by Randle, Ned;
When he accepted that he was being tested, he relaxed and instantly found himself at ease and confident. He respectfully bantered with the director; he became analytical. He offered the Vocation director tangible evidence of his excellent academic credentials, to which the man responded that it takes more than brains to be a priest. Tom agreed. He had leavened his intelligence with maturity, he explained, and had learned a lot in the school of hard knocks. The director’s next tack was to focus on Tom’s poor attendance at Mass, with which Tom had to agree but countered good-naturedly that as a parish priest, he’d have to attend every Mass, which elicited the director’s only smile.
Finally, during an awkward silence when Tom felt his opportunity slipping away, he took an exceedingly practical approach; he cited statistics. He told the director he was well-aware the diocese had not ordained one of its own as a priest in five years, and in the last decade, the diocese had produced only two ordained priests, and one of them left the priesthood and married.
“You need priests, Father,” Tom finished, “and I want the job.”
Within a month, Tom submitted his application materials to St. Meinrad Seminary. The diocesan vocation director provided a fine letter of recommendation which, Tom learned years later, placed a heavy emphasis on the applicant’s perseverance and grit and very little emphasis on his spiritual endowments. Nevertheless, Tom was admitted to the seminary and on his way to becoming Father Thomas Abernathy, the man he secretly decided to become as he worked as a laborer in the days after he his mother saved his life.
His mother was thrilled beyond words.
Chapter Seventeen
I’m losing Naomi,” Theo blurted out when Father Tom answered the telephone in his study. “She’s dying.”
Father Tom felt the now familiar and wholly expected catch in his breath when he heard Theo say her name, but this time, associated with words too surreal to believe, he required more time to catch his breath so he could speak calmly into the telephone.
“What do you mean, Theo?”
“They did an ultrasound looking for gallstones. There weren’t any gallstones, but they saw a mass on her pancreas. On her liver, too.”
Tom lowered himself into his desk chair and said nothing. He was not a medical man, but he’d learned enough through his experiences with stricken parishioners to know cancer of the pancreas and liver, if that’s indeed what she had, was a death sentence, and only God knows when it will be executed.
“Are you sure?”
“I saw the scans myself, Tom. They looked like a goddamned Rorschach test. Forgive my language.”
“What you saw might be benign,” said Tom irresolutely.
“It might be, but the doctors told us to prepare for the worst. Particularly with the spots on both organs. It looks like it’s spread already.”
“She can be treated.”
“Yeah, but we all know how that turns out. They’re going to biopsy her liver next week, and if it’s cancer, start chemo. But it’s so widespread, the doctor said the treatments might be palliative at best.”
“I’ll pray for you both, Theo.” Tom felt tears pool in his eyes, and he wiped his eyes on his shirtsleeve.
“Privately, I hope. Please don’t put us on your prayer list at Mass, okay?”
Odd little man, Tom thought; his wife is dying and he’s the ever-dutiful Lutheran worried about prayers for her healing said in the Roman church. He felt like saying, “Get a life, Theo,” but he held his tongue. He knew when a man is stressed, he often retreats to the comfort of routine and dogma.
“As you wish, Theo,” he said.
“Thanks, Tom.” And after a pause, “I didn’t know who else to call at this point.”
Tom hung up the phone and sat at his desk, dumbfounded by Theo’s news, his old anger slowly rising until his hands shook and rivulets of sweat crept down his forehead. He snatched his Catechism off the desk and threw it across the room, bouncing it off the window that overlooked the rose garden and Cat’s grave. He immediately calmed himself, got up, and retrieved the book, placing it on the desk. He rested his damp forehead on the desk next to the Catechism and wept.
And contemplated death.
Whenever he contemplated the inevitability and finality of death, he always focused on one certain death, and, as if in rebuke to his faith and his training, it was not the death of Christ he fixated on; it was the death of his mother. When she was on the brink of death, he’d visited her one last time and performed the Rite of Extreme Unction. He anointed her forehead with the sign of the cross and prayed for the repose of her soul. And for an easy death, a prayer with aspects that haunted him ever after.
