Call No Man Father

by William X. Kienzle

  FOR JAVAN

  My wife and collaborator

  “And call no man your father upon the earth:

  for one is your father, which is in heaven.”

  Matthew 23.9

  King James Version

  1

  God, I hate air travel.

  He felt he was entitled to this sentiment. He had clocked tons of hours on airliners, many of them long before some enterprising bean counter had thought up frequent-flier miles.

  He easily recalled pleasant trips before deregulation and “hub” cities. Relaxing flights, uncrowded, with room to stretch out, room to breathe, cheerful service. Desirable destinations: Louvain, Tübingen, Rome. Student days. Memories never to be duplicated.

  Peripherally, he was aware of being watched … studied … by a man seated immediately across the aisle. He regretted having worn his black suit and clerical collar.

  He was, in fact, a Catholic priest, and the uniform his identification. The only thing that prevented the neighbor from invading his priestly privacy was his open breviary—the book of daily prayer. He wasn’t sure how long this ruse would work. But he would stay with it as long as possible.

  Meanwhile, he could keep his own counsel.

  Nothing, he thought, is as good as it was. Today’s music was cacophony compared with the classics of old and the show tunes and popular music of the fifties and before. Cars weren’t as sturdy now. Appliances were programmed to self-destruct. Planned obsolescence.

  A smile passed quickly. He was becoming a curmudgeon. A little early in life for that. But he didn’t mind; as far as he was concerned, it was all true.

  To hell in a handbasket. That’s where the world was going. And, he feared, the symposium was not going to help.

  He didn’t want to think about that conference.

  He shifted his mind into neutral. He recalled a class he’d taught recently. In analyzing a composition of Palestrina, he had mentioned the musical figure ostinato, referring to a motif repeated persistently throughout the composition. To help the students remember the term, he gave them the mnemonic “obstinate.” Obstinate, he informed them, derives from the word ostinato. And, while the class seemed to absorb all this, years of experience prompted him to check further: Could anybody define “obstinate”?

  One confident lad raised his hand: “Obstinate is when you refrain from sexual intercourse.”

  The kid had confused “obstinate” with “abstinence.” But, on second—or third—thought, the young man might just have stumbled onto a shred of confused truth. Surely some people must withhold intercourse out of sheer obstinacy.

  His hands grew weary. The breviary fell to his lap, closed.

  Instantly, his neighbor pounced.

  “Pardon me, father”—the tone carried a measure of urgency—“but are you done with your brevity?”

  Brevity, the priest considered. It’s not all that brief. But, what the hell, he caught me with my prayer book down. “Not really … but, for the moment, yes.”

  “Vince Weir.” The neighbor offered his hand and his name. He did not ask the priest’s name, nor was it volunteered. Apparently, he was content dealing with a generic priest. The priest was more than happy to remain anonymous.

  Actually, this was Vince Weir’s usual means of getting religious questions resolved. If he had a nickel for every “brevity” he’d interrupted on flights …

  “Father …” Weir spoke above the engines’ roar but not loudly enough to be overheard by nearby passengers; he was well practiced. “… you a parish priest?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what? If you don’t mind me asking.”

  “I teach. At a German university.”

  “Now that interests me. What?”

  “‘What’?”

  “What do you teach?”

  “Oh … liturgy.”

  “That like the Mass?”

  “Uh-huh.” The priest hoped this wasn’t going to lead into one of those sick jokes. Like the one he’d heard last week:

  What’s the difference between a liturgist and a terrorist?

  You can reason with a terrorist.

  “I’ve been wondering, Father: Whatever happened to all that good music we used to have in church? It’s all gone. How come we don’t hear it anymore?”

  Appreciation for the sublime Church music of the past! The priest had not expected as much from Mr. Weir. “Sad, isn’t it?” the priest commiserated.

  “Yeah! Hymns like ‘Holy God,’ and ‘O Mother of Perpetual Help’ and ‘Bring Flowers of the Fairest,’ and ‘O Lord I Am Not Worthy’, and ‘Mother, I Could Weep for Mirth.’ Why can’t we get them back?”

  The priest’s sensibilities wilted. “Tell me, Mr. Weir, where do you live?”

  “Milwaukee.”

  “Perfect.”

  “What?”

  “Your archbishop—Rembert Weakland—is a gifted musician. Try to get an appointment with him. Or write to him. I’m sure he’d be glad to clear up all your questions.”

  “Gee, thanks, Father. Here, lemme give you one of my cards.…” Weir presented the priest with a business card, tapping his line of business with a finger. “I’m in ladies’ wear.”

  There was humor there somewhere. But the priest did not wish to explore it.

  Their conversation, such as it was, was shattered by the loudspeaker, as the attendant’s singsong fought a battle with static: “Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our approach to Dublin Airport. We ask that you make sure your trays are stored and that your seat backs are in an upright position, and that all items of baggage are securely stowed under your seats or in the overhead bins. We will be on the ground in approximately ten minutes. The local time is 11:43 A.M. The weather is clear and the temperature is four degrees Celsius.

  “At this time, we ask that you fasten your seat belts and extinguish all smoking materials.”

