The Sacrifice

by William Kienzle

  He wandered upstairs. He paused at Rick’s door. He knocked softly several times, then pushed the door ajar.

  The young man, in pajamas, and seemingly wide awake, was seated at his desk, which was almost covered with open books as well as a couple of legal pads. As George opened the door wider, Rick looked up apprehensively, then relaxed somewhat as he saw his father enter the room. “You all right, Dad?” He seemed genuinely concerned.

  George smiled. “I’m hanging in there, son. How about you?”

  Rick smiled. “I’m okay, I guess.”

  “Catching up on the homework?”

  Rick nodded. “Sort of. But I can’t seem to get what happened this afternoon out of my mind. It’s kind of hard to concentrate.”

  “Want to talk about it?”

  Rick thought for a few moments. “I don’t think so. I’m getting tired, which means I’m moving in the right direction.”

  “I’m sure your teachers will be aware of all you’ve gone through today. I think they’ll cut you some slack.”

  Rick began closing the books on his desk. “It always happens this way. I put off the homework and then something comes up and I don’t get a chance to do it. I figured the Mass and the reception would be over by early evening. I guessed wrong. I should’ve taken the time to get this stuff out of the way. But in my wildest dreams I couldn’t have expected …” His head drooped.

  “Nobody could have. Hit the sack as soon as you can. If you need me for anything, just let me know. I’ll be sleeping lightly—if at all.”

  George shut the door and headed for the master bedroom. He paused at the door of the room his daughter, Alice, used to call hers. How many hours he had spent with her, telling her stories, singing her songs …

  He gave her door a gentle push and it opened slowly. He walked in and sat on the bed, just where he had sat so many times, so long ago.

  Anytime he was asked which of his three children was his favorite, he always breezed off an answer along the lines of “They’re all equally my favorite.” Indeed he did love all his children totally, each for different reasons.

  But in his heart, he knew that Alice, always his little girl, held the edge.

  Why did she so oppose his decision to affiliate with the Roman Church? He had explained his reasons at length at the family gathering that had turned out to be their final meeting before the ceremony ordaining him to the Roman diaconate.

  He had known beforehand how Richard and Ronald would react. Richard largely wouldn’t give a darn. He just wasn’t that involved with any organized religion, not even his own Episcopalianism.

  As for Ronald, George was well aware that he had been competitive almost all his young life. It was a private joke between George and Nan. First Ronald played at offering Mass or leading prayer. Later he would find anything that his imagination could conceive as a microphone, and he would imitate George’s technique in doing the radio broadcast.

  At age five or six Ronald could have told anyone who cared to ask that when he grew up he was going to be a priest. It was cute.

  After college graduation, Ronald, as expected, entered seminary. His classmates let him know repeatedly that while he was his father’s son, he did not—and never would—measure up to his father’s accomplishments.

  That’s when the competition became almost palpable.

  George encouraged his son’s clerical aspirations. The father didn’t have a jealous bone in his body. This did not mean that George’s own high standards did not remain constant. Aware that the boy’s gifts were not as effective as his own, still he was proud of his priest son.

  George kept watch over his son and the boy’s religious career. So he was aware that Ron had begun entertaining thoughts of running for bishop. Quietly exploring appropriate dioceses, making himself very visible (but not too obvious). Where he knew a member of the nominating committee, he might just quietly, over martinis, let drop that he would not be averse to having his name included on the list of those under consideration. George did not think that ambition was healthy.

  Occasionally he would try to talk to Ron about this. But each time Ron would somehow work in the text of St. Paul’s letter to Timothy, Chapter 3: “This is a true saying. If a man desire the office of a bishop, he desireth a good work.”

  And each time, George would bow to Scripture. But he would admonish his son that while it might be pardonable to desire a bishopric, running for the position in much the same way as a politician campaigns for political office was not.

  Then, too, a bishop in the early Church was hardly the same as a bishop today. Bishops in apostolic times often were prime targets for persecution and even death at the hands and whim of the Roman state.

  Then came Ron’s marriage to Gwen.

  George would readily concede that she was quite the most beautiful young woman he had ever met. More beautiful, even, than Nan in her younger years.

  George had to wonder why a woman with Gwen’s attributes would choose to marry a priest. Not that there was anything questionable or wrong with marrying a priest. But a woman such as Gwen could have had almost any man she set her sights on. For instance, she could have married more money in five minutes than Ron would make if he were granted five lifetimes.

  It was a mystery George never did solve. But then he had never been introduced to Gwen’s background in any depth.

  Ron was given Gwen’s history because she didn’t think she could get away with not sharing it with the man who would be her husband. Also she thought it important that he know where she was coming from and thus why certain things were a sine qua non for her.

