In a time when suicide bombers are willing to kill for God, and scientists dismiss religion as a grand delusion, what does it mean to have faith? Francesca Kay, in a thoughtful, unbiased way, pushes at this question in her second novel, “The Translation of the Bones.” But what begins as the small mystery of one woman’s vision (or delusion) explodes into a deeper story about how people cope with grief and loss.
The novel opens in a church in London with Mary-Margaret O’Reilly, described as “two sandwiches short of a full picnic,” cleaning a statue of Christ on the cross as Lent is about to begin. She has brought with her a sponge dipped in holy water, and body wash with essence of virgin olive from the Body Shop (“Olives must have been his bread and meat,” she thinks). She stands precariously on a chair when no one is looking, and then, feeling warmth on her hand, holds it up and sees blood.
(Scribner) - ’The Translation of the Bones: A Novel’ by Francesca Kay (Scribner. 227 pp. $24).
The priest and two volunteers find her sprawled unconscious on the floor. She ends up in the hospital with just a broken wrist, but not before babbling about her vision to a young Filipina nurse, who posts the story on Facebook. A mob of hopeful believers shows up for the next church service, though they are disappointed: The statue, like all those in the church, is under a purple shroud for Lent.
Kay creates a careful, compelling portrait of the interconnected community of people affected by Mary-Margaret’s vision: the priest who runs the church; Stella, the beautiful volunteer who misses her youngest son, now away at school; Mrs. Armitage, another church volunteer, awaiting her son’s return from the war in Afghanistan; and Mary-Margaret’s mother, too overwhelmed by the past to pay much attention to her odd daughter. Quietly, Mary-Margaret prepares to make a sacrifice to take away her mother’s mortal sin. The novel builds to a climax on Easter weekend when Stella’s youngest is to come home, Mrs. Armitage’s son is due back and the statue is unveiled.
The tragedy wreaked by Mary-Margaret’s interpretation of her vision might be read as vindication of the claim that religion is dangerous hogwash. Kay’s exploration of faith, however, is not so simple. The resolute pronouncements of the secularists in this novel — the member of Parliament, the journalist, the psychiatrist — sound hollow, incomplete. Kay’s story doesn’t seem to discount completely what Mary-Margaret has seen. It makes me wonder if Kay is herself a believer, but that’s irrelevant: She’s simply not content with easily dismissing the inexplicable.
Burns is editor of “Off the Page: Writers Talk About Beginnings, Endings, and Everything in Between.”
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