Embracing Darkness

by Christopher D. Roe

  “If it weren’t for these nail-banging sons o’ bitches,” he’d say often enough to himself so that after a while it became second nature to mutter under his breath, when one of them would show up at the mill to buy lumber, “I’d have probably hung up my saw long ago.” On occasion Jack Harmon would sometimes substitute “myself” for “up my saw.” Perhaps it was because he had a wife whom he loved and four kids who all looked up to their father that Jack Harmon found the strength to get out of bed every morning for the rest of his life.

  Horace Crosby and his men finished St. Andrew’s in the fall of 1892. He was relieved to finally be done with his contract for several reasons, the two biggest being that the difficulty of building on such an obscure hill with no natural resources nearby was no longer a concern and the constant nagging and squawking of the Bishop, Joseph Hanrahan, who oversaw the project for sixteen months, ceased as soon as the last nail had been pounded into its rafter.

  “Irishmen!” said Crosby to himself, as Hanrahan signed the “Acknowledgement of Work Completed” section of the contract. “You go through your whole life without running into one, and when you finally do he’s a goddamn Bishop!”

  As time went on, it became evident to the townspeople that the only reason for choosing the hill, which after the church was built people began calling “Holly’s Holy Hill” or simply “Holy Hill” for short, was because the land value so high up from the valley was so low.

  Besides the church and rectory there were only two other edifices up there. Both owners had raised their respective properties on the mount for the same reason. Old Ben Benson used to say how glad he was to live up on the hill. “Yep! No townsfolk always comin’ ’round here peskerin’ ya. Yep! No siree, Bob.”

  This silver-haired, thick-spectacled relic was a permanent fixture on the front porch of his faded yellow, two-story house, on which he’d sit day after day in his pre-Civil War rocking chair, which sounded like the hinges of an old door that needed to be plunged into a gushing oil well just to quiet it down a bit. In fact, Old Man Benson was the first person Father Phineas Poole saw as he reached the summit of Holly Hill for the very first time in the spring of 1925.

  TWO

  The Stuttering Priest

  As the door opened, Father Poole quickly took his eyes off the discolored plaque that adorned the front of St. Andrew’s Roman Catholic Church. As he entered the rectory, none other than the current yet soon-to-be retiring priest of the parish, Father Albert Carroll, greeted him. Carroll’s clerical white collar was stained by a blotch of brown and was conspicuously crooked. His potbelly, which hung over his excessively tightened belt, jiggled as he walked.

  This priest, Father Poole thought as they walked through the rectory, should be on the front cover of Catholic New England Journal with a headline reading, “The Do’s and Don’ts of Being Leader to Your Own Congregation.”

  Father Carroll was a large and slovenly man of about sixty who stuttered profoundly when saying more than four syllables at once and who reeked of garlic and pickle juice. This curious and frankly nauseating combination was enough to make the young Father’s stomach lurch.

  “So, your very first p-parish!” Carroll blurted out jovially.

  Father Poole observed how Carroll had to close his eyes slowly in order to get the word “parish” out. Doing so allowed him to visualize it.

  He had learned this helpful trick in grammar school. Mrs. Whitehead, Carroll’s first-grade teacher, had told him to close his eyes and “look for those dumb old words” that were giving him trouble. Of course, this pedagogical advice allowed his classmates to add to their mockery of him by not only stuttering phrases in his presence but also closing their eyes tightly, poking their chins up, and stumbling into chairs or knocking into tables.

  “I’m confident the Lord will guide me and help me through this new chapter in my life,” said Father Poole.

  “When did you enter th-the p-p-riesthood?” Father Carroll inquired, as a fresh burst of pickle juice, pungently seasoned with garlic, assaulted the younger priest’s nostrils. As it did so, his eyes began to water, and he pulled his head back a little in revulsion. “C-can’t have been too long,” said Father Carroll. “You look a mere boy.”

  “Actually, Father, I’m thirty-three,” Poole replied. “I’m out of the seminary five years. I joined my parish in Exeter at twenty-eight.”

  “Ah, so you’re th-thirty-thhhhree, are you? I was just that age m-myself when I f-first arrived here in the early 90s. Not m-much has changed in all these y-y-years.” Carroll’s eyes closed again as he concentrated on the word “years.” “W-why did you l-leave?” Father Carroll added.