With his abiding love and respect for her, asking God for a merciful death was the best he could do since hers had not been an easy life. Her life certainly had improved after his father left, but there always was a struggle for money. Sometimes she worked two jobs to support them. She wore her clothes until they were threadbare and her shoes until the soles were thin. She drove an old car and maintained it herself, learning to change the oil and perform a minor tune-up. She never went out, except for church. Not even to a movie or a fast food joint. Yet, as he sat by her bedside in the deathwatch, he recalled he always had everything he needed—clean clothes, good shoes, money for an occasional movie, and tuition for Catholic school.
But her life had not been joyless drudgery, either. In later years, after he’d moved out and she had fewer burdens, she worked only one job as a cook at the local high school, ending her career as the head cook after thirty years’ service. Her pay was adequate and she even salted away a few bucks but still lived austerely. The students and faculty alike held her in great esteem, appreciating her cheerfulness and kindness. She was feted upon her retirement with a reception, a dozen red roses, and a plaque with her likeness hung on the cafeteria wall for all to see. At her funeral, more than one former student told Father Tom how his mother would sneak a piece of cake or extra meatball onto a lunch tray when she knew the student was short on money or got little to eat at home.
In addition to her job at the school, she enjoyed her patch of land and her gardens, both her rose garden and her vegetable garden and her apple trees, all of which she tended faithfully until her health began to fail. For years, she supplemented her income by selling vegetables and apples from a roadside stand in front of her house. She didn’t man it but placed the produce in an attractive array on an old table with handwritten prices per piece next to each variety, along with a coffee can for payment. It was an honor system, she explained to her son. When he was younger and more cynical, Tom thought it a foolish way to sell produce; he was certain the stand, with its lush vegetables and fruit, was a ripe target for thievery. His mother, on the other hand, had faith in human nature, and at the end of each day counted the produce and accounted for each missing piece with coins in the can. At least that’s what she always told him.
She also had her cats, which brought her pleasure by allowing themselves to be fawned over, at least occasionally, and serving as objects for her affection, particularly after he left home for the seminary.
And he knew her greatest source of joy in life was him, her son the priest. But perhaps it was he, the priest, who hurried her demise by praying so fervently by her side for a serene death, affecting the great harmonic to effect her death when she may have rallied and survived a good deal longer. The thought that he may have been implicated unnerved him and hampered for a time his ability to pray with and for the dying, one of his principal duties as a parish priest.
Now, as he tried to come to grips with Theo’s news, Father Tom wondered if Naomi had any sources of joy in her life. Even though he’d gotten to know him a little better, Theo still seemed to him to be joyless, and during their conversation at the coffee shop had called into question whether their marriage was a source of pleasure or satisfaction for either of them. Still, the b
rief times Tom had seen Naomi outside church, she displayed a singular aura of happiness, smiling and laughing, and he wondered if there was a spiritual source of such good humor, or if she merely was maintaining appearances as the parson’s wife. Still, it hardly mattered at this point; if Theo was correct, and Theo was not a man prone to hyperbole, Naomi soon would be dead.
After receiving the grim news regarding Naomi’s illness, after weeping selfishly, and after revisiting his mother’s death, Tom composed himself and called Brian Metzger to let him know that, for the time being, meetings of the St. Michael Poker & Drinking Club would be suspended. He told him only that Naomi Swindberg was quite sick, and Theo would be indisposed. Metzger replied that he’d heard Naomi had been ill, but he’d also heard her illness was not serious, and she’d be fine. Father Tom flushed at Metzger’s comments, vexed that Naomi had been the subject of small town gossip, and he told Metzger, perhaps uncharitably, he reasoned later, that the minister should keep the information to himself and that he, Tom, would consider it a personal affront if word got back to him that Metzger had mentioned her condition to anyone.
