The Thanatos Syndrome

Lord with me, especially the Holy Spirit.
    â€œNo thanks,” I say, after one visit.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œI’m afraid Marva will hug me.” Marva, her mother, has converted too.
    â€œI’m serious. Why not?”
    â€œI don’t want to.”
    â€œWhy don’t you want to?”
    â€œI can’t really say.”
    â€œI know why.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œYou’re still a Roman.” There’s nothing new in this. While she was an Episcopalian, she began calling Catholics “Romans.”
    â€œI don’t think so.”
    â€œAt heart you are.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œThat that priest still has his hooks in you.”
    â€œFather Smith? Rinaldo? He doesn’t have his hooks in me.”
    â€œHe got you to do Mass with him.”
    Do Mass? “That was back in June. It was my namesake’s feast day. I could hardly refuse.”
    â€œNamesake’s feast day. What does that mean?”
    â€œThe feast of Sir Thomas More. June twenty-second.”
    â€œAnd he got you again last month.”
    â€œHe didn’t get me. It was the fiftieth anniversary of his ordination. I was the only one he asked. You wouldn’t want me not to go.”
    â€œDo you know what he does now?”
    â€œWho, Rinaldo? What?”
    â€œWhen he calls you and I answer the phone, he won’t tell me what he really wants. He’ll make up another excuse like being sick and needing a doctor.”
    â€œHe’s a sly one.”
    â€œAnd how about you taking the children to Mass last week?”
    â€œIt was Christmas.”
    â€œWe don’t think much of Christmas. The word means Christ’s Mass.”
    â€œWell, after all Meg and Tom are Catholics.”
    â€œI don’t care what you call them as long as you admit that neither you or Tom or Meg will be saved until you are born again of the Holy Spirit and into the Lord.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œOkay what?”
    â€œI thought I was born again when I was baptized.”
    â€œHow can a little baby be born again right after it has been born?”
    â€œThat’s a good question, Nicodemus.”
    â€œWhat did you call me?”
    â€œNothing bad. Come over here by me.”
    But she keeps standing, hands on her hips.
    â€œWhy don’t you go to the fellowship meeting with me tonight? The children are going.”
    â€œI think I’ll stay home. But right now—”
    â€œI know exactly what you’re going to do.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHave five big drinks and watch another stupid rerun of Barnaby Jones.”
    â€œThat’s so. But for now, why not come over here by me? You’re a very good-looking piece.”
    She sighs, but takes her hands off her hips, holds them palms up, looks up to heaven: what to do? Actually she’s quite content to have it so, as am I.
    â€œCome by me.”
    â€œAll right.” She sighs again, comes by me—a wife’s duty— then smiles.
    We get along well. It is my practice which is shot.

11. HUDEEN KEEPS WELL , still reigns, seated on her high stool, in her tiny kingdom bounded by sink, stove, fridge, counter, and stereo-V.
    She still keeps an eye on the soaps, mumbles amiably in a semblance of conversation, making sounds of assent and demurrer. But once she made herself clear.
    It was Thanksgiving. Ellen had quit her bridge tour and was home for good. The children had quit Belle Ame Academy. Chandra had landed her new job as weatherperson, and even as we watched, there she was! On TV! Slapping the black Caribbean with her stick, she as black as the Caribbean.
    â€œBless God!” cried Hudeen, who can’t believe it, a person, someone she knows, Chandra herself, up there on the magic screen. “Bless Jesus!”
    â€œIt’s a good Thanksgiving, Hudeen,” I said.
    â€œAnd you better thank the good Lord!” cried Hudeen, clear as a bell.
    â€œWe will,” said Ellen, who says a blessing indistinctly, speaking in tongues, I think.
    Hudeen is not speaking in tongues. “I say bless God!” said Hudeen, looking straight at me. “Bless his holy name!”
    â€œAll right.”
    â€œYou be all right too, Doctor,” said Hudeen straight to me.
    â€œI will?”
    â€œSho now.”
    â€œHow do you know, Hudeen?”
    â€œThe good Lord will take care of you.”
    â€œGood.”

12. THE LITTLE CEREMONY which was supposed