Terry took the stairs to the second floor two at a time and headed straight to his parents’ bedroom. The door was open, he was confronted with a bed with nothing but a box spring and mattress. The sheets were gone. His eyes jumped from place to place. The blankets were gone. So were the pillows. Where was the quilt? His mother’s slippers, always so evenly placed next to her side of the bed, also gone. Terry dropped to his knees and peered under the bed. He had to be sure. Nothing.
From the second-floor landing, his fear increased. At the top of his eight-year-old voice he shouted as loud as he could, “Mom! Dad! Where are you?” Terry gripped the railing as he descended the stairs. He opened the front door and ran out to the walkway. Mrs. Freelander, the next-door neighbor, was waiting for him.
“Terry, your dad asked me to look after you until he got back. He said he would be late getting home, and asked me to give you dinner. ” Mrs. Freelander said.
“Where are my Mom and Dad?”
“Your dad said he shouldn’t be too late, but if he was later than he wanted to be, I should make sure you’re in bed by eight and that your homework was done.”
“But where are they?”
“Your mother is sick, dear, and had to go the hospital. Your father went with her. I’m sure it will be fine. Now, let’s get you inside.”
True to her word, Mrs. Freelander gave him a nice dinner, one that he shared with her and her husband. Every minute was torture for Terry. When would his folks come back? Why didn’t they call? What was going on?
After he completed his homework at the Freelander dining room table, Mrs. Freelander escorted him back home. He got into his pajamas and she tucked him into bed.
“And my Mom?”
Mrs. Freelander just smiled. “You get some sleep now. Good night, dear.”
Terry tossed and turned. He missed his parents. Where were they? They’d never left him alone before. Finally, exhausted from worry, he fell asleep.
He awoke the next morning, jumped out of bed and went downstairs. His father was sitting on the parlor sofa. His hair usually well combed was messed up. His shirt was wrinkled and his eyes were red.
“Dad! What’s going on?”
“Good morning, son. How did you sleep? Did Mrs. Freelander take good care of you?” Pat said as he peered intently at his son.
“Everything was good. Where’s Mom?”
“She’s not here now, but you’ll see her soon. She’s at the hospital. They said they would call me, and tell me when you and I can come see her.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Your mother is sick. They say she has spinal meningitis and needs special care we can’t give her at home. The doctors are taking good care of her. Let’s get you ready for school. Go wash up and I’ll make you some breakfast.”
That was that.
Every day after school, he waited at Mrs. Freelander’s until his Dad came home from work. He asked about his Mom, but his Dad said there wasn’t any news yet. Later that week, the phone call finally came late in the afternoon.
“That’s was the doctor,” his father said, hanging up the phone. “We can see her tomorrow. I’ll pick you up from school.”
An elated Terry climbed into the front passenger seat of the family’s new Chevy the next day. The shiny blue sedan turned from the driveway and headed out of town. The sun was setting when the car turned off a smoothly paved street onto a cobblestone road that ran through thick, high grasses and weeds on both sides. Pat Nolan nosed the Chevy toward a rounded hill that emerged from the dampness around it. They drove through an arched entrance that read SNAKE HILL SANITARIUM, and pulled to a stop in front of a dark, threatening building.
“Stay here, son. I have to talk to the people inside before we can see your mother.”
He watched as his father stepped through a glass door and into the lobby where he was greeted by a man in a white doctor’s coat. He watched as they spoke, his father nodding. After the conversation, they shook hands.
His father came back and opened the front passenger door. “Your mother is still not feeling well enough to see us. But she can come to the window of her room for us to wave to her.” He pointed to the second story of the building.
After a few minutes, the light in the second-floor treatment room came on. Terry and his father walked closer to the building. They had to crane their necks, but they could see clearly through the window. A woman appeared with a man in a white uniform. Her long brown hair was a mess, nearly covering her face. Her lips were moving, and spittle could be seen showering from her mouth. Her head twitched from side to side. Barely able to stand, the attendant held her by the shoulders. She was strapped tightly into a straitjacket.
