by Hanley, Don;
To Whom It May Concern:
I, Rebecca Brady, will not quote Father Gerard Haloran in any way in any article I write for...
He looked over his shoulder. “Who do you write for?”
“Women Today magazine.”
Jerry continued writing:
Women Today or any other publication. Nor will I indicate in any way, in my writing, that I have talked with Father Haloran by making such statements as ‘he seems to believe’, etc. If, I, Rebecca Brady, violate this agreement, I do understand that Father Gerard Haloran has the right to take legal actions against me in a court of law.
Rebecca Brady________________Date
Witness, Fr. Gerard Haloran_____Date
Jerry printed the agreement and handed it to her. Now we’ll see how serious she is, he thought.
“Wow! You mean business. This is kind of harsh, don’t you think?”
“It’s a harsh world sometimes.”
Rebecca picked up a pen from the desk, signed and dated the statement. She handed the pen to Jerry and he did the same. He then put the paper in his fax-telephone, and gave her the copy. “Okay, now we can talk—a little now and perhaps more later.”
“I signed it, so tell me what this is all about.”
“If you spent some time in Aberdeen, I’m sure you’ve learned about my now ‘infamous’ sermon.” Rebecca nodded. “Well, part of the agreement I made with the Bishop, so that I would not be kicked out of the priesthood, was that I would not talk to any of the news media. So, officially, I will not talk to you—everything I say is off the record. You want to go home now?”
“As your boys out in the yard would say, ‘Nope.’ I’ll work around it. Is it okay if I talk to people here, like your workers?” Before he could answer, she added, “Oh, and is there anything I can do to help?”
Jerry looked at her expensive sweater, designer jeans, and expensive white running shoes, and thought that she wasn’t dressed for manual work. “Yes, you can run down to the Cozy Cafe and pick up some food for my crew. I’ve already called it in. Mabel will have it ready.”
“Where’s the Cozy Cafe?”
“You saw the boarded up theater?”
“Yes.”
“It’s right next door. If you have to wait, you can talk to some old codgers, they’re about my age. They’ll be sitting at the round table in the middle of the place. They can tell you about the fair city of Paris. While you’re gone, I’ll go across the street and get some beer and pop.”
“Pop? What’s that?”
He deliberately drawled, “That’s what they call soda in these parts.” For the first time, they both laughed.
* * *
As Rebecca stepped into the cafe, four men at the center table stared at her. Three of the four had their hats on and continued looking at her as she approached the counter. A stout woman, Rebecca guessed to be Mabel, looked at her suspiciously until she told her she was there to pick up an order for Father Haloran.
“It’s almost ready. Gimme ten more minutes. Need a cup of coffee?”
“That would be nice.” She didn’t “need” coffee as she was already too keyed up, but she thought it might help break the ice.
Mabel sat the coffee down in front of her. “Need cream?”
“No thanks.” Rebecca looked over at the men at the table. Not one of them had as much as whispered since she entered. She rather relished this new experience as the men didn’t look anything like the business and professional men she was used to talking with. She bet that damn priest was sure she wouldn’t talk to them. She picked up the coffee and a bit nervously approached the table. “Hi, I’m Rebecca Brady. I’m visiting Father Haloran to do a story on him and St. Patrick’s. He said if you have time, you might be able to give me some information about the town and all?”
The one without a hat or a smile, said, “I’m Joe Gaffin, ma’am. Sit down and join us.” Joe introduced Carl, Bill, and Paul and then asked, “So what would you like to know about our fair metropolis?” He chuckled and two of the others joined him. The one named Bill scrutinized the middle of the table.
Carl, the one with the John Deere hat, spoke. “Joe here can tell you the most—he’s the county sheriff and knows all the dirt about nearly everybody around.” He smiled.
She couldn’t tell if the men were being serious. She decided to play along as best she could. “Are you really the sheriff?”
Joe pulled his badge out of his pocket. “Sure am m’am.”
“Well, Joe ... or should I call you ‘Sheriff’?”
