“Charles Manson is the strangest fourteen year old boy I’ve ever met. I’m not yet sure how I feel about him. I can’t tell if he’s blessed or cursed.”
“How so?”
“First, he doesn’t interact like a fourteen year old boy. He seems too relaxed for his circumstance, too at ease with me. He speaks of salvation as if he can grant it. He challenges faith like an old man who has faced every painful adversity life can impose.”
“Did you explain man’s original sin and our destiny to suffer?”
“Yes, Excellency.”
“I believe in the philosophies we teach at Boys Town. I believe in Father Flanagan’s methods. I believe that your hard work can tame the wild spirit in this boy. The Manson boy grew up in a terrible environment.”
“Yes, but the boy immediately wanted to know why, with our loving God, innocent children must suffer.”
“Yes, that’s a delicate question,” the archbishop concurred.
In the pause that followed, Gallagher asked, “May I ask a question, Excellency?”
“You may.”
“How can one recognize evil?”
“Are you referring to your new student?”
“Yes, but it’s more than that. How can we recognize evil when it disguises itself in alluring forms?”
“Recognizing evil is, at best, a daunting task,” the archbishop replied. “My advice is to look at consequences. Look for past and potential damages of all types. Turn to the scriptures for the answers. If the heart is impure, the lack of a relationship with God may be the strongest indicator of evil.”
“Thank you for your counsel, Excellency.”
“Sean, something is troubling you, something beyond the Manson boy.”
It was a statement rather than a question. Gallagher took a moment to answer.
“Yes, but I must think and pray further before saying more, Excellency.”
“In the absence of Monsignor Wegner, I can take your confession if it will help. I can offer council and support.”
Gallagher thought for a minute, and then bared his soul to the archbishop he held in such high esteem.
“There is a nun here, one of the Polish Franciscans from Chicago.”
“Yes.”
“I have grown attracted to her. It is as if I cannot live without seeing her.”
“Have you had sexual relations with her?”
“Oh, no.”
“Do you love this woman?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“I love her almost as much as God.”
“Does she know of your feelings?”
“We have not spoken of these things, but I can tell that she feels the same.”
The archbishop’s chin clenched and he looked down at his desk for a moment in thought.
“I cannot understand how something pure as my love can be sinful,” Gallagher continued.
The archbishop recognized Gallagher’s plight as a spiritual crisis and chose his words carefully, favoring compassionate support over instruction. Gallagher was in love, a condition not uncommon to priests who must live with a terrible loneliness.
“As your confessor, I am obligated to honor your confidentiality.”
“Thank you, Excellency.”
“As your archbishop, I am obligated to tell you that you must sort out these things before Monsignor Wegner returns. You must separate yourself from this woman and then trust in God to guide you through these difficult decisions.”
“I will pray for guidance, Excellency.”
“I too will pray that God gives you proper guidance, Sean. Please let me know if I can help.”
The call ended with both men worried.
Something indeed was weighing on Gallagher. The problem chipping away at his faith was Sister Mary Klara.
Father Gallagher didn’t just have an eye for her. His need for the beautiful sister was an obsession. He was 28 years old, respected at his profession, and until recently had never had a doubt about his calling. Sure, he had been tested before, but this was different.
It was impossible not to admire her, if not for her beauty then for her personality, for she was charming. In a sense, Gallagher was a victim, for neither he nor any other normal male, unattached or otherwise, could have avoided falling in love with her if thrown in close proximity.
How can this overpowering love in my heart be wrong? If there is a God, how could he permit the things he does. Would a loving God want me to feel such guilt over love for a woman?
His resolve to fight her magnetism had been like a bright moon that repeatedly fights for a view of the world through spotty clouds before surrendering entirely to an oncoming storm. The storm was fully upon him now, a turbulent storm of mind and body that he felt helpless against.
