by Gavin Reese
“That’s nearing completion as we speak, sir.”
“Very good, very good.” The elder relaxed and stopped wringing his hands. “We’ll soon have a dedicated force that can truly go out into the world and do God’s work. I only wish we’d come to understand His meaning much, much sooner. We could be so much further along by now.”
The subordinate smiled and worked to put their present position in a more positive light. “I suppose this first class will just have to make up for lost time, Your Eminence.”
“Centuries,” he distractedly replied. “They’ll have to make up for lost centuries, Harold. Almost twenty of them, actually.”
ONE
Monday, 11:30 AM. Three Months Ago.
Barrio Ciudad Bolivar. Bogotá, Columbia.
Father Michael Thomas adjusted his black, short-sleeved shirt and its starch-white collarino, the clerical tab that identified Roman Catholic priests worldwide. As he moved donated cases of bottled water from a delivery truck over to a secured Red Cross shipping container, Michael sought even minor reprieve from the intense, high-elevation sun. I’m grateful the Archbishop relaxed our dress code. I still can’t celebrate mass in a button-down shirt, but it does make manual labor easier.
Michael’s growling stomach inspired him to check his wristwatch. 11:34. Half the day’s gone, but most of the work remains. Still a few dozen pallets to transfer by hand. Maybe I could convince my boss to tag along tomorrow. He used his hands to wipe sweat from his brow and straighten his mid-length, light brown hair. Back to it.
This was the first summer Michael had lived in Bogotá, and he’d been surprised that municipal services in their neighborhood were so unstable. A recent streak of unusually high temperatures had played havoc with the power grid, so many of the young, old, and infirm sought shelter at local aid stations to avoid dehydration and heat-related injuries. I would have never imagined that sustained highs in the upper 80s could be so catastrophic, but, then, life at eighty-six-hundred-feet is much more complicated than life at sea level. Michael’s parish alone had already sustained five deaths in recent days. Until the heat wave subsided and allowed the community and its resources to recover, Michael expected to devote his time to aid work, grief counseling, and funeral services.
Retrieving another plastic-wrapped case, Michael heaved it up onto his shoulder and again strode a dozen yards through the searing sunlight to a large shipping container that secured the Red Cross’ local supplies. The organization had been forced to hire armed security guards to limit the neighborhood thugs’ acquisition of its humanitarian donations. The local gangs usually deal in chemical misery and sex, Michael thought, but, when opportunity strikes, those assholes are willing to trade in food and water, as well. They only care about money and don’t give a damn about what happens to the weak and vulnerable around them. God may be the only one willing to have mercy on their souls.
“Father Michael,” a beautiful, familiar voice called out from behind him. Her French accent made even the most mundane conversation interesting. “It’s time for lunch! You’ve hauled enough water for one morning, don’t you agree?”
“It can’t have been enough, Doctor, there’s still work to be done,” Michael loudly replied over his shoulder as he stepped past the armed security guard and into the shipping container. Cesar ignored the priest and focused on the woman following him.
“Yes, eventually, it is enough,” she replied. “There is only so much one man can do, and you have surpassed that for the day.” Michael placed the case of bottled water at the top of a growing stack and turned around to exit. Doctor Merci Renard leaned back against the container’s inner wall, crossed her arms, and waited for him. Her tall, striking figure and sincere, movie-star smile briefly captivated both men standing before her, even though she wore what she’d already described to Michael as her “gardening costume.” Even through her baggy linen pants, light denim work shirt, and floppy white sun hat, Michael knew Merci had the mind of a scholar and the heart of a volunteer. It doesn’t hurt that she runs and could also be a fitness model.
Michael glanced over to Cesar, who, at the same time, glanced over at him. Both men averted their eyes, cleared their throats, and tried to pretend they hadn’t just been unexpectedly gobsmacked by the olive-skinned woman. As intriguing and helpful as she is, I’m grateful she’ll only be here for another few months.
“You’ve earned a bite or two, Father. Cesar,” Merci addressed the guard by name, “can I bring you something to eat, as well? I know a man in your position cannot abandon your post, but you should not go hungry.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the sheepish man hesitantly replied, “and thank you for helping me practice English.”
“You’re welcome. It’s an important job skill for you, and I’m happy to do it! I can even teach you a little French, si tu veux.”
“That would be nice.” Cesar blushed and stood up a little straighter.
“Do you need help passing out the midday rations,” Michael asked.
“No, that task is already assigned to others, Father. Come,” she pleaded and waved him onward, “just sit, eat, and hydrate. You’ll become one of my patients if you keep this up.”
As they spoke, Michael followed her toward the aid station’s outdoor “kitchen.” Constructed from white PVC poles and blue tarps, it had only a small food prep and storage area. Still not sure why we had to set up a kitchen to pass out M-R-Es. “How are your patients doing today, Doctor?”
“Please, Father, call me Merci.”
“As soon as you call me ‘Michael.’”
“I cannot do that,” she scoffed as though offended by the request, “you’re a priest for God’s sake! I’m only a medical doctor!”
“Right, only a medical doctor, as if that’s not a substantial accomplishment.”