“Who’s that?” Terry said. “Where’s Mom?”
“Your mother is very sick, son,” he said, holding back his tears. “We better go now so she can get her rest.”
“But Dad…”
“We’d better go,” his father said quietly. “I’ll check in with them later.”
For the next three days, Terry asked about his mom, but his father had no news. Then the call from Snake Hill came. Terry was in the parlor when his father picked up the phone.
“Yes, yes, I understand.” A pause and then, “Yes, as I told you, all arrangements at my end have been made. I’ll call Flannery’s as soon as I get off. Their hearse won’t take long getting there. Thank you for all that you’ve done.”
Terry began to cry. His father hung up the phone and sat next to him on the sofa.
“It’s for the best, son. She is now resting in God’s peace.”
Terry nodded as his father embraced him. The house seemed so empty and still.
Late the next morning Pat, Terry, and Mary Nolan were aboard a Lackawanna Pullman as it picked up steam and glided out of Hoboken station on its way to Utica, father and son in first class and Mary in the baggage car. His dad explained they were taking her to be buried in Chickapee, her hometown. It was the longest trip of his life.
Pat and Terry bedded down in the stolid, granite McNeese mansion that had been Mary’s childhood home. It took only two days for it all to end. Terry knew it was over when his mother was lowered into the ground.
The monsignor, Pat Nolan, and Terry fell into silence as they walked across a large, thickly carpeted foyer of the Sacred Heart rectory and into a book-lined study.
“A little something? You were always big on Canadian. I think we can find some around here someplace,” he said with a wink.
There was no hint that Prohibition had made even the slightest difference in Timothy Flaherty’s pursuit of the good life. “Thank the Lord in his wisdom that there is a Canada, and thank him for Father Etienne, a born smuggler,” the monsignor said extending his left hand in a sweeping gesture that took in all of the contraband booze on the corner table.
“And I guess a little ginger ale for you, Terry. Scotch for me.” The monsignor was already putting ice into Terry’s glass at the small, amply-stocked table in the corner behind his desk.
Pat Nolan’s first swig of Canadian Club, neat, drained a third of his glass. “Tim, I think you’ve got it made.”
“It is comfortable here, I have to admit. You know, when I went to the seminary, I didn’t know parishes like this existed. Sure, I knew the rich had to go to church someplace, but this? It’s indecent. There was a time when I would have been satisfied with a parish like our own St. Anthony’s. Now that’s unthinkable.”
It took about ten comfortable minutes for the men to drain their glasses, their small talk mostly about Fordham football. They basked in the warm glow of Tim’s expensive booze, and the pride they felt that the Rams had become a national powerhouse. Two Irish Catholics admiring the work of Iron Major Frank Cavanaugh, another Mick, who was bringing sports page fame to their old school.
The monsignor took his friend’s empty glass. He then looked at the stupefied boy. “Shame on you, Terry,” he said in mock seriousness, his big, heavy hand mussing the boy’s hair.
“On the wagon or something?”
Terry realized that he hadn’t touched his ginger ale. He had been too busy watching and listening to this big, confident man, so different from any priest he had ever seen or imagined. “Guess I’m not thirsty,” he stammered.
“It’s okay, son, just kidding,” the monsignor said. Terry’s father chuckled in the background. The monsignor returned from the table with two refills.
“Your phone call really surprised me. You said you had something important to talk about. Important, but not urgent. What the hell does that mean?” The glow of the afternoon drinks was a welcome friend.
The monsignor turned to Terry. “Maybe I better explain something to you, if your father hasn’t done it already. If you’re wondering about my language … well, what can I say? Only that it’s the language of friends. Friends who go back a long way. For an opener, I bet you didn’t know that we played in the same backfield for eight years, high school and college. Even did a little moonlighting with a semi-pro outfit called the Yonkers Yanks. Your dad was a helluva football player.”
“Yes, I know. My dad doesn’t say anything about how good he was, but I’ve seen his scrapbooks. He’s working out with me now, over at the park. Still throws a mean pass.”
