by Declan Finn
“You’re a Jesuit product?” Father Frank Yamamoto asked, naming a local college.
James shook his head. “Nope. State college, Catholic Masters, Private School PhD. The last two degrees were in philosophy, but the first was in biology. If it still counts, I did have the Jebbies in high school before they more or less got out of the high school business.”
“Aaah,” said Yamamoto as the light dawned. “Four years of Latin, three years of Greek, two years of German, and maybe one year of Physics.”
James shrugged. “Throw in four years each of English, social studies, Math, and Religion and you’ve just named the whole curriculum.”
“I’m surprised the Jesuits didn’t try to recruit you.”
James looked around the four walls of the common room and laughed. “Maybe they did, but it took ten years to take! After all, how many people get a trial run at the priesthood?”
“Today, almost everybody,” replied the little man sadly. “There is a trial run at the time of the diaconate. And I see enough of their cases in the tribunal…”
James cocked his head. “I thought the tribunal mostly handled marriage annulments.”
Yamamoto gave a mirthless laugh. “It does.”
James cringed at the ramifications of that fact. “…Oh.”
“There is one consolation,” Yamamoto elaborated. “Ex-priests have the exact same disastrous marriage rate as the rest of the population, not worse. I interpret this to mean that they are no more emotionally disturbed than the rest of the general population.”
James nodded slowly again, taking it in. He frowned, looked Yamamoto up and down, and said, “If I may ask, just how did you wind up in our tribunal instead of one in Japan?”
“Pat Clancy taught me Canon law at the Angelicum in Rome, which must be some kind of tribute for a non-Dominican. When he came back to New York, he brought me with him.”
“It must be interesting work.”
Yamamoto shrugged, and reverted to a breezier style. “I’m just an ecclesiastical garbage man. We only get called in after everything has hit the fan. When a marriage breaks down irrevocably, only then do they come to us and we try to pick up the pieces. Every now and then, we can assemble a new configuration that’s stronger than the old one.” He looked at his watch. “Ah, well, it’s about that time, isn’t it?”
James took him into the sacristy and set up while the priest dressed. The portable altar was in the middle of the sacristy, between the rectory door and the vesting table, with the door to the main part of the church on the far side.
“Are you staying for Mass?” he asked James as they finished preparing the altar.
“Got time to hear a quick confession?”
Some sexual sins, temper tantrums, and general egomaniacal flaws thus disposed by absolution and a firm purpose of amendment, James was praying his penance when the doorbell rang. It took fifteen minutes to find a day, date, and time of Mass to satisfy Mrs. Consalves.
As he put the Mass book back in the safe, he saw a white envelope marked “celebrant.” He found a five-dollar check and a five-dollar bill inside; he put it in his pocket to give Yamamoto after Mass. He got back in time for Communion.
James could not tell how much of his personal communion was self-induced intensity and how much came from the God in the bread. He knew God was there: his faith was sound, it was his belief system which was more than a little shaky. In any event, losing oneself in mystical union is hard enough (James thanked God that Sadowski couldn’t afford music at daily Mass), but ringing doorbells still made a great distraction.
Father Yamamoto was bestowing the final blessing on the congregation (eight people), after which James completed his holy water call, ejected said water-bug, locked the Church, and escorted the rent-a-priest to the door after giving him the envelope.
The door closed behind Yamamoto when Luraleen’s bellow hit.
“DINNAH.”
Downstairs, there was baked macaroni and fried slab of ham. This meal for three was on a table with only one place setting, so Sadowski must have told her he wasn’t coming.
The coward, James thought as he took his first bite…
There was sugar in the baked macaroni.
James considered packing his own cold cuts, remembering the small fridge in Tim’s bedroom…
“Everythin’ OK, Doc?”
James coughed. “Fine, ma’am, fine.”
