Love By its First Name

by Hanley, Don;

  “How could you do that? K-State is a long ways from here and you’ll have lots of studies and all.” He was really more worried about how he would handle her presence. It was bad enough at St. Gabriel’s when he saw her only briefly, once or twice a week. And, damnit, he was not as lonely then.

  “Oh, it’s really not that far, about two hours. And it would be a way for me to keep up with my music and do some good.” She looked like she wanted to add something serious, but she only added, “What do you say?”

  He knew the trip was over three hours unless she drove a hundred miles an hour and she couldn’t do that on the two-lane country roads. “If you did this, we should really compensate you for your trouble and contribution, and we really couldn’t give you very much. Maybes fifty dollars a week and that’s an insult.”

  Marge jumped in, and to Kathy’s delight, said, “It certainly is, Father. What if I make an extra fifty dollars a week donation to the parish and you earmark that for Kathy?” She turned to the younger woman, “Would a hundred dollars a session be helpful?”

  This was like a dream come true, not only would she get to visit Jerry every week, she could now feel that Marge didn’t have any designs on him, and she could make a little extra money too. Of course, she couldn’t say all this. “I could do it for free but the money would really help. I’m going to school on a government loan, so, well, things are really tight. So, Jerry, you really want me to do this? I wouldn’t play with the kids at Mass— just give them some lessons. It should be their show, don’t you think?”

  “Okay, let’s do it. As you saw, they really need the help. I’m sure the boys especially, will love to have a beautiful teacher like you, don’t you think so, Marge?” But in himself, he could find only fear and trepidation.

  “Definitely! And you can stay with me when you come here. I’d like the company.” Marge glanced at her watch. “Kathy, we better get back to the house, my neighbor lady said she could only stay for two hours.”

  Before leaving on Sunday morning, Kathy stopped by the rectory. Jerry told her that the four teens thought it was great that she would lend them a hand. Jim Peterson, the organizer, said, “Yeah, we really need some help from someone who knows what she’s doing. I saw her at the Mass and she’s a real looker!” The girl in the quartet punched him in the ribs. As Kathy drove away, he muttered to himself, “Well, Haloran, ol buddy, you’ve done it. You don’t have to worry about God leading you into temptation, you are already in it – deep. You better ask for His help on this.” He wiped his hand down his chest as if to wipe off the effects of Kathy’s “Sister Martha-like hug”

  CHAPTER 5

  Make sure that no one traps you and deprives you of your freedom by some

  secondhand ... philosophy based on the principles of this world instead of

  on Christ.

  Paul to Colossians, 2,8

  It was mid-morning on a sunny October Friday when Rebecca stopped at the only service station in Paris, Kansas. The station had a gravel drive and four pumps. A young man with a straw stuck in his mouth leaned against the doorjamb and gawked at her as she asked, “Could you tell me where St. Patrick’s church is located?”

  He took the straw out of his mouth and drawled, “Sure, ma’am, jist follow the main street ta the edge of town. You’ll see a sign that says ‘Lake Paris.’ Turn right and it’s jist about a quarter mile.” He hadn’t moved but asked, “Need some gas?”

  “Not right now, thanks. And thank you for the information.”

  “Yer welcome, ma’am.”

  She drove down the short main street. God, what an awful place, she thought. How could anyone live in a town like this? For the first time she realized that she had seen similar towns only from the vantage point of an interstate or looking down from thirty thousand feet in an airplane. She had never driven through such a place, let alone stopped. She was sure she’d find this Father Haloran sitting in some dumpy little house feeling sorry for himself.

  She saw a small white church on her left. A half dozen cars and trucks were parked nearby and several people were working around. Three men were on the newly shingled steeple putting up a large white cross. Four or five men were pouring concrete for a walkway, and three women were scraping paint on the side of the church. Two young fellows were working with shovels. Rebecca drove into the gravel driveway between the church and a small white house with peeling paint. After parking behind a dusty Pontiac, she got out and approached a young man wearing a straw hat who had stopped using his shovel the minute she drove in. He and his baseball hatted companion stood there starring at her. Rebecca looked down at her jeans and bulky white knit sweater to make sure she hadn’t spilled coffee or something. Maybe it was her sweater, a little heavy for such a warm day, it had been cooler in Aberdeen. “Good morning, could you tell me where I could find Father Haloran?”

