by Hanley, Don;
They sat quietly for sometime and then Rebecca said, “I keep wondering why you became a priest. Yesterday you said you decided on it after your father died when you were fourteen. Father Cameron said you worked a few years after high school, so you had a lot of time to think it over. How old were you when you were ordained?”
“Thirty.”
“So you had sixteen years to think about it, to assuage any guilt you might have had for, uh, contributing to your father’s death. So what was your later reason?”
“For many reasons. I believed, and still believe, that Jesus’ message of love, justice and peace is what the world, families, communities, and nations, need. And I believe that the Catholic Church, with all of its faults, has the longest history and best organization to promulgate that message. I also wanted to do good in the world, to help people. And I wanted to have a peaceful life. The old priest in Nebraska was one of the most peaceful and spiritual persons I’ve ever known. His name was Father Groel. Being with him, serving Mass and all, was so pleasant compared to the people in my family. I never saw him angry, humiliate anyone, or be anything but kind.” For the hundredth time he thought of how unlike Father Groel he was the day Melanie died and how furious he had been, and still was, toward Ralph Kurtz. He winced.
“You just made a face. What were you thinking?”
“I was just thinking of how enraged I have been toward Melanie’s stepfather. I don’t believe I have the patience of old Father Groel. I guess I have a long way to go before I can be as kind and thoughtful. But back to my reasons for being a priest, I honestly believe that the Catholic Church has done some wonderful things for people, inspiring, charitable, life-giving things. I’m happy to be part of it even though it has done, and continues to do, many harmful things. And some priests do some horrible things, like molest children. I’m sure you have heard of that.”
“Yes, I’ve read about that. Do you know of any priests who have been accused of molest?” Rebecca couldn’t tell him how relieved she was that could no longer think of him as one of those priests.”Yes. We have had one priest who was arrested last year for molesting two girls when they were pre-teens. I have to admit that I didn’t know him very well. Chose not to, really. I didn’t care for him. He seemed phony to me. He’s awaiting trial now. Oh, and there was another one but he left the priesthood before I was ordained. Don’t know much about that case.”
“Why do you think these men do these things?”
“First, because they are humans. I’m guessing that the number of priests who molest children is not as high or higher than men in general – which is too high. It gets publicity because of the hypocrisy. Another reason, is that, I’m convinced, the Church’s attitude toward sex is so screwed up.”
“As you know, I read all about your sermon. You said that the Church’s teaching was unnatural and inhumane. What do you mean?”
“Unnatural because of the way it’s treated—it’s essential beauty is never mentioned or mentioned only in the most abstract way. Too often it is mentioned only in the context of sin. Over all my years, most of the sins I’ve heard in the confessional have to do with sex. Rarely is it in other areas of loving or not loving, or justice or injustice, or malice or other kinds of hurt. Sex and sexual organs are a natural part of our being human. Hmmm. Sounds like a sermon, huh?”
Rebecca chuckled and said, “That sermon got you exiled to Paris. Are you angry for being sent out here to the boondocks? Remember, I saw that beautiful new St. Gabriel’s church that holds over a thousand people.”
He met her penetrating, deep brown eyes. “I was at first, but now I think it was one of the best things that could have happened to me.”
“Why?”
“For the first few years I was a priest, I was too busy telling people how to live their lives to really get to know and care for them. Then I was appointed to the religious education office and was too busy to spend real time with people. Oh, I worked with people at St. Gabriel’s, but still, there was not enough time. Here, I can really get to know people. I’m better off for it.” After saying all of that, he looked at his watch and said, sheepishly, “Speaking of time, we better get back, Marge will have lunch ready for us.”
Rebecca stiffly got up from the bench. “Riding that horse has done something to my legs and my, uh, butt. Can we walk around a bit before we get back on?”
“Sure.” They walked down to the edge of the water, where Jerry taught her how to skip rocks. After plunking one rock into the lake without a single skip, Rebecca asked, “Wayne said you grew up in a big poor family. How poor was it?”
