Absolution

by Henry Hack

  “I’m not following you here,” I said.

  “Sexual liaisons?”

  “I don’t recall any women being smuggled in, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s not what I mean. I mean between your classmates themselves?”

  I was shocked and said, “You mean homosexual acts?”

  “Exactly. It’s getting to be a problem throughout the church, and I don’t mean sexual acts exclusively between priests. I mean between priests and young children, both girls and boys.”

  “That’s sickening,” I said. “Have you seen this first hand, because I haven’t?”

  “No, just a lot of rumors, and I assure you I am not a pedophile.”

  “That’s good to hear. At least I won’t have to clamp my hands over my ass when you’re in the vicinity.”

  He laughed and said, “Marine Corps humor. I like it.”

  “Do you think Rome will ever change the celibacy and marriage rule?”

  “They’d better. They should allow priests to marry, and they should also allow women to be ordained.”

  “Heresy!” I said, smiling and putting crossed index fingers toward his face.

  “If they don’t, the church is doomed.”

  “I don’t think so. We’ve been around 2,000 years, and we’ll be around thousands more.”

  “Don’t count on it, my young idealist.”

  “I made my vow and I’m sticking to it,” I said.

  “Good for you, Francis. Yield ye not to the temptation of short skirts, and high-heels, and pretty faces, and full red lips…”

  “You sound like the Devil himself.”

  “Make your own decision, but let me tell you not a lot of priests leave the church because of the celibacy rules. They learn to cope with them.”

  “You mean some priests have sex anyway? They violate the vow and remain a priest? Now, that’s not heresy, that’s a mortal sin, a sin as big as they come.”

  “I guess it is,” Tom said, “but I guarantee you our dear Pastor is not one of them. Rumor has it he doesn’t even have a penis, but a tiny, shriveled-up mushroom cap instead.”

  I burst out laughing and said, “That’s certainly good to hear, but what about you, Father Tom?”

  “I fall back on my vow of silence,” he said.

  “When did you take a vow of silence?”

  “Just now, Francis.”

  . . .

  I kept my vows, all of them, and in the autumn of 1969 I was transferred to St. Anthony’s Church in South Ozone Park, Queens where Father Joseph Fusco had reigned supreme as Pastor for fifteen years. And, to my surprise, my transfer came with a promotion to Assistant Pastor. I was thirty years old, but some thirty-five year old priests were being made pastors. The attraction to the priesthood continued to evaporate at the entrance level and seasoned priests were leaving at an alarming rate. Some left to get married and others to lead a less restrictive existence. As Bob Dylan once said, The times they were a changing.

  Father Fusco was a go-getter and a great fundraiser putting on a local Italian feast every year on the school’s playground. The neighborhood was predominantly Italian with Irish and Jews making up most of the rest, although I had seen a few black faces and Spanish faces start to appear at mass. And, being of Italian heritage, I reveled in the food and pageantry of the feast.

  About a year after my transfer here, I was hearing confession, and when the woman on the other side of the grate was finished, and I had given her absolution and a slight penance, she said, “Father, I’d like to meet with you about a family problem.”

  “Certainly,” I said. “If you are free now, I’ll be finished in another fifteen minutes. Or you can make an appointment with the church secretary in the rectory.”

  “I’ll wait for you. I’ll say my penance.”

  “Three Hail Mary’s won’t take you that long. You didn’t confess to stealing the Crown Jewels, you know.”

  She laughed and said, “Then I’ll pray the rosary for you, Father, and for my son, who I wish to speak to you about.”

  Her son. Acting up in school? Drugs? I hoped not drugs, but that was becoming more and more prevalent in these days of the Vietnam War. A vision of Pete Selewski, sweating and nervous, wearing a long-sleeved shirt in June flashed through my mind.

  I finished with my last penitent and we walked over to the rectory together. I said, “I remember seeing you at mass occasionally, but we were never introduced.”

  “Oh, I’m Elizabeth,” she said, “and I never miss mass. Please call me Betty.”

  We settled into chairs in my office and my secretary brought us coffee. “Please, Betty,” I said, “whenever you are ready.”

  “Thank you, Father. It’s about my son. He’s always been a good boy. He attended elementary school here and is now in his first year at Bishop Loughlin High School.”

  “You’re kidding! That’s my alma mater. Good for him.”

  “Yes, I’m happy he’s continuing his catholic education at that level. As I said, he’s a good boy, but he has a history, a history he knows nothing of. But something recently happened, and I realized sooner or later we would have to let him know who he is.”

  “He’s adopted?”

  “Yes Father, and the other day he came home and asked me and my husband if he was Jewish. He said some kids from Loughlin asked why a Jew would go there. This happened once before when he was around ten years old. We lied to him then, and we lied to him again.”

  A vague uneasiness began to move through my body. I said, “Is he Jewish, Betty?”

  “Yes. Both his parents were Jewish, but they died when he was an infant. We adopted him, and agreed to raise him in the catholic faith.”

  This isn’t possible.

  I gathered my wits and said, “And your question is when to tell him the truth?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  I had to ask the question. “What is your son’s name?”

  “Michael. Michael Simon.”