About four o’clock, while the sun was still high to the west, hurrying students gave the campus the buzz of a military camp. Fatigue temporarily drove Charlie and the archbishop from Gallagher’s mind. He left the school and walked onto the broad wide lawn. His footsteps pointed him toward the rectory used by associate priests.
On a flat area of the huge lawn, Gallagher saw boys playing baseball on an improvised field. He smiled seeing they used cardboard squares for bases, except for third base, which was marked by a shirt.
What a wonderful life we give these boys. It must feel secure for them to know they have left behind the dangers of their old lives. Here they are playing baseball and having fun like normal kids.
Several students noticed him passing and waved immediately with big smiles. He returned their greetings.
Chapter 12
Charlie Meets Hiram - Boys Town, April 1949
The old garage next to the associate priest’s residence was a dilapidated eyesore, a throwback to the old farming days that somehow stood in defiance of time. Peeling paint all around showed pale weathered wood underneath. Above the door, a battered sign, barely readable, still marked the embarrassment of a building as “Boys Town Garage.”
Anyone seeing it, other than the Boys Town priests, recognized the structure demanded serious maintenance, or more likely demolition.
The Boys Town student mechanics through the years were much the same. No matter their names, they faced the same problems, developed the same approaches to their work, and earned the same scarred knuckles. Only the faces and vehicles changed. The dialogue was always the same.
“When will Truck 4 be ready?” a student farmer would ask.
“What’s your big hurry?” the student mechanic would reply in his authoritative shop voice.
“We need it for planting corn.”
“It’ll be ready when they give us some time, some decent damn tools, and an adequate parts supply.”
Two pickup trucks sat in front of the garage, one operable, the other awaiting a new distributor. Both had oil puddles beneath their engines.
Inside the open double doors, a third truck sat hoisted on an ancient lift. Nearby, an air compressor pumped away, producing a hollow knocking rhythm. Next to the compressor, a cutting torch, the favorite tool of student mechanics, sat ready for work or play. Parts and supplies—but never the right parts or supplies—lined the walls waiting to patch up a pieced-together fleet.
Charlie perked up as he and Jake walked by the weathered cedar fence and into the shop yard.
“Now this is more like it,” Charlie said as they entered the open front doors. Charlie held out his arms and breathed in the sweet aroma of kerosene and oil-soaked floors.
They were the same smells he had known in the garages in Indiana, places where he had hung out with the greasy sons of greasy mechanics. It was as if Charlie was transported back home.
“Hiram! You in here?” Jake called out.
A muffled response came from the back of the shop where a door opened and a tall black boy emerged munching a bag of Fritos and swigging a Coke.
“Hiram, I have someone for you to meet,” Jake called out. And to Charlie, “One of th
e advantages for the shop students is that they have private access to the dining hall pantry.”
“Who’s the kid?” Hiram asked, washing down his last few corn chips and tossing the bag into a trash can.
“Hiram, meet Charlie Manson, our new roommate. Charlie, this is Hiram Hubert.”
Hiram stood looking at Charlie.
“Well, Jake, he ain’t very big, is he? And why can’t you ever bring home a black boy? I get lonely with all you dumb Catholic white boys surrounding me. They seem to keep the dark faces separated from each other around here.”
Charlie stood forward and offered his hand.
“Good to meet you Hiram, but didn’t anyone ever teach you not to talk about another guy’s religion or race?”
Hiram met Charlie’s hand with a firm grasp. “No offense meant.”
Then, recovering from the surprising challenge and the captivating eyes, Hiram said, “Say! How’d you guys like to have a snack from the kitchen? We got a big shipment of cookies and chips, and Cokes in today. I’ve been sampling them all afternoon.”
Charlie’s expression remained neutral, but Jake’s face said, “Let’s go!”
Hiram led them to the door at the back of the shop and swung it open revealing the pitch black world beyond. Hiram reached into the shelving next to the door and flipped a light switch hidden among oil cans.
