Her source had to be in his nineties. He wore the black pants, shirt, suit coat, and white Roman collar with stiff dignity and pride. He shook our hands firmly. His bald head had a circle of gray fringe.
We sat at the butcher-block kitchen table. Scott put on the coffee the old gentleman had requested as refreshment. Monica introduced him as Father Gilbert Stuart. “He lives in the cathedral rectory. He’s agreed to help us.”
The old man spoke in a soft tenor, a hint of wheeze and crackle well under control. “I knew Father Sebastian in the seminary. The other priests ignore me in my retirement, although a few still remember. Lately, the activities of the priests have bothered me. When Monica told me about your nephew, I knew I had to speak. Something is wrong. I love the Church, it’s been good to me, but there has to be a limit to what its priests can get away with.”
“Why not go to the police?” I asked.
“Monica convinced me you would be best. Discretion is of the highest importance, and you have it.”
Scott gave him his coffee. He spent some time adding sugar and cream, testing it several times to make sure it was to his liking. He looked up as he gave the brew a few last stirs.
“That’s one of the advantages of being ninety-two,” he said. “You can put any damn thing in your coffee you want, you can eat anything you want, and the damn doctors just marvel at you like some icon.”
He took a sip of coffee and smiled appreciatively.
“You can also be as honest as you want. You need help in solving this murder. Let me tell you about myself first. You need to be able to trust me. First of all, I’m gay.”
Scott and I stirred in our chairs and looked at each other. Monica took this news impassively.
He told his story between sips of coffee. He’d discovered his sexuality when he was in his twenties, long before anyone even dreamed of a gay rights movement. He knew Henry Gerber back in the twenties in Chicago when Gerber and a group of other men formed one of the first gay rights groups in the country. “We were all extremely closeted. No one used last names. Being part of it was horribly daring for a priest at the time.”
Henry Gerber founded the Society for Human Rights, a group chartered by the State of Illinois on December 24, 1924. They published a paper called Friendship and Freedom. Their activities quickly led to trouble with the police. A number of people in the group, including Gerber, were arrested without a warrant. Eventually the charges were dismissed, but Gerber wound up losing his job.
“Of course, no one knew I was a priest. I wasn’t arrested. When I found out about the trouble, I never went near any of them again. That was so sad and so cowardly.”
Then, in his first parish assignment on Chicago’s West Side, he’d fallen in love with an assistant pastor a few years older than himself. Amazingly, their relationship blossomed into a lifelong attachment.
“We loved each other very deeply. Of course, we had to be exceptionally careful. It’s bad for gay priests now, but then it would have been ghastly. We’d meet in secret. We had sex only rarely, but it was all the more passionate for that. We got transferred to different parishes, but we managed to keep our relationship quiet and exclusive all those years. We were faithful more from circumstances than from choice. He died three years ago.”
After working in parishes for fifteen years, Father Stuart had been assigned to various positions in the seminary program, finally being put in charge. He’d known Sebastian well. “He and John Smith, whom you have already met, were incredibly close. They did everything together. I had to warn them several times to be more discreet. It was dangerous to form ‘particular friendships’ in those days. It still is.”
Sebastian and Smith took part in much of the civil rights activity in the early Sixties. As newly ordained priests they’d both gone to Selma, Alabama, to take part in the marches.
He looked at his empty coffee cup. Scott refilled it. As Stuart performed his rituals with the liquid he continued. “Monica, of course, has told me everything.” He sipped coffee and coughed. “You should have seen the cathedral rectory these past weeks. I’ve seen the same kind of activity when a priest molests a child: secret meetings, everybody knowing a little piece of distorted fact, and nobody really knowing anything. It’s like a hive of old queens trying to know all and be discreet at the same time.”