  Although I expected it to be him, I felt the blood rush from my brain and I grabbed the edge of the desk to keep from keeling over. “Father, are you all right?” Betty asked, getting up to assist me.

  “No, no,” I said, “I just got a little dizzy. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and I guess the caffeine affected me badly.”

  I buzzed for my secretary and asked her to bring me a candy bar and some ice water. When I drank and took a bite of the chocolate bar I felt better. Michael Simon! Here in my parish! Oh, my God!

  Now composed, I said, “My gut feeling is to wait until he’s older, when he finishes high school.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “That’s what Alan – my husband – thinks and so do all his grandparents.”

  “Does Michael have any siblings?”

  “Two older sisters, but they were one and two and a half years old when we took Michael in. They have no idea he is not their brother.”

  She appeared relieved I concurred with the others’ opinions. I said, “When the time comes, I think I should be there, the whole family should be there, and probably a rabbi.”

  “My husband is Jewish, but not observant. He goes to temple mainly on the High Holy days, and keeps his attendance a secret from Michael for obvious reasons. I’m positive Rabbi Berman will attend.”

  When Elizabeth Simon left she apparently seemed satisfied with her decision. Four years was a long time, but it just postponed facing the music. And what would I tell Michael Simon about the part of his history only I knew of? Nothing, or the truth? Four years to think it ov
er. “Michael Simon, may God bless you and look over you,” I said aloud as the events of that horrible night fourteen years ago came crashing full force into my brain. Not that I had ever forgotten it as I prayed for Michael every night, but that Michael was a figment, an imaginary person living out his life a thousand miles away. Now Michael was here, and he was real, and the image of the blood-drenched bodies of his parents would not go away.

  . . .

  A couple of days later I walked down to Stern’s candy store for two reasons: I loved the philosophical discussions with the bitter survivor, and I loved his egg creams. What I didn’t like was he wouldn’t let me ever pay for one. “You and the cops,” he would say. “Your geld is not good here.”

  On this particular day, as I sipped my egg cream, the boy who swept up the store said, “I’m finished, Mr. Stern.”

  “Looks good, Mikey. Want your egg cream?”

  “Not today, gotta run. We have a baseball game soon.”

  I recognized the boy as a former student at St. Anthony’s elementary school and an attendee at Sunday Mass, but I never had a reason to have any personal interaction with him. When he left, I said, “Seems like a pleasant kid. Good Catholic boy.”

  “So you say, Father.”

  “Oh?”

  “Dat Mikey is a Jew if I ever saw one. Michael Simon? Come on, gimme a break.”

  Realizing immediately this boy was the subject of the discussion between me and his mother a few days ago, and connecting the dots, I said, “Mort, have you ever told him that?”

  “All the time. I tease the hell out of him. He thinks I’m meshuge – crazy.”

  “Mort, I have a favor to ask. Don’t tease him anymore. Don’t tell him he’s a Jew.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, he is a Jew –”

  “I know that –”

  “But he doesn’t know it.”

  “I know that, too. Vere going in circles here, Francis.”

  “Let me explain…”

  When I finished, leaving out my part in the murder of Michael’s parents, of course, Mort Stern clapped his hand to his forehead and muttered, “Mein Gott in Himmel!”

  I couldn’t help myself, zinging the old man a bit. I said, “Funny, an avowed atheist refers to his God in Heaven.”

  “Just an old expression,” he said. “You shocked it out of me.”

  “Good come back, you old kvetcher. Then you’ll stop calling him a Jew?”

  “Ja, Francis. You didn’t have to confirm it. I still haf good ears.”

  “Besides, Mikey Simon doesn’t even look Jewish,” I said with a grin.

  “Bah, vat’s a Jew look like anyway?”

  “Like you, Mort. Your picture should be in the dictionary next to the word Jew. No, next to the words, Grumpy Old Yiddisher.”

  “Bah, and yours should be next to Beak-nosed Wop.”

  “Hey, my nose is smaller than yours,” I protested.

  “Bah! Hey, vant another egg cream?”

  “No, Mort, I gotta get back to the church.”

  He grabbed my arm and said, “Francis, what you told me, a terrible thing to have happened. Do you vant me there ven you tell him?”

  “Yes, Mort, his mother and I already discussed it. Four years from now, when he graduates. I’ll be there. We’ll get Rabbi Berman there, too. Mikey’s whole family will be there.”

  “I’m not looking forward to dat revelation,” he said.

  “Four years, Mort.”

  “Mit any luck I’ll be dead by then.”

  “And, if so, no doubt happy with the Good Lord in Heaven.”

  “Bah! Humbug, too.”

  And what would I say to Michael Simon four years from now? I had no idea, but I did know God had reunited us, put me into Mikey’s life, for a good reason. I had to figure that out, but by the time I got back to the rectory, I had no idea what I would say to him.

  THIRTEEN

  Although I had come to terms with my participation in the murders of Andrew and Veronica Simon, with the blessing of Fathers McClanahan and Johansson, I could not shake a feeling of guilt. Every time I performed a baptism and the infant cried – and it seemed they all did – I thought of the sound of Michael Simon crying down the hall from where I stood near the bodies of his dead parents. And every time I heard Little Darlin’ or Bye, Bye, Love on a passing radio, my mind flashed back to that night I got into Pete’s convertible.

