by Hanley, Don;
As they approached the stairs, Marge said, “Father Jerry, I’m glad you called. I hope we keep you at St. Patrick’s. As long as you’re here, my life will not be dull.” They climbed the stairs and Jerry gave Marge a full hug. Rebecca wondered if he gave all his parishioners hugs like that.
“Marge, I’d like you to meet Rebecca Brady. She’s a city slicker, but a nice one.”
Marge shook her hand and said, “Welcome, Rebecca. I’m glad you can stay with us.” There was no trace of the Kansas drawl she’d encountered with everyone else around Paris, except Father Jerry. “Do come in.”
The living room was comfortably furnished with a blue couch, matching chair, and love seat. The walls had recently been covered with a pleasant light beige paper with small blue and pink flowers. Marge ushered them into what was usually the dining room, now turned into a convalescent room. It had the medicinal smell of a medical ward. She motioned toward an old, thin man lying quietly on a hospital bed. “This is my father. Unfortunately he spends most of his time sleeping. He will probably wake up while you’re here but he won’t be able to talk or recognize you. Much of the time, he doesn’t even recognize me.” She turned toward Jerry. “I do wish God would take him, Father. He is in such pain all the time. He was always a lively, hard-working man with a great sense of humor. I keep reminding myself to see him that way. Sometimes, it’s hard.”
Rebecca wondered how she would cope with a dying parent. She was pretty sure she could do it for Paul Brady, but never for her mother. Marge led them into the large, spotless kitchen. A white linen tablecloth covered a table that was set with fine china. A bouquet of roses was in the center. Marge served lasagna, salad, and garlic bread—a meal that would be difficult to match in a fine Italian restaurant. During dinner Rebecca learned that Marge was forty-five, received her doctorate from the University of Chicago, was divorced, and had no children. She had a younger sister who had six children and a brother with two children; both of her siblings lived in Aberdeen. The thousand acres her father had once farmed were rented to a neighbor. Marge kept busy editing a professional journal, taking care of her father along with three horses and a garden on the half-acre where the house stood. She is beautiful, intelligent, charming, available, and obviously at ease with the priest, Rebecca thought. It had nothing to do with her article but she wondered if he was ever tempted to make a pass at this woman. She really did want to know what made this handsome, intelligent man tick.
Only once did Marge’s father interrupt them. Marge excused herself and took a bowl filled with something that looked like baby food along with some medicine to the man. Their conversation went on until around ten, then Father Jerry asked Rebecca what she would like to do on Saturday. Marge volunteered the idea that the three of them could ride the horses in the morning, providing she could get the neighbor to sit with her father.
“I’ve never been on a horse in my life. Do you ride, Father?”
“I rode a little when we lived in Nebraska. I’ve taken a few rides with Marge since the weather turned cooler. I’m still a tenderfoot.”
Marge laughed. “I hadn’t ridden a horse since I went away to college. We’ve kind of been re-learning together. He’s a natural with horses. All three horses are creampuffs, especially Daisy, the one you would ride.”
“Gosh, I don’t know. The very idea scares me to death.” It would be something to tell the gang back at the office, though. Perhaps she could get a picture of the priest on a horse, which would be great for the article. “Okay, I’ll do it—or try to.”
Father Jerry stood up. “I’m going to have to leave you ladies. I’m beat. Marge, thanks for the great dinner, it was delicious. In the morning, how does nine o’clock sound?”
Rebecca and Marge stood. “Nine is fine with me. Is that okay with you, Rebecca?” Rebecca nodded.
The priest turned to leave. Marge put her hand on his shoulder. “Well, aren’t you going to give us a hug?” He gave each of them a hug; the kind clergymen give family members at a funeral. Rebecca wondered if it was different from the initial hug he gave Marge because he was obliged to give one to her. They walked out to the porch with him and waved as he turned his car around and drove off.
When they were inside, Marge asked, “Would you like a nightcap? I have some lovely brandy. Or white wine? I didn’t offer any after dinner drinks because Father Jerry says he is on the wagon.”