  His seat was upright and his tray had disappeared into the armrest. He hadn’t unbuckled his seat belt since fastening it. He did not smoke.

  But he did hold on. His knuckles were white. Taking off and landing; those were the most dangerous moments in air travel. For all he knew, this plane could well be of a certain age. The mechanics who serviced this craft might not be knowledgeable, conscientious, reliable. They might have been poorly trained, slipshod, unconcerned. The plane might touch down only to find a tire going its separate way while the wing scraped the tarmac, throwing sparks that could ignite God knew what. When it came to air travel he had come to trust no one and nothing.

  For all his anxiety, the landing was almost picture perfect. The plane did not even bounce.

  They taxied directly toward the terminal. He could recall flights—lots of them—where they’d spent more time sitting on the strip waiting for an available gate than they had in the air. His mood eased up. Perhaps this trip would not be as nerve-racking as he had feared.

  However, he reminded himself, he still faced a layover before the departure of his connecting flight—then, including the stop at Shannon, some eight hours to Boston, where he would have another two-hour layover, then another two hours to Detroit, where, as travel jargon had it, he would terminate.

  The plane rocked to a standstill. By this time, most of the passengers were standing, pulling themselves together and extracting luggage out of overhead bins and from under seats. All a bit premature and all in disobedience to the crew’s orders.

  But since it was now time to deplane no one was any longer making an issue of remaining in seats, buckled down until allowed to rise.

  He was seated in the first row of the tourist section. He looked back at all the poor trapped souls who now would be set free at least for a while. There were so many.
Today’s jetliners seemed to have been designed with the sole purpose of packing in a maximum quota of passengers while still being capable of becoming airborne.

  It was like a scene from hell. Or, since it would end sometime, purgatory.

  There was no cause for haste; he had a layover of some two hours—longer, should there be a problem with the next flight. Nonetheless, he was eager to get out of here. So, valise and hat in hand and coat draped over arm, he managed to be the first tourist passenger to reach the first-class compartment, where the exit door yawned.

  But barring his egress was an attendant. That was no accident, as he discovered when he attempted to step around her. She moved to block him again. “Let’s let the first-class passengers go first.” Her tone was that of a petulant grammar school teacher. She didn’t even bother looking to see whom she was addressing.

  For the first time during this flight he really felt like a second-, perhaps third-class passenger. He hadn’t envied first class their menu; it wasn’t that much better than tourist. As for spaciousness, first-class passengers had barely more legroom than he had in his bulkhead seat. But, forced to stand and wait while the elite made their leisurely departure—well! It was such treatment that engendered revolutions.

  Eventually the front cabin cleared and the class-conscious attendant stepped aside.

  He and Vince Weir parted company, with Weir expressing added gratitude “for your help, Father.” The priest was the first of his group to descend the stairs to the ground. Didn’t Dublin Airport believe in the extending ramps that protected deplaning passengers from the elements? Fortunately, the weather was clear and not terribly cold. And shuttle buses were waiting to carry them to the terminal.

  The Dublin terminal was—or appeared to be—practically empty. He credited that to the fact that it was Sunday. Many shops were closed. Perhaps shop owners in this overwhelmingly Catholic country believed they should not do business on the Lord’s day?

  After going through customs, he looked about for the reporter from the Irish paper. God knows when the man had phoned he’d been eager enough for an interview. And after the priest had cooperated and given his flight number, the reporter had promised that they would meet at the customs counter. But, where was he? No one in sight.

  The priest shrugged, then sighed and made his way to the main part of the terminal, where he checked in for his transatlantic flight, which, he was assured, would depart on time. He was free till then. The café was open, but he decided not to try it. For one thing, he wasn’t very hungry; for another, he had already exchanged his money for U.S. currency. And he didn’t want to be weighed down with change in the form of Irish punts. In short, it simply wasn’t worth the bother. Besides, they’d be serving a meal of sorts on the upcoming flight.

  He strolled, stretching his legs, mindful of the confinement ahead. Many of the people he passed were uniformed Aer Lingus personnel. In addition to the pilots, attendants, and clerks, there were the terminal’s maintenance people in their distinctive basic blue with orange stripes.

  In a remote section of the terminal he came upon a bank of unoccupied seats. He reasoned that he couldn’t continue walking aimlessly until the Boston flight, so he took a seat in the middle of the row.

  Several moments of blessed peace were his. Then he spotted coming toward him, without the slightest uncertainty or hesitation, a small girl, well bundled. She regarded him for several moments. If either was made to feel awkward and apprehensive, it was the priest. He looked away from her several times while she gazed at him unblinkingly. He looked about imploringly. Where were her parents?

  She took several steps toward him.

  He wanted to say, with compelling vigor, Go away, little girl! But an image kept intruding on his mind of Jesus saying, “Let the little children come unto me.”

  Finally, she clambered onto the chair to his immediate right. He offered no assistance whatsoever.

  He did not know how to talk to a child. He never thought about children. Why did people think priests like children? Priests don’t have any of their own. Perhaps children were like cats—inexorably drawn to people who don’t like them … people who are allergic to them.

  Whatever. The two of them sat side by side for several moments in uncompanionable silence.

