“She was inconsolable when he left. She cried for him every night in her bedroom. A month passed before she discovered she was pregnant.”
Jake grew quiet for a moment.
“She loved him after I quit school and married her to give her and the baby a home.”
“But wait,” Maggie gasped. “What? What are you saying?”
Maggie leapt to her feet, knocking her purse to the floor. The sweet roll tumbled out and rolled under the bed.
“But…” she sputtered. “That means…”
“Yeah,” Jake nodded.
“That means you’re…”
“I’m not your father. Charlie is.”
The blood drained from Maggie’s face. She became suddenly nauseous, her entire body rejecting Jake’s story, She jabbed a finger at Jake.
“It can’t be true. You’re lying to hurt me. Damn you. This is impossible!”
She broke into great sobs, doubling over as if in great pain.
“I’m sorry, honey. It’s true.”
“Damn you, Dad. It isn’t.”
“It is.”
He waited for the immediate shock to pass. Maggie fought for composure.
“Who… Who else knows about this?”
“There are people who know, not in Omaha, but people know. And Charlie knows, of course. I didn’t want you to hear it from a stranger.”
Again she began to cry. She cried until she ran out of tears. Jake waited, saying nothing, afraid that anything he said would drive her from the room. He needed her to stay and hear the rest.
Eventually she quieted. Picking up the items that had spilled from her purse, she found a Kleenex and used it to blow her nose. Maggie took a deep breath and sat back down in her chair
“Thank God it was a private birth with no birth certificate,” she said shakily. “I remember how much trouble we had getting affidavits for a birth certificate for my passport.”
She sniffed and wiped her nose again.
“Actually there was another birth certificate. I lied to you about being born in our trailer. You were born here, in this building, when it was the Douglas County Hospital.”
“But the affidavits of my birth.. How…”
“The affidavits for your Bowden name were easy. Boudreaux, me, and a guy from the newsstand signed them. There was no way anyone could match you up with the Manson birth certificate. I was the only one who knew the truth.”
Jake opened the suitcase and retrieved another piece of paper.
“This is your real birth certificate. Candy – well, Marcy, your mother, was convinced Charlie would come back for her. She insisted his name be on the birth certificate. This certificate is on file in the courthouse. No one knows this is you.”
Maggie took the yellowed paper and read, ‘Father: Charles Milles Manson’.
She shoved the paper back at Jake. “It can’t be. Damn you. How could you tell me this when I’m 62 years old?
“I had to.”
“You say Manson knows about me?”
“Charlie probably knows very little really, only that you were born, I suspect. Maybe he learned that from your mother. I do know he has been known to have a far reach from behind bars.”
“Did you hear from him again?”
“He wrote me in 1971 while he was on death row. It was several months before the California Supreme Court abolished the death penalty.”
Jake pulled another letter from the suitcase.
“Read this,” he said.
Dear Jake,
I guess you read the newspapers. I’ve become a celebrity after all— just not the kind of superstar I thought I’d be. They think they’ll give me the death penalty, but I know God will help me out. He always does. But if I don’t make it, tell Baby I was not as bad as they say. She must be grown by now. Keep the faith, Brother.
Charlie
“Any other letters in that suitcase?” Maggie asked.
“Only one. It came three years ago.”
Maggie sat, too shell-shocked to say more.
Jake tried to console her. It was more like dousing her with cold water.
“I’ve always hidden this stuff from you because of the bad stories about Manson. There was no need to upset your world. I know you hate him, but to me, Charlie was the greatest person I ever knew. He made me laugh more than anyone. He made me cry. He made me see what life is about and the need for the strong to survive.”
Maggie recognized the holes in Jake’s logic, but ignored them.
“Dad, I cried myself to sleep for years thinking you didn’t love me. All along, it was because you were a baby sitter for Manson. I’m too old to cry myself to sleep. But now I wonder if I’ll ever sleep again.”
Maggie forced herself to take a deep breath. It was the only way she thought she might prevent sobbing again.
“I always knew you were hiding something. I just never imagined it could be this bad.”
“He always said he was sent by God. And, Maggie, I believe him. He is a special person. Deep inside I still love him even though he left me over sixty years ago.”
They were quiet for a minute, lost in their own thoughts.
Jake broke the silence.
“I have more, but you’re not ready for it. Come back tomorrow when you’ve had a chance to digest this.
Without words, Maggie picked up her purse, stood, and slowly walked from the room.
Chapter 51
Friday Morning - Boys Town, April, 1949
Over the next days, stories about Charlie and Hiram spread and grew. The talk in the village was predictable. Students thrived on rumors and tall tales.
The gossip boys fanned speculation that Charlie had been sent away for abusing Link and disrupting Mass. Those who had seen Charlie perform in the gym believed differently. They assumed Charlie had moved on to a better life and taken Hiram with him.
It was easy to hope that one of their own would achieve fame. Many expected they would see Charlie’s name again someday, either in marquee lights, or newspapers and magazines.
“But why Hiram?” they asked.
Why indeed? No one could guess the brotherly connection between a black boy and a white boy or Charlie’s need for family.