He chuckled. “About as poor as that throw you just made. If you really want to know, I can show you an example this afternoon in Paris.” They headed back to the horses.
After lunch, Jerry told Rebecca and Marge that he had an appointment with one of the Mexican families who helped him prepare his sermon in Spanish. “Rebecca, I’ll show you a bit of poverty when you come into town. And I have one other person I would like you to meet while you’re here in Paris. If you come by the rectory at about two-thirty, I’ll take you around. If you want to see Alice Peterson again, give Sy a call to see if she’s feeling up to it. Marge has the number.”
As he drove into town he wondered if he would spend as much time with a male journalist, or even a female one if she were homely? Oh hell, Haloran, you agreed to it, so make it worthwhile for her, he thought. Another little voice said, “Get off your holier-than-thou horse. You enjoy spending time with her because she’s beautiful.”
CHAPTER 7
How happy the poor in spirit; theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Gospel of Matthew, 5:3
Rebecca did visit with Alice and met two of her children, their spouses and children. She wanted to include Alice in the article, as the priest’s inspiration and ‘spiritual director.’ Looking for an opportunity to get a picture that would show the older woman’s exceptional spirit, she had taken one perfect photo of her with her four-year-old granddaughter. Alice had such a wonderful attitude and the children and grandchildren seemed to accept her infirmity very easily. Rebecca realized that she hadn’t given much thought to family life, ever. Helene, with her fourteen-year-old daughter, was the closest to family she had spent any time with. And she and her mother’s life were as far removed from family as they could get. No man she had ever dated ever mentioned children. She was pondering all this as she left her car in front of Peterson’s store and walked across the road.
Again, the main door was open. She knocked on the screen door and called out, “Anybody home?”
Jerry emerged from the office, smiling. “Come on in. I saw your car over at the store. Have a nice visit with Alice?”
“Yes, and I got to meet part of the family. They seem like very loving people.”
“And it’s not just outward appearances, they really are. Ready for a little jaunt around Paris?”
“Sure. Oh, Marge asked if we could join her for dinner. She says Kathy drops by before she meets with the kids at three and she asked me to ask you about time.”
“I hear confessions from four to five and the youth Mass begins at seven, so the schedule is a bit tight, but I’ll give her a call when we get back to see what we can do.”
Rebecca guessed that he didn’t often have anyone ride along in his dusty Pontiac, as he removed a bunch of books and papers from the passenger seat. He threw it all in the back seat with what looked like a bunch of trash. He brushed off the seat with his hand. His carkeeping is worse than his housekeeping.
She climbed in and put her purse and camera on her lap. “So who are we going to meet?”
“A wonderful young man.”
As they crossed the railroad tracks, Jerry said, “We are now entering Paris’ slums.”
“I thought all of Paris was a sl--” She looked over at Jerry and he gave her a disapproving look. About a dozen dilapidated little houses surrounded by weeds, broken fences, and old cars lined the dirt r
oad.
He pulled up in front of a run-down little house, a shack really, with a yard covered with old tires and other junk amidst the weeds. “This place always reminds me of the house we lived in, in Nebraska. We did keep the yard better, though.”
Rebecca noticed that the house was the third from the end on the right. Before leaving town she planned to get a picture of it. If she did it now, he would probably object or at least question her. She wanted to keep the good rapport they had been having. Deception had become as natural as breathing in her years as a reporter.
Just as Jerry was about to put the car in gear, she saw a teenage boy awkwardly moving toward them in a low, wagon-like cart. He was propelling himself forward, with his ungloved hands pushing against the dusty road. Jerry got out of the car. “Hi, Ricky! Just the man I want to see. I’d like you to meet someone.”
Rebecca reluctantly joined him in front of the car as the boy continued slowly toward them. He was dressed in a yellowed white tee shirt with a faded Kansas City Chief’s logo on the front, worn blue jeans and sneakers. His face was contorted in a crooked smile.
