Wrestling With God

by Hanley, Don;

  "Oh, I remember him, alright. The day I saw him was one of the worst days of my life."

  I leaned forward to let Maria know I was very interested in whatever she wanted to tell me.

  "I was sixteen years old and I was doing some typing for Father Carson. I needed to make some money as it was in short supply in my family. My dad had died three months earlier—around Christmas time—and left only a pile of medical bills. My two older brothers, one still in high school and one in college, both worked and so I felt I should join them. Father Carson said he needed someone to type up some articles he was writing, so I was working part time for him. It was spring break at my high school and I was working in the rectory office the day Richy showed up. I heard the doorbell and Father Carson answered the door. I looked out the window and saw this ragged, skinny, and nervous boy who looked to be eleven or twelve. At first I couldn't hear what he and Father were saying and then I heard Father yell that he never wanted to see him ever again. He sounded threatening. The boy was bawling and Father slammed the door in his face."

  Suzie started crying and Maria said, "Just hold on a moment." She sat back and pulled up her sweater. She had on a nursing bra and the baby quickly latched on to her breast. This was done in a natural and relaxing way and I hoped that I looked as natural when I was nursing April.

  "I didn't know Father Carson real well, but I had never seen or heard him using such cruel language and looking so mean. I felt so sorry for the boy. I went out the back door of the rectory and around the church to find him. He was scrunched up against the church wall, out of sight of the rectory. I knelt down beside him and asked him what happened. It was noon, so I was sure that Father would just think I had gone for lunch. Richy Quinn told me his name and then began telling me his story and about his past relationship with Father Carson. I cried with Richy. I think it was the first time in my life I really wanted to kill somebody." Maria allowed tears to flow her cheeks as she relived the story.

  "That bastard! I didn't have any money but I asked Richy if he would join me for lunch. A friend of my mom owned a diner in the town square. I wasn't hungry, but Richy looked like he was starving to death. He ate two big hamburgers with fries as he told me about having once been 'in love' with Father Joe. I then knew that man wouldn't know love if it hit him in the face. I borrowed some money from the diner owner and put Richy on a bus."

  Suzie had stopped nursing and was asleep. Maria quietly got up and whispered, "Let me put her down and I'll get us some lunch." I followed Maria into the kitchen and told her she needn't fix lunch for me. She responded, "I'm starving and I hate to eat alone, so if you want the rest of this story, you're going to have to eat with me. And believe me, there's more."

  She quickly and effortlessly put together two sandwiches and a delicious salad, while I sat at the table. Maria talked while she worked, "First, I naively thought I could talk to Carson to make sure Richy was not making this all up. I had a hard time believing a priest could be so immoral. I went into his office and told him I had a 'little talk' with Richy. The damn priest immediately started demonizing the boy as demented, insane, mean, and just about every bad thing he could think of."

  She put the food on the table and went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk. "I'm drinking milk; what would you like, Rebecca?"

  I could see into the frig and saw only milk and water, so I said, "Milk is fine for me, too." I was really getting to like this strong and unpretentious woman. I was also hoping she would be willing to testify if we could bring this to trial.

  "All the while Carson was condemning Richy, he was scooting his desk chair over toward me. When he was within touching distance, he reached out with both of his hands and took my hands in his, and, in a smarmy sweet voice, said, "You know, Maria, you are a very beautiful and special person, and I believe it is possible that you will be able to join the parish staff for a permanent job. You are very intelligent, a good typist and writer, and well .... His hands were working their way up my arms and he was pulling my hands down so his hands were touching my legs. I felt sick and almost ready to puke."

  Maria stood, shivered and shook herself, kind of like a big dog when it climbs out of a lake. "I get nauseated just thinking of that s.o.b. Back to being sixteen; When his hands touched my legs, I jumped up and kneed him in the face and yelled, 'Don't ever touch me again, you bastard! I believe Richy, and I don't believe you. I'm going to tell the police.' He snarled and said, 'You think they'll believe a snot-nosed teenager over an experienced clergyman?' And the bastard laughed at me. I said, 'Well, I quit and I want to be paid up this minute. I have worked thirty-six hours this week.'" She sat back down and shrugged, "I was going to tell him I wanted to be paid ten dollars an hour but his comment about me being a teenager stopped me."