When the lights came on, Charlie saw a lighted hallway that seemed to extend forever.
“Where does this go?” Charlie asked.
“It’s a breezeway, a snow shelter that leads to the dining hall store room. The kitchen doesn’t have a dock, so delivery trucks pull into the garage. We can transfer food to the pantry out of the weather. In the winter we do it without freezing our asses off.”
“And mighty convenient for you,” Charlie added.
Ten minutes later the three boys returned from the dining hall storeroom enjoying snacks courtesy of Hiram’s generosity and insider access.
As they ate, they shared idle thoughts.
“How many trucks does Boys Town have?” Charlie asked.
“We keep up with seven trucks and the Monsignor’s Studebaker,” Hiram answered proudly.
“I see three here. Do any of them actually run?” Charlie asked.
“Hell yes,” Hiram exclaimed, almost spraying cookies, but failing to detect an ulterior motive in the question. “The red one is our ready-to-go spare. Just finished replacing the head gasket this morning.”
Charlie moved to a Saint Jude calendar hung on the wall and lifted it. He smiled at the pin up underneath.
“Just like the shops my friends have back home. I figured it was there. No self-respecting garage should be without an encouraging girlfriend to keep you going.”
Hiram broke into a wide smile revealing a gold tooth that lit up his face. “I see the kid knows his way around a garage.”
“Damn!” Charlie exclaimed in a mock show of shielding his eyes from the brilliance of the tooth. “That’s got to be the shiniest gold tooth I’ve ever seen. What is it about gold teeth and black people?”
Hiram’s was pleased with the attention. His glowing tooth continued to illuminate the garage. “You are the first person in Omaha to even mention my tooth. It do look fine, don’t it?”
“Fine indeed. My bleached-out skin wouldn’t do justice to gold that good.”
Hiram was still smiling but managed a playful jab at Charlie, “Hey, what happened to not talking about another guy’s race, huh?”
Charlie just grinned. Jake laughed at the interaction.
Whether Charlie’s attention was sincere or whether he had merely wormed his way into Hiram’s heart was never considered.
When Charlie and Jake left the garage they were still guffawing. Jake thought Charlie was going to fit in just fine.
At their first stop, Charlie stowed his belongings in his new home, a Spartan, first-floor dormitory room with three beds.
“There will be three of us in the room,” Jake explained. “We had another guy in your bed until last week, but he moved to the new cottages down by the high school. I’m glad they assigned you with Hiram and me.”
“Will my stuff be safe here?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah, no one ever steals anything.” Jake motioned for Charlie to follow him to continue the tour.
“Maybe Father Gallagher told you that you’ll have to choose a job. Everyone works to help support the place. I’ll show you the job openings when we get to the Great Hall. I saw several things in the Boys Town rag you might like.”
“They don’t make license tags here, do they?” Charlie said, trying to look serious.
Jake laughed. “You’re joking right?”
Charlie nodded. “What is your job?”
“I work at the dining hall helping with one meal per day. I started as a breakfast dishwasher and janitor, and now I’ve graduated to evening meal preparation. I’ve got my eye on moving to auto mechanics next year, if there’s an opening.”
“You cook food? No wonder the kids around here look so sickly,” Charlie joked. He gave Jake a playful shove.
“You’re safe on the food until Monday. I’m off for the weekend. Actually, the nuns make the menus and give us the recipes. I’m just a worker bee. We have our own caste system. You know, cleaning ranks under food preparation. And among the student chefs, the potato peelers rank under us cooks. Every once in a while a guy works himself into the planning and administration side.”
“I met one of the nuns at the school today. She was a poor old woman named Sister Mary Agatha.”
“I know her,” Jake said.
“She was at least two hundred years old. She took my cigarettes. Are all the nuns here that old?” Charlie asked.
“Yeah. Mostly old, but not as old as Sister Agatha. I’d say most of the nuns are in their thirties and older. Polish Franciscans from Chicago. They run the laundry too. Try to avoid a job in the laundry.”