Students were lost for answers.
“Where did they go? You seen ‘em today?”
“Last time I seen Charlie was Sunday in the dining hall. He was talkin’ up a storm to Flanagan’s portrait.”
“I heard the range men and Colt Hopkins were looking for footprints in the corn fields.”
“I’ll bet Charlie’s on his way to New York to play in the clubs.”
“Link is still scared. We threw dirt clods at him today. He just walked away.”
Boys cornered Jake.
“Surely you know something, buddy.”
“You can tell me. I can keep a secret.”
“Why didn’t they say goodbye?”
“Was that them hitchhiking toward Lincoln on Tuesday?”
Father Gallagher too called on Jake for further questioning. But Jake told no one what had happened. He stuck with the mantra that he too wished he knew where Charlie and Hiram had gone, which was true.
Jake persevered against all pressure knowing the real story was worse than anything the campus could imagine. He knew the wild stories and interest would fade away. To most, Charlie and Hiram were simply gone without a trace. Their departure, while a curious occurrence, did not impact homework, chores, or the daily grind for orphan boys burdened with their own great troubles. These things happened occasionally. Runaways were a fact of life in boys’ homes. Other boys would take their places.
And so with no fuel on the fire, speculation did not last. By Wednesday, interest peaked and began to wane.
New gossip spread, driven by Boys Town’s lust for a constant supply of fresh muck and inside information. By Thursday, Charlie and Hiram were old news, replaced by Barry Chacon, the unruly choir boy sent home from the tour in disgrace for shooting out
hotel windows with a smuggled B-B gun.
As Charlie transitioned from news to history, only the groundbreaking stories remained. Students remembered Charlie’s adventures and waited for the choir to return. They would entertain the choir boys for hours with firsthand accounts of what they had beheld: the spell Charlie had cast with his music, the sexual escapade on the Ak-Sar-Ben bus, the thunderous fart that had ended Mass, and perhaps most amazing of all, Charlie’s miraculous exorcism of the brute Link.
They were stories destined to become folklore, retold in an oral history passed from student to student, year to year, generation to generation about the most amazing kid ever seen at Boys Town. Most didn’t even know his last name, and so ‘Charlie’ was good enough.
Years would pass before Charlie’s legend faded. But fade it would.
Gallagher was hard at work in his temporary office at the high school conference room. Today was Friday, one of the week’s hardest workdays.
It had been a tough week alright, even for a priest. Gallagher reviewed the mountain of paperwork before him and debated how to set priorities between contract approvals, blue print reviews, and personnel decisions. And then there were the student matters.
“Noah built the ark one plank at a time,” he said aloud, simultaneously bolstering his doggedness and assuring himself that he was up to the task.
If Monsignor returns next week, he’ll bring at least one assistant with him. That will be a big help, at least with invoices and student matters. And Friday means that Klara cleans the rectory tonight. I need to pick up cheese and candy from the store room. At least I have something other than the third grade play to look forward to today.
Yet, despite his resolve, his enthusiasm faded when he picked up the first file folder.
No matter how hard I work, there’s always more. Maybe I should leave the cloth and run away with Klara. We could be married. Maybe I will carefully mention the possibility tonight. As there is life after death, so must there be life after priesthood.
In the hallway, Sister Agatha hobbled to the conference room door. She worried about disturbing Father Gallagher. He had seemed so preoccupied the past few days. She knocked lightly. It was her courteous knock, not the pounding reserved for archbishop calls or essential interruptions.
“Enter,” Gallagher called from inside. She leaned on the door and opened it enough to stick her head in. Gallagher sat amid piles of papers.
She saw stress lines in his face. Not yet thirty years old, Gallagher seemed to have aged lately, looking closer to forty. The character lines that formerly appeared only in exaggerated expression were now present full time. They were the marks left by too much work and losing two boys in Monsignor Wegner’s absence.
She wanted to make her interruption brief and then protect his valuable time the remainder of the day.
“Did Father Washington make contact with you yesterday?” she asked. “He called a second time while you were at the vocational center.
“Yes. I reached him after dinner last night.”
“I don’t think I’ve met Father Washington,” she said. Her tone was more a question than a statement.
She waited, hoping for more information.
“Father Washington was Hiram Hubert’s priest in Chicago. He referred Hiram to us. I was hoping he could put me in touch with Hiram’s uncle.”
“Oh. You think our runaways are with Hiram’s uncle?”
“I think it strange that Hiram’s uncle never came back. I assume our boys left with him. Unfortunately, Father Washington doesn’t know anything about the uncle or how to reach him. Our search has reached a dead end.”
“I came to tell you that the state police called,” she said.
“Did they find our boys?” Gallagher asked.
“No. No sign of Hiram or Charlie anywhere. No one remembers seeing them at the bus station or train depots. The officer believes they are still in Omaha, maybe at a flop house. He says they’ll probably show up tired and hungry. Without money or transportation they have few options.”
“Perhaps they will return,” said Gallagher.
