PRIEST

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My parents were the first to arrange a personal welcome for Father Carrick. He would be the guest of honor at a backyard barbecue, the charcoal grill — the center of summer’s universe. He arrived driving a secondhand MG TD, dazzling red, canvas top down, radio tuned to WINS, my favorite. It was apparent he didn’t believe the priesthood excluded enjoying himself, however unusual his interests appeared to the staid and wanly conventional. As he lost synchronicity of clutch and accelerator, the MG jerked, gasped, and sent up a cloud of oily exhaust. From my window, I watched. Without opening the door, he jumped out, as agile as an athlete. Our house was an aging Cape Cod built in the early 1900s, the front dormers reaching into the tops of oaks and elms whose branches brushed the wood shingles and dropped chips of paint onto the roof. The copper gutters were spent and sagging, but the house still carried a sense of middle-class dignity. In the back, beds of azaleas brought color into the yard. Apples and oaks shaded a manicured garden (my mother’s pride), the enormous trees protecting ...

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