A shiver went down her spine as she looked at this dirty, unpleasant looking boy. And this is the “special person” Jerry wants me to meet.
Ricky stopped a few feet in front of them and in a tortured voice said, “H, h, hi, Fa, Fa, Father Je, Je, Jerry.”
Jerry knelt down on the road and leaned over and gave the boy a hug. “Ricky, I’d like you to meet Rebecca Brady. She’s a writer who’s visiting Paris to do a story. I’m introducing her to some of my favorite people. Rebecca, this is Ricky Alexander.”
Ricky seemed to blush and awkwardly rubbed his right hand on his tee shirt. His very callused hand wavered in the air and Rebecca bent down to shake it. “Gl, gl, glad t, ta, me, me, meet y, y, you, Re, Re, Rebecca.”
“I’m glad to meet you, too, Ricky.” What a pathetic child, she thought. She had to refrain herself from wiping her hand on her jeans. She chided herself for being repulsed by the dirty, crippled young man. Get a grip, she told herself, where is your compassion?
Ricky looked rather intensely at her and then over at the priest. “Sh, sh, she’s ve, ve, very.” He clumsily flopped his hand over his face, reddened, and went on, “pr, pr. pretty.” He sheepishly looked out from under his hand.
Jerry stroked his chin with one hand and smiled at Rebecca. “By golly, Ricky, I think you’re right. I hadn’t noticed. She is pretty, isn’t she?”
The lad waved his hand in Jerry’s direction. “Y, y, yer f, f, f, full o, o, of sh, sh, shit!” This time he flopped his hand on top of his head as if expecting to get hit.
Jerry, still kneeling beside the cart and obviously pretending, said sternly, “Now, that’s no way to talk to a holy man of the cloth.” Ricky screwed up his face, trying to say something more but the priest cut him off. “Now don’t tell me I’m full of shit again-- even if I am.” They both laughed.
“Let me get your picture together.” Rebecca put her camera to her eye and snapped a photo.
“Hey, Ricky, let’s sing a song for her.” The boy’s eyes lit up. “What would you like to sing?”
“N, n, n, notes.”
“From the Sound of Music?”
Ricky nodded.
Jerry began the song in a wonderful baritone voice, “When you know the notes to sing….”
Ricky joined him without a trace of a stutter. “You can sing most anything...” His eyes were shining. Rebecca kept taking pictures of the two as they finished the song. She was glad the camera covered the tears forming in her eyes. She had to figure out how she was going to get the event in writing.
When they finished their song, Ricky said, “Fa, Fa, Father, I, I wa, want t, ta, sh, sh, show ya so, so, something.”
Rebecca found herself tensing up as she inwardly struggled with a desire to help the boy speak. She noticed that Jerry’s lips moved as Ricky talked as if trying to help him out. She and the priest walked slowly beside him as he paddled his way past three houses.
The boy turned up a dirt walkway, crawled off his cart and up two old wooden steps across a weather-beaten porch. Jerry leaned over as if to help him move up the stairs, then caught himself and straightened up and put his hands in his pockets.
Ricky sat awkwardly on the porch and began struggling with the screen door. Before he could open it, a stern-looking woman in a faded dress hanging below her knees angrily pushed the door open. She looked contemptuously at Jerry as she said to Ricky, “Well, Rick, it looks like you found Father Holyjoe.”
Rebecca saw that Jerry tensed up as he tried to ignore the woman’s manner. “Hi, Mrs. Alexander. I’d like you to meet Rebecca Brady. She’s a writer and I wanted her to meet Ricky.”
The woman looked at Rebecca and uttered, “Humph.” She didn’t invite them in. Ricky, in his stuttering speech, asked her if she would get his tablet from his room. With another “humph” she disappeared and returned quickly with a tattered Red Chief tablet, handed it to him, slamming the door. Ricky clumsily turned the pages until he found what he was looking for. He smiled as he handed the tablet to Jerry.
Jerry studied the page for a long moment and looking rather sad and serious, said, “Ricky this is great! May I show it to Rebecca?” The boy nodded.
