Before He Became a Monster: A Story Charles Manson's Time at Father Flannigan's Boystown

by Lawson McDowell

  Gallaher’s mind fought to keep his temper in check.

  “My mind is set about leaving. No one behind cathedral walls can change it. I will honor my obligations only until you and Monsignor can make arrangements.”

  “Sean, you have always been the caldera shining at the foot of the cross. God needs you to restore your faith. God needs you to refocus on your true purpose in life. What I have done is for the benefit of the church and the glory of God.”

  Gallagher rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and gritted his teeth but said nothing.

  “I will send a visiting priest to offer Mass in your place on Sunday. I want you to relax with the boys this weekend, nothing more, nothing less. Do not review contracts. Do not discuss the nuns with Mother Superior. Don’t agonize over the missing boys. God will take care of them.”

  Gallagher was seething. He fired back angrily.

  “God won’t take care of those boys. I know better. I’ve seen too many horrors inflicted on children. And neither will God take care of me. We must take care of ourselves. Manson will come to no good, partly because you failed to help when I asked. Perhaps you were right about the absence of demons, but you were wrong in not helping when I begged you for it. You were too busy with ecumenical council politics to save a soul.”

  The archbishop took Gallagher’s broadside with dignity. He remained confident knowing that Gallagher was fully venting pent-up frustrations. He also knew Gallagher would soon slam down the phone, so he pressed to make a final point.

  “As God works in mysterious ways, so does the Devil. We must be careful, Sean, that you do not let Satan elbow his way into your life. What starts as desecration of a vow and disrespect for an archbishop can take over your life. I’m not talking about love for a woman. I’m talking about disregarding all that is sacred.”

  “I’m not in the mood for a lecture. I have boys to care for. Find my replacement.”

  It was a rare occurrence for the Archbishop to find himself holding a dead phone, but he kept perspective.

  Sean will grow beyond his storminess. Someday, he will understand how the church works. We know how to hold a wandering priest, especially a good one. The church has over 2,000 years’ experience in these things. I remember how it hurt when I went through the same lovesick despair. It happens to the best of us. We’ll give him a raise, or a bump in his retirement plan. He’ll be fine.

  The bishop nodded self-assuredly, and though no one saw, his face had a satisfied look.

  At Boys Town, a shattered priest knelt to beg for deliverance.

  Chapter 52

  Douglas County Health Center, August, 2012

  Jake squinted with one eye, appraising Maggie through a veil of IV tubes and monitor cords.

  “You look… tired, but not as angry as yesterday.”

  “I’m still angry.”

  “Anger is an honest emotion. It’s cleansing and goes away when it’s spent. What you don’t want is bitterness. Bitterness will eat at a person for years and cause more pain than my cancer. Your anger is good.”

  “Dad, I prayed last night that the horrible things you told me weren’t true. I asked God to take me out of this nightmare.”

  “That was a wasted prayer,” Jake said. “It’ll go unanswered just like most prayers.”

  Maggie was resigned to the new, unpleasant understanding of her life.

  “I realized the truth is not going away. It took until after midnight to accept your story. I don’t know how to deal with it.”

  “I know it was a bitter pill,” Jake said. “I’m sorry.”

  “I lay in bed trying to understand how Manson, of all people, fits into my life and why God put me on Earth. I reexamined my purpose in life. Before I finally fell asleep, I ended up right back where I was before you blindsided me. I believe God put me on Earth to raise decent children and grandchildren. If nothing else, your revelation will reinforce my efforts to be a good person.”

  Jake nodded for Maggie to continue.

  “I opened the store this morning still feeling resentful about my lot in life. I buried myself in work and allowed myself no time to brood. I think working hard restored my sense of place in the world. I am a salt-of-the-earth woman who wants to leave behind a legacy of good people.

  “By the time we closed the store, I realized that you are my real father, not Manson. You’re my real dad. Maybe we’ve had a tough time of it, but the reality is I owe you everything. I am exactly what you raised me to be: a good person. I do love you, Dad.”

  “And I love you too,” Jake said. “There’s one more thing you need to know.”

  Maggie tensed.

  “Don’t worry,” Jake said. “It’s nothing bad. Nothing as shocking as what I’ve told you already.”

  Maggie managed a grim smile.

  “I didn’t hear from Charlie for years. In my heart I still loved him, but I never heard anything from him. God knows, I stayed busy trying to feed us. I still hoped he would come back, but he never did, especially after the Tate-LaBianca murders.

  Jake saw Maggie squirm at the mention of murder. He continued, knowing Maggie was feeling pain in every word.

  “Over time, I started to think of Manson as a user, a man consumed with meeting only his needs, using his talents for sex, drugs and power. And then, after all those years, after you were already gone, a letter arrived.”

  “From Manson?”

  “Yes. Get the suitcase for me, honey.”

  Maggie knew the drill. She retrieved the case and placed it gently on his lap to open.

  Jake retrieved an envelope and handed it to Maggie.

  Her hands trembled.

  “It’s postmarked from Corcoran State Prison, in California.”

  “That’s where Charlie is housed.”

  She examined the envelope.