  “I would have thought you’d find the answer to that question obvious, Father,” said Poole. “I was five years at St. Luke’s as a full-time priest but part-time teacher, offering one theology class to teenage boys, with no seniority as I was the youngest of twelve priests. Being Exeter’s one and only Catholic church, and a fairly large one at that, we naturally had a need for large numbers of clergymen.”

  Father Poole surveyed the emptiness of St. Andrew’s rectory as he said this, and then continued, a note of sadness now in his voice. “Last month I was offered the parish here at St. Andrew’s. As it’s only a few miles from the city limits of Exeter, I thought it a wise move, since I’d still be close to my friends and former students.” The young priest again looked achingly at his surroundings. After a brief pause he added, “Although it is a lot smaller than I was led to believe. Are we the only priests here, you and I?”

  “Ha! W-we?” Father Carroll chuckled. “There is no ‘we,’ y-young Father. You are r-replacing me! After thirty years at S-St. Andrew’s, I’m r-retiring.” Then the malodorous cleric drew nearer to Father Poole until the tips of their noses were literally an inch apart. “There is n-no other priest h-here with us. After th-this aftern-noon, there will b-be no other p-priest but you.”

  Father Poole’s heart sank as Carroll relayed the unhappy news. Being offered a new parish to run as he saw fit was one thing, and a wonderful thing at that; however, running it all by himself was a different matter completely. “Surely there must be others here with you,” said Father Poole. “I mean, this is indeed a small parish, but… .”

  “Small is right. Y-y-y-you said it!” Father Carroll interrupted, his stammering even more pronounced. “And you’ll s-see just how s-small when you have your first S-Sunday M-Mass!”

  Stopping in the middle of the hallway, Carroll noticed his crooked collar in a mirror hanging opposite of where he was standing. He slowly brought his two fat thumbs and two stubby index fingers up to straighten it. Then Father Poole heard Father Carroll muttering to himself, “The complete and utter n-nonsense of bothering every w-week. I n-no longer have the f-fortitude. The s-sloppiness of it all.”

  Father Poole, taken completely aback by the news about his situation, neglected to keep out of the direction of Father Carroll’s awful breath and was immediately hit with a fresh gust of garlic and pickles.

  “The letter I received from Manchester told me I’d have a staff,” Father Poole informed Father Carroll.

  “STAFF! Ha! Th-that’s a good one,” Carroll blurted out.

  “They lied to me?” Father Poole said flatly in an incredulous voice.

  For a moment Father Poole thought that he was going to be reprimanded for speaking out against the Church, but instead Father Carroll laughed heartily. “Oh, they d-didn’t lie to you,” and gave another energetic laugh. “Y-y-you’ll have a staff, alr-right! Ha! Y-y-y-y-y-yeah.” Carroll closed his eyes once more to get out the “yeah.”

  Just then Father Carroll recognized a bit of patronizing remorse in the young priest’s eyes. He coldly shunned Father Poole, knowing this patronizing look very well. The old priest had seen it many times before in other people’s eyes, those who had felt sorry for him because he stammered. Yet as
much as people pitied him, no one did anything to help him overcome it.

  There was Mr. Stevenson, the corner store owner who would give little Albert Carroll a piece of candy every day, more as an act of sympathy rather than because the boy had done something that merited the treat, such as receiving a perfect score on his homework or helping an old lady across the street.

  Then there was Mrs. Purdy, who always gave little Albert Carroll first pick of any batch of cookies fresh from her oven. Albert had heard her say once to a neighbor, just as he was coming up the stairs to see her, “I’m saving first choice as I always do for Mathilda Carroll’s boy. You know him, the one who always stutters.”

  With Albert Carroll people were either too kind or fantastically cruel. At sixty years old he couldn’t think of anyone in his life besides his parents who were good to him just for being himself. It’s no surprise that Albert turned to food at a young age as a source of comfort. By the time he was twelve years old, Albert Carroll was thirty pounds overweight, and his family doctor had told him privately, “At this rate you’re going to see God a lot sooner than your parents.”