“When they do, we can kill the fatted calf,” she said. The old nun smiled. Her comment had dual purpose. Most importantly, she hoped a pinch of ecclesiastical levity might improve his temperament. Just as important, she wanted to encourage a mindset of mercy if the boys actually returned.
Gallagher sensed her meanings.
“Ah. The return of the prodigal sons,” he replied. “Indeed, we would welcome them with open arms. Let’s hope they do come back, sister. I hope they are okay.”
Gallagher barely looked up from his work.
She turned to leave and had already closed the door when she remembered something. She reentered the room.
“Mother Superior wanted me to tell you that the convent cycled several sisters back to Chicago. I suppose they must need help in the Polish community.”
Gallagher stiffened. The news hit him like a gut punch.
“Tell me,” he said, already knowing whose name would be among those leaving.
“Sisters Virginia, Martha, Klara, Patricia, and Karen left first thing this morning. We’ll be shorthanded for a while.”
Gallagher felt despair in the pit of his stomach.
“Why did they leave so suddenly?” he asked.
“No one really knows. It was the strangest thing. A car from the convent showed up for them with no notice at all. Barely time to say goodbye. The driver told us to expect replacement sisters within a few days, if they can spare them.”
Gallagher was heartbroken. He tried to hide his feelings.
“Thank you for letting me know, sister. I’ll speak to Mother Superior later.”
Sister Agatha closed the door and shuffled to her desk.
In private, Gallagher allowed himself a moment of grief.
She’s gone. They’ve taken her with no warning. The archbishop did this.
Gallagher spent the rest of the morning grieving. He shuffled papers aimlessly, accomplishing little. At noon, he avoided the dining hall crowd and retreated to the rectory. He foraged the kitchen, heated a can of tomato soup, and ate only a few spoonfuls before giving up to return to his work.
The longer he thought about it, the clearer it became that Archbishop Wisnoski had misled him. Gallagher’s broken heart turned to resentment.
I’ve been deceived. The archbishop knew exactly what he was going to do even when he assured me he was going to help.
The resentment deepened. He felt his anger rise.
At the Omaha diocese offices, Archbishop Wisnoski was on the downhill side of a hectic Friday schedule. He finished a meeting with a lay deacon and was shaking hands at the office door when the secretary timely announced, “I have a call for you, Excellency. Father Gallagher at Boys Town is holding.”
Wisnoski dismissed the deacon with a final smile and returned to his office where he closed the door behind him.
Wisnoski glanced at the elegant clock gracing the back wall and saw he had half an hour before his next meeting.
My meeting with the non-self-supporting parishes can wait if necessary. I need to invest a few minutes to make sure Sean gets back on the right road. I have plans for that boy.
Wisnoski spoke into the phone with the voice of concern.
“Good afternoon, Sean.”
“I’m glad I reached you. We need to talk.”
Wisnoski detected the strain in Gallagher’s voice.
No title or courtesies. Something is wrong. Which is it? Demons or Polish nuns? Try the Manson boy first. Guide him.
“Have you heard from our missing students?” Wisnoski asked.
“We still have hope they will return, but there is no sign of them yet. Actually I am calling about something else.”
So, he’s learned about the staffing changes for the nuns. This is the call I expected. More conditioning first.
The archbishop said: “I worry the Manson boy is a divine reminder that for eve
ry good process to save mankind, there will always be those who are beyond help. Do you think he is beyond help?”
“Manson is not beyond help, but that’s not why I called.”
“What’s on your mind, my son?” Wisnoski asked with an innocence that secreted his anticipation for what was coming.
“The nuns are on my mind,” Gallagher said assertively, barely short of disrespect.
He let the words hang for several seconds.
“Four nuns left Boys Town for Chicago at daybreak. Sister Klara was among them. Did you know about the move?”
“Yes. Actually she’ll be in Chicago only hours before flying to Poland. She’s needed there. It’s her homeland, you know.”
“I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”
“There seems to be anger in your voice, my son.”
“Of course I’m angry. You told me you would work with me over the next few weeks.”
“And so I shall,” Wisnoski countered. “I will keep my promise to you as any honorable man of God would. The nun’s removal is the best way to return you to your vows. I wanted it done quickly, like an unexpected death. The grief you feel will pass, Sean. Mortification of the flesh is the first step. In your state, removal of temptation was important.”
Gallagher’s face turned red with what felt like an accusation. He struggled to check his emotions.
Gallagher said: “My future is clear now. Your intransigence has actually helped with my decision. I have lost faith in you and the Church. I still have a measure of faith in God, but not in you. I can no longer lead these lost youths to Christ. I’m leaving the priesthood to find Klara whether you’ve hidden her in Chicago or Poland or anywhere else in the world.”
“You’re leaving the priesthood?”
“Yes, as soon as Monsignor Wegner returns.”
“I understand your feelings, Sean, but I am not ready to accept your resignation. We need to talk in person. Until we can, you need to take control of yourself. I can tell from your voice alone that your doubts and anger will be apparent to the boys. Your attitude will be corrosive. For the sake of the boys, you need to be a strong advocate for God, if not the Church.”
Before He Became a Monster: A Story Charles Manson's Time at Father Flannigan's Boystown Page 29
