by Peter Murphy
“He was singing Jesus Christ Superstar.”
“Ah well, he has become very musical since he got his guitar,” Jacinta poured their tea and settled behind her own cup.
“Is there more?” Jerry flicked the ash from his cigarette but missed the ashtray. He leaned forward and blew it away, almost into their cups.
“I’m afraid there is.” Fr. Reilly moved his cup to his lap. “When the Guards found him he was standing on the altar in nothing but his underwear.”
“Were they his holey ones?”
“Hush you and don’t be making a joke out of it. This is terrible news, Father.”
“Sure what harm was there?”
“Well, there’s more. It seems there was a young lady there, too. She was in her underwear also, and told the Guards that she was Mary Magdalene. The two of them were singing and dancing around like pagans. The Guards think they might have been high on drugs.”
“God save us.” Jacinta blessed herself and retrieved her cigarette pack and lit one.
“But there was no real harm done, was there, Father?” Jerry pulled the cigarette pack toward him.
“Well, Father Brennan is concerned about the blasphemous nature of the thing. He is very upset and is talking excommunication.”
“God save us,” Jacinta repeated and blessed herself with her cigarette.
“Will there be any charges?” Jerry asked as his eyes narrowed.
“Well, the Bishop will have to be involved but I will try to have a word with him. He’s a very decent man and I’m sure that he’ll be able to see his way to having a bit of mercy—for your late mother’s sake, if nothing else.”
“And well he should after all the money she gave to the Church.”
“Don’t be talking like that in front of the priest.”
“Why not? I’m just saying, you know?”
Fr. Reilly sipped his tea and wished he could take more command of situations like this. It was a very serious matter, though Jerry didn’t seem to think so. But he had done what he came to do—to deliver the bad news. “I should be off, I suppose, unless you need me for anything?”
“No, Father. But thank you so much for coming to tell us. I suppose we should go down to the Garda station?”
“Well, if you want my advice—I’d wait until morning. The Guards want to hold him until then. They want to try to scare a bit of sense into him.”
“They won’t beat him, will they Father?”
“It won’t do him a bit of harm if they did.”
“Don’t you be talking like that. This is your own flesh and blood we’re talking about.”
“I don’t think Danny will come to any harm,” Fr. Reilly assured her as he rose to take his leave. “And if you don’t mind me saying, it might be better if you both got a bit of sleep and came to it fresh in the morning?”
But Jerry and Jacinta were already squaring up to each other.
“I’ll just let myself out then?”
“Fair enough, Father,” Jerry rose and walked him to the door.
“Will Mrs. Boyle be all right?”
“She will, Father, after she’s had a chance to digest it all.”
“Well, don’t hesitate to call me if there’s anything I can do.”
“We will, Father, and thanks very much for coming to tell us.”
As Fr. Reilly wheeled his bike down the drive he could hear the two of them tear into each other.
He yawned as the eastern sky lightened and the hedgerows began to chirp. There was no point in going back to bed when he got home. Instead, he’d have another cup of tea before he had to go with Fr. Brennan to face the Bishop.
Later on he’d have to drop in on the girl’s family.
**
“It’s a bad business,” the Bishop had concluded as he sipped his coffee. He had listened impassively as the two priests laid the story before him. The Garda Sergeant had called him, too, and almost seemed to enjoy breaking the news. “And it couldn’t have happened at a worse time.”
The National Coalition was straining the ties that bound Church and State. The voting on the Contraception Bill had been far too close and needed the Taoiseach, and a few others, to vote against their own party. There was even talk of changing the Constitution, too, of giving up the claim on the North. The country was going to the dogs and the last thing he needed was for this to attract the eye of one of those civil liberty lawyer types. It was better that they dealt with it behind closed doors.
Fr. Brennan wanted excommunication, and, if he were given kindling and matches, a public burning at the stake.
“I understand your position on this, Father, but I wonder if it’s not an opportunity, too.”
“Your Grace?”
“Well, Father. Perhaps it’s a chance for us to show God’s mercy?”
Fr. Brennan lowered his head so his face couldn’t be read. He knew the Bishop well enough, his words were never chosen without consideration. Nor were they open for debate. The Bishop was gently telling them the course they would follow, regardless of how they might feel about it.
“Yes,” the Bishop continued after noting his priest’s concession. “We can offer this poor, confused lad a chance to redeem himself. I will talk with the Guards, and, instead of laying charges, we will offer to have the boy come and do some work around the church. We can say that we are giving him the chance to atone for his misdeeds. It will allow him to reflect on what he has done and we can give him the chance to offer restitution.”
“And what do you have in mind, Your Grace?” Fr. Reilly also knew his uncle well.
“If young Boyle is willing to pay restitution to the church then we can consider the matter closed. He can pay in service. I’m sure, Father Brennan, that you and Father Reilly can find some work for him to do?”
“If that’s what Your Grace would wish of us,” Fr. Brennan agreed as he made a mental list of tasks for the young and errant Boyle. He was going to have to hire a man to help with odd jobs around the church as old O’Leary was no longer capable and no one else was willing to offer their time. Perhaps this might work out well for all concerned.
