the house and keep hidden away. She would hurry out in long, concealing coats to try and get one off on the parents.
Joe, my older brother, always gave his fair share of trouble as well, though it looked as if it wouldn't always be legal trouble. And that, eventually, I'd be paying him visits in prison
Motivated by love for family and God, I decided fairly early in life that I wanted to know more about the church. I wanted to experience the mysticism of being closer to God in the way that only the clergy can be. To feel the strength of my faith as it pulled me through difficult moments and temptations. To shepherd new souls into our faith. To help those souls about to leave us to be prepared to greet Our Father, and to ascend to Heaven with prayer and gentle guidance. I wanted to be a servant of God.
So it was that I passed through the usually turbulent years of my teens with the gift of serenity. Of course, I had my moments of doubt. I even dabbled in the odd joint or drunken evening with friends on occasion. But the biggest temptation I ever had to face came from a freckle-faced little girl who blossomed into a creature who floated through our neighborhood like Venus arising from the sea. The change within the beautiful young girl seemed to occur overnight. And, wherever she walked, the sun shone a bit brighter and the air had a sweeter freshness about it.
Delfinan Adriana DiFranco—never Didi or Delfie, but always Delfina—had grown up two blocks from our crowded colonial house, and she bloomed almost unnoticed right under my nose. Her father owned a very successful shoe shop and her mother was able to stay home caring for her children during a time when the married housewife was fast becoming an endangered species.
Somehow—while I was helping keep my little brothers and sister from playing in the street, helping Mother feed my cherubic baby brother Patrick, or toiling over homework—lanky little Delfina had transformed from the gum-chewing, rope-skipping little tomboy into a sixteen-year-old angel in ivory sandals and curve-hugging Capri pants.
Just a glimpse of Delfina passing by our house in the summertime—her little sister Lucia trailing behind in a concerted effort to keep up —would be enough to make me give pause if I was out cutting the grass or playing ball with Peter and Joseph. But woe to my poor denied libido if she happened to be holding an ice-cream cone or wearing a pair of shorts over her bikini so she could take a break from tanning to run to the store for her mother.
Moments like these would clearly define the O'Reardon boys. Joseph would whistle and make lewd gestures with a lusty grin, Peter would blush furiously and tentatively raise a hand in greeting, and I would only look hurriedly away and think about baptisms and weddings.
While Joseph's future was murky at best, my path was abundantly clear. I was going to become a priest, much to my mother's tearful embraces and most likely answered prayers .
During my senior year, I spent a lot of time helping out wherever I could at St. Monica's. I talked with the aging Father Flannery about the responsibilities of my future career, and about baseball. We played chess sometimes, since this seemed to ease the weight of the difficult topics we discussed.
"You're a good-looking boy, Francis," he would comment offhandedly. "You would make a fine husband and father. Are you sure this is the path you want to pursue?"