“Joe’s fine. So you were going to ask me something.”
“Tell me how Father Haloran has been accepted here in your fair city?” Rebecca smiled.
Joe ran his hand thorough his hair. “I reckon that he’s been accepted pretty well. What do you think, fellas?”
“I’d agree. He’s a real regular fella. Works hard, doesn’t put on any airs. Think people kinda like him.” This from Paul. The way he said “regular fella” made it sound to Rebecca like a very high compliment.
Joe prodded Bill to speak by saying, “Bill you’re the only Catholic in this bunch, what do you think?”
Bill studied his coffee cup. “I guess he’s okay. Our kids like him, ‘specially the Saturday night Mass. My wife thinks he’s just entertaining the kids when he should be teaching them some religion. I dunno, I guess he’s doin’ some good.”
Rebecca said, “I notice he has quite a crew helping out over at the church. Was it pretty run down?”
Joe, obviously the spokesman for the group, exclaimed, “That’s putting it mildly! The top of that steeple was blown off when I was a kid and this is the first priest that’s done anything about it.”
“Hell, they’ve had three or four priests there since you were a kid, Joe,” Carl added.
“Six,” Bill said, still looking at his cup.
Mabel called out, “Hon, yer food is ready.”
Rebecca stood. “Thank you, gentlemen, it’s been nice talking with you. Sheriff, since you know everyone, if I have time, could I talk to you again about Paris?”
Joe got a bit red and stammered, “Sure, Ma’am. The Padre has my number. Give a call.”
Rebecca picked up the box of what looked like hamburgers and french fries. When she got to the door, she heard one of the men say, “Well, Joe, I think you made quite an impression on the pretty little lady.” They all chuckled.
Mabel called out, “Tell Father Haloran that if he doesn’t come in and pay that bill tomorrow, he’ll be washing dishes fer me fer the next two years!” Mabel chuckled and the men joined her.
“I will.” She had to admit, that the informal way they talked was refreshing.
When she got back to the church, the crew was seated at three picnic tables under the trees. Father Haloran took the box from her. He gave her a flicker of a smile when he asked, “Get a chance to talk to the codgers?”
“Yes. They were very nice. They reckoned you were okay.”
“Hey, you all. I’d like you to meet Rebecca Brady. She’s a journalist and is here to write an article about me. I don’t know why. She might want to talk to you. If you do talk about me, only say nice things ‘cause I cry easily.” They laughed. He began introducing all the people at the tables. Rebecca remembered most of the names as they introduced themselves. Some smiled to her, a few waved, and others were too busy getting their hamburgers and fries to notice her when they were introduced.
The priest motioned to an empty space for her. “You want a beer, Coke, Sprite, or root beer?”
Rebecca noticed that two women at her table were drinking beer, so she said, “Beer, please.” He sat next to her and shared a bag of fries. She felt out of place in the group but noticed that Father Haloran seemed very much at home.
The two women sitting at the table studied Rebecca for a few moments and then one said, “So, Miss Brady, this article you’re writing. Does it have anything to do with what happened back in Aberdeen?”
Rebecca wasn’t sure how to respond. If she said it had a lot to do with Aberdeen, the priest would close her down. “That will be part of it, I’m sure, but it will be mostly about his work here and the kind of person he is.” She figured that her reply was vague enough to give her some space. The direction of the article was still vague in her own mind.
The other woman, older than the first, smiled. “Well, the kind of person he is, is this: He’s done more around here in two months than all the other priests did in twenty years. I think he’s liked by everybody.”
Rebecca glanced at Father Haloran who seemed to be blushing.
A man on her right swallowed his bite of hamburger. “Well, he ain’t received well by everybody. I heard a couple of people call him the anti-Christ. I think the articles about what went on in Aberdeen had somethin’ ta do with it.”
“Will you people quit talking about me as if I’m not here? Hank, I haven’t heard of the anti-Christ bit. Who’s saying that?”
“Well, it ain’t among the parishioners. I ain’t at liberty ta say who said it.”