“I bet he does. Now, Pat, what’s on your mind?”
“It’s about the future, that’s why I said it was important, but not too urgent.” Patrick looked in Terry’s direction, then back to Flaherty.
“I see. Terry, why don’t you go to the end of the hall into the kitchen. Our cook, Emily, has a whole shelf full of snacks you’ll enjoy while your father and I catch up some more.”
Terry rose and put his glass down. “Thank you, Father.”
Terry was well into his second cherry tart, washing it down with his third glass of cold milk when his father and the monsignor came into the kitchen.
“Okay, son,” his father said. “Time to go.”
Monsignor Flaherty walked them to the door. The two men shook hands. “Great to see you, Pat. Don’t be a stranger. We’ll talk more about the future.”
Then turning to Terry, he patted him on the shoulder. “You’re a great kid, Terry. I hope to see you again soon.”
Terry and his father were halfway back to the candy store/bus stop when Pat Nolan interrupted Terry’s enthusiastic questions about the man he’d just met.
“The monsignor will be a bishop someday.” Terry felt the heavy warmth of his father’s hand on his shoulder. They walked a few more steps. “He’s a great role model.”
“Dad, I don’t follow you.”
“You’re Irish. You’re intelligent, reasonably good looking, and are obviously going to be a pretty big kid. You’re well on your way to becoming a damn good athlete. You have everything he had when he started, and look where he is now. It’s something for you to think about.”
During Terry’s final year at St. Anthony’s, unfamiliar faces appeared at all of the big games. Terry excelled in basketball and baseball, a key player on the teams, but not one of the stars. Football had become Terry’s sport, and behind his outstanding all-around play, the school won the league championship.
A month before graduation, Brother Stephen, a compact little man with broad shoulders and a lisp, was introduced to him in the rectory by Father Joseph. The brother headed the athletic department at St. Monica’s Prep, the biggest, most prestigious Catholic high school in the county. It turned out powerful teams in every sport. Most of the athletes came from nearby Hudson County parishes, but others came from as far as ten miles away.
“Well, Terence, I’ve heard great things about you,” Brother Stephen said.
“Thank you, Father. I try to do my best.”
“Terence is one of our most conscientious students,” Father Joseph added. “And has a terrific jump shot.” The two men laughed.
“Have you heard of St. Monica’s Prep?”
“Sure, Father,” Terry said eagerly. “They’ve been division champs for years.”
“Yes, we’ve done quite well. And our academic program is one of the top rated in the state. You must come to visit us sometime soon.”
“Thank you, Father. I’d like that.”
That night, Terry told his dad about meeting with Brother Stephen.
“It doesn’t surprise me that you’ve been scouted. You’re a good student.”
“Yeah, I guess. But St. Monica’s? It seems outta my league.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, son. You may be surprised. Now go get washed up for dinner.”
A week after graduation, Terry got a letter inviting him to attend St. Monica’s on a full athletic scholarship, travel expenses included. He would have to take a bus to get there every day, but he didn’t care. It was a chance of a lifetime.
“I’m proud of you, son,” his dad said when he showed him the letter. “St. Monica’s is one of the best. It’ll open loads of doors in the future.”
Tim came through, Pat thought. His letter of recommendation for Terry really did the trick.
From that point on, things went smoothly. Being a jock at St. Monica’s did not guarantee preferential treatment. Sure, it might have gotten him into the school, but that was all. He still had to keep up his grades in order to play, and discipline was tough. But he kept his nose clean and graduated.
He was offered full scholarships by Holy Cross and Fordham. Boston College and Villanova offered partial grants, as did William and Mary and, of all places, Tulane. It was no contest. Fordham, besides being his father’s alma mater, played a tough national football schedule. Perhaps most important, it was located in New York City, a short trip from his Dad. Their home games were even on the radio.
To celebrate the good news, Pat Nolan took his son out to dinner at his favorite Italian restaurant in lower east Manhattan. Terry, now eighteen, could legally drink so Pat decided to pull out all stops and share a bottle of Chianti with his son.