“Anyone can become a doctor, and it says nothing about my character. You spend your life serving God and His children and deserve the respect afforded by your title.”
“I dunno,” Michael replied off-handedly, “pretty sure I’m just an ordinary masochist.”
“Monique,” she spoke to another volunteer in the improvised kitchen and pointed to the dwindling nearby supplies, “¿Puedes llevar comida y agua también a Cesar?”
“Si, doctor.”
Michael knew the guard would be disappointed that Doctor Renard didn’t deliver his MRE and water herself. He accepted his rations and followed Merci to a long, shaded picnic table where they sat across from one another. Most all the local refugees had already eaten and retreated back to cooler environs, which afforded them a semi-private meal together.
Michael led them in a short prayer to bless their meal and thank God for so graciously providing all they needed to serve others on his behalf. His duties complete, he tried to make small talk with Merci. “How did you decide to become a doctor?”
“My parents are both doctors, so it was always kind of expected,” she explained while picking through her MRE. “Even in France’s socialized system, they did well enough that I can work for only six months and volunteer for the rest of the year in places like this.”
“That’s a pretty incredible blessing, both for you and for those you help.”
“I’ll never offer as much good as this work gives to me. Here, I am relegated to first-aid, minor infections, and wound treatment, which isn’t much. Even though I get to do a little thing for these people, what they do for me is so much greater.” She finally settled on a package of crackers and peanut butter. “Until I started international relief work, I never knew intrinsic fulfillment, Father. I had felt ‘accomplishment,’ like when I graduated medical school, and I thought it was the same thing, but it’s not.
“There is no feeling,” she continued, “no emotion in the human experience like this, like volunteering. I get to spend half the year helping people all around the world who can do nothing for me in return, and it feels, like, magic.” Merci very cutely scrunched her shoulders and face, just for a
moment, before drinking from a donated water bottle. “I imagine that’s how you feel most all the time, yes? I mean, who can do anything for a priest, a man of God who has no Earthly needs, correct?”
“I don’t think it’s quite as glamorous or saintly as that.” Michael suspiciously stirred the contents of what its manufacturer called beef stew. That doesn’t look like beef. Rat, maybe. “I’m just a man, and I have all the same issues as any other mortal. I just don’t have a mortgage and credit card payments, so I suppose that makes things a lot easier, actually.”
“No, I’ve met a lot of priests and clergy in my travels, and you’re not like the others.”
“How so?” Michael hoped she would give another protracted answer that allowed him to eat, but he didn’t have the heart or desire to slow their conversation.
“You’re much more, what’s the word, fiery? Most of the ones I’ve met, by your age, are not as passionate. They’ve mellowed by then, I suppose.”
“Most of the priests ‘my age.’ I didn’t realize I was already in that category.”
“You know what I mean, Father,” she playfully offered, “you must see it, too! You’re out here with the younger men, while most of your peers have chosen to stay indoors and manage the efforts of those working in the trenches, yes?”
“I got into this work a little later in life than most,” Michael conceded, “and I think that’s the difference. I’m still new enough to this that I expect one man can really make a difference, really change a community. A community changes a province. A province changes a nation. Maybe even the world.” He risked a big sporkful of the mystery stew. Yep, probably rat.
“I heard some of your parishioners talking about how you’re working to build new infrastructure. New wells and cisterns, with or without the help and financing from the Columbian government or the Church. That’s a tall order, even for a Superman like you.”
Michael blushed a little at the compliment, and the confidence the community had placed in him. His full mouth allowed him a moment to reflect before he answered. I should feel some guilt, or remorse, about being so attracted to her, but there’s an ocean of difference between recognizing my humanity and degrading myself in sin. She could’ve altered the course of my life in years past, but now?
“I think there are some, unique, opportunities,” Michael finally offered, “to work with corporate and philanthropic partners that want to improve life here. And, if we don’t have to wait for permission and funding from anyone else, it’s just the right thing to do. It’s unjust that anyone with enough men and guns can control the water wells and decide who’s worthy of a drink and who goes thirsty.”
“See? Fiery, like I said.”
“No, maybe the other priests are just a bit more pragmatic about their place in the world and what they can do to influence and control the environment around them.”
“You’re a dreamer and a man of action, Father Michael, the kind of man legends and folk songs are written about.”
Michael laughed at her assertion. Not in this lifetime! “I’ve been pragmatic,” he explained, “and it only helped the status quo. I guess I might be a dreamer, but I try to keep a solid base in reality.”
“Do you really think the companies will support these projects if the government isn’t forcing them to do so?”
“I do. They have a vested interest in the safety and security of this neighborhood, but they’re only just realizing that. When they volunteer their help, we can improve on what we’re already doing.” Michael spread his arms to his sides to bring attention to their present environment. “You’re here with the help and support of a private aid organization, and I’m here with the help and support of a faith-based organization. If we can add private corporate funding to this, our reach can spread must farther and faster than if we relied on governments.”
“I’m skeptical, Father,” Merci admitted, “I don’t trust that enough people will show compassion for strangers if no one makes them do it. But, I’m French, so I always have to be a little cynical and untrusting, no?!” A self-deprecating smile spread across her face before she nibbled at another cracker.