Does he share everything with this woman? Rebecca thought. “Brandy sounds good. He had a beer this afternoon.”
“He says he gives himself permission if he’s been working hard. I hope that’s all. St. Patrick’s has had its share of alcoholics.”
Marge poured an inch of the amber liquid in large snifters and sat down at the kitchen table across from Rebecca. Marge sloshed the brandy around the glass and held it under her nose. After smelling the strong drink, she tasted it. “So, Rebecca, how is the article coming along on our Father Jerry? What do you think of him?”
Before responding, Rebecca mimicked Marge’s gesture with the brandy, smelling it and then taking a small swallow. “This is good! I really don’t know what to think of him. He’s so different from what I expected a priest to be, not that I’ve known that many. In some ways he seems so out of place here and yet he seems so at home. Tell me about him from your perspective, you seem to know him pretty well.”
“In some ways he’s easy to know, in others he seems inscrutable. He’s intelligent, obviously, but troubled. I honestly think he won’t last long here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m not sure but I don’t think it’ll be challenging enough after he gets done with all the projects he has outlined for himself.”
“What kind of projects?”
“Remodeling the church, of course. He’s also working with the Methodist minister on remodeling one of the boarded-up buildings on Main Street for a teen center. He hopes to raise enough money to help the Hispanic farm-workers build some better housing. Knowing him, he’s probably thinking up some other things in addition to these.”
“What does he do for fun?”
“I asked him that once. He said ‘work.’ And I think he means it. He said there was a tribe in Brazil that uses the same word for ‘work’ and ‘play.’ Then, he added, jokingly I’m sure, that he was probably a member of that tribe in a previous life. You should stay for the Youth Mass. It’s on Saturday evening at seven. I went to it once. You’ll find it interesting. You’ll see how much he really does enjoy what he’s doing.”
“Could you put me up for another night? I’d hate to head for St. Louis at night.”
“Sure, no problem, there’s plenty of room. A former nun that Jerry worked with in Aberdeen will be here, too. She’s an accomplished musician and comes over from Kansas State to help the kids who play in a sort of rock band at the Mass. I really think she comes over so she can spend time with Father Jerry.”
“He’s a good-looking man. He would be a most eligible bachelor in any other profession.”
Marge chuckled, “I really don’t think he has any idea of how good looking he is. Another person you might want to speak to is Alice Peterson—a wonderful woman who is dying of cancer. Father Jerry talks to her a great deal.”
“I met her this afternoon. We had quite a talk. She is, indeed, a wonderful person—happier than most people I know—cancer or not.”
The two of them talked a while longer and then Marge showed Rebecca to an upstairs bedroom. It had faded wallpaper but, despite a slight musty smell, was very clean. A solid oak chest of drawers, bed, and chair were its only furniture. The bathroom was down the hall. Rebecca got to take a bath in a claw-footed bathtub, similar to ones she had seen before only in the movies.
As she climbed into bed, she thought of how the day had been far different from what she had expected. Thinking of the morning, she wondered if women still rode sidesaddle like in the Western movies she had seen as a child.
CHAPTER 6
A
man who lacks intelligence cannot be taught,
but intelligence can increase a man’s bitterness.
Ecclesiasticus 21:12
Marge held the reins of one horse and Rebecca was sitting astride another when Father Jerry drove up. It was a beautiful day without a cloud in the sky. Marge had coached her on horsemanship and Rebecca had taken a practice ride around the yard. She felt like she was ten feet off the ground when she first mounted Daisy, but she got used to it and was actually enjoying it. Daisy, a brownish-red color Marge called “sorrel,” was indeed a creampuff.
Dressed in jeans, faded plaid shirt, and straw hat, the priest walked over. “Mornin’, ladies.” He touched the brim of his hat, just like in western movies. He sauntered over to Daisy and peered out from under his hat. “Looks like you’re right at home up there, Rebecca.”
“Wey-all, pardner, Marge has been hepin’ me get the hang of this here critter.”
Marge laughed. “She’s a fast learner, even sounds like a cowgirl.”