  I marveled at her strength then and now. "You did all this when you were sixteen. Well, I believe you because Richy told me, word for word, the same story. And I am so impressed with the way you stood up to that man. If we can get enough evidence, Maria, would you be willing to testify in court?"

  "Yes, definitely yes—and there is more. There is a girl who lived right here in Coleman who killed herself because of that bastard."

  I interrupted her, "Would that be Susie Gilsinnen?"

  Chapter 9

  JERRY

  Warden Bonhoeffer thought my idea of spending a few days in a prison to get a feel for what the inmates experience was a good idea. Dan McGuire, now the assistant warden, arranged for me to be delivered to the state prison in Farmington, Missouri. The newly appointed captain of the guards drove me to the prison. We stopped at the Farmington police station so I could get shackled like other incoming prisoners would be if they were headed for the prison.

  I first began to regret the whole idea when I felt the shackles on my ankles, then my waist, and finally my wrists. I was sweating as I walked, or I should say stumbled back to the prison-bound car. No one knew anything about me and my reason for going to the prison except the Farmington prison warden and captain of the guards. For post-prison life, I was given the name Mark Kelly. Therefore, as I shuffled through the intake process, I was treated like I was just another scum-of-the-earth prisoner. I was just like everyone every other criminal who darkened the door. Perhaps the guards were even a bit harder on me than the others because of my 'special' delivery. So any ideas about being special would be squeezed the hell out of me as quickly as possible. My story was that I assaulted a cop in Kansas City, Missouri, and was convicted of attempted murder. I did not know whether that meant I was more, or less, dangerous.

  After I was roughly helped to get rid of the shackles, I was given a blue jumpsuit and told to undress. I gave the guards all of my clothes and possessions, including my watch, cell phone, and everything else in my pocket, except my handkerchief. Then I was ordered to take a shower and put on the 'damned jumpsuit.' I was then marched to a holding cell and sat on a concrete bench with three other white guys. That was my first lesson on the segregated prison social system.

  After an hour or so, I was again marched through a portion of the prison. From what I could see, the prison population consisted of men of all ages and ethnic groups—from older than me by about twenty years to a few who looked like teenagers. The Blacks' skin color ran from nearly as white as me to as dark as a coal miner at midnight. The Hispanics were the same, from white to dark brown. All looked tired and depressed. A few, young and old, looked as afraid as I felt. I wasn't sure what I was afraid of ... probably all the stories I'd heard about inmates getting beat up for no reason other than that some guy just wanted to show the world how tough he was. I didn't want to say the wrong thing, but the problem was, I didn't know what that might be. I hope I learned what that was before some fist met my jaw.

  Now, for the first time in my life, I was going to experience what it was like to be in a minority. It looked like every ethnic group was a minority, with African-American being the largest group. I did feel good that I no longer felt supe
rior to any one, as I would have not many years ago. Now, after working hard to stop being so egotistical, I only felt empathy for them, and sorry for myself.

  At our last organizational meeting at the Booneville prison, it became apparent that, as Jack Carroll said, "Jerry, you don't know anything at all about prison life, nor how the prisoners feel, do you?" I had to admit that I didn't. I said out loud that it would probably be good to spend some time in this or another prison. Dan, then the captain of the guards, asked if I would be willing to live at least a week in a prison as a prisoner. I said it scared the shit out of me, but I would do it. Warden Bonhoeffer and Dan McGuire made the arrangements and so there I was sitting nervously and waiting. Jack had told me a little about what to expect and added that it wouldn't be sufficient to stop me from feeling afraid. He had that right.

  Jack told me to keep a low profile and speak only when spoken to. "In some ways," Jack had said, "you'll find the other inmates being more polite than your fellow students in college. It'll probably match what you and my brother experienced in the seminary." So far, Jack was right about the politeness but my fellow seminarians were about a hundred times happier.