  The two lads kept looking at her as if she were some kind of apparition. She was about to ask them again when one said, “Oh, sure, he’s up there.” He pointed at the top of the steeple.

  Rebecca shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand. She guessed the priest to be the one in the broad-brimmed hat. One was too short and the other too fat. Or perhaps the priest had gained thirty or forty pounds since the pictures were taken. “Do you know when he’ll be back down?”

  “Naw. Lemme call him.” The young man cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Hey, Father Jerry, somebody here to see ya.”

  The tall one with the straw hat turned their way and seemed to study the scene for a moment. He yelled back, “If you’re a reporter, you can go home. If you are not and are willing to wait, I can see you in a while, may take us an hour up here.”

  Without hesitation, Rebecca called back, “I’ll wait.” She wasn’t about to drive all the way out here and then turn right around and go back. Jerry’s friend, Father Cameron, said that he probably would not be very receptive to an interview, but she hadn’t expected him to be so rude. Of course, she didn’t expect him to be playing carpenter on a steeple, either. She turned to the young men. “Is that his house?” She nodded toward the bungalow with the peeling paint.

  “Yep.”

  “Do you think he’d mind if I waited in the house?”

  “Nope, he wouldn’t care.”

  The boys kept looking at her as she stopped at the BMW and picked up her laptop. She thought that perhaps she could get some writing done while she waited. She started to close the car door and then picked up her camera. A picture of the priest working on the steeple would be good for the article. She knew she would look like the reporter he didn’t want, but was willing to take the risk. She was going to have to deal with that fact sooner or later anyway. She moved around and got several shots. If the priest noticed her, he didn’t say anything. As she headed for the house, she heard one of the boys say, “Man, is she ever a looker!”

  “Man, I guess! Wonder if she’s a movie star.”

  A big, mostly gold-colored dog ran toward her, tail wagging. Rebecca froze. She had never spent much time around dogs. She had read somewhere that if they didn’t growl or bare their teeth, they wouldn’t bite. She tentatively held out her hand. The dog licked her hand and then put his nose in her crotch. Rebecca glanced around, embarrassed. Pushing the dog away, she headed for the house; the dog followed.

  The interior of the house was a pleasant surprise. Too masculine for her taste but impressive despite the clutter—magazines, books, and newspapers strewn about and dog hair on the carpet. After finding the bathroom off one small bedroom, she glanced around the rest of the house. The kitchen had been remodeled but a stack of unwashed dishes, at least a day’s worth, was piled randomly near the sink. He’s definitely no housekeeper. Going back to the living room, she thumbed through his collection of CD’s. Nearly all of them were classical, jazz, or show tunes. There was no country and western music in the collection—one thing in his favor. There was little that would help her with her article about the priest.

&
nbsp; Rebecca began to feel more than a little panicky. “What do I do if this jerk refuses to talk to me?” She asked herself. She decided to call Gayle Mathews, her editor. She walked into the little office and sat down at the desk. First she tried to use her cell phone but there was no connection. She muttered to herself, “Boy, talk about being in the middle of nowhere!” Picking up the house phone she told herself to be sure to pay for the long-distance call. Gayle answered the phone after only two rings. “Gayle, I’ve got a problem. My subject is up on the church steeple and yelled down that if I was a reporter to go away. I said I’d wait. When he comes down, I doubt if he’ll talk to me.”

  “Rebecca.” Gayle sounded like a patient and loving elementary school teacher.

  “You’ve been in this kind of position before, you can get through it. If you’ve got time, look around for any kind of information that will help. Where are you now?”

