Nodding, he giggled. “Yes, we got them good.”
Listening to him talk, I began to wonder if his religion was more a part of his identification with Irish culture than something he believed in, and that’s why he followed it so rigidly. I always struggled with the regulations Rome dumped on her tribe. Yet he never questioned the rules and dutifully did as he was told: no meat on Friday, attend Mass every Sunday, give up dessert during Lent, and listen to the direction of the Pope.
“Was it hard for you? I know your parents felt the discrimination. Did you feel it too?”
“By the time I was born, things were beginning to get better. Dad had become a finish carpenter, creating the elaborate moldings, window casings, and banisters on many Victorian homes. With the money they saved, Mom bought a couple of flats. We always lived on the top floor and rented out the bottom.”
Looking out the window, he fell quiet as the memories returned. “But I’m not sure my mom ever got over the prejudice.”
As he continued to talk, I recollected hearing what a tough beginning she had. At the age of four, my great-grandfather passed away, leaving my great-grandmother nearly destitute and in poor health. To help the situation in Ireland, my grandmother’s sister Mary (who was fifteen years older) sent my grandmother to live in San Francisco until things got better. Getting on a boat with her sixteen-year-old brother Patrick, the two of them sailed across the Atlantic in 1871, sleeping in steerage with the other poor souls with only the clothes on their backs and a dream for a better life.
Upon reaching New York, they were ushered through Ellis Island, where her name was changed from Johanna to Josephine. Next, they traveled across the country by train until they finally reached their destination.
“Why do you think Grandma never got over it? Wasn’t life better for her here?”
“In some ways, yes—at least she had food. But because she was older than her nieces and nephews, my aunt often used her as the babysitter instead of treating her like a sister. She was never allowed to be a little girl.”
Thinking back to the times I spent a part of my summer vacation with my grandmother in San Francisco, the one thing that always stuck with me was how negative she was toward other races. Blacks were not to be talked to; in fact, we crossed to the other side of the street whenever possible. Chinese were stupid and Hispanics were just dirty. Perhaps when you’ve spent much of your life being pushed down, it makes you feel better to push down someone else.
“What was Grandma like as a mother?” I asked, wondering if her difficult life caused her to be tough with her children.
“She was very loving,” my father said wistfully, casting a look at the family photo on the table nearby of his mother with her three young children. “She was strong, and in our family, she ruled the house because Dad was very quiet, but I never doubted she or my father loved me.”
That’s the same way I’ve always felt about you and Mom, I thought, smiling. You learned that lesson well, Dad.
Our intimate late-night talks were now spreading to our daytime conversations too. He had memories to share and I was his captive audience.
As he was about to plug into his book again, I decided to ask him something that had been burning in me since the day he moved in. I thought I already knew the answer, being the staunch Catholic he was, but I just had to ask.
“Dad, are you afraid to die?”
What came next confounded the hell out of me. Without hesitation, deliberation, or annoyance, he blurted out, “I’m terrified.”
Pulling my chair closer to him, I wondered what all this faith stuff was for if you were still scared at the end. Wasn’t believing supposed to relieve some of the angst of leaving this earth? After all, you got to be with your maker and sit on some fluffy white cloud with all the people who went before.
“I’m surprised you’d say that. Your faith is so strong.”
“Just because your faith is strong doesn’t mean you get to go to heaven.”
Watching his chin begin to drop on his chest, I knew I was about to lose him to that quiet place he retreated to when things became difficult.
“Dad, what are you talking about, not going to heaven?” I said, interrupting his evacuation process.
Rubbing his forehead vigorously, as if trying to wipe away his anxiety, he let out his fear.
“Well, we may not all be in heaven in the end.”
“Not be in heaven together? Why would you say that?” I asked, starting to get upset and wanting to get to the bottom of this silly nonsense.
The room became quiet as he looked out the window, watching those silly little birds instead of finishing this important conversation.
“Dad, talk to me. Who’s not going to heaven?”
“None of you kids go to church. You have to go to church to go to heaven.”
Oh boy! Here we go. How could such a brilliant man believe all this bullshit?
“That’s ridiculous! What about the other religions that don’t have that mandatory requirement?” I countered.
As the redness in his face showed his rising distress, I knew I had to rein him in or lose him to sleep for the next several days.
“Dad, I’m not half the person you are and I know I’m going to heaven. You raised fine young men too. They’ll be there with all of us.”
Seeing I was getting nowhere as his eyes locked onto a sparrow pecking the ground, I took his chin and turned it in my direction. “Look, you gave us the gift of faith. But when you give a gift, you can’t tell people how to use it. Your parents gave you the same gift, and you chose to follow as tradition taught. We have chosen a different way to honor it, but it doesn’t mean we don’t value it, or believe in a higher power.”
As he cast his eyes downward, I went in for the kill.
“You raised four kind, loving, moral Christian children. We’ll all be in heaven one day together. God and I have already talked about it.”