If “OK” equals “not-poisonous,” then I’ve told the truth, reasoned James. This is good manners, reflects my status as a guest, and avoids those attempts at candor which would make life hard between Gus and Luraleen after I go.
And if all this is true, why am I so annoyed with myself for not even trying to lock up her sugar bowl?
James argued with himself, losing the argument, all the way back up to the common room where he turned on the TV to channel 5’s 7:30 PM rerun of The Muppet Show and made himself comfortable in the pastor’s armchair.
Only then did he appreciate why the TV was next to the door and the chair placed as it was. Here it commanded a view of the front door, the parlor entrances, and the long corridor. With the room open, he could even hear Luraleen slamming the basement door on her way home and expected he could hear even the squeak of the sacristy door if it opened.
Of course, if it opened, he thought his first reaction would be to wonder how they got past the bolt he had thrown after locking everything up.
In answer to his thoughts, James jumped to hear heavy footsteps on the basement stairs.
Grabbing the heavy two-foot metal ruler from the desk, he went to the office door and shouted “Who is it?”
“Just me, doctor.” Gus Sadowski’s voice was quickly followed by his frame. He glanced at the heavy metal ruler. “Now you know why I keep it on the chair.”
Gus settled into the still-warm chair and looked at the opened door. “And I’ll bet you’ve discerned why I watch television with the door open?”
“I think so.”
“James, I’m sorry I ducked out on you.”
James shrugged, “You needed the time alone. I understand.”
“I don’t think so,” snapped Gus and then was immediately contrite. “Forgive me, doctor, I am sorry but Tim’s horror room has twisted my colon into a knot. I expected better from a fellow priest.”
James opened his mouth but Gus cut him off, saying, “Do NOT quote St. Augustine and the Donatists at me. I know the theology at least as well as you. At the sem, he was the favorite quote of the Protestant Revolution professor.”
Saint Augustine of Hippo, Gus’s namesake, living through the fall of Ancient Rome, had argued that God’s blessings could only be inhibited by the personal refusal of each Christian to receive them. Thus the unworthiness of the minister and his own defects (”the work of the worker” or, ex opere operantis) could not stop God from making the sacraments work (ex opere operato). Fourth Century Donatists, and later Wycliffe, Hus, and Luther, were understood as opposing unworthy clergy, and, indeed, wanting to defrock them. If successful, there would be no clergy, for who the hell is so good that their flaws wouldn’t get in the way?
“The fact remains that I expected more from him!” Gus intoned, projecting a hellfire-and-damnation sermon for the back of a church, not the room. “Of course he’s self-centered, but how many ‘other-centered’ neurotics are merely running away from a self that they don’t like? If this were the 1950s, we could at least send him to dry out…”
Gus paused and all James could think of was Edwin O’Connor’s novel about alcoholic priests, What was that titled? Oh yes, The Edge of Sadness.
“I’ve served with alcoholics,” Gus continued, “walking nervous breakdowns, active homosexuals, and all the normal liars, cheats, thieves, and politicians during in thirty years’ worth of normal parish life in a large urban diocese.”
James shook his head. “Why don’t you transfer out? There are some great parishes in the Heights. Hell, there are some that are positi
vely rural. You deserve better than this.”
Gus shrugged. “I grew up in a parish like this, St Elmo’s. Not the violence, but we were all poor. The advantage we had was in not knowing anything else.”
“So why not some nice middle-class parish?” pressed James. “Where your educational achievements would be appreciated? Dammit, man. This is not the 1870s. They wouldn’t try to lynch you.”
”Don’t count on that, mister,” barked Gus, then stopped and composed himself. He took a long, steady breath. “Tim, and your comment, put me in mind of a young pair of professionals when I came here thirty years ago. They were my staunch defenders. When the Hispanics came in the sixties, they backed me in starting a Spanish Mass. But when I became pastor…? They went over to Lepanto. A black curate fitted in fine with their liberal presentations, but, oh! No! Don’t let the nigger get in charge!” He rolled his eyes, and threw his hands up, as though asking God what was wrong with these people. “White liberals! Ha! Give me a Southern bigot every time. At least I can count on him to act predictably.”