“A good choice, sir,” the waiter said as he poured a small portion of wine into a glass for tasting.
“I’m sure it is, but the choice was my son’s. Let him decide.”
The waiter turned to Terry. “I’m very sorry, sir. I’m anxious to have your opinion.”
Terry sipped the rich, heavy red wine and rolled it around his tongue as he had seen them do in the movies. His father was grinning. “Fine, just fine.”
It was nice. A big fireplace crackled. Two musicians wandered about the room with their accordion and fiddle. Warm, sentimental music filled the restaurant. The spaghetti arrived with meatballs for Pat and sausage for Terry. They ate with relish as they talked about Fordham and the future.
The waiter came by with the bill and emptied the wine bottle into their glasses. Terry looked up from his glass to find his father staring at him. Suddenly there developed that peculiar uneasiness that can sometimes arise when two people who love each other, truly love each other, are mutually overwhelmed by their feelings.
“What can I say?” said Pat. There was a mist over his eyes. “Little, I’m afraid. But, I’d like to make a toast.”
Terry knew he would never forget that toast, not for what was said, but what was left unspoken. His father reached forward and they tapped their glasses. “To you, ya big lug.” Pat paused, his soft blue eyes bathing his son with all the hopes and anxieties he had for him. “My son.”
Terry successfully fought back the tears. “Thanks, Dad.” Father and son silently finished their wine.
Terry was never a regular starter during his three years on the Rams varsity. His father took in all the home games despite not knowing whether Terry would get onto the field. As an alum and former player, he got two free choice tickets. Monsignor Flaherty would join Pat for the big games.
The four years at Fordham were good ones for Terry despite his lack of success at football. He dated a lot, mostly girls from Barnard, because they were fun, usually had enough money to go “dutch,” and were more liberal than the Catholic girls he met from Marym
ount College in Tarrytown. Sociology majors from Barnard were the best bet.
One of them was Sarah Green, who took a detached intellectual approach toward her sexual encounters with Terry. Before their split, Sarah had taught Terry the glories of oral sex. Despite her warm smile, Sarah could be direct and oddly impersonal, as though Terry was the raw data for one of her term papers with questions like “How does it feel?” or “Does it feel better when I do this?”
Whenever possible, Terry spent holidays, semester and summer breaks with his father in Jersey City. He was aghast at the rapidly aging face of a strong, Irish Catholic man, a pragmatist who wanted the best of both worlds for his son. His insurance business had collapsed early in the Depression, and with no end in sight, he saw only one viable path for Terry to take after graduation. He enlisted Monsignor Flaherty, and his long-time friend was eager to help. The Monsignor picked up the dinner tab after every important home game, and it took little for Terry to rekindle memories of that afternoon in Montclair and the comfortable opulence of the Monsignor’s rectory and church.
“Your studies, still bouncing around for a major?” the Monsignor said after the NYU game his sophomore year.
“Economics.”
“Have you given any thought to theology? I know the Jebbies can get your head spinning when it comes to the Church, but theirs is not the only way to go. Have you given any thought to a religious vocation?”
Terry looked at the Monsignor, then glanced at his father. “More often now that I realize I’ll be out on the street in a little more than two years.”
“No need for me to preach, so I’ll only say that the Church in America offers challenges that I believe you’ll be more than able to tackle.”
So Terry gave it a lot of consideration and decided the Jesuits weren’t the answer. They offered a lot of questions, plenty of room for thought, but the seminary in Darlington, New Jersey held much more. A father’s dream, a son’s future.
Armed with degrees in theology and economics, Terry endured his years at the seminary, where street-smart priests prepared him to go out among common folks yearning for answers where there weren’t any. It was Terry’s good fortune that tobacco-loving Father Peter Majeski, Father “Ski” to his intimates, was his spiritual advisor. If it wasn’t for the big Polish iconoclast, Terry probably would not have gotten through his years there.
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