It turned out that the new cardinal hated gay people. Even more, he wanted absolutely no publicity about priests testing positive for, having, or dying of AIDS. The hierarchy was always hideously worried about “scandalizing the faithful,” buzz words like “national security” for covering up when priests or politicians broke the law or in general screwed up. “Smith is in charge of the cover-up. You wouldn’t believe the clout the church still has in this town.”
If it was AIDS or murder, Father Stuart went on to explain, he wanted the truth to come out.
“Were Sebastian and Smith actually lovers back then?” I asked.
“You ask a question I’ve thought about a great deal. They were both attractive boys and very popular. Everybody liked them. They’d both have gone far. Smith dropped the relationship a year or so after they were ordained. I never knew why. He advanced far, as many of us thought he would. He could have his own diocese someday as bishop. Sebastian never compromised his principles. He kept marching for every cause. He upset parishioners and priests. I wish I’d been as brave as he was. They couldn’t keep him from being a pastor, but he knew he’d never advance much further in the system, and it didn’t seem to bother him.”
He took a long sip of his coffee and stared out the window over the lake. “Were they lovers? No, I don’t think so. If I had to make a guess, I’d say it was because Sebastian demanded more than Smith could give. John Smith is a good man, a fine priest, but he has his limitations. Sebastian had his faults too. As a seminarian, he could drive you nuts with his intensity and commitment.”
“This is all hypocritical bullshit,” I said.
Father Stuart smiled softly. He was the first priest we’d met who didn’t indulge in condescension and put-down games, two skills they must have classes in for the modern Catholic seminary.
Monica blew out a long stream of smoke and eyed us all carefully.
“You think being a priest and gay is hypocritical?” The priest’s question came out softly and reasonably.
Scott nodded.
“Do you have any idea of how many priests are gay?”
We all shook our heads.
“Some estimates go as high as fifty percent. I can tell you from my own observations of three decades in formation work that it is probably higher than that.” He told us that most gay priests hide the fact from others and from themselves. That lots of Catholic boys, discovering they didn’t like girls, translated that into believing they’d be able to cope with celibacy with no problem, and thought they had a calling. “They do decent work for a number of years, but eventually most of them begin to figure it out. Often it’s too late to leave. Running a parish leaves you woefully unqualified for any jobs in the real world.” Father Stuart told us that when you listened to priests talk about life in the “real world” it was often quite sad. They would sneer at the strivings of their parishioners and yet be fearful of ever leaving the protection of Holy Mother Church. For the older ones it was worse. To leave in your fifties or sixties with no pension behind you left a man to face years of poverty-stricken retirement. “So they stay and they’re miserable. The alcoholism rate among priests is appalling.”
“Why not just come out?” Scott asked. “What could the church do to them? From what I heard it’s impossible to defrock somebody once he’s in.”
“They’re afraid of the same thing many of us are afraid of: rejection, loss of status, fear of reprisal, loss of current assignment and future promotions, loss of respect, scandal—and then there’s all that child molestation myth shit.”
The profanity from the old priest surprised me. He took another sip of coffee and said, “What I’m t
elling you isn’t a big secret. Most of it’s in James G. Wolf’s book Gay Priests. You should read it.”
“I guess,” Scott said.
Stuart pointed at Scott. “It’s very much like what would happen if word got into the press that you were gay. You’d still be a superb baseball player, but the hassles would be enormous.”
“The anticipation of discrimination can often cause more problems than the discrimination itself,” Monica said. “A guy named Ross wrote an article about it you should read.”
Stuart said, “I’m afraid our new Bishop is only going to make things worse. Of course, he fits the classic mold of the self-denying homosexual who is the worst enemy of gay people. He’s the type who would prosecute them the most eagerly.”
Monica said, “Sebastian was the only priest I’ve ever met who could balance his celibacy and yet be sensitive, emotionally responsive, and happy at the same time. That kind of balance is rare in a gay priest. Most are so unhappy.”
Do you know anything about Sebastian’s family?” I asked.
“I believe they’re all dead,” Stuart said.