“Not if you have a mortal sin.”
“What?”
Mortal sin was the deadliest of all sins. Who the hell in our family had that? I knew it wasn’t me. Sure, I had done a lot of questionable things in my life, but I was still a good girl. As for David and Tim, there were no two finer men walking this earth. The only thing I could imagine was that Dad knew something about the baby of the family that we didn’t. Michael had always traveled a different path, which was often heartbreaking to handle, but even he wasn’t that egregious to travel to the dark side. Or was he?
“Dad, who are you talking about?”
The minute that he sat silently felt like an hour. Finally, shaking his head, he did what he always did when not wanting to face something. He shut down.
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”
“Wait! Are you talking about you?”
I couldn’t imagine what he could have done that was so bad. He’d lived by the Golden Rule since the day he was born, prayed all the time, and helped the priests with their taxes at no charge. Suddenly, I realized that this was a deep, sore subject. The kind that keeps you awake at night fearing someone might find out about the real you.
Leaning in, I suggested, “Would you like to see a priest?”
His silence became cavernous. Then he nodded his head. “Yes.”
Walking into my bedroom, I immediately picked up the phone and made a call to my parish, St. Simon Church. We had several priests, all kind and thoughtful, but for something as severe as mortal sin, I needed to pull out the big guns: the CEO. I asked for the pastor, Father Warwick James.
“Hi Father,” I began. “My ninety-five-year-old father lives with me, and he’s troubled about something in his past. Would you have time to stop by and visit him?”
While we had never been properly introduced, Father Warwick’s reputation proceeded him as a caring man to those confined. Originally from South Africa, he spoke perfect English with a British accent, a rarity in the Catholic Church as many of the priests came from third world countri
es. He was tall, balding at the top, and had large, round, knowing eyes.
“Yes, love. How about this Tuesday?” I heard on the other end of the line.
Relieved to know Dad would have some peace in his future, I set the appointment.
Two days later, Father Warwick arrived in everyday clothes, prayer book in hand, looking like one of Dad’s church-going buddies coming to check in on him.
“Thank you so much, Father.” I shook his hand.
“Have you been a member of the parish long? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in church.”
Skirting the issue, I talked about my children, how they were all baptized, had received their First Holy Communions and Confirmations at St. Simon, and the wonderful education they had at the school.
“So you’ve been a member for a long time,” he said, his eyebrows lifting as if to ask, “Where the hell have you been all these years?”
“Yes, thirty-one years to be exact,” I said, smiling but then I told a little white lie. “I’m out of town a lot and find other churches to go to when I’m not home.”
Walking through the house, we found Dad in the family room waiting for his purification.
“Dad, this is Father Warwick.”
Looking up, he smiled that contagious grin of his and stretched out his good hand.
“Hello, Father. Thank you for coming.”
Pulling up a chair for Father Warwick next to him, they talked about generalities at first: Dad’s upbringing and education (all Catholic, of course), where his four children were today, my mom, and when he’d most recently received communion.
Wanting them to get to the point of the visit, for I knew his worry was burning a hole in his immortal soul, I softly interrupted, “Dad, Father can give you confession if you’d like.” When he nodded his head in agreement, it was time for me to leave, for this was private stuff.
“Okay, I’ll be down the hall in Lauren’s room working,” I said. “Call me when you’re done.”
Reaching Lauren’s bedroom, I began to sense there was something wrong as the silence in the family room deepened. There were no voices, not even the hum of a whisper. Were they just staring at each other? Tiptoeing back, I wanted to be sure everything was okay, and that Dad hadn’t lost his nerve. Then, I heard Father Warwick say, “Jack, there’s nothing you can tell me that I haven’t heard before.”
My dad cleared his throat, and more silence followed. Then came the zinger.
“Well, Father, there was once this woman . . .”
Woman? What woman? Was it before you and Mom got married? Did you stray along the way? When did this happen and why didn’t you ever confess it before?
Putting my fingers in my ears so as not to hear any more, I quickly went back to the bedroom and closed the door. Sitting down, my thoughts ran wild.
Some woman? It must have been before my parents got married. He said a lot of women were after him. But what if it wasn’t? Was Dad unfaithful to Mom? Maybe he’s not the man I thought he was. Maybe he’s not so good after all. Maybe his persona all these years was just some great lie and he duped all of us into believing he was a saint.
Soon, my face began to burn and tears smarted my eyes. I was in the process of mourning the loss of the man I thought he was.
I know we’re innocent until proven guilty, but I heard it! Some woman caused my father to lose himself. Who was this slut taking advantage of such a gentle soul, and what a stooge he was for falling victim! Men can be so pitifully weak.
Staring at the photos on Lauren’s desk, I wondered if my kids had secrets they needed to confess. Did I have secrets? Of course not. As a writer, I told the world everything. I would, of course, like to forget my biggie from a lifetime before.
