Today, the facility’s mission focuses on assisted living for the aged, long-term care, and hospice services. Skilled nursing care is still an important part of the facility. Nearly all services are paid by Medicare and Nebraska Medicaid.
Maggie Bryant walked from her car toward the entrance of the five story facility that had not changed in the twenty years since her last visit. Same cracked sidewalks, same tan bricks, same overgrown shrubs. Only the name on the sign was new.
She drew a deep breath and passed through the front doors.
The lobby was unchanged. It was small, by modern standards and a step into the past when compared to the hospitals in West Omaha.
These are the same Terrazzo floors and marble walls that were here last time I was here.
At the information desk, Maggie waited for a volunteer to finish a phone conversation, and when it was her turn, she smiled and spoke pleasantly.
“I am here to see a patient. Can you help me locate Jake Bowden. He might be listed as Jacob Bowden.”
On the elevator ride to the fifth floor, her concern grew. She considered the volunteer’s solemn words: “Mr. Bowden is in our hospice care wing. You’ll need to go to the nurse’s station on the fifth floor. They will help you.”
Hospice care. That means only thing: Dad is dying. He’s not responding to treatments. They’re just trying to make him comfortable.
It’s not that she didn’t love him, for somewhere in her heart there was love for the old man. After all, he had clothed, fed, and raised her. He had never lifted a hand in anger or discipline, much less anything worse. He had pushed strict morality on her, and the Bible, which was the real reason she had left and never wanted to go back.
She remembered she had wanted no part of being a religious zealot in a 1950’s trailer house.
That’s why I left. Or, maybe it just was the poverty.
Maggie stepped off the elevator on the fifth floor and made her way through the narrow corridors, wondering the best way to locate the hospice wing. The hospital seemed to have no floor plan.
She asked a custodian for directions and found the proper nurses’ station. When she stopped at the desk, she was numb with the weight of sudden reality, and now guilt.
The nurse had seen her coming and stopped updating patient files. She was a large woman with a compassionate heart for patients and visiting family members.
She looked at Maggie over half-lenses already suspecting this was Jake Bowden’s daughter.
“How can I help you?” she asked warmly.
“I am Maggie Bryant. I’m looking for Jake Bowden. He’s my father.”
“You’re at the right place, Mrs. Bryant. He told me to expect you. It’s getting harder by the day for him to get out of bed, but he still manages to take a short walk most days. He’s a fighter.”
Maggie bit her lip and unconsciously shook her head.
“I didn’t know he was here until this afternoon. He never told us he was sick. You say he’s not doing well?”
“I’m afraid not. He was never able to turn the corner after his last round of treatments.”
“What’s wrong with him?” Maggie asked, already suspecting the answer.
“He has advanced lung cancer. It has spread to his liver, bones, and adrenal glands. He coughed up blood yesterday for the first time. We’re trying to make him as comfortable as possible.”
“How long has he been here?” Maggie asked.
“He came to us from Creighton Hospital about four weeks ago. Maybe it will make you feel better to know he didn’t want to contact you until now. He insisted on not disrupting your life. We love him here. The nurses take turns reading to him.”
“I wonder why he waited so long to get in touch with me,” Maggie pondered.
“Yesterday, his priest came again. This time the facility counselor went with him for end of life counseling. When they left, Mr. Bowden made plans to call you today.”
“How much time does he have?”
“The doctors think he has another two weeks to a month.”
“May I see him now?” Maggie asked, tears forming in her eyes.
“Of course,” the nurse answered. “We talked a short time ago. He was excited, thinking you might come. I’ll show you to his room. He was hoping to take a short nap before you got here.”
They walked halfway to the end of the hall.
The nurse knocked lightly and opened the door no more than six inches.
“Mr. Bowden’s daughter is here,” she said to someone in the room, and then having ensured he was ready, she stepped back.
“He’s just waking up,” the nurse said. She stepped aside for Maggie.
Maggie opened the door and stepped in to face the old man.
A nurse seated beside the bed looked up from her clipboard and stood to leave.
“You’re Mr. Bowden’s daughter?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“Maggie,” she answered.
She saw him between IV bags and flashing monitors: emaciated face, ashen-colored skin, eyes still closed. He was lying flat on the bed with the covers drawn up almost to his chin. It looked like a death bed.
“Dad, it’s Maggie.”
Oh my God. He looks so bad. I barely recognize him.
She reconciled the dying figure with the visions of the father she knew.
A soft kiss to the forehead stirred him.
“Dad?” she whispered.
Jake opened his eyes and smiled weakly.
“How do you feel?” she asked barely above a whisper.
“Better now that you’re here, baby.”
The nurses slipped from the room to give them time alone.
Chapter 25
Saturday Morning - Boys Town, April 1949
The village slept while the Omaha sky turned from black to charcoal and then to gray. Tangerine streaks rose from the horizon, heralding the coming day.
Father Gallagher lit a candle in his dark living room and knelt to pray. He felt wildly guilty over his inability to obey the archbishop’s instructions to stay away from Sister Klara. His need for Sister Klara tortured him. He wanted her like he had never wanted anything in his life.