“And Tim?” James softly prompted.
Father Sadowski’s brain jumped another track. “Were there any photos in Tim’s stuff?”
“Yes.” But I told you that, James thought.
“Come on.” Gus Sadowski bolted. “I just hope they aren’t…”
James joined the chase as they shot down the hallway. “Aren’t what?”
“Aren’t parishioners.”
Now he thinks of it.
The ‘guest room’ was just as James had left it. He pulled out the box from under his bed and made to hand Gus a fistful of black and whites.
Gus refused them. “I’m going to have nightmares over this anyway, I don’t need more stimuli. Just let me see faces.”
James sighed, unable at 28 to appreciate the mind of someone over thirty years his elder. Prudishness? Nerves? Or just too many years of your parish not telling you things unless in confession where it was antiseptic and sanctified by absolution? Nevertheless, he did as he was told, covering the cheap mail-order photos so that only the faces showed. After a small assortment, Father Sadowski’s face was visibly losing its tautness. He let himself relax heavily into an armchair facing the fireplace.
Settling into the other armchair, James said, “I could’ve told you that. These are ancient photos with serial numbers on the back. Cheap commercial porn.”
“Maybe he confiscated it from the teens in the youth program,” Gus speculated, half in question, hoping for encouragement.
James snorted contemptuously. “With all due respect, Monsignor, you are grasping at straws.”
“Yes, you’re right. I just don’t want to admit it,” The coal on the omnipresent cigar roared, filling the room with smoke. James lit up his pipe, using it as a counter-irritant to the cheap cigar. As the new clouds of smokes clashed against each other, James watched the silence agitate the priest. It was time to change the subject. “Your parishioners are one hell of a fertile lot.”
Gus jumped, an edgy tone indicating his fear that they were still on the same topic, “What do you mean?”
James smiled at the reaction. “For example, I was looking up Mendoza in that quick reference card-file you use for certificates and found that Maria Mendoza gave this parish 14 little candidates for baptism. Somebody should nominate her for the supermom award.”
Gus chuckled. “That is truer than you know, James. Especially since number fourteen isn’t hers.”
James cocked his head. “She adopted?”
“In a manner of speaking. It’s her grandchild.”
James blinked. “Oh… How does it read in her record?”
“Whatever way people tell me.”
“That’s terribly blase. I thought the Church would at least be honest in its own record keeping.”
Gus’ nostrils flared. “Which church, doctor? The ‘people of God,’ our laity who cheat on their taxes? The corner druggist three blocks over who caused my predecessor to have a visit from the IRS? The auditors couldn’t figure out why he gave us a check for roughly $200 every week.”
Oh God, not another story. “I’ll bite: why was he?”
“He was buying the coins from our collection to avoid bank charges for rolled coins. Then he has the nerve to try to deduct the checks as a contribution to the church. Even the IRS isn’t stupid enough to believe contributions to a Catholic church from a man named Bijan Farabool, owner of the Pan-Islamic Pharmacy.”
“Cute. But you know I meant that I naively expected some minimal measure of clerical honesty.”
“Maybe like my dear brother in Christ, Jackass Jennings? He let the parishioners drop school tuition in the collection to beat the IRS. He’s a prime case of shooting yourself in the foot. All he succeeded in doing was inflating his collection and increasing the amount his parish was assessed towards the running of the central offices.”
“At least that didn’t harm his parish.”
“Oh! Then Pat McCuster’s trick of hiding parish assets in a parish savings account is OK? All he’s doing is saving the parish money from the latest ‘Loser Lousini’ plan for the diocese to waste money on.”
“A stupid irrational law is not binding,” quoth James, stealing from Aquinas.