  He was reminded of the story that a priest friend told. The friend, early on in his priestly career, had been assigned to a Manhattan parish. One Saturday afternoon, while he was hearing uncounted confessions, the curtain at the entry to his confessional was suddenly pulled aside, and a little blonde girl called out in a loud, clear voice for every one in the church to hear, “Mama, there’s a man in here, and he’s going potty!”

  The moral of that story was that little girls are not as reserved as people think they are.

  But now he had his own urchin. The moppet sitting next to him took a small, toy baby carriage out of her pocket. Then she began running the carriage up and down his right arm.

  He did not know what to do. So he just sat there and watched the carriage go up and down his arm.

  Finally, he managed, “So … you are a little girl.”

  At that, a shriek filled that area of the terminal, and, advancing on him like the sea of doom, a wrathful mother hen screeched for the child to COME AWAY FROM THERE!

  Which the girl promptly did. Casting a look-that-could-kill at the priest, the woman dragged the little girl away.

  Now, the priest thought, what could have brought that on? Then he flashed on the scandal of child abuse so infamously involving priests and religious, especially in the States. The woman must have grossly mistaken his intentions. He was embarrassed. The few people in this section of the terminal seemed to be looking at him as if he were an ogre.

  No matter how tired he might be by the time his Boston flight left, he decided he’d better keep moving. Especially away from those disapproving eyes.

  Eventually, the walking stirred something within; he began looking for a men’s room. He found one hidden away in one corner of the main floor. It appeared meticulously clean. There were six stalls and six urinals and only one other man using the facility. He seemed to have completed his business and was washing his hands.

  He surveyed the room. It was more than merely clean, it was spotless. Besides the stalls, urinals, and washstands, there were two dispensary cabinets on the wall. Each offered condoms. Specifically, MATES™, which seemed to be the trade name. The condoms advertised a series of choices and advantages: Natural, Ribbed, Coloured, Spermicidal, Lubricated; eight for three punts, five for two punts.

  God Almighty, he thought, what is this civilization coming to!? What does a casual visitation to a men’s room afford? Breath mints? Band-Aids? Shaving or toothbrushing equipment? A shoe-polishing machine? Evidently, something far more practical, useful, and needed than any of those. Somehow, modern man must be protected from venereal disease and fatherhood.

  Again, these thoughts led back to the coming conference. And he didn’t want to think of that until, in the course of events, he had to.

  The other man, business completed, departed.

  He was alone.

  Privy matters attended to, he left the stall and moved to the bank of washstands. He leaned in to get a better look at himself in the mirror. No doubt: He could use a shave. The heavy shadow that overlaid his cheeks and neck and circled his mouth seemed incongruous in contrast to the formality of his clothes. Though the black suit was a bit rumpled, it had been cleaned and pressed just before he left; it still held its creases. Then there was the roman collar and clerical vest. No white plastic insert at the neck of his black shirt; his was the full starched linen collar, buttoned at the nape. Old-fashioned, yes. But that’s the way he was.

  Someone entered.

  A terminal maintenance man, apparently. Clad in coveralls with the distinctive colors, he was trundling a cart of cleaning supplies and equipment.

  The priest glanced briefly at the man, who had begun to dust mop the floor.
As far as the priest was concerned, nothing in this restroom needed immediate attention. But it was good to know that the Irish cleaned things that were already clean.

  He opened his valise and removed shaving equipment and a dry washcloth. The greater part of his adult life, he’d had problems with shaving, especially with a fresh blade. Either he would cut himself or he wouldn’t press hard enough to remove all the stubble.

  Until, that is, in Cologne a German barber gave him the secret of prepping his face with moist heat.

  He removed his collar, vest, and jacket, turned the hot water on and drenched the washcloth, wrung it out, bent low over the sink and pressed the cloth to his face, holding it there as long as he could bear the heat.

  When he straightened up, so intent was he on getting a clean shave that he hardly noticed that the maintenance man was now directly behind him. Nor had the priest more than a split second to comprehend what followed.

  In one fluid motion, from the rear, the man cupped the priest’s chin in his right hand while his left hand grasped the priest’s head. With a powerful wrenching motion, he twisted around and down until the priest’s chin was well beyond his right shoulder. The shattering of his spinal cord made no sound. Nor was there any blood. The priest slumped dead to the floor.

  The killer nodded once in quiet satisfaction. Everything was going perfectly.

  He stripped the victim, gathered the dead man’s garments, emptied the pockets, and stuffed the clothing into a large duffel bag. He then removed his own coveralls and added them to the bag. He was attired in a suit and roman collar identical to the dead priest’s uniform.

  He dragged the now-naked corpse into a stall, lowered the legs into the toilet bowl and propped the body on the seat. With a length of rope, he tied the body to the wall pipe. Satisfied that the body would stay put, he locked the stall door from the inside and lifted himself over the partition and out of the stall.

  He paused to look about. Perfect so far. He hadn’t even had to resort to a ruse to get the priest off by himself.

  After transferring the contents of the victim’s wallet to his own, he added the empty wallet to the duffel bag. He removed a black overcoat and hat from the interior of the cleaning cart.