Father Jerry caressed the larger gray horse’s nose. “Good morning’, Jack. Ready for a ride?” He turned to Marge. “Where’s your horse? Or are you going to ride Jack? Do I need to go saddle up my own?”
“I’m afraid I can’t go with you. My neighbor couldn’t come over this morning, so I better stay here. You have a good time.”
He climbed on the horse effortlessly. “Well, pardner, ya’ll wanna take a ride over by the lake?”
“I guess, as long as we don’t go too fast.”
“Thanks for saddling up Jack for me, Marge.”
Marge said, “No problem. I’ll have some lunch ready for you when you get back. Oh, I almost forgot. I want to take your picture.” Rebecca had asked her to take pictures of the priest on horseback. Rebecca was afraid that if she took them, Jerry might object, thinking she would use them in the article, which she planned to do. Over the years, Rebecca had gotten used to what she considered a little deception to get what she needed for a story. Marge took several snapshots from various angles. “Okay, cowboys, you can go now.”
They waved to Marge as they headed down a two-track trail behind the barn. A narrow grassy ridge separated them as they proceeded at an easy walk. They hadn’t gone far when Rebecca said, “Marge is a very nice person. Thanks for introducing us.”
“You’re welcome. How do you like being on a horse?”
“So far, really good. I was a bit scared at first but I like it. How far is the lake?”
“About three or four miles.”
They came to a barbed-wire fence with a strange-looking gate. The priest got off the horse and handed Jack’s reins to her. “After I open the gate, lead Jack to the other side and I’ll fasten the gate.” He put one arm around a post that held strands of barbed wire and pulled up a wire loop attached to the stationary post. He pulled the limp gate away from the horses.
Rebecca loosened the reins on her horse and said, “Let’s go, Daisy.” She didn’t move. “Come on, Daisy, let’s go.” She reflected on how the simple acts involved in taking a horseback ride made her aware of how different this man was from all the other men she had known. And how different she was when she was with him.
Father Jerry laughed. “I guess Marge didn’t teach you everything. Give her a little kick with your heels and say, ‘giddy up’.”
“I can’t kick this nice horse!”
“It won’t hurt her. She’s used to it. Think of it as stepping on the gas.”
Rebecca did as she was told and Daisy walked through the entrance with Jack following.
“Now say, ‘Whoa there’.”
She did and Daisy and Jack stood patiently until he fastened the gate.
As they rode along side-by-side, Father Jerry said, “This reminds me of a story. Want to hear it?”
“Sure.”
“There was this Texas rancher who wanted to show off his ranch to his new bride. So they saddled up the horses and were riding along looking at things when his horse stumbled. He said, ‘that’s once.’ They went on for a while and the horse stumbled again and the rancher said, ‘that’s twice.’ The young bride, of course, wondered why he said this but didn’t say anything. They went on and the horse stumbled a third time. The Texan got off his horse, pulled a rifle from the saddle, and said ‘that’s three times.’ Then he shot the horse. The young woman couldn’t believe it and let him know it. She called him the cruelest man she ever knew and really cussed him out.”
The Texan calmly looked up at her and said, ‘that’s once!’“ The priest chuckled.
Rebecca didn’t even attempt a smile. “Is that supposed to be funny?”
“Well, I thought it was. I guess you don’t.”
“No, I don’t. I’m surprised you think so because it seems to me to be demeaning and sexist.” The story made him sound like a chauvinist and she didn’t want to think of him that way.
* * *
Jerry looked over at her and saw the hurt and anger on her face. He always thought it was a pretty tame little joke, but looking at it from a woman’s point of view, it wasn’t. He had told it several times before but the audience was always Catholic. He guessed they were obliged to laugh at the priest’s jokes. His mind wandered back to the first and only priests’ poker party he had attended the summer he was ordained. Six priests sat around a table and told “dirty” jokes as they played cards and drank too much. He had never considered himself a prude but the jokes were raunchy, more demeaning and insulting to women than most of the jokes he had heard on construction sites. Or maybe it was because he expected so much more from his new priest-colleagues. It was a very disillusioning moment and he vowed not to repeat it.