Once he finished talking to Brian Metzger, he thought about calling Billy Crump, but he was conflicted. He needed to tell Billy the poker club meetings were canceled, yet he didn’t want to give the smarmy little evangelical food for gossip. Nevertheless, he called Crump, who expressed surprise at the information, indicating to Father Tom that he, Billy, didn’t get his news from the same circuit as other preachers in town. Before they ended the call, Billy said, “We should keep this under our hats, Tom. No need to subject Theo and his wife to the bedevilments of black-hearted gossips. You and me been in this business long enough to know there are folks out there who’d take great delight in talking about a good man suffering the pains of this life.”
Father Tom was relieved to end the gatherings of the club. He was content to spend his evenings alone in contemplation and prayer, mostly for Naomi, and for Theo, too. However, his daily duties suffered from distraction. During Masses, his homilies lacked their old spark, and he went through the Rites and Sacraments in a rote manner. He visited the sick, but his visits were lackluster and short. He annoyed members of the Church Council by his inattention during meetings. And, for the first time, he considered his age and whether he should retire from the priesthood, rather than walk halfheartedly through his days of service, sinning grievously every day, inducing pain in others, so that he himself might suffer.
He also spent a lot of time questioning whether Naomi’s affliction was his punishment for his sins. When he heard confessions, he found the sins of his parishioners venal and trite compared to the grievous sin he held in his own heart. He dispensed lenient penances, believing he couldn’t require more from parishioners than he demanded from himself.
He’d not heard from Theo for almost a month when the pastor called to tell him Naomi was bedridden. She was in considerable pain, he said, and rarely lucid. He had called in hospice, and hospice workers sat with her during the day when he had work to do. He took care of her at night.
“She might only last a short while,” he said. Tom then heard Theo sob, and he too wanted to cry, so he put his hand over the telephone mouthpiece.
“I didn’t call till now because I didn’t want to burden you with my problems,” said Theo.
Tom felt his stomach roil at Theo’s last words and thought he may have to excuse himself from the phone and vomit. But he sat quietly until the nausea subsided. If, in the end, life is just a blink of the eye, Tom asked himself, why must God throw dust in it?
“You know, Tom, it’s always been the Lutheran way to accept and even rejoice in suffering. We believe suffering is God’s instrument of discipline and atonement. God disciplines those he loves. But it’s always been someone else’s suffering I’ve been asked to accept. Now it’s me being punished and I don’t accept it.”
Tom listened as Theo tried to stifle his sobs, sniffing his loose snot, then coughing a deep, rattily cough.
“I have a favor to ask of you,” said Theo after he composed himself.
“Sure, Theo.”
“I want you to pray for her.”
“I have been praying for her, Theo, and I’ll continue to pray for her.”
“No, I mean really pray. Over her, to drive out the devil that’s rotting her body. Heal her with prayer.”
Father Tom was taken aback by Theo’s request. He didn’t know what to say. “I don’t think I can do that, Theo,” was all he could muster.
“Why not?”
“First of all, I’m a Roman Catholic priest.”
“I know what you are, Tom. That’s why I want you to do this. You’re a Catholic priest, a direct descendant of Peter, the Rock, aren’t you? Didn’t St. Peter receive his commission directly from Christ himself?”
“Well, Theo—”
“Didn’t he?”
Father Tom felt terrible hearing the naive earnestness in Theo’s voice. To what depth of despondency had the man sunk to allow himself to make this call? And what could he tell Theo to dissuade him? That there really is no direct lineage to Peter? That the road backward from himself, a mere parish priest, to St. Peter runs through centuries of popes and pretenders and is rocky and pocked with rents and schisms? That there is a long history of dissolution and corruption surrounding the Papacy itself that casts shadows over every pope and every priest?