  Dr. Burns had come to the Carroll home because Albert was stricken with a terrible bellyache, which kept him home from school one Thursday morning. The night before Albert had eaten an entire chocolate fudge cake that his mother had made for her Rotary Club meeting. Dr. Burns had given Mrs. Carroll a bottle of Paregoric, along with instructions, and all of this came after his dire prognosis.

  In a way Albert was grateful to his family physician. Although food would continue to be his constant companion, since no one else was going to be, Albert Carroll decided to get as close to God as he possibly could, so that when death came for him, whether at forty-five or fifty-eight, he’d go right on through into heaven without needing to endure the remission of his sins in Purgatory. If Dr. Burns had seen Albert Carroll outlive both his parents, he might have given up his practice or perhaps, less drastically, simply learned a better bedside manner.

  Father Poole started again, “A staff? Who? Where are they?”

  Father Carroll breathed heavily through his nose, adjusted his pants just below his bulky gut, and exhaled loudly. “Sister Mary Ignatius,” he said slowly.

  “Sister Mary Ignatius?” Father Poole echoed skeptically. Where on earth would a nun live? he wondered. There was no convent attached to the church.

  He was yanked out of his contemplation by Father Carroll’s abrupt and phlegm-filled cough. “I had no idea there was a convent on the premises,” said Father Poole.

  “This way to your r-room,” said Father Carroll, ignoring the priest, and a stronger whiff of garlic once again hit Father Poole.

  The two clerics entered a small room with a bed and wooden nightstand balanced by a book under one leg. There was a stained runner in the middle of the floor, and in the corner something that appeared to be a table with two stools. How cozy! Father Poole thought to himself, a look half of repulsion and half of regret now apparent on his face. Not quite, he reflected, what I’d expect for the head of a parish.

  Father Carroll began to walk toward the door, eager to say farewell and be done with St. Andrew’s once and for all. As he walked, his hips swayed from side to side, more apparent now to Father Poole than previously.

  “Yes,” said Father Carroll. “S-sister Ignatius will b-be your primary staff. As for th-the others I’m sh-sure you’ll meet them s-soon, but it’s S-Sister Ignatius you’ll meet first. Of th-that I’m shhh-sure.”

  As he said this, Father Carroll grinned a bit fiendishly and had to bite his lower lip in spite of himself. Father Poole was about to ask Father Carroll what he meant by that, but the ensuing silence had been long enough that it would have sounded awkward.

  Then the fat priest muttered to himself, “I hear retirement for p-priests is all but diverting. S-sleeping late, attending M-Mass, eating to one’s heart’s c-content. Food! Now th-th-that’s w-what s-sustains life.”

  Not satisfied with Carroll’s comportment, but also not wanting to infuriate the man, Father Poole replied, “Is there a problem with Sister Ignatius?”

  As he shuffled out the door, Father Carroll said slowly, without turning around to face his successor, “You’ll just have to see for yourself now, won’t you?” This time he didn’t stutter one syllable.

  THREE

  A Cold Welcome

  Father Poole stood alone in his room. The door was wide open, and he could see a portrait of Pope Leo XIII from where he was standing. As he walked toward the door, suitcase still firmly in hand, young Father Poole began to wonder why this Pope, out of so many others, had his portrait on the wall of St. Andrew’s rectory. The small brass plaque under the portrait read, “His Holiness, Pope Leo XIII.” “Let’s see now,” mused Father Poole. “Pope Leo XIII. He was what? Twenty, thirty, f . . . . Of course!”

  At that moment he remembered the dedication plaque hanging in front of the rectory, tarnished almost to the point of illegibility and hanging lopsided: ST. ANDREW’S ROMAN CATHOLIC CHURCH—ANNO DOMINI MDCCCXCII. “St. Andrew’s was completed in 1892,” said Father Poole out loud. “Leo the Thirteenth was Pope then.” Amused that he had solved an insignificant mystery, the young Father wanted more than anything to share the pleasure with someone else.

  Looking around his room, and then peeking into the empty hallway just outside his bedroom door, he chuckled at the idea that he was in the presence of papal company. Wanting to ease the tension about the less than congenial meeting he’d just had with Father Carroll, the young priest indulged in a bit of whimsical humor for his own benefit, as he once again looked around the room with no great enthusiasm.