  Once Gwen came into Ron’s life, he became doubly dedicated to becoming a bishop. He coveted the office for many reasons. Not the least of which was to best his father at something, something substantial. Then, upon his marriage, he wanted the office because his wife demanded it of him.

  Ron, and surely Gwen as well, saw George’s conversion to the Roman Church as an exceedingly significant obstacle to their goal. Right or wrong, they opposed it to the extent of severing relations with George and Nan. Both parents were saddened. But, in the final analysis, that was Ron and Gwen’s decision. George felt called to the course he was on.

  However, as hurt as he was by Ron and Gwen’s cutting themselves off from him and Nan, George was grieved many times over by Alice’s reaction.

  Now that he was sitting on her bed remembering the private times they had shared, he felt the crushing loss of her love and support. Her reaction had been unexpected, but once that reaction became manifest, he could understand why she felt the way she did.

  After all, he, her father, had introduced her to the special love of both their lives: the Church, their priesthood, and the Episcopal tradition, or, as Anglican theology had it, Scripture, Tradition, and Reason. It was all one package. That’s the way he had taught her. That’s the way she believed.

  To take away one of those three foundations was like trying to take the milk from bread pudding.

  And then her father did it. He removed the Episcopal from this three-legged foundation. With the abscission, her house of cards came crashing down.

  Her peers in seminary let her know early and repeatedly that Father George Wheatley was a traitor and a defector. Some students actually shunned her. On the other hand, her staunch intimates protectively circled the wagons of their friendship.

  In any case, no one was in any way neutral about what had transpired.

  Alice was torn. And by this time her father knew it. He wished and he prayed for the Holy Spirit to gift Alice with understanding.

  No matter how sticky things became between father and daughter, he was convinced that what he was doing and the way he was doing it was God’s will. Just as he had come to his most difficult decision through prayer and penance, so he would stay the course. But he was heartbroken at the loss of his daughter. All he could do now was to hope that she would soften as time passed. He knew he would work tirelessly to bring thi
s about.

  Softly he hummed the melody from Madama Butterfly. “Un Bel Dì.” One fine day, Alice would return to him. By happy coincidence, the aria was a favorite of both of them. Neither could have known, years ago, as Alice snuggled under the covers while he sang it to her, that such a day would come—a day when they would be estranged.

  But it would all come together. He knew that God, in His generosity, would make it so. And that would indeed be Un Bel Dì.

  He was crying. He knew not how long this had been going on, but he could feel the heat of each tear that found its path down his cheeks. He took a handkerchief from his robe pocket, wiped his eyes, and blew his nose.

  Dwelling on thoughts such as these was a distraction he could ill afford. He was convinced he was doing the right thing. Damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead.

  He left Alice’s room, closing the door behind him. He walked the few feet to his bedroom, trying to be as quiet as possible. Nan’s breathing was soft and regular; he assumed she was asleep. He slid into bed and pulled the bedcovers over himself, being careful not to disturb Nan. A lateral sleeper, he turned onto his left side.

  He tried to surrender to sleep, but his brain refused to cooperate. It teemed with images of the traumatic events of just a few hours ago. If he had not taken that phone call, he would now be tucked in a hospital bed with tubes running into or out of appropriate orifices, and other tubes introduced into newly created orifices. Nurses would be hovering over him. Life support systems would be beeping, sustaining his bodily functions—his very existence. Or, he would be dead.

  He felt overwhelmed by all these fantasized devices holding him immobile. Claustrophobia struck with a vengeance. He perspired freely.

  He turned onto his right side, facing Nan. The sheets under him here were cool, a restful contrast to the spot he had just vacated. But he worried that if he got into a bout of tossing and turning, he might wake Nan.

  Still his mind was a maelstrom. He thought, as he had so often lately, about so many things.

  He pictured the priestly company he would soon be part of. The Roman priests who for one reason or another were rejecting him. Those who could not abide the very thought of women priests. It was so obvious that he supported that innovation: He’d flaunted his daughter’s attendance at an Episcopal seminary. Others of his future brethren who had made the promise of a celibate life looked at him with resentment: He would be able to do all they did canonically while enjoying the consolation and pleasures of a wife and family.

  Ron. Father Ron. George’s priestly son. Had he erred in leading Ron toward the priesthood? In encouraging Ron instead of waving him off? Would George’s affiliation with the Roman Church really cripple Ron’s campaign for becoming a bishop? Is it always a good work for a man to desire the calling of bishop?

  Was Ron being spurred on to attain this position by beautiful Gwen? While George did not completely understand what made Gwen tick, he was aware that she generally got what she wanted. She could be a formidable pressure should Ron’s determination begin to flag.