  Since I could not obtain absolution from the church or yet from myself, I decided to soothe my conscience by taking an interest in Michael Simon and providing special attention to his education at Bishop Loughlin. I also contacted Elizabeth Simon and asked if they had established a college fund for him, and when she responded in the affirmative, I began regular donations to it. I said, “Betty, Michael has been dealt a lousy hand in life. Fortunately, he found new parents and a fine family to be raised in. A college education will give him a leg up in life when he goes out on his own.”

  “Thank you, Father,” she had responded. “With his three sets of grandparents also contributing he should be able to afford to go to Harvard.”

  “Three sets?”

  “Yes, my parents, Alan’s parents, and Veronica’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Silber.”

  “How do you explain that situation to Michael?”

  “Jerry and Sara Silber were introduced long ago as ‘good friends of the family,’” she said.

  “I see. Something else he’ll find out on D-Day. I know it’s necessary, and the right thing to do, but I must admit, Mrs. Simon, I am dreading it.”

  “So am I, Father. So is Alan. So are all the grandparents. And we also worry about my daughters, Mary Beth and Betty Ann, who will suddenly learn they are Michael’s cousins, not his sisters. Another deception we perpetuated.”

  “A necessary deception,” I said, thinking that was going to be one helluva day.

  . . .

  Two years later, Father Fusco had a severe heart attack and was forced to retire from his pastoral duties. I was surprised when the Bishop named me as Pastor. I guessed, correctly, the priesthood was shrinking at a faster pace now. But again I wondered why, reflecting back on my discussions with Father Tom Reynolds at Holy Family. And I began to quietly ask around. The things I found out were disturbing and truly shocking. Tom was right. The church had a problem – a big problem. How long could they keep it under wraps?

  The next two years flew by and suddenly it was D-Day. Although the guests were limited to four at the graduation ceremony, my priestly attire and my alumnus status got me right in. And the fact the aging principal, Father McClanahan, spotted me and escorted me to my seat didn’t hurt, either. The good Priest and I had remained in contact after my ordination, and I had put in a good word for Michael with him. I knew certain school charges and fees for sports and other activities mysteriously never showed up on his school bills.

  Although I had kept in touch with Michael through the church and Mort’s candy store, I was struck by his appearance as he strode across the stage smiling widely to receive his diploma, resplendent in his purple gown and cap with gold trim. The cap made him appear taller than his actual height, which was a shade under six feet, and he had filled out to a muscular, fit, athlete’s body. He lettered in track and field and basketball on the Lions’ teams, and the four colleges he had been accepted to all offered him a modest sports scholarship. A great future lay ahead of him, but a nagging dread began to ache in my stomach as we took photos and headed out to an early dinner at a nearby restaurant. And when dinner was over, we would go back to the Simon’s house for cake and coffee where we would b
e joined by all the grandparents, Mort Stern, and Rabbi Marc Berman.

  We were all assembled nervously around the large dining room table awaiting the arrival of our guest of honor. In its center sat a huge sheet cake with yellow icing and purple trim and lettering. It said, “Congratulations, Michael. Class of June, 1974. BLHS.”

  I looked around the table and noticed Michael’s “sisters,” both beautiful young ladies now. Mary Beth, age twenty, a college sophomore, closely resembled her father in looks, with brown hair and eyes. Betty Ann, age eighteen, was a secretary at a legal firm in Manhattan and a clone of her Irish mother, sporting blond hair and blue eyes.

  My feeling of dread increased as Michael bounced into the room, out of his graduation attire, now dressed in a crisp button-down, light-blue shirt, and pressed khakis. His aquiline nose and bright-green eyes strongly reminded me of his birth mother from the pictures Betty had shown me, pictures Michael would soon get to see. We all applauded as Alan handed him a big knife to cut the cake. This was not a birthday, so there were no candles on it, and when he began to slice it, no one suggested he make a wish.

  As Michael cut up the cake and Betty Ann passed the slices around, I wondered if he was curious why Rabbi Berman was here. Then I realized the Rabbi visited Mort’s candy store probably as often as I did, and there had been several occasions where Marc and I were there together taking great joy in badgering the old non-believer. We would only stop when he said, “Genug! Enough. Vun more word from you two and you get no egg creams today!”

  We dug into our slices of cake and sipped coffee when I suddenly realized, with four years of preparation, no one had mentioned who was going to initially break the news. I assumed it would be Alan, his “father,” but as the dessert wound down he had not broached the topic. Rabbi Berman said, “Where are you going to college, Michael?”

  He hesitated a bit and said, “I was happy to be accepted at four schools, and I first chose St. John’s over the others, mainly because it was close to home and a Catholic university. As I was finishing my senior year, I came to the conclusion I didn’t want to continue in that direction. After twelve years of strict Catholic education I felt I was living in a strait jacket. I changed my mind and decided on a state school, SUNY at New Paltz, where I could live away from home and get a break from the narrow views I had been exposed to.”