What about me? Nick wanted to say, but he was quiet. Then, “Why do you call her Rose?”

Father Tim smiled. “Well, she was Rose when I first knew her. She hated ‘Livia’ in those days. Like a Roman wife, she said. You know, Calpurnia. Names like that.” He smiled again, glad to reminisce. “She was just Rose Quinn then. The prettiest girl at Sacred Heart.”

“Maybe you should have married her,” Nick said, curious to see if his father’s joke had been right.

“Well, I married the church,” Father Tim said, but he’d misunderstood Nick and looked at him, troubled. “He’s still your father, Nick. No matter what.”

This was so far from what Nick had been thinking that he didn’t know what to say. Instead, he changed the subject. “Is it a sin to wish somebody would die? To say it, I mean.”

“Yes,” Father Tim said, “a great sin.” Then, misunderstanding again, “You don’t wish that, do you? No matter what he’s done.”

“No,” Nick said. “I don’t.” But he was disconcerted. Tim had opened a different door. What did Tim think his father had done?

They stopped for a red light and Nick looked across at the Smithsonian, surrounded by flowering trees.

“Of course you don’t,” Father Tim said. “Anyway, that’s all past now. You’ll both have a fresh start.”

But not together, Nick thought. He remembered the night his father went away, his mother clinging to Nick. He’d imagined going on like that, just the two of them. Now it seemed she’d be better on her own, putting Nick behind her with everything else. Maybe it was because he looked like his father, a visual reminder of what they were all supposed to forget.

“It’s not easy making a new life,” Father Tim said, as if they’d already disposed of the old. “But she’ll have you to help her now.”

This struck Nick as unfair, coming from the man who’d arranged to send him away, but he said nothing.

“You’ll settle in before you know it,” Father Tim went on. “And it’s just a train ride from New York. You’ll make new friends. It’ll be a fresh start for you too.”

“They’ll know,” Nick said. “At school.”

Father Tim paused, framing an answer. “It’s not Washington, Nick. They’re a little out of the world up there. That’s one of the nice things about the old Priory. They don’t hear much.”

“I don’t care anyway,” Nick said, looking out the window at the Mall. They were climbing the hill now, up toward the Capitol.

“You mustn’t mind what people say, Nick,” Father Tim said gently. “We’re not responsible for what our parents do. There’d be no end to it then. God only asks us to answer for ourselves.”

Nick said nothing, staring up at the Capitol, where everything had started. The flashbulbs and microphones. Maybe the committee was meeting now, banging gavels on the broad table, driving someone else away.

“If you commit suicide, do you go to hell?”

Father Tim glanced at him, visibly disturbed, then nodded. “Yes.”

“Always?”

“Yes, always. You know that, Nick. It’s a sin against God.”

“What if you helped? What if you made someone do it? Then what?”

“You mean that poor woman,” Father Tim said quietly. “We don’t know why she did that, Nick. You mustn’t judge. It may not have anything to do with your father.”

“No, not him. I was thinking about Mr Welles.”

Father Tim looked at him in surprise. “Mr Welles?”

“They said in the papers he was pressuring her. What if—”

“I don’t think that’s true, Nick. And even if it were, we mustn’t judge. He’s only doing what he thinks is right.”

“No. I saw him. He’s—” Nick searched for a word, but it eluded him. “Bad,” he finally said, knowing it was feeble and childish.

But his inadequacy seemed to relieve Father Tim. “Not necessarily,” he said smoothly. “I know it’s hard for you to understand. I don’t condone his methods either. But Communists are godless people, Nick. Sometimes a man does the right thing the wrong way. That doesn’t make him bad.”

Nick looked at him, stunned. Tim thought his father was godless–that’s what he’d done. We mustn’t judge. But Tim had judged and now he was going to save Nick, shipping him off to the priests and a world where people didn’t hear much. Save him from his father.

“Now this won’t do, you know,” Father Tim said, catching his look. “Taking the world on your shoulders like this. They’re still pretty young shoulders, Nick. The right and wrong of things–that’s what we spend our whole lives trying to figure out. When we grow up.” He smiled. “Of course, some people never do, or I’d be out of business, wouldn’t I?”

Nick saw that he was expected to smile back and managed a nod. There was nothing more to say, and now he was frightened again. Even Father Tim was with the others.

“What you’ve got to do now,” Father Tim said with a kind of forced cheer, “is get on with your own life. Never mind about your father and his politics and all the rest of it. That’s all over. You’ve got to look after your mother now. Right?”

Nick nodded again, pretending to agree.

“You have to let go,” Father Tim said quietly, his final point.

“He’s still my father,” Nick said stubbornly.

Father Tim sighed. “Yes, he is, Nick. And you’re right to honor him. Just as I do mine. That’s what we’re asked to do.”

“Your father’s dead.”

“But your father’s gone, Nick,” he said as if Nick hadn’t interrupted. “Maybe forever.” His voice was hesitant, struggling for the right tone. “He wanted it that way, I don’t know why. You can’t hold on to something that isn’t there. No good comes of that. It just makes it harder. He’s gone. I’m not telling you to forget him. But you have to go on. He’s like my father now. It’s an awful thing. And you so young. But it would be better if—” He floundered, slowing the car at the light, then turned to face Nick, his eyes earnest and reassuring. “You have to think of him as dead.”

He reached over and placed his hand on Nick’s, a gesture of comfort. Nick stared down at it, feeling the rest of his body slip away, skidding on ice. Nobody was going to help. Ever. Tim was waiting for him to agree. His father was godless and he was gone, better for everybody. It’s what they all wanted, all the others. If he nodded, Father Tim would pat his hand, the end of the lesson, and leave him alone. You’ve got to stop fighting with him, Uncle Larry had said in the study, and his father had.

“I’ll never do that,” Nick said quietly, sliding his hand out from under, free.

Father Tim glanced at him, disappointed, and took his hand back. He sighed again as he made the turn into 2nd Street. “You will, though, you know,” he said wearily, sure of the future. “Things pass. Even this. Nothing is forever. Except God.”

And suddenly Nick knew what he would do. He would remember everything, every detail. He looked at the street, the pink-and-white blossoms, the bright marble of the Supreme Court Building catching the sun, and tried to fix them in his mind. The curly iron railing in front of Mrs Bryant’s house. Lamp-posts. The forsythia bush. Then he saw the moving van, the big packing boxes scattered all over the sidewalk in front of his house like the mess their lives had become. The prettiest girl at Sacred Heart was standing on the stoop, her vacant eyes animated now, giving directions to the movers. Crates for the china. The end tables sitting on the patch of city yard, spindly legs wrapped in protective brown paper. Two men in undershirts sweating as they heaved a couch into the van. Suitcases by the door, ready. They were really going.

In that instant, as his mother saw the car and waved to them, picking her way through the boxes to the curb with a fixed smile, he thought, finally, that his heart would break. He wondered if it could literally happen, if sadness could fill the chambers like blood until finally they had to burst from it. He wouldn’t cry. He would never let them see that. And now his mother was there, pretending to be happy, and Nora, all blubbery hugs, was handing them a thermos for the ride, and Father Tim was saying they’d better be starting. In a minute they’d be gone.