“Any of them worth looking at?” Charlie asked, persisting with his curiosity about the nuns.
They approached the tall smokestack overlooking the west side of the campus.
“That’s the boiler room there. And, nah. They’re all ugly.” Jake took three steps then added, “Well, there’s one that’s really nice—the only nun I’ve ever seen who can stop traffic. She works in the laundry, so I don’t see her much, but she can cure an eye ache in a second. What a beaut.”
Sister Klara was a looker alright, with beautiful hazel eyes and high cheek bones that made her one of nature’s masterpieces. Her bust line filled out her habit like no other nun at Boys Town. All the boys made a point to admire the crucifix she wore around her neck. The youngest boys were regularly treated to buried-in-the-breasts hugs that turned the older guys wide-eyed and envious. Beyond her physical blessings, God gave Sister Klara a warm, outgoing personality.
For the next hour, Jake led Charlie through the buildings and streets of Boys Town. Charlie took in the sights and met a dozen or more students who seemed anxious to meet him. Charlie was surprised by their friendliness.
He was astonished with the size of the campus. Walking south from the high school, they rounded a corner near the central traffic circle and came face-to-face with a colossal building. Charlie was awestruck.
“What the hell is that, Jake? You guys have a blimp hangar?”
Jake laughed, yet felt unsure if Charlie’s comment was meant as a joke. “It’s our new gym and swimming pool complex, our field house. Father says it will be ready in two months. Let’s go in. I’ll show you.”
Jake opened a side door, and the boys disappeared inside.
Charlie stood gap-jawed, looking at the immense area under a roof that seemed stories tall.
“Jesus, what a place! It’s big enough to play indoor football.”
“Yep,” Jake said proudly. “And there are plans to hold indoor track meets, and rodeos. You name it, we can do it in here.”
Charlie spotted several workers in the upp
er deck. “Look, they’re installing bleachers. I’ll bet they could hold a thousand people up there,” he said.
“Try thousands. They told us the bleachers will seat between three and four thousand people.”
Another carefree hour passed—an hour without jail supervision, hunger, or drunks stumbling out of bars. Charlie realized he had relaxed his guard.
Rounding the corner at the end of the two-block long vocational building, Charlie made his most promising comment of the day.
“I’m thinking I can make a go of this place. It may be hard to adjust to schools and rules, but I’ll give it everything I have.”
“Atta boy,” Jake exclaimed, throwing an arm around the smaller boy’s shoulders.
Charlie, to his own surprise, let him.
Chapter 13
The Back Path - Boys Town, April 1949
Bullies are everywhere, and Boys Town was no exception. Link Collins was the leader of the roughest boys at Boys Town. At seventeen, he weighed 250 pounds and was a violent, hulking brute. With red hair and fair skin, he closely resembled his Norse ancestors.
Few boys at Boys Town did not fear Link, including players on Coach Skip Palrang’s nationally ranked football team. Even the beefiest players steered away from Link, for while they could match his physical prowess, they were wary of Link’s unpredictable nastiness. Link was sovereign. When boys first looked upon him, they felt the same panic a hiker feels rounding a bend and surprising a bear.
Until Charlie’s arrival, no one had emerged to oppose Link Collins’ reign. The villagers had no reason to expect that the new kid from Indianapolis—the undersized boy with the bad reputation—might be the one. They had no way to know that Charlie’s hard core made him a person who rejected bully intimidation.
“Next we see the new cottages,” Jake said. “Father Flanagan wanted to get us out of the dormitories and into a more family-like environment. When they are finished, we’ll have twenty-four homes. Seven are done already and have boys living in ‘em. Rest ain’t done yet, but just think what it’ll look like in six months. It’ll be our own real neighborhood.”
Before He Became a Monster: A Story Charles Manson's Time at Father Flannigan's Boystown Page 7