  He worried perhaps most about Alice. Her contemporaries could be cruel. One might expect better—more understanding—from seminarians. But seminarians, as well as priests and bishops, were human. They might fear the like-father/like-daughter possibility. With that they could, and probably did, make her life miserable.

  Alice … his darling Alice. She, more than anyone—with the exception of Nan, of course—he wished would understand the path he had chosen.

  All of this made him second-guess his move yet once more. His situation gave a new depth to the word ambivalence. But he had been over this countless times in prayer and in any number of rationalizations.

  He wasn’t getting any closer to sleep. He rolled over on his back. It was not his normal sleeping position. On the other hand, it made it easier for him to think, if thinking was the best he could do right now.

  “Having a hard time of it?” Nan whispered.

  “Did I wake you?” George returned the whisper. Why they were whispering was anyone’s guess. With Richard occupied in his room, they were, for all practical purposes, alone in the house. But somehow, this late at night, whispering seemed appropriate.

  “I haven’t been asleep … just intermittent napping.”

  “I haven’t been sleeping either.”

  “I know.” Nan’s smile, unseen by her partner, was ambiguous.

  “I’ve been bouncing around. I tried not to wake you.”

  “It’s all right. We’ve had a full day.”

  George nodded. “So much of what’s happened has been focused on me. I’m afraid you’ve been neglected. How have you been holding up?”

  “As well as can be expected, as they say in hospitals. I’d be a lot happier if my pulse rate would slow down.”

  “It’s really reached you, hasn’t it?”

  “My life is so mingled with yours I can’t help feeling all the things that affect you.”

  A long silence followed. So long that one or both of them might have fallen asleep.

  “Still with me?” George tried to pitch his whisper so softly that if Nan was asleep he would not wake her.

  “Yes.” Pause. “You’ve been thinking of those closest to you who might have had something to do with that bomb, haven’t you?”

  George turned his head in her direction. Air exited his pillowcase in a whoosh. “How could you have known that?”

  “How long have we been together? How close are we?”

  George was well aware that over the years they had steadily grown closer. Frequently they had the same thoughts simultaneously. On review, it was not at all miraculous, let alone odd, that she would share his unspoken thoughts.

  “You were thinking of your comrades, priests in the Episcopal as well as the Roman Church … weren’t you?”

  “You’re right, of course.”

  “Do you really think that’s possible?”

  George was silent a moment. “All things are possible.”

  “Maybe. But, honey, we’re talking about murder. And, granted, we know many in the clergy who are not worthy of the title ‘a man—or woman—of God.’ But can you really, sincerely imagine anyone in the clergy who would stoop to cold-blooded murder?”

  “Until today, dear, I would have agreed completely with you. But somebody planted that bomb. It had to be premeditated all the way. I think they refer to it, at least on TV, as Murder One.” He had intended the reference to television’s infatuation with murder mysteries as a light touch calculated to soften this rather morbid, if low-keyed, conversation.

  But Nan didn’t laugh. She didn’t even smile. This was life they were talking about … her husband’s life. She did not want to be a widow. Ever. Surely not this soon.

  “One thing for certain, I think,” George said. “We’re talking about a very small percentage of the clergy. Of those we know personally, there couldn’t be more than an extremely small percentage who would seriously consider such a great evil as murder … and an even smaller percentage who would follow up on or carry out such a consideration.

  “I mean, most of the clergy—Episcopal and Roman—aren’t that deeply involved in my decision. The Anglicans feel they’re losing me, and, by and large, most of them are not happy about that.

  “Still speaking in generalities, the Romans resent the salary I’ll be receiving. But much more, they’ll resent my family—particularly you and Richard.

  “But that’s as far as it goes: resentment. They not going to do anything.

  “Although,” he said, after a moment’s thought, “I suppose there are a few who might indeed do something.”

  “You haven’t mentioned the laity,” Nan said.

  “No, I haven’t. Only because—with no statistics to back me up—I can’t see the laity getting that perturbed. Oh, maybe some heated discussion over the dinner table or at a parish meeting. But still …” He shook his head. “No, I don’t see the laity making this their cause.”

>   “But, darling, there’s always the lunatic fringe—on both sides of the aisle.”

  “Yes. I’m quite aware of that. The angry letters that I get in response to some of my columns, and the wild phone calls that come into the radio station. But … no, I just don’t think so.

  “People who assassinate, I think, realize that they put their future in jeopardy. The men who shot John and Bobby Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Jr., John Lennon, Ronald Reagan, and the girl who attempted to kill Gerald Ford—they’re all behind bars or have died in captivity.

  “Assassins almost always throw their own lives away in the commitment of their crime. Besides