“It’s not what I would wish, my friend, but what the Holy Shepard would expect from us. We must show some leadership in these changing times and we must show that we can be compassionate, even against those that harm us.”
The parish priest and his curate nodded together and the Bishop leaned back and smiled. “Thank you, my friends, for being so accommodating on this matter. I will speak to the Guards and have them make the position clear to young Boyle.”
“Would you mind,” his nephew asked, “if I could be given the responsibility of looking after him?” Fr. Reilly didn’t want Fr. Brennan dealing with him; he didn’t think he was well enough.
The Bishop gazed at his nephew while he weighed the options. “I would prefer if both of you dealt with him; it would look more formal. And now gentlemen if you’d excuse me, I have another appointment.”
The Bishop closed his office door as the two men left. It was a bad business but it might all work out for the better. His nephew would have a chance to show his mettle, under the supervision of Fr. Brennan. The older man was ready to be put out to pasture and a new parish priest had to be found. He would have preferred not to consider his own nephew given his history with the boy and it was far too papal, but the field of candidates was getting smaller every year.
Perhaps you could give me a sign? he nodded toward the crucifix on his wall.
**
Fr. Reilly, too, had prayed for direction as he approached Deirdre’s house. The mother would be fine but the father could be a bit of a handful, especially when he got angry. Most people just stayed away from him when he was like that, but Fr. Reilly couldn’t. He had to go in. He rang the doorbell and composed himself. It was all in a day’s work.
“Good man yourself, Father.” Deirdre’s father greeted him and led him into the drawing room where his wife and daughter sat primly on the set
tee. “The missus and I will just go into the kitchen and make a pot of tea while this one,” he nodded toward Deirdre, “gets down on her knees and makes her confession.”
“I think,” Fr. Reilly hesitated, “that we should just have a little chat, first, and then see where we need to go from there.”
“Chat?” her father humphed as he left the room.
“It might be better,” Deirdre’s mother whispered as she followed, “if you returned her to a state of grace—in case himself kills her altogether.”
Fr. Reilly tried not to smile as the door closed, leaving him alone with Deirdre who sat in the armchair opposite him. “Perhaps we should have our chat, then. While we are alone.”
Deirdre didn’t answer and that unnerved him a little. When she was little she was like a shadow to her older sister and was never seen out on her own. She had changed a lot since then and her mother had once told him that she was learning how to wrap her father around her little finger. Fr. Reilly had no idea how to deal with her so he did what was expected of him. He talked about Mary, the mother of God, and what a great role model she was for women of all ages.
But after what happened with Miriam, he didn’t really believe in it anymore. Not that he didn’t believe that Mary was the mother of God; what he was beginning to question was the whole way they went about things—asking the people to do the impossible, modelling themselves after saints and the likes. Nobody could ever live up to them. It was no wonder that so many were just giving up.
“There is one thing I do have to confess, Father.” Deirdre said when he had finished. Her face was calm but tinged with a touch of contrition. “I was the one who gave Danny the drugs—not the other way around. Only I’m afraid to tell anyone. My father would kill me if he knew. And then he’d kill Danny, too, for spite.”
“Now, Deirdre. There’ll be no killing or anything like that, but I’m glad you told me.”
“Could you tell Danny . . . from me . . . that I’m terribly sorry?”
“I will indeed. When the time is right,” he added as her mother knocked on the door. They could have tea in the kitchen—if Fr. Reilly wouldn’t mind. Her husband was smoking and she preferred that he did that in the kitchen where the smell wouldn’t get all over the new furniture.
“Not at all,” Fr. Reilly assured her. “Wasn’t I brought up in the kitchen?”
“Don’t forget to let Danny know,” Deirdre whispered as she passed and followed her mother into the kitchen, where her father sat at the head of the table, with his wife and daughter to his left and Fr. Reilly to his right, where Deirdre normally sat.
“Don’t you think it best, Father, that we send her off to board at a good convent school?” he asked as they sipped their tea.
The mother looked like she didn’t agree so Fr. Reilly suggested that what Deirdre might need more now was the love and forgiveness of her family. He looked at the wife and the daughter for a moment before he looked back at the father. He could only guess what was going through the poor man’s mind.
Fr. Reilly had no idea what it was like to have a daughter. He hadn’t even known what it was like to grow up with a sister. In fact, other than his mother, the only woman who ever became a part of his life was Miriam. He wished she was there, sitting beside him. She would know the right things to do and say.
“Well that’s all very well and good for Sundays,” the father said in a controlled voice. Fr. Reilly could see that it was still surging around inside of him, almost bursting out through his eyes, and the edges of his mouth. He almost sounded like a kettle that was coming to the boil. “But what concerns me the most is my daughter’s reputation. I’ll not have the whole street snickering behind her back. I only want what’s best for her. You understand that, don’t you, Father?”
“I do,” Fr. Reilly lied a little white lie to ease things along. “But my advice to you is that you show everybody that you still love your daughter, and that you forgive her. You can set a good example for them all.”