Monica said, “He rarely mentioned them. He did say once that he came from a family of Episcopalians. He converted while in high school. He said his family had a major problem with his being a priest.”
“My suggestion as a place for you to start is another interview with Bishop Smith,” Stuart said. “You’ve gotten in once before. He can be very difficult. I’d like to help, but I’m just an old fart he’d ignore, and I don’t want to be revealed as your source of information. I may be old and safe, but I’d like to continue to be of use. Revealed, I can do you very little good.”
They left and we called the cathedral rectory. Smith wasn’t home. We could try the chancery office. We called, but Father Smith was unavailable. We decided to try barging into the diocesan offices and demanding an audience. I wasn’t about to put up with some ecclesiastical bullshit.
The diocesan offices took up the bottom floors of a high rise on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Ontario. We parked at Scott’s building and walked over. The wind and rain of the night before had given way to a cool crisp morning. Without a covering of snow for reinforcement, the arctic blast had a harder time getting a solid grip on the city.
We arrived at the chancery shortly after one. We used Scott’s name to move secretaries and the mountain of bureaucracy to action. Even the Catholic Church was susceptible to the power of fame and name dropping. All business came to a halt as friend called to friend. Father Smith discovered us amid a horde of adoring fans, both male and female.
When Smith arrived, priests and civilians gave him wary looks and moved quickly back to their assigned tasks. Moments later he guided us through empty halls to a third-floor office. The room contained a massive desk flanked by the American flag on the left and the papal gold and white on the right. The wall on the left had three enlarged, framed photographs. In each we saw Smith with, starting from the door, the pope, the president, and the mayor of Chicago. The other walls were barren beige. The carpeting was light brown. In front of the massive oak desk sat two deep maroon leather chairs. We each sank into one. He took his seat in the massive swivel chair behind the desk.
He smiled benignly, steepled his fingers, and placed them under his chin. The light from the windows behind him created the godlike effect he wanted.
Smith began some pleasant, innocuous comment.
I cut in quietly. “You and Sebastian were lovers thirty years ago.”
The maddening smile went on. “And if we were, so what?” he murmured. “Are you going to send out a press release? No one would print it. No one cares. His soon-to-be-cardinal eminence doesn’t care. Believe me, he sympathizes completely.”
“How can he be sympathetic and justify closing down Faith?” I asked.
Smith spread his hands palm up. “He can be gay and still close it down. Rules are rules. Rome has spoken. If you can’t buy the program, get out.”
“You’ve had it both ways,” I said.
“I’ve done a great deal, in my small way, for gay Catholics. When Faith got thrown out of their church, I got them all their supplies: vestments, chalices, wine, hosts. My conscience is clear.” The hands returned to their accustomed place under his chin.
“Sebastian was HIV positive,” I said.
“Yes, I know.” For the first time a slight crack appeared in his smug exterior.
“Did that bother you?” I asked. “Supposedly you were still close friends.”
“We were,” he said. His eyes got misty. “But it was too late for me to do anything about it.”
I let his wistful words fade to silence. Finally, he shook himself and turned cold eyes to us. “What else do you dare to ask?”
“Why did you involve Father Clarence in all this?”
“As head troubleshooter for the diocese, I take an interest in every priest who might cause scandal for the faithful. In an excess of guilt he might confess all. I had to prevent that. Perhaps I was excessively harsh with the young man.”
“Is this the way you handle all the young priests under your care?” Scott said. “You become their ‘special friend’? Although Clarence strikes me as relentlessly heterosexual.”
“I’m afraid he is. Attractive he might be, but I’ve never touched him—as I never touched any other young priest.”
“If you were so close to Sebastian, why aren’t you concerned about finding the cause of his death?” I asked.