He prayed.
Thoughts of the boy interrupted his prayer.
How could one so young capture so minds so quickly?
He tried to pray again.
What if God sent me to save you, Father?
Father Gallagher emerged from the cottage and let the screen door slam shut behind him. He looked skyward to check the weather. In the cloudless sky he saw a flock of geese in perfect formation flying northward to Canadian nesting grounds. It was going to be a sunny, pleasant day.
Gallagher walked at a fast clip along the village street. His outward appearance was a picture of dignity and control. When he reached the chapel, he climbed the steps and opened the front door, surprised to meet Arthur “Link” Collins coming out.
“Why, Mr. Collins. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at church so early.” There was surprise and challenge in the priest’s tone.
Link stood facing the priest, unsure what to say.
“Why are you here, Link?”
“I, um. Well…” Link shuffled his feet. “I came to pray and sign up for an altar boy position.”
“Did you now?” Gallagher could not hide his skepticism. “You’re a bit too old to be an altar boy, aren’t you?”
“I just know I need to be a better person,” Link said.
Father Gallagher raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.
“A guy can make a positive change if he wants,” Link said defensively.
“There’s something more. I can see it in your face. What’s happened?”
Link’s eyes showed alarm.
“I’ve had a vision. I want to change my ways, Father.”
“What kind of vision?”
“Satan visited me in the night. He said he was Jesus, but he wasn’t. He was Satan.”
Gallagh
er nodded gravely.
“I see,” said Gallagher. “It sounds like you had a bad nightmare.” He touched Link on the shoulder as a comforting gesture. “Tell me more.”
“I can’t now, Father. I need to go,” Link said. “And, Father,” he paused to gather his words, “it wasn’t a nightmare. It was real.”
Gallagher stood on the steps long enough to watch Link disappear toward the dining hall.
Entering the church, Gallagher considered the possibility that Link’s epiphany stemmed from a Satanic intercession. He wondered about the red marks on Link’s throat.
As Gallagher entered the sacristy, he was still pondering the change in Link and what it meant. He raised a shade to let in the soft dawn light and turned on the table lamp.
Even before he sat at the work table to review scriptures for Sunday’s Mass, he noticed a closet door ajar. He walked across the room to close it.
Order must be maintained in God’s house.
Grasping the knob, something in the closet caught his eye. Instead of closing the door, he opened it. He saw his silk stole, wrinkled and filthy, draped around the neck of the damaged Jesus. Gallagher flared with anger and stood seething over his special stole.
He picked up the stole, examined the pathetic state of it, and laid it across a hanger to wait for the laundry truck on Tuesday. His mind tumbled over the scenarios that could have soiled his vestment.
Link must have done this! No. The fear I saw in his eyes went beyond the discovery of a sacrilege. His expression could not be simulated. And Link is too obvious a suspect, too easy. And what about those red marks on his throat? Something else happened to him. Something else happened to my stole.
His plan to review Sunday’s missive was gone. Gallagher sat and lost himself in thought until it was time to walk to the high school for his meeting with Charlie.
I’m not up to meeting with Charles Manson this morning. I should have waited until Monday to figure this kid out. He’s a different one for sure.
When the sun cleared the horizon over Omaha and warmed the chilled grounds, Jake awoke to the distant sounds of barnyard animals baying and clucking for food. He rubbed his face into his pillow and stretched.
God what a headache I’ve got.
He cracked an eye open.
Charlie’s bed was empty.
Jake sat up slowly, holding his head together with his hands. He looked across the room fully expecting to find Charlie had been smote by God and turned into a pillar of salt.
Charlie was gone.
Through his pain, he thought of Charlie and smiled.
I’ll never forget the look on Father Gallagher’s face at the gym last night. Charlie really knocked his boots off.
None believe more fervently than recent converts; none are more dedicated than the lost who have been saved. Ah, the conviction of the true believer. Jake was a new convert, a devoted apostle. Charlie was all that mattered. Charlie was his ticket out, his passport to a better life, the answer to every problem.
Charlie faced Father Gallagher across the long mahogany table in the high school conference room. The boy’s expression was unreadable.
Gallagher studied Charlie. There was something about him. Gallagher couldn’t put his finger on it. Again today, the eyes were striking. Even at first glance they seemed warm, full of immeasurable compassion. Charlie smiled slightly, deepening the impression of understanding. The smile said, “I know what you did.” The eyes said, “It’s okay. I understand.”
What in Heaven’s name is stirring in his mind?
A vision from childhood entered Gallagher’s mind. It was of a small copperhead snake sunning on a rock, looking peaceful at rest, almost beautiful, yet lethal if disturbed. His father had warned him to stay safely back from the deceptive beauty.
Charlie leaned on the chair’s arm bringing his face into a ray of morning sun streaking through the window. His eyes glowed eerily in the otherwise dim room.
And the boy’s demeanor, while not exactly regal, was self-assured and purposeful, as if he were the one in charge.
“How was your first night at Boys Town?” Gallagher asked.
“I thought it went well,” Charlie answered. It was a safe response.