He pondered the questions for a bit and realized Theo likely was aware of such criticism of the Roman Catholic Church and the Papacy. Theo’s own church was founded on alleged iniquities of the Roman Church and the Papacy. He knew Theo, erudite and punctilious, probably had researched the matter and was sufficiently satisfied that the lineage from the local parish priest back to Peter to Jesus Christ Himself would allow him, Father Thomas Abernathy, pastor of St. Michael Catholic Church, to serve as a means to his desired ends. Or perhaps Theo’s judgment was clouded by his despair. In any event, Tom decided he would not try to change Theo’s mind about the tenuous relationship between himself and any saint, much less St. Peter, and try another tack.
“Surely there is a Lutheran pastor who could do this for you, Theo.”
“No, Tom. I want you.”
“There are priests specially trained for such practices.”
“Your being a priest is not the only reason I want you to do this, Tom; you’re also my friend.”
“Yes, Theo, I am your friend.”
“And I sense you’re an instrument of God.”
Father Tom didn’t know how to respond to Theo’s last remark. He’d always considered himself a servant of God, but not an instrument of God. The latter, he recognized, was a term of art, with specific meaning among the initiated. He started to mildly rebuke Theo. “Look, Theo, I’m not the man you think I am. I’m—”
“I need you to do this for me, Tom,” Theo interrupted. “I’ve tried to pray for her myself but feel my faith wavering. I fear my affection for her is hindering my ability to pray as fervently and freely as I need to to help her. My love for her doesn’t let me fully realize my faith. I need you to pray for her, Tom. Someone I believe in but who isn’t emotionally attached to her.”
Tom was shaken by Theo’s reasoning which, if sound, raised the ominous specters of hypocrisy and certain failure if he complied with Theo’s request.
“Are you sure this would be appropriate?” asked Tom, thinking he’d appeal to Theo’s overwhelming devotion to Lutheran orthodoxy.
“No one needs to know. It’ll be in the privacy of our home.”
“Why don’t you call someone at the Synod and see what they recommend?”
“Damn it, Tom, I want a priest! I want you!” Theo shouted, exhibiting another flash of frustration and anger of which Tom didn’t think him capable.
“Okay, Theo, calm down. Just calm down.”
“Forgive me, Tom. I’m distra
ught.”
“I can understand that you are. Look, I need to think about this. I need to pray on it.”
“Don’t take too much time, Father. I don’t know how much time she has,” Theo replied before breaking down into a fit of bitter sobbing.
Tom held his tongue until Theo’s sobbing devolved into a catarrh-like flood of sniffs and snorts and snot and then silence. “Theo?”
“Yes?”
“What is Naomi’s birthday?”
“December fifth. Why?”
“Just curious,” he responded, pleased she was a Sagittarius, a fellow Fire Sign quite compatible with Aries, which might be helpful if he agreed to Theo’s request to intervene. But as he sat there, he saw no way he could agree to do what Theo asked; however, he didn’t say no out of hand because he didn’t want to add to the man’s distress.
When he hung up the phone, Tom felt numb and lifeless. He sat at his desk, head in hands, and his only thoughts were of Naomi. What must she look like, he wondered, since this disease has ravaged her body? And the pain, the pain. Theo’s pitiful sobs had had small effect on him, not that he was unsympathetic to his pain, but the realization of her pain was nearly unbearable, leaving scant space for any other feelings. In that scant space was his own pain and grief, a sense of profound loss of something he’d never had, the most difficult of all losses to mitigate.
He went into the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. He walked out into the back yard to clear his head. It was a typical Indian summer evening, warm, even at the end of the day, a vestige of summer melding into autumn. It was his favorite time of year. Temperate and dry, the roses still in bloom and fragrant. He sat down on the ground in the corner of the rose garden, adjacent Cat’s grave, where he was indistinguishable from the shadows cast by the willow tree in the waning light of day to any passersby. The soil was damp from an earlier watering and he felt the dampness wick through his trousers and touch his skin, a cool and dank sensation. He looked around at the rose bushes which were fading into silhouettes in the twilight and tried to assess which would need an early pruning, which might continue to bloom into the cold weather, and which were old and woody and needed to be replaced.