He regretted it the moment he said it. That kind of talk only worked when they were young—or old. It was funny how that worked out, but it was not going to work on this father. He was starting to come to the boil again so Fr. Reilly decided to stop poking the fire and let everything settle down again.
“But of course, you’re the girl’s father and I’m sure you know what’s best for her. Only I’d ask you to let it alone for a few days, you know? Give yourself time to get over the shock and the anger, and come back to it when you’re calmer. I find that when I have something to decide that it is better after I turn it over to the Sacred Heart of Jesus . . .”
“With all due respect,” the father interrupted, “to yourself and the Sacred Heart.” He paused while he bowed his head briefly. “But I think this situation calls for a more direct approach, Father. It’s obvious that she can’t get the type of direction she needs from this house.”
Fr. Reilly couldn’t help it and stole a quick glance at the mother as the father sat back with his arms folded. The poor mother bowed her head with shame. He knew things hadn’t been great in the house since Deirdre’s sister had left home to go off and live with her boyfriend. The mother had been over to talk with Fr. Brennan, back when he was still sound. Fr. Brennan had told him that the thing the mother was most afraid of was what her husband would do when Deirdre’s turn came, as she was sure, even back then, that it would.
“What I might suggest, before any long term plans are made, is that we have Deirdre sit down and have a chat with a friend of mine. She’s taking her PhD over in UCD and I’m sure she would be the right person for Deirdre to talk with.” He paused as he checked with the daughter who quickly nodded her head.
“And what kind of person is this? She’s not one of those psychiatric types?” The father looked worried now—like he was going to have deal with the shame of his daughter being a bit touched, too.
“Well,” Fr. Reilly hesitated: this part always raised eyebrows. “She used to be a nun over in Chicago. And she’s back in Dublin now, studying, but I’m sure she would be the right person to give Deirdre some good advice.”
“I’m not so sure,” the father grumbled as he refolded his arms.
“What harm could there be in them meeting?” The mother pleaded.
“Well for one thing, she’s . . . defrocked.”
“And what’s the harm in that?” The mother pleaded again, even more dolefully.
The father didn’t react at first. He was looking around and gauging all of their faces. “Okay, let them meet but I’m still going to go ahead and look into getting Deirdre into a boarding school.”
Fr. Reilly noticed that Deirdre and her mother both eased a little. He had a good idea what would happen. The father would leave it for his wife to deal with it and she would drag it out until it was too late for this year. It was probably how they dealt with him, pushing everything on down the road before them.
Fr. Reilly knew he had done all that he could for now and rose to leave. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I talk with my friend,” he assured the mother as he left, as she squeezed his hand by the door. She was almost shivering but smiled again before turning back to the stony silence of the kitchen where Deirdre and her father still sat.
Fr. Reilly happily walked his bicycle to the side of the road where he stopped to put on his clips so his dark slacks would not get covered with oil. Old O’Leary, who looked after Gethsemane, had taken it upon himself to keep the parish bike in the best working order. “You can never have too much lubrication,” he always assured. “It’s what keeps the world turning.”
Fr. Reilly pedaled back up the hill, delighted how things had turned out. Miriam could be just the influence that Deirdre needed and he could get to see her again without it looking bad.
She was Joe’s sister, his old friend from the seminary who was now off in Boston working on the guilt of the privileged for the benefit of poor kids—a task he was particularly well-suited to. They kept in touch t
hrough weekly letters. “Missals of Disaffection,” they called them in which they could privately share their growing disillusionment with their vocations.
But a year back, Joe’s letters had changed. His witty and sometimes shocking commentary on all that was wrong with “the damn fools who were running the world into the ground—present company exempted of course,” started to mention the matter of “those who gave in. Those that broke under the pressure and quit.” And among them were men they had known since the seminary: “The ones we assumed were the least riddled with doubt are often the first to tear off their collars and go out into the world as mere mortal men.”
At first Joe just wrote them as bylines tucked in the post-scriptum, or the post-post-scriptum where he told Patrick how he really was, after pages of enforced joviality.
He had always been the bright cheery one—the one friend that Patrick “could take his problems to without risking being exposed to an Inquisition!” It was something they could acknowledge now that they had been out in the world for a while. They lived in fear for themselves, their friends and their Church. It was spreading like leprosy among them, and, as Joe once wrote, “it is a cause calling for a new Father Damien.”
Patrick knew Joe was up to something. He had a great knack for knowing how to catch the winds of change in his sails and a happier knack of always landing on his feet a few rungs higher up the ladder. That’s how he got to America—that and the fact that he “had an uncle a bishop in America!”
Over time he began to write about his growing understanding of, and his inability to cut off forever, those “who were once good friends and comrades, now fallen in battle because our general staff is comprised entirely of idiots. Well-meaning and pious, and devout to beat the band, but idiots nonetheless. They have forgotten that we are supposed to be a moral authority and not an endorsement of the status quo.
“We came into this business to try to do a little good in the world and when we are not allowed—when we are told not to speak out against all the damn injustice in the world—some of us can’t take it and we go through the flailing corridors of shame where every ounce of our credibility is stripped from us and we are expelled and defrocked, naked to be abused and ridiculed by the world!”