  “It’s dated six years ago,” she said.

  “It came the same summer the big storm took out your big oak tree.”

  Maggie removed the letter and read aloud.

  Dear Jake,

  I know you remember the things that happened so long ago at Boys Town. How could we ever forget?

  I still think of that big picture of Father Flanagan in the dining hall, staring down on us and keeping everyone in line. We have a portrait like that here at the prison, only it’s the warden. Ha.

  I asked my friends to track you down and find out whatever happened to you and Baby.

  I’ve never been able to do much for my children, but I do have friends, plenty of them, and most ask for ways to help me. I am going to have a package sent to you for her. Maybe someday you can tell her about me and help her understand her family.

  People will never forgive me for what they think I’ve done.

  Your brother, Charlie

  Air Trees Water Animals

  Maggie folded the letter and reinserted it in its envelope.

  Jake returned the envelope to the suitcase and waved it away.

  Maggie moved the suitcase to the floor next to her chair and brushed away a smudge of dust it left on Jake’s blanket.

  “Well, I guess that could have been a lot worse,” she said. “It’s not easy to get by the swastika. It’s unnerving.”

  “I know. You have to make yourself remember his context.”

  Maggie grimaced and changed the subject.

  “So, did a package arrive?”

  “About a month after the letter came, a woman walked into my newsstand. Affluent people, like you, might call her scruffy, but she was no different than a lot of people can see in Omaha, or anywhere. She was young, say in her mid-thirties – not from my generation or even yours. She hung around the newspapers until everyone left, and then came to the cash register. Just looking at her, I guessed she might ask for a handout. Boy, was I wrong.”

  “Are you Jake Bowden?”

  “I am. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Fawn. Your brother sent me.”

  “I don’t have a brother.”

&
nbsp; “Charlie.”

  “You’re in the family?”

  “Yeah, I guess that makes me your little sister.”

  She smiled.

  “Charlie sent me with a gift for his daughter.”

  “Maggie?”

  “Yeah. Maggie Bryant, married to Jim Bryant.”

  “That’s my daughter.”

  “Charlie’s daughter, actually. We saw her at the light fixture store yesterday.”

  “If you have something for her, why didn’t you just give it to her?”

  “Charlie said to check her out for him, but give the package to you. He wanted a rundown on how she was doing but didn’t want to tell her anything. He said she might not know about him, and I wasn’t to deliver any surprises. So here I am with your package for Baby. He still calls her “Baby” you know.

  Fawn recovered a small yellow suitcase with butterfly designs she had left at the newspaper rack by the front door.

  “It’s locked. The combination for the lock is 1-9-4-9. Charlie said that was the year he was in Omaha.

  “Are you alone?” Jake asked.

  “No. I’m here with Griz. He’s getting our bus tickets. We go back to California this afternoon.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “We live at Corcoran, outside the prison.”

  “Do you and Griz get to see Charlie?”

  “I see him twice a week. Griz got banned from the prison for sneaking in a cell phone to Charlie. I gotta go now. Taxi’s waiting. It was nice meeting you, brother.”

  “Tell Charlie hello for me.”

  “Yeah, okay.”

  Maggie felt the goose bumps on her back. She was trying to remember anyone fitting Fawn’s description who might have visited the store six years earlier. Nothing came to mind.

  “The Manson family came to my store? And I never knew it? Do you know how frightening that is?”

  “She’s just people. Like me.”

  “But someone called Griz, a Manson family member who’s so bad he’s been banned from prison? That doesn’t sound like ‘just people’ to me, Dad.”

  “Don’t get excited,” Jake said. “I haven’t heard from Charlie or anyone else since. The only other thing was that I wrote Charlie to let him know I got the money. Just gave him two sentences: ‘Package received. I’ll take care of Maggie.’ That’s it.”

  “And you never heard from him again?”

  “No. We don’t need to talk. We know we’re still brothers. After all these years, it’s still hard to talk about Charlie. It took me twenty-five years to understand Charlie wouldn’t come back. Anyway, enough of that. Get the suitcase again, will you?”

  Maggie leaned over and picked up the suitcase beside her chair. She started to stand.

  “No, I don’t want it. Stay seated. It’s yours. Set the combination to 1949 and see for yourself.”

  Maggie placed the case in her lap. She moved the tumblers to 1-9-4-9 and snapped the latch open.

  She opened the suitcase and almost immediately shut it. It was packed to the top edges with money. Hundred dollar bills bundled and strapped with bank paper in neat, tight stacks.

  The sight of it frightened her. She lowered he voice to almost a whisper.

  “It’s money. What is this? It must be thousands and thousands of dollars.”

  “Evidently Charlie took up a collection for you. He’s got followers all over the world.”

  “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Anything you want. It’s from an old man in prison who is trying to ease his conscience. Consider it your inheritance.”

  “How much is it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m leaving it here. It’s yours”

  “It won’t do me any good. I’m dying. Take it, Maggie.

  That night, Maggie and Jim pulled the kitchen blinds closed and counted the money on the breakfast nook table. The total exceeded three hundred seventy-five thousand dollars.

  “What are we going to do with it?” Maggie asked.