“I trust people far more than I trust governments.”
“But, the armed guards are not here because we fear the government, right?”
“No, but predators will always hide among our neighbors, and I believe God allows moral violence, such as self-defense,” Michael explained. “My fear about government is its routine effort throughout history to hold a monopoly on violence by limiting how people can protect themselves. They alone want to decide who and what are worthy of defense.”
Merci coyly smiled, cocked her head, and spoke between her remaining cracker nibbles. “That doesn’t sound very much like ‘turn the other cheek,’ Father. Are you sure you’re a real priest?”
Michael grinned at her question. “Or I’m the world’s best and poorest actor.”
“So, what does a priest who advocates personal sacrifice and ‘moral violence’ do for fun,” she asked to lighten their discussion. “When you’re not constructing cisterns, I mean.”
Michael smirked at the reaction he expected to elicit. “I teach martial arts at a free dojo in the neighborhood.”
“You really take your ‘moral violence’ seriously, Father Michael! You are a veritable onion, a man with unexpected and endless layers! And, if I may add without agenda, a handsome one at that. There must’ve been a line of young matrons pursuing you with wedding veils in their back pockets!”
Michael blushed at the unexpected flattery and tried to delicately redirect the conversation. “In my former life, I was really devoted to my work as a cop and to the Church, to living my faith. That kept anyone else from getting too close, I suppose.” Any esteem she holds for me is so heavily rooted in my calling that she’d never have the same interest in Michael the Husband that she does in Father Michael the Priest. “I was almost married once,” he off-handedly explained, suddenly unsure why he brought it up, “but I felt a much stronger commitment to God.”
“You were a police officer? An American police officer with lots of guns, and a police uniform, and you still managed to avoid marriage?”
“Yes, I was a cop, at least for a while, but they only gave us a couple of guns.” Michael smiled at her assessment and avoided her latter question. I’ll play along with the weapons curiosity, but she doesn’t get to know details about Catherine. “American cops are really nothing like what you see on most of the international news networks. I worked in a small-town police department while I finished college, and then became a cop after I graduated.”
“Did you go out, drive fast in your big police car, and arrest every indecency you found?” She ate another piece of cracker and peanut butter while she chuckled at her own joke.
Michael understood she was teasing him, so he took no offense. “No, thankfully, it wasn’t really like that at all. I drove a patrol car for a while, and I was in training to become a detective when I resigned. I think they’re called ‘inspectors’ in France.”
“That’s fascinating! What is training like for inspectors in the U-S?”
“Some of it’s predictable, like interviewing suspects, victims, and witnesses, and extra training on the laws. A lot of it, though, is stuff you wouldn’t expect, at least, I didn’t.”
“Such as,” Merci asked between nibbles.
“Picking locks. Surveillance work, like following suspects around to see where they go, what they do, who they meet. Using a team of detectives and their cars to trap a suspect inside theirs. Searching for hidden weapons and drugs in cars.”
She again cocked her head to the side and eyed him incredulously. “We you training to be a spy?”
Michael laughed aloud at the implication, but also immediately realized how well his specialized police training supported her accusation. “No, I’m pretty sure I would’ve had to be good at all that to be a spy. I drove a patrol car, so I would’ve been the worst spy ever. Everyone
knew who I was and where to find me!”
“Well, with all that authority and weapons, you must have done something bad in your work as a police, yes? There must be something, Father Michael, for you to confess to me.”
“Actually, yes, there is.” He leaned close and spoke just above a whisper as though afraid for anyone else to hear what he had to say. “I swear, a lot. Like, a lot. I might be addicted to the word ‘fuck,’ but I can still quit whenever I want!”
Merci laughed and spit a piece of cracker onto the table, which obviously embarrassed her and she swiftly covered her mouth and laughed harder. Michael snorted and teared up at her faux pas until he became self-conscious that they had garnered so much attention from the few volunteers around them.
“Thank you for that, Father, I love getting to laugh like that, even at my own expense!” She wiped tears and sweat from her face and smiled back at him. “So, in all fucking seriousness,” she teased, “there must’ve been a reason you left and entered the priesthood?”
Michael let the humor pass and adopted a less jovial tone. “I was mostly frustrated at how little I could really do to help the people around me. I thought I could do more to improve the quality of life in my town, and help people find solutions to their problems, but, mostly, I was a Band-Aid.”
“A Band-Aid? How do you mean that?”
“I would show up, try to fix the biggest problem I could, and then move on to the next before I really solved the first. I was always rushed to go to the next problem, the next call. The next victim. I wanted to counsel people and guide them, help ease their long-term suffering. I became a priest so I could be more invested in finding long-term solutions.” Their dialogue and obvious, mutual admiration reminded him of Catherine and immediately brought up his long-suppressed guilt. If I’d ever married, it should have been to Catherine. I’m lucky to have loved her, and I wish things had turned out differently in her life. I’m now happily married to the Church and to God, and I’ve got no interest in divorcing them. Not even for Catherine, or Merci.