  The nine guys in the second holding cell were ordered to line up, single file, and follow the guard to another building. I was glad they gave me back my jacket as I was shivering down to my toes and sweating at the same time. We were herded on to the second floor that looked like it had an endless row of cells on both sides of a huge room. My cell number was 238. I guess I was slow finding my way, as a guard smacked me on the butt with his club and encouraged me with, "Move along, asshole."

  Cell 238 already had an occupant—a short, dark, African-American fellow. "Hi, I'm Jerry Haloran."

  I held out my hand. He ignored it and mumbled, "I'm Autha. You be up theah on top and yo'ah stuf dowm deah on de bottom."

  He sounded like he was from way down south. I guessed him to be in his mid-fifties.

  "Thanks, Arthur." He glanced at me and I wasn't sure I had his name correctly, so I said, "It is Arthur, right?"

  As he turned away, he muttered, "Das whut I sed, Autha." He went over to the corner of the cell, unzipped his pants and peed into a seatless stainless steel toilet. He did this as if I wasn't even there. Any modesty I had learned would have to go out the window—a very small window that was too high on the wall to see anything but the sky, a gray one on this first day.

  Yep, I thought, this is going to be a learning experience. Jack had said, "You won't learn a lot about how prisons are run, but you'll learn a great deal about what inmates go through and how some of them feel being locked up in these hell holes. You be respectful of other inmates and you'll get along fine. Every once in a while someone will be in a bad mood about something—usually after getting some bad news from home—and will want to take it out on someone. Don't react, just try not to fight back. Guards like to come in with their clubs to break it up. They look for excuses to show who's boss there, and to take their own frustrations out on whoever is close, so .. It's the guards you need to watch out for. They think all the prisoners are just piles of shit. Play, 'Yes, sir,' 'No sir,' with them. Some of them are just aching to use one of their new toys, like pepper spray gun, stun gun, or new baton. Don't give them a chance."

  Arthur went to his bunk and took his jacket off of a tiny black-and-white television, turned it on and a Cardinals baseball announcer blasted our little cell. After about twenty minutes, a guard came by and rapped the bars with his club and yelled, "Goddammit, Arthur, turn that goddammed thing down."

  My cellmate turned it down, muttering, "Sombitch."

  I had brought a paperback book with me but it didn't make it through the bag inspection. I bet that Arthur was illiterate because I didn't see any reading material anywhere around. Hiding places were non-existent. It was going to be a long week. I climbed up to the top bunk and found a thin mattress, an equally thin pillow, and two woolen army blankets. I lay down and damned if I didn't fall asleep until some kind of siren woke me up. "What the hell is that?"

  "Dat's de dinna bell, boy." I joined the line heading to the mess hall and went through the line. My tray filled with runny mashed potatoes, some kind of ugly meat, and green beans. I grabbed a cup of coffee on my way to a table. I looked around and saw that it was a very segregated dining hall. I found the white table and an empty space on the bench. I sat down between a double-wide fellow with a big elbow that I was forced to push aside so I could sit down. The body odor was so strong I nearly vomited. I wondered what the shower arrangements were. The fellow on my right was skinny and courteously moved over enough so I could use my arm. He wasn't as smelly. I could manage to eat only a third of my meal and double-wide asked if he could have the rest. I pushed my plate over to him. Skinny whispered, "Don't do that again, it ain't allowed. Gotta eat everthing on yer plate, like Mom used to say."

  I muttered, "Oh lord."

  The evening was the longest three hours I think I ever spent, longer than even the time in the hospital. At least there I had a sedative and some pretty nurses. Arthur watched baseball on his little TV. I guessed it was his personal possession but I wasn't sure and didn't want to ask. I stared at the ceiling and made an attempt to meditate with little success. Alan Watts once said if you can't meditate in a boiler room, you don't know how to meditate. I wonder if he could meditate in prison? Or the first night for sure?