  “I don’t know, honey,” Jim answered, placing a hand over hers.

  They sat at the table not speaking.

  Eventually, Maggie stood, latched the case, and slid it toward Jim.

  “I don’t want to think about it for a while, Jim. Would you take it somewhere? Buy a safe, rent a safety deposit box, stuff the mattress… I don’t care. Could you do that for me?”

  “Sure, honey,” Jim said. “I’ll take care of it.”

  Epilogue

  Boys Town, Office Of The Executive Director – October 2012

  South of Boys Town’s main campus lays a fresh water lake. It is a perfect size for row boats, and fishing, and dividing the campus for its related missions.

  South of the lake stands a gleaming building that houses the administrators for Boys Town’s far-flung interests. From 140,000 square feet of offices and conference rooms, priests and professionals oversee a nationwide charitable effort that reaches a million and a half people annually.

  Few realize that the building, beautiful though it is, represents failure rather than success. When Mother Teresa came in 1976 for groundbreaking ceremonies and Boys Town invested almost eight million dollars for its construction, the vision had been one of a research center to find better solutions for the problems youth face in a modern world.

  Two years later, former President Gerald R. Ford dedicated the building and watched the best minds from government, Stanford University, and Catholic University in Washington D.C. line up to study the challenges that result in wayward adolescents. The priests anticipated help in addressing child abandonment, abuse, drug use, and the paths to career crime.

  No one anticipated that Stanford’s brains would pursue expeditions to study youth in Africa and along South America’s Amazon River. No one expected that savants with PhDs and daunting arrays of post nominal accreditations would twist Boys Town’s mission and scoff at Father Flanagan’s proven formulas. No one anticipated the intellectuals would prefer scholarly research and publishing articles with little application to helping Boys Town. In 1978, no one expected the collaboration would disintegrate into lawsuits, bitterness, and failed commitments.

  When the dust settled, the partner universities returned their “He ain’t heavy…” bronze statues. Boys Town administrators vacated their scattered offices around campus and moved into the glossy “mistake across the lake.”

  Monsignor Arthur Collins, Boys Town’s executive director, was studying financial reports when Father Gallagher arrived. He came alone, wearing a black shirt with a white collar.

  Collins looked up when he heard the door open and smiled to see the ancient priest. Sean Gallagher was in his nineties now and used a cane, but otherwise appeared in good shape as he entered the office.

  He always looks so pure with a fresh-starched collar. He is a model for all priests.

  “Good morning, Father Gallagher. What a nice surprise. It’s good to see you about.”

  Gallagher steadied himself on his cane and reclosed the door.

  “We’ve missed you the last two weeks,” Collins said.

  “I’ve been a bit under the weather, but I seem to have bounced back alright.”

  Collins slid his report aside to show the old priest his full attention.

  “I came up to pry you away from your work. It’s almost time for lunch. The seventh grade choir will be serenading in the dining hall today. I’ve already checked your calendar. No excuses now. I know how we accountant types are.”

  “I would be delighted to join you, Father.”

  Gallagher passed the desk and crossed the big office to the full-wall windows overlooking Boys Town Lake.

  “They’re not as good as when our choirs sang at Carnegie Hall, but they’re not bad.”

  The old priest soaked in the view of the lake.

  “The view here always inspires me.”

  “I know you miss it,” Collins said. “After all, this was your office for so long.
”

  Gallagher looked skyward.

  “The geese are coming south now. I hope you take time to enjoy them. They love our lake.”

  “You instilled a strong appreciation for the migrations, Father. I always celebrate their arrival.”

  Collins stacked his reports with huge competent hands. He stood from his oversized chair and joined the older priest at the window. They watched the water for a moment. Then Collins spoke.

  “Do you remember Jake Bowden?”

  Gallagher’s eyes lit up.

  “Of course I do. Jake sends me a Christmas card every year. Hiram too. Good boys.”

  “I have sad news, Father. We received word from Jake’s daughter that he died last month. Cancer. His family was there along with the parish priest when he passed.”

  Gallaher grasped a window frame to steady himself.

  “I am saddened to hear it. Such a nice young man.”

  “Not too young,” Collins said. “He and I are both in our seventies.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Our time on Earth passes so quickly.”

  They watched a flight of geese land on the lake in perfect formation.

  “Jake’s family made a major donation in his memory. Over three hundred thousand dollars. Cashier check.”

  “Imagine that,” Gallagher said. “I remember how worried I was when Jake dropped out of school to get married. He chose an honorable life. I believe God will welcome him home.”

  The geese swam past the window near the shore. Gallagher absorbed the news about Jake and reflected before speaking.

  “Jake is in a better place now. If he was in pain, he is now at rest.

  Gallagher raised his focus to two lone geese flying past, straining against a brisk wind. A flash of remorse lit his eyes.

  “It was the other boy whom I failed so badly. Poor lad.”

  “Which other boy?” Collins asked.

  “Charles Manson. You remember him, of course. We all do. We just don’t talk about him.”

  “Indeed I do remember him.”

  “Manson once told me that he was sent by God to save someone, and he believed it. I could have done so much more for him.”