“Well, then, not recording a marriage between senior citizens who lack a State marriage license is OK, then, because it’s dumb for Social Security to halve the benefits of the married?”
“OK! OK! You win. Issue all the misrepresented baptismal certificates you like! It just seems risky as all hell for the Church to be an accessory after the fact to faking a child’s ancestry.”
Sadowski became less belligerent, more thoughtful. “There isn’t anything worthwhile without risk. Who’d’ve thought we’d see a push to open adoption records so that the biological generations could find each other? Secrecy can risk fatal ignorance of hereditary diseases while openness risks psychic trauma. Quien sabe?” Who knows?
“All I know,” said James, stifling a long yawn, “is that you should walk Buttercup and I should go to sleep. I’ve got to be up at six and out by seven if I’m gonna make my 8:15 class.”
“Call me on your way out. I can’t always count on Luraleen to wake me.”
“OK. Good night.”
* * *
Tim Lessner and Mike Barry were deep in conversation in the rectory of Our Lady of Lepanto when the phone rang.
“It’s for you.”
Mike stood aside and watched his classmate’s pasty complexion go deathly.
“Thanks, Luraleen,” Tim whimpered as he hung up the phone.
“What’s the matter?”
“Just my bookie,” said Tim in a weak attempt at humor.
“What is the matter?” repeated Mike in a serious intonation bordering on command.
“Sadowski.”
Mike rolled his eyes. He said calmly, casually, with a bored, ‘so-what-else-is-new’ tone, “So what’s the house nigger done now?”
“Luraleen says he painted my rooms.”
“How did he get in?”
“She doesn’t know. She was only allowed up there when the sacristan moved up with the paint. She says that my bed is in my living room and that all my gear is locked in the bedroom. They moved my bed into the living room and then left the doors and windows open to vent the paint fumes.”
Mike tried to stiffen his face and not react to his friend’s discomfort. “Other than what must have been a break-in, was there something else? Sadowski has tried to annoy us before but this seems to have especially bothered you.”
Tim’s face had developed a full blush and he was stammering badly. “I bought some se-se-sexual en-en-enchancement aids a few months ago…” he stopped.
Still seeing nothing wrong yet, Mike pouted his lips, then frowned, confused. Seriously, what was the problem? Everyone was doing it. It was a healthy exploration of sexuality which would, of course, soon be ratified by Paul VI. “What did you get? An inflatable woman?”<
br />
“No.”
Mike went down a mental list, trying to figure out what was so bad. “A cock-ring?”
“No.”
Mike growled, exasperated. “Well? What, then?”
“Some books and pictures.”
Mike visibly relaxed, and even chuckled. “Is that all you’re worried about? First Amendment stuff? For God’s sake, haven’t you bothered to look at the Catholic Theological Society report, Human Sexuality? There’s nothing to be ashamed of here. All you’re doing is getting back in touch with your sexuality. Jerking off is just a normal phase on the road to a mature sexuality. Christ! You haven’t been much in touch with the sem lately, have you?”
Tim looked puzzled. “No, why?”
“They damn near closed the sem—the Board of Health, that is. Seems some guy came home from vacation with the gift that keeps on giving and shared some sexually-transmitted disease with his classmates. The Rector and the Communicable Disease Center in Atlanta cut a deal to hush it all up. With all that shit going down, you think Louie is going to bust you for some feelthy pictures?” he said, putting on a heavy Hispanic accent.
“I’m afraid of Sadowski.”
“Chill out. Have you forgotten that Uncle Gus believes in the unity and dignity of the priesthood? He’d no more go public with something like this than he’d join us in a Peace and Jobs march on Washington! And if he goes through channels, we can count on Marty and Louie to ‘Yes, Father’ him to death.” Mike laughed, and waved it off. “Stay here tonight and Wednesday night, until it blows over. You can start packing for Washington. No reason you shouldn’t bill Sadowski for your thirty days of unused vacation before you leave for DC.”