  After breakfast on the next day, Monday, I had a l5 minute physical, followed by a l5 minute mental assessment conducted by a young social worker who looked like he was fresh out of college. All the questions had 'yes' or 'no' answers until he asked how my dad died. I answered, "I killed him." The poor fellow almost fell off his chair until I told him that my dad was beating my mom. I had yanked him backwards and he hit his head on a stove.

  The fellow exhaled a sigh of relief. I managed to borrow a novel from him, and I was told I was physically and psychologically fit to go to work the next day.

  On Tuesday, I was ordered to go to the prison laundry to work. I was pleased to see my cellmate, Arthur, there. I was surprised when he came over to me and said, "Come on over heah, I'll chow ya whet ta do." We worked our asses off, running sheets, towels, and pillow cases through rinsing tubs. We had only a short break for lunch. Arthur, another fellow, and I rinsed out the sheets, towels, and such; all looked gray, but once were white. We stopped at 5:00 and I was ordered to come back every day at 8:00 a.m. I thanked Arthur for his help. The hard bed did not stop me from sleeping through the night.

  At meal time, I mentioned that I was a student at a university and picked up a new nickname: Professor. I'm glad I didn't give anyone the name of the school where someone might see me if they were looking for me. From that moment on, everyone called me Professor. Even the guards.

  I sat at the same table for six or seven times and got to know five of the other inmates. I asked them if they could use a prison computer and take some college classes. The answer was that if I could keep my nose clean for a year, and have no trouble at all, I could use the prison so-called library for eight or ten hours a week. And I could borrow books. One fellow said he had completed two college classes so far.

  "Was there anything going on to make the prison more humane?" I asked.

  "Ha, are you kiddin me? They don't give a shit about us. We're just garbage to be stored till time's up or we get rotten and die."

  Another said, "I heard that up in Booneville, there's some kind of 'sperment goin on. Some ex-priest and a couple of good lookin' babes trying to hep a few prisoners get some hope or sumpin. Don't know if they're havin any luck or not."

  I responded, "Well, I hope they are doing some good. I don't see us getting any hope or anything around here."

  "Me neither, Perfesser."

  On Thursday, I was bent over the tub when I heard, "Some asshole sent me down here to work with you pansies. I don't like it and I'm pissed."

  I looked up and it was the super-sized white dude with the bald head that I had s
een earlier in the dining hall. I had seen him and heard him at meals. He seemed to intimidate everyone and was liked by no one. He was called Bruiser. He continued to throw insults around and was looking for a fight. Everyone seemed to ignore him. He headed for our area and picked up a wet bed sheet out of Arthur's tub and spread soapy water all over the slick concrete floor. He held out the sheet in front of himself, like an awkward bullfighter with both hands up and wide, as if he was going to throw it over something or someone. He looked at me and bellowed, "Hey, Professor, you look like you need a little wash." He held the sheet higher and rushed toward me. I threw two hands full of soapy water in front of him, I grabbed the sheet and pulled as hard as I could and put my foot out to trip him.. Bruiser's feet started dancing around under him and he swore, "Goddamsonofabitch." That's all he managed to utter when he fell forward, hit the floor, and slid head first into the wall with a resounding thud. His head was bent in an abnormal angle and he didn't move a muscle.

  An inmate next to me softly said, "Man, you are now a marked dude. Bruiser will be on your ass every minute of every day as long as you both are here in this place. Just warning you. Watch your back."

  Two guards, with batons drawn out, rushed to the scene, as inmates put their full attention to doing the laundry as if nothing had happened. Arthur whispered to me, "Way ta go, Perfesser!"

  The lead guard said, "Now who the hell's responsible for this?"

  Four inmates, including Arthur and me, pointed at Bruiser. "I mean, who's tha sonofabitch who put him on the damn floor?" He turned to his younger companion and said, "Call a goddamned medic to see what this bastard needs." He turned back to us. "Okay, now who put him there?"

  I looked at his name on his chest and said, "I did, Officer Bailey. He was coming after me to put a wet sheet over me and I stepped aside and tripped him."