In 1978, nine months before I married Dave, I found myself in the darkest of times and deepest of sins: I was pregnant. And I knew good girls didn’t get pregnant before getting married. It was out of order and would be a complete disgrace.
Fearful of what this news would do to my mother, whose health had already started its downward spiral and who was constantly worried about the direction that my youngest brother Michael was taking with his life, I just couldn’t bring shame to the family name. Despite the fact that it was Dave’s child and we’d be married the following year, we made a decision that would haunt me for many years to come.
On a bitterly cold December morning, I made the trip to Planned Parenthood with my child’s father, and together we gave her away, back to God. Six years later I’d be seeking my priest for absolution.
Thinking of my own indiscretion, how could I ever judge my father? He knew about mine when he read about it in my first book, and he never said a thing. Only that he loved my story. Suddenly, I began to sob.
After a few minutes, a calm slowly came over me. Dad’s sin compared to mine was like a granite pebble next to the mountain it fell off of. But in the eyes of the Church and her rules, you didn’t even need to touch the opposite sex. Just let those eyeballs wander with a little lust and boom, you’re doomed to hell. Unless, of course, you found a nice priest who could give you five Hail Marys and make the sign of the cross over your head. Then you’d be washed clean again, ready for heaven whenever the dear Lord called.
As I pulled myself together, I got over his possible feet of clay, and I found myself loving my father more than I ever did before. He wasn’t a saint and he wasn’t perfect. He was like all of us, another one of God’s children trying to make his way through the labyrinth of life and all her detours.
Hearing their conversation wrapping up, I wiped my eyes, fluffed my hair, and joined the two men.
“Thank you so much, Father,” Dad said, his eyes now sparkling.
“I’ll come back again if you’d like. I enjoyed our conversation.”
“Yes, I’d like that.”
Walking the priest to the door, I took his hand in both of mine, and thanked him profusely.
“This meant so much to him. Thank you.”
“You have a remarkable man for a father. I hope you know that.”
Looking into the deep pools of his eyes, my heart warm and grateful, I acknowledged what I had known all along. “Yes, I know. I’m truly blessed.”
CHAPTER 13
Back to Church
After seeing Father Warwick out the door, I went back to the family room to check on my dad. He faintly smiled as he watched his winged friends outside. It was the same smile he gave when he was in awe of God’s beauty in the world—serene and at complete peace.
“Do you feel better?” I asked, sitting in the chair the priest had just vacated.
“Oh, honey, thank you! Yes, I feel so much better.”
“Good. Would you like to continue to listen to your book? I think you’re at the part where David Kennedy loses his life to drug addiction.”
With his blue eyes staring thoughtfully, I could tell he had something on his mind. Maybe he wanted to tell me about the woman, or maybe he had another story to share from his childhood. Whatever it was, I’d be a captive audience, as always, despite the fact that I should’ve been heading to the office.
“I’d like to talk to you about something,” he began beseechingly.
“Sure, Dad. What is it?”
“I want you to go back to church.”
As if I’d just been told to eat a big chunk of liver with no condiments, I grimaced. Why did he have to spoil this lovely moment with talk of church? Couldn’t he see I was doing just fine without it?
Taking a deep breath, I prepared myself for battle.
“I don’t need to go to church to feel close to God. Now let’s put those headphones on.”
“It would make me so happy.”
“Would you like a cookie to go with your story? We still have some.”
“When was the last time you went?” he needled.
“I think there’s a baseball game on tonight. We’ll have to be sure to watch it together.”
“Jackie . . .”
&n
bsp; Knowing there was no way to skirt this topic, for he seemed intent on converting someone who had already been converted at birth, I sighed. “I just can’t go, Dad. You need twenty-four-hour care. I can’t leave you alone.”
He arched his eyebrows as we stared at each other.
“You can leave me alone for forty-five minutes. You don’t have to stay until the end. Just receive communion and go.”
I thought about his will, I held the power of attorney, which meant I was not only responsible for his finances, but his health directive as well. It was a job I took very seriously.
“Dad, I can’t do that. What if something happened while I was gone, like an earthquake or fire? I’d be held accountable for what happened to you.”
“That’s not going to happen.”
“You don’t know that. An earthquake could happen at any time. And you already experienced one fire in your home.”
Tilting his head, he tapped his chin with his index finger. I could tell by the look in his eyes he was calculating his next move, as if I were a pawn on a chess board and he was the knight coming to knock me off the board completely. When it came to matters of religion, he was relentless.
“Dad! I’d be charged with elder abuse if anything happened.” The room became deathly quiet. He wanted what he wanted. He was old, and he should have it. I was stubborn and unkind not to grant him this simple wish.
Sure, if I really wanted to go, I could find a way. I could tell a neighbor I’d be out of the house for a little bit and that he was home alone. I could hire a young girl to act as a babysitter, only in this case, a daddy-sitter.
I sat there, feeling uncomfortable with the topic and afraid to tell him the real truth as to why I no longer found peace and meaning in Mass.
The Promise I Kept Page 11