“I hope you will enjoy the religious atmosphere at Boys Town. Maybe you will find Jesus during your time here.”
“Oh, I’ve already found Jesus,” said Charlie, thinking of the statue with the broken ear. “We have a lot in common, you know, Jesus and me.”
“How so?”
“I’ll skip the part about ‘questionable parentage’ and just say Jesus and I are outlaws. We’re both thieves. We both had plenty of problems with the law. Why, Jesus had Herod’s cops after him from the moment he was born, and I ain’t much different. We both like bread and wine. We love people, but realize they’re mostly out to screw us.”
Gallagher was taken aback by the comparison.
I’ve never heard a boy or anyone else equate himself to Jesus Christ.
“First, you’re too young for wine, young man. More importantly, why do you think Jesus was a thief?”
“He sent his men to steal a donkey, didn’t he?”
Gallagher nodded slowly. “You’re referring to Luke 19:29-34. The Lord took what was technically his. The entire world is his, but as mere humans we do not have license to do the same. Most scholars believe that taking the villager’s donkey was a fulfillment of prophesy, a metaphor of faith.”
“I don’t know what a metaphor is, but my Grammy used to read the Book of Luke to me. And I’ve learned that stealing can give a guy faith, I suppose – faith that he can survive another day. It worked for Jesus that day.”
Charlie took a quick breath and leaned forward resting his arms on the table.
“Now back to the wine,” he continued. “There ain’t no real rewards for staying sober, or avoiding sex neither. Some of the most successful people in the world are drunks and sluts. Look at Hollywood. Even in Omaha, I’ll bet you can find people like that just down the road. Maybe people need to think for themselves and abandon the controls their parents and the church hung on them.”
Gallagher was formulating a response, but he was too slow. Charlie kept talking.
“I’m glad to be here, of course. I saw the movie about Boys Town. Father Flanagan was a good guy, the way he started things, and all the troubles he had. I’ll just ignore the things I disagree with.”
“What do you disagree with?” Gallagher asked.
“Maybe I shouldn’t say.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Gallagher persisted.
“Well, it’s some of the Catholic things I don’t care for. One of my uncles is a Methodist minister. He gave me the lowdown on the Catholics. I think you guys have some pretty disgusting beliefs, alright.”
“Like what?” Gallagher sputtered.
“How about that thing where you turn wine into blood, not make-believe blood like the Methodists, but real blood. He called it tran… trans…”
“Transubstantiation,” Gallagher said. “Catholics believe in a literal interpretation of the Lord’s Supper. Your uncle, as a Methodist, prefers a symbolic interpretation.”
That’s it!” Charlie said. “And don’t forget the bread! You eat what you want to be real flesh. Am I right? It scares me what kind of religion wants to eat actual human flesh and blood. Cannibals. It’s the most sickening thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Mind your tongue, young man. You are vilifying the Church!”
“No, you asked what I was thinking. I said, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t say.’ And you said…”
“I know what I said.”
“Okay. Well, I sure hope there’s no rule against thinking here, because I’d sure be guilty. Is there?”
Gallagher suddenly felt colder.
“What else did your uncle tell you about Catholics?”
“He used to tell me Catholics have taken the place of the Pharisees. I’m not sure who they were, but he said that
if Jesus were to come back for visit, he’d have just as rough a time with the Catholics as he did with the Pharisees.”
I too wonder if we would accept Jesus if he returned.
“The Methodist probably ain’t much better. So, do you allow it? You never answered me.”
“Allow what?”
“Thinking. Do you allow thinking at Boys Town?”
Gallagher diverted his eyes lest Charles detect a reaction.
Take control. I can’t let this new boy preach to me.
“Charles, I believe there are many lessons to draw from religion. We’ll save the debates for another day. We have other things we need to talk about. And, yes, we do allow thinking here. It’s the talking that can land you in trouble.”
Gallagher produced a small piece of paper. “An article in your file described a school that burned.”
“What about it?”
“The police suspected you set the fire.”
“I know.”
“Well. Did you burn school?”
“Not so far as you know,” Charlie said with a devilish smile. “To you, I never took those gas cans from my uncle’s garage that night, those two he kept just inside the door. I never broke a school window to get inside. It wasn’t me who soaked the librarian’s and principal’s desks and anything else that could be soaked until the gas ran out. Not me. And I never had my hair and eyebrows singed when my aunt’s kitchen matches made the gas flare in my face. Never happened so far as you know. I might have been pissed off, but I was probably never mad enough to do something like that.”
Gallagher sat dumbfounded by a denial that was essentially an admission of guilt.
How do I deal with this boy? He acts like an adult. I must give him the benefit of the doubt.
Gallagher reflected a moment.
“Tell me about your mother. Do you miss her?”
“Let’s just answer that, ‘yes.’ Otherwise I’d have to tell you the most depressing family history you’ve ever heard.”
“Do you believe she loves you?”
“Last question about my mother, Okay? She loves me as best she can, and I love her. She’s barely older than a kid herself. She’s an alcoholic and supports herself by…”
Before He Became a Monster: A Story Charles Manson's Time at Father Flannigan's Boystown Page 14