  All changes within the Church have to come from Rome, don’t they? he thought. Laughing out loud in spite of himself, he came to the conclusion that it wasn’t that funny. Father Poole threw his lone suitcase onto the bed and opened it. Stockings, underwear, extra white collar, prayer book, suspenders, belt, Bible, Book of Psalms, bottle of aspirin, crucifix, two bars of soap, rosary beads… .

  The priest suddenly recalled an advertisement from his childhood: “GRUBER’S TOILET SOAP.” He and his father used to read it as they passed by Dodson’s General Store in town to go kite-flying, which little Phineas Poole hated because once they were in the park Mrs. Edith Fisher would always happen to be there. She was a very good friend of Dr. Poole’s wife, Mary Margaret Brennan-Poole.

  His father would always say, “I’ll be right back, Phin. You get that ol’ kite rarin’ to go, and I’ll be back before it reaches the tails of those seagulls.” Yet his father never came right back. Instead, he would disappear and leave Phineas to his kite.

  The boy never cared much for kite-flying; he only liked the idea of spending time with his father. One time Phineas made the mistake of turning his head around to look for his father, once the kite had reached beyond the seagulls, but his father was nowhere to be seen.

  The boy learned to accept that inevitability while accompanying his father to Wallis Sands State Park on the tiny stretch of New Hampshire coastline for the fourth time that summer of 1900. This is the way it’s going to be every Sunday afternoon, he thought.

  Once Phineas asked his father on the way to the park, “Daddy, is Mrs. Fisher going to bring Louisa to the park so I have someone to fly my kite with?”

  Dr. Robert Poole was in no way a violent man, but Phineas still recoiled a little when his father turned abruptly to answer his question. “Now, Phinny, you know I’ve told you before. Whatever you and I do in the park stays in the park. Always. Mom doesn’t need to know anything. My friendship with Mrs. Fisher… well, we’re just good friends, just as she and your mother are good friends. Friendship is never wrong. Mom never needs to know what we do in the park, okay? It’s our special private time.”

  Phineas loved his father in spite of how he’d been feeling neglected during their “special private
time.” Perhaps it was the relationship he had with his father in other respects that made him feel closer to Robert Poole rather than Mary Margaret Brennan-Poole.

  “It’s our secret,” said Robert Poole.

  “Just like what we do in the shed is our secret,” Phineas added.

  Dr. Poole stopped abruptly. “What we do in the shed is our business. Yours and mine!” he said angrily.

  Phineas withdrew a bit, and tears welled up in his eyes. His father knelt down until the two were eye to eye.

  “As I’ve told you before,” Dr. Poole continued. “Mommy can’t know about that either.”

  “GRUBER’S TOILET SOAP! THE SOAP OF CHOICE FOR HOUSEWIVES ALL ACROSS NEW ENGLAND! AVAILABLE NOW AT YOUR LOCAL GENERAL STORE!”

  Phineas remembered the picture at the bottom of the advertisement. It was a picture of Pope Leo XIII in the same exact pose as the portrait in the hallway of St. Andrew’s rectory. A hand painted on the picture, meant to be that of the Pontiff, extended menacingly out of his robes. In a rather exaggerated bubble connected to his mouth were the words, “CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO GODLINESS!”

  Father Poole managed a more genuine laugh this time, finding this coincidence to be more amusing than the joke he had made earlier about Rome coming to redecorate the drab interior of St. Andrew’s rectory. As his laugh faded, the priest looked around the room once more, desperately trying to find something else with which to entertain himself.

  A priest presiding over Sunday Mass who stutters when he speaks, he thought. No wonder the church attendance here is small.

  The priest’s glance then shifted from the pistachio-green walls to the floor by his bed and then to the nightstand with one leg supported by a book. When he looked more closely, he noticed that the book was in fact a Bible. As he lifted the weight of the table off it, Phineas picked up the volume and opened it to the title page, where he found this inscription: “To Father Albert Carroll. Good luck in your new parish. May this Holy Book offer you support when you need it. Love always, Mother. February 3, 1895.”