Father Haloran grimaced. “That really makes me feel sad.”
The older woman looked disgusted. “Oh, pay it no mind. There are always people who think if you say something that isn’t in the Bible, it shouldn’t be said at all. Keep up the good work, Father.” The discussion went back and forth among them and everyone present seemed to be on the priest’s side.
Father Haloran stood up. “Okay, back to work, you all. You’re not getting paid to sit around and philosophize.”
One young fellow piped up, “We ain’t getting paid, Father.”
“Sure you are. You’re working for your reward in heaven.” He chuckled.
“I can’t deposit that in the bank.”
The priest folded his hands in front and attempted to look pious. He rolled his eyes toward the sky. “It’s being deposited in your name in the bank of heaven.” They all laughed or, at least, smiled.
Rebecca helped him clean up the food wrappers, beer, and soda cans and wipe off the tables. “It looks like you’re going to be tied up for a while. Are you sure there’s nothing more I can do?”
He stroked his chin and smiled. “You aren’t dressed to help with the paint-scraping and my clothes won’t fit you.” He snapped his fingers. “You know what you could do that would really do some good for someone?”
“No, what?”
“Mrs. Peterson, across the street, is a wonderful woman and could use some cheering up. She’s dying of cancer and is confined to a chair or bed. She’s conscious and very intelligent. She’d appreciate talking to someone like you, someone outside of Paris. Are you game?”
Rebecca hesitated for a moment and then said, “I’ve never spent much time around dying people.”
“Alice is different from anyone you will ever meet. You’ll like her, I’m sure. I find her a real inspiration. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Alice.”
They crossed the road. “I notice that you’re limping,” Rebecca said, “Is that from the shooting at the demonstration?”
“Yes. I used crutches and a cane for a while. The leg is better but it hurts a bit now and then, like when I crawl around on steeples, I get a catch in my gitalong.”
“‘Catch in my gitalong?’ Is that another Kansas term in these here parts?” She looked up at him and smiled. He chuckled. For some reason, he’d lost his grumpiness. That’s good.
When they entered the store, Father Haloran introduced her to Sy Peterson and asked if Alice was up for a visit. She was. The thin, weak-looking woman was watching a show on television when they walked into the comfortable living room. In a low voice Jerry said, “Alice.” The frail lady switched off the television and looked their way. The priest went over to her and knelt down beside the recliner. “Alice, I have a lost soul here who needs an injection of wisdom.” He looked up at Rebecca and winked. “You are just the person to give it to her. I’d like you to meet Rebecca Brady. Rebecca, I would like you to meet my spiritual director, Alice Peterson.”
“Father Jerry Haloran, get yourself out of here and take that Blarney Stone with you. Sy tells me you have a crew to run over there.” Alice looked up at Rebecca. “Nice to meet you, young lady. Pull up a chair and sit where I can see you without craning my old neck. Good to have you. Damn television is such a bore.”
Rebecca pulled up a chair in front of Alice and willed her heart to stop pounding. The priest told her to just be herself. “I’m glad to meet you Alice. Are you in a lot of pain?”
“Yes, all the time,” Alice spoke softly but clearly. “Relax, my dear, I’m going to die, but not right in front of your eyes. You don’t have to be afraid of me.” Alice opened her mouth. Nearly all her teeth were gone. “Can’t bite you, either. Damn chemotherapy and radiation did more than the damn cancer to rot my body. My mind is okay though. Might be better off if I lost it. Do you suppose?” Alice’s eyes sparkled.
“No ... I don’t think so. I think Father Haloran was being sincere when he said you were his spiritual director. He tells me you have been a real inspiration for him.”
“Well, my dear, he has been a Godsend. The other priests have been kind but they were always playing the role of priest. He is himself first and priest second. That is wonderful. So what brings you to Paris?”
“I’ve been asked by my editor to write an article about your Father Haloran.”
“Call him ‘Father Jerry—everyone else does. I think he’d prefer just plain ‘Jerry’ but is afraid it would put off too many people. Your writing assignment, is that a result of his getting shot at that demonstration and that sermon he gave in Aberdeen?”