He smiled wanly. “He was already dying.” We sat in silence for moments. Suddenly Smith sat up straighter in his chair. “Because I knew of his antibody status, I presumed his death was connected to some aspect of the syndrome.” He cleared his throat. “Besides which, one of the major roles here is to prevent what we call ‘scandal to the faithful.’” He explained that to all but the incredibly stupid, this catch phrase meant the church was covering up another fuck-up. I didn’t tell him we already knew this. He went on to say that, as the AIDS epidemic spread, more and more priests had been dying of the disease. Various dioceses managed to conceal the true cause of the deaths. However, word had leaked out, and some cases and reports had gotten into the press. “We can’t have that kind of publicity. Gay priests and AIDS. Supposedly the pope was furious about the whole issue. We’ve got strict orders. No publicity about gay priests, with or without AIDS. I can tell you that cover-ups in this city are quite possible.”
“We need the autopsy report,” I said.
“Actually, you don’t.” The benign smile returned. “The report states he died of natural causes. No examination of any kind occurred. You’ll get no help there. People value their jobs too much to blab to you gentlemen. But in this case there is nothing to blab. Nobody found anything, because nobody looked.”
I wanted to grab the thick gold chain that held his heavy gold cross and wrap it tightly around his stupid smug throat.
“You don’t care that somebody may have killed him?” Scott asked.
He had the decency to look thoughtful before he gave a cold no. We asked if he knew of any current problems, boyfriends, or priests Sebastian was close to. We got simple no’s. Minutes later, we left.
Before working out at Scott’s, I called Glen and Jeannette. Glen’s voice had lost all the bounce and verve it normally had. I spoke what words of encouragement I could. We’d been exercising for an hour, and I’d just finished my third set of eight chin-ups, when the phone rang. I grabbed a towel from the pile by the Universal weight machine, then hurried to the phone on the wall. I wiped off sweat as I picked up the receiver.
It was Mildred Weber from St. Joseph’s rectory. “We have to see you boys.” She wouldn’t tell me what for on the phone, but we could come to their home right after dark.
Feeling only slightly ridiculous, but on the off chance they really knew something, we drove to the suburbs. Across the street from the Webers’ the rectory blazed with light. We found their house completely dark. Climbing the stairs
I felt uneasy. I had my hand raised to knock when the door jerked open. A hand reached out and yanked me in. “Hurry,” an elderly voice whispered. Scott jumped in behind me.
Mildred put her finger to her lips. The dimness made close observation difficult, but I could see overstuffed furniture covered with lace doilies cluttering the room.
She dragged us to the front picture window and knelt on the floor next to Harriet. Mildred motioned for us to join them. Down we crouched. Between the closed drapes and the window pane was a two-inch gap.
“We always watch from here,” Mildred whispered.
I looked and saw the lit rectory. I detected no human movement.
“What’s going on?” Scott asked.
Mildred explained without taking her eyes off the rectory. She said, “It’s been going on all afternoon. First that awful Bishop Smith showed up.”
“Father Sebastian introduced us once,” Harriet said. “I didn’t trust him from the first minute, did I?”
They did their nod routine.
Smith had stayed an hour. Constance quit in a screaming fit around four. Smith left soon after. Clarence snarled at Mildred and Harriet. They left, directionless and at a loss, without even preparing supper, something they’d always done. Since then a woman had driven up. From the description I guessed her to be Clarence’s wife. In the middle of her visit a small moving truck had driven up. They spent a half hour moving Father Clarence’s things out of the house. They’d driven off twenty minutes before we drove up.
Fascinating as all this might have been, I didn’t care about Father Clarence unless he was part of the kidnapping solution. He’d lied to us, but even if Smith told us lies too, I’d begun to suspect Clarence was an innocent man caught in a web far beyond his own comprehension. He had enough problems of his own.
After watching five more minutes of no movement, I said, “Why did you call us?”
They eased their creaking bones off the floor and drew us deeper into the house. A swinging door led from a dining room into the kitchen. Before turning on the lights, they pulled all the shades and shut the drapes.
The Only Good Priest Page 13