“We make sacrifices every day, Father…every day and every night, so our children may live. We humble, humiliate and, yes, sometimes we whore ourselves for their sake. I know it’s difficult for you to understand, and we take no pleasure in what we have to do. Some even die giving life so the community may survive, but we don’t pretend to be saints or virgins. We don’t expect special treatment. Did you ever wonder just what your mother may have done for you?”
Xavier gives her a look, but Lavinia isn’t stopping.
“You find one son—one single, solitary man who has a care for the poor and preaches right—he dies on the cross; he lays himself down, and you men turn him into a religion. You build churches all over the world and decorate them with golden angels. You hang great steel bells from the towers and ring them so loud the people can never forget to come and sing his praises to the heavens. You deny yourselves in his name. You force others to—”
“I get the point, Lavinia,” Father Xavier cuts in. “Really, I do.”
Lavinia draws breath and sits back in her chair.
“You know…during one sanguinary street battle in the Civil War, back in the mother country, there was a lull in the fighting…one blessed hour’s respite from the carnage. And I had wounded men, often from shrapnel, crawling up to me, clinging to my cassock hem or wrapped around my knees if they were able, some with their entrails spewing out, dragging in the dust, and they were pleading for absolution…and then for the mercy of a bullet…”
Lavinia is quiet.
“I suppose what I’m saying…is I need to believe…when it comes down to it…that what I offered them at the end, in their final minutes of terror and agony, made a difference, was of some comfort, however…paltry.”
“I’m sorry. You’re a good man, Father, but I’m very tired. And so very tired of not being left alone.”
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