“Yes it is. He got a lot of publicity in May and June, as you probably know.”
“Yes. We get the Aberdeen paper and I read all about it. I’m sure that sermon is the reason he’s been sent to poor Paris. It’s our gain, though. Usually we get the priests who can’t handle their liquor.” Alice studied Rebecca closely, and then added, “Tell me a little about yourself. It might help me get a clue as to how best to talk to you. First, let me take a guess. You’re not married and never have been and you don’t have any children.”
How in the world could this lady guess that? She had never met Rebecca before and could know nothing about her. The younger woman felt the muscles in her neck tighten, a sure sign that she was getting defensive.
Alice smiled. “You aren’t used to being talked to that way, are you, my dear?” Rebecca shook her head. “The only advantage being old and dying is that I don’t much worry about what people think about me or what I say. And, I’m guessing you are wondering why I said what I said.”
Rebecca was irritated, but even more curious. “Why, yes I am. You don’t know me at all. You are right about marriage and children, but how did you know?”
“You want to know the truth?”
Rebecca nodded.
“It’s your eyes, dear.”
The tension that was about to leave returned. “What about my eyes, Alice?” She didn’t want to let Alice know how concerned she was about her comment. Everyone had always commented on how beautiful her brown eyes were. What did Alice see? Rebecca wondered.
“Now, don’t get defensive. Oh, I guess you can if you want. Anyway, your eyes tell me that you have been hurt rather badly in your life. I kind of see a bit of hardness in your eyes, like you’re not going to let anyone hurt you again. Am I all wrong?”
Rebecca tried to distract herself by looking around the room. One would never guess a room like this existed behind the store. She counted the photographs on the wall—twenty. Okay, Rebecca told herself, quit avoiding the issue. Alice’s words hurt her and she never wanted anyone to see through her façade so easily. But this old woman held a fascination like no one she had ever met. “No, you’re not wrong, Alice. Are you psychic?”
Alice gave out a little chuckle and coughed. “Oh no, dear, when someone sits around as much as I do, you think a lot and notice things. So, would
you tell me a bit about your hurt? I’ve never known a person who didn’t have pain and if they were worth their salt, they owned it.”
“I like that, may I quote you?”
The little lady chuckled again, “Not unless you’re worth your salt. So tell me about yourself.”
Rebecca had never met anyone quite like this woman. The priest obviously has great faith in her, she thought, so maybe she could tell her a little about herself. Rebecca began by telling her about growing up in New York City and the man she always thought of as her real father, Paul Brady. This time she included the fact that he was her first stepfather. She found herself relaxing completely when she saw Alice had tears in her eyes as she told about how, when she was seven, her mother ordered Paul Brady out of her life. Rebecca, herself, teared up as she recalled holding onto Paul’s leg and cried, “Don’t leave me, Daddy.” Her mother had yelled at her, “He’s not your father, you stupid little shit. Your father died before you were born!” It was the first time Rebecca had ever heard that Brady was not her biological father. She had never told anyone about all this except her therapist.
“I never saw Paul Brady again.” Rebecca said to Alice. “My mother told me he had died. She remarried soon after.” Rebecca told her about the next three stepfathers—all rich, handsome, insensitive men. Rebecca thought that ought to be enough. “So that’s a little about my childhood.”
“Thank you, Rebecca. I find myself not liking your mother very much.”
“I don’t either. I haven’t spoken to her in more than seventeen years.”
“Because of what she did to you and Mr. Brady?”
Rebecca looked down at her hands folded in her lap. “Yes.” She just couldn’t tell her about the rape and abortion.
Alice leaned her head a little to one side. “You know, you’re eyes seem a bit softer now”
“Alice, you know, you would make a wonderful counselor. Were you a counselor earlier in your life?”
Alice gave out a delighted little chuckle, “Thank you. Before I was married and before Sy and I had children, I taught primary school for a few years. Oh, how I loved those students.”