Rebecca read the poem, which was titled Suffocating:
confusion reflected
things lying about
scattered
my mind
looking into someone’s eyes
i know what i see
i can’t say it
asking myself
i know what i want
fogginess
heaviness
i cannot BREATHE
i cannot speak
i try to cry and cannot
if i stack things
pile them high
will it become clear?
floating now
in an air tight box
unable to reach anything
or anyone
watching things float by
trying to breathe
this body
these hands
not even me
i’m gone
you don’t know me
you don’t know where i am
you don’t even begin to understand
don’t pretend you do
my eyes are not just glass windows
they can see
if i can clear them
and find me
like the rag doll you know has a soul
but don’t hesitate to twist
throw, or stuff in the closet
i just lie here
making a noise to hear it
looking at something to look
my tears are eating me up
from the inside out
trapped
When she finished reading, Rebecca noticed that Ricky was looking at her intensely— questioningly. The tears she had been holding back refused to obey. “Ricky, I don’t know what to say; this is a beautiful poem, very moving. Would you...” She choked up.
“Let me publish it in my magazine?”
Ricky looked at Jerry, who said, “I believe she’s serious, my man. If you like, I can take it home and copy it and return the original to you this evening. What do you say?”
The boy grinned from ear to ear. “O, o, o, okay.”
Jerry knelt down on the porch and took Ricky’s hand. “I don’t know if it helps any, but I think everyone feels that no one really understands them. And, I know that you have a greater challenge with that than most people. I hope you keep letting me get to know you. It’s a very deep and wonderful poem.”
The boy seemed embarrassed and jerkily looked away.
“Are you coming over to Mass this evening?”
Ricky nodded.
“Need a ride?”
He shook his head.
Jerry gave him a hug. “See you tonight.”
Rebecca bent down and kissed R
icky on the cheek. The boy turned scarlet and stammered, “N, n, ni, nice t, t, to, meet, yo, you, Re, Re,Rebecca. Gl, gl, gl, glad yo, yoo, you, li, like, m, m, my po, poem. Wi, wi,.will I s, s, see yo, you a, a, at Ma, Ma, Mass?” Rebecca nodded.
When they got back to the car, Rebecca said, “Wow, what an experience. I’ve never met anyone like him. He does write extremely well--a bit hard to read, but his imagery and insight are fantastic. Is he able to type or use a computer?”
“He’s learning. Marge had an old computer and gave it to him. I think he’ll pick it up pretty well. It will take time, as you can see his co-ordination isn’t too good. He’s self-taught. He reads voraciously. I think he’s ready for college.”
“How did you meet him?”
“He paddled his way over to the church soon after I got here. He’d read about my sermon and wanted to talk to me about masturbation. His mother had caught him masturbating and told him he was going to hell if he didn’t stop.” Jerry hesitated a moment, and then remembered that Rebecca had mentioned that she read all the newspaper accounts about his sermon. He went on, “He wanted to know if that was true and if what the paper reported was what I really said. I assured him it was. He’s been coming over a couple of times a week ever since. He will let me take him with me when I go places but, well, like tonight, he’ll take a half hour to paddle over to the church. He likes to feel independent.”
“What’s with his mother?”
“She’s angry at God. She was Catholic at one time. When she found out Ricky had cerebral palsy, she said that if there was a God and he would punish an innocent child like that, He was not a God she could put any faith in.”
Rebecca looked over at him and asked, “What do you tell people about that? I have to admit, I feel the same way. How could a caring God do something like that?”
Jerry drove into the driveway and turned off the engine. “I tried to speak with Mrs. Alexander once, but she wouldn’t talk to me. I wanted to tell her: first, I don’t know why there is this kind of evil in the world. And second, that her question has bothered me since I was a kid. As far as I can tell, no one knows the answer. I don’t believe in a puppeteer kind of God who is somewhere up in the sky randomly pulling people this way and that, nor sprinkling misery here and good fortune and health there.” He reached for the door handle.