They rode on in silence until they arrived at the top of a little knoll. They stopped and Jerry waved his arm toward a surprisingly large body of water. “And this is Lake Paris, the county’s pride and joy.” A number of colorful little sailboats and fishing boats dotted the lake. “I apologize for the joke,” He said. “It was a bit chauvinistic, I’m sorry.”
Rebecca met his gaze. “Yes, it was chauvinistic-- and more than a ‘bit.’
They rode down to the lake. Rebecca refused his assistance in dismounting and awkwardly climbed down, nearly falling. Jerry laughed and, reluctantly, she did, too. They tied the horses to a tree and sat down at a picnic table. Jerry took off his hat, set it on the table and ran his hand through his hair. “I took communion to Alice Peterson this morning. She said you were a lovely young lady.”
“Is that all she said?”
“No. She also said you were intelligent, beautiful, charming, and thanked me for introducing you to her. She hopes she can see you again.”
“She really didn’t say all that, did she?”
“Well, not exactly in those words but close, I’d say.”
“My guess is, that is part of your Blarney Stone act. Maybe I can see her this afternoon.” She gazed at the lake.
He studied her face for a moment. Yes, she does look like Melanie, a bit darker complexion but similar, classically beautiful features. “Yesterday you didn’t finish telling me what Wayne said about me.”
Rebecca looked at him. “No, I didn’t, did I? One thing sticks in my mind. He said that you changed rather dramatically around the time you were shot. Something about the death of a high school girl you knew quite well. Sister Martha also mentioned it. From what I gather, she committed suicide.” Rebecca squinted and wrinkled her forehead. “I think her name was Melanie somebody or other.”
“Melanie Kurtz.”
Rebecca, thinking of the possible molest issue, was more than a little hesitant and nervous as she said, “Yes, that’s it. Father Cameron said he didn’t know her well but you did. How did her death change you?”
“I got to know her quite well. I still grieve her loss.” Jerry looked out over the lake and thought of the last contact he had with Melanie.
* * *
It was a Saturday afternoon in May. Suddenly he was there in the confessional an
d could hear Melanie’s voice, “Father Jerry, is that you?”
“Yes.” Melanie was a fifteen-year-old parishioner. He had been hearing her confessions about once a month for two years. In the eighth grade, Melanie was one of the brightest and most delightful students in the class, always asking penetrating questions. She was social and cheerful. But soon after entering high school, she changed--she was no longer cheerful. She looked sad and stopped going to communion at Mass. She then began coming to him for confession. She resumed receiving communion but continued to look like all the life had gone out of her.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned...” She caught her breath, sobbed once, and blurted out, “Father, I’m, I’m ... pregnant.”
Jerry felt his neck and shoulders tighten. He bit his lip, sat back, and breathed heavily. Many times he had begged her to talk to him outside the confessional and she refused every time, saying, “He said that if I ever told anyone, he would kill me and Mom and my little sister. And I know he would. In here I’m safe, cause you can’t tell anyone, right, Father Jerry?” He repeatedly assured her that he could, under no circumstances, violate the seal of confession.
Melanie pounded the plastic grate between them, almost breaking it. “Father Jerry, did you hear me?”
“Melanie, was it your stepfather again?”
Still crying, Melanie paused, then quietly whispered, “Yes.”
He wanted so badly to strangle Ralph Kurtz with his bare hands.
“Father, please help me, I have to get an abortion! Please, Father Jerry, you’re the only one, please!”
Still clinching his fists and working hard to sound calm, he asked, “Melanie, are you sure you’re pregnant? Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes, I’m sure!” She blurted out impatiently, “and, no, I didn’t see a doctor! He would tell and you know what would happen. Please, Father Jerry, will you help me?”
She sounded so sad and desperate. He wanted to get out of the confessional and hold her, absorb some of her pain. That bastard! That stupid, insensitive, evil bastard! For two years, he hadn’t been able to think of her stepfather without wanting to beat the hell out of him, and now this. “Melanie, I could help you find a place to stay, a place that would be safe and nice. You could….”