  “I’m sitting at his desk in his dinky little house.”

  “Well, good. That’s a great place to find information. When he comes down convince him that your article will help him get his message out to the world, beyond Kansas. And it’s the truth isn’t it? Use your feminine wiles.”

  “I don’t like doing that, but I’ll do my best.”

  “You do that, sweetheart. I’m relying on you. Gotta attend a meeting with the publisher. Bye and good luck.”

  Rebecca looked around the paneled office and decided that there might be some information she could use that would make the trip useful. A small card with a picture of a lamb in front of a cross sat on top of the desk in front of her. Turning it over, she read:

  Gerard D. Haloran

  Ordained a Priest

  May 23, l994

  Several spaces below, she read:

  No matter what great things

  A man may do in life

  Unless he becomes a loving person

  His life is a failure

  Rebecca wondered if the priest had written that and if he considers himself a loving person. Loving person? She tried to think of someone she knew whom she could call a loving person. Helene Walker, for sure. The only male she could think of who would fit the description would be Paul Brady, her stepfather she hadn’t seen since she was seven years old. She doubted if she was one.

  On top of a pile of papers was a greeting card with roses forming the words, “Thank You.” Rebecca hesitated a moment and then opened it and read: “Dear Jerry, Thank you for the wonderful time last weekend. You are a rose in the thorn bush they call Paris. I had a hard time getting back to the books after my hours with you. Looking forward to seeing you on Saturday. I love you, Kathy.” She folded the card and put it back exactly where she found it. Hmmm, she thought, so there’s a woman in his life. She wondered what Kathy was like and how they spent their time together. Father Jerry Haloran is looking more and more interesting.

  She opened the middle drawer and picked up a photo of a very attractive dark-haired girl shaking hands with a smiling Father Haloran. Without the grimacing, Rebecca thought, he is a good-looking fellow. She turned the picture over. On the top, in a neat girlish hand, were the words: “Thank you Father Jerry, for all your help the past few years. Love, Melanie” Below that, in a hurried masculine scrawl was: “Father Jerry, please help me, YOU are my only friend!!!” followed by a large question mark. The picture was clipped to a poem entitled, “Why Must Young Souls Die?” The poet was by Melanie Kurtz. She began reading:

  Why must young souls die?

  Are they taken

  Or mis-taken

  I see the tears in your eyes

  I hear you cry

  I, too, wonder WHY

  Children give so much good

  Why, oh, why must they die?

  Is there something to learn about love?

  How much we can give before we are gone?

  Whenever we think of her

  We’ll think of a soul so strong

  And her love will linger on

  Long after we are gone

  The question will rage on

  Why, why, must young souls die?

  Rebecca had a difficult time holding back the tears as she finished reading the poem.

  She tried to remember where she had heard the name, Melanie. Someone in Aberdeen had mentioned it. Just as she put the photo and poem back in the drawer, she remembered her conversation with Sister Martha at St. Gabriel’s. Sister Martha was one of the most pleasant people Rebecca had ever met. She glowed as she described Father Haloran and how well he got along with all the kids in school and how inspiring he was in his sermons. The nun turned sad when she described the anti-abortion demonstration. “Father Jerry was very down that day. He had been down for over a week. One of our young parishioners, Melanie Kurtz, was hit by a truck and killed right in front of the rectory. Father Jerry was there and anointed her poor broken little body.” Tears formed in Sister Martha’s eyes as she told Rebecca that Melanie was only fifteen and everyone was certain she had committed suicide. “Poor Father Jerry. For some reason, I think he felt responsible for her death, like there was something that he should have done to prevent it.”

  Rebecca wondered what the priest’s relationship was with the girl who committed suicide. Considering all the publicity about priests molesting children, she wondered….

  She winced, hoping that this priest was not one of them. God, she thought, that would make this interview impossible. With more than a little guilt, she again opened the drawer and took out the picture and poem. Taking out her Iphonw, she took a photo of both the front and back of the picture as well as the poem. She also photographed the ‘loving person’ card. After replacing the items in the drawer and closing her camera case, she looked around the small office. Two ceiling-high bookcases filled one wall. Like everything else in the house, there was no order to the books. Theology, education, psychology, and other non-fiction books were scattered on every shelf, mixed in with paperback novels by various authors. She was surprised to find Gloria Steinham’s Revolution from Within along with a number of other ‘feminist’ authors. This guy is a complex character. She hoped he would talk to her. She glanced at her watch, it was eleven fifteen.

  She decided it might help if she made herself useful. Washing the dishes would be something he wouldn’t resent. She was sure it wouldn’t fit Gayle’s idea of using her “feminine wiles.” Copying those personal papers probably would. She headed for the kitchen in hope of ridding herself of some guilt. There was no dishwasher, but finding dishwashing soap and a dishtowel, she rolled up her sleeves. She was just drying the last plate when she heard the front screen door slam and a deep voice say, “Do I have a visitor in here?”

  Still holding the plate and towel, Rebecca appeared at the doorway to the living room. He was even taller than she had envisioned, six foot, two inches, at least. His penetrating blue eyes seemed to look through her as he stood there in his blue cotton work shirt and jeans, holding his straw hat in his left hand. She set the plate down and headed his way, drying her right hand and smiling. “Hi, I’m Rebecca Brady.” She held out her hand and said, “You must be Father Haloran.” He did not smile as she took his surprisingly hard, callused hand.

  . .. . .Jerry didn’t know what to make of this alarmingly attractive woman. She had raven hair and facial features that reminded him of an older Melanie Kurtz, about twenty years older, he guessed. Her smile seemed somewhat forced and there was a certain hardness in her eyes that made him uncomfortable. For some unfathomable reason, he found himself wondering, if Melanie had lived to adulthood, would she have had a similar look? “Yes, I’m Father Haloran. And what can I do for you? Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

  “That’s okay. I, uh, saw that you hadn’t had time to do the dishes, so I thought I’d make myself useful.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it. As you see, I’m not much of a housekeeper. So, again, what can I do for you? It’s not a very good time for me.” The woman seems nervous. He felt sure that she was a re
porter.

  “Well, I came here to talk to you, but it looks like I picked a bad time.”

  He raised one eyebrow and tilted his head to one side. “I am going to take a guess. You are a reporter, aren’t you?”

  She gave him a sheepish smile. “No, technically, I’m a journalist.”

  “And a master semanticist, right? If I had yelled from the steeple, ‘If you are a reporter or a journalist, go home,’ would you still have waited?” He smiled a little.

  The woman looked down at the floor and then back up, this time with a genuine smile. “Yes, I would have. After all, I came all the way from St. Louis to talk to you and I had to, at least, give it a try.”

  “When I first got here in August, a few reporters came by. I sent them away. It’s been over two months now and what they wanted to talk about is ancient history. What do you want to talk to me about?”

  “I have been assigned to write an article about you. Are you willing to talk to me?”

  “No.” He put his hat back on his head and turned toward the door.

  “Wait! Father Haloran, please? I’ve already spent two days in Aberdeen learning about you. I already have enough material to write an article but I’d like to include what it’s like for you here in Paris.” Her words tumbled out rapidly, as if she had to get them out before he bolted out the door.

  He turned around and looked at her intently. Damn, she did remind him of Melanie. “Here’s the deal. I will talk to you but anything I say is strictly off the record. Okay?” He could not figure out why he was giving in so easily. Was it because she reminded him of Melanie? Or was it a way of somehow, passive-aggressively, letting the Bishop know he was not willing to fade away into the woodwork?

  She rolled down the sleeves of her sweater. “If that’s the best I can do, I guess it’ll have to be okay. But why?”

  Jerry headed for the office and she followed. Sitting down at a dated Brothers word processor, he said, “If you’ll sign a little agreement for me, I’ll tell you.” He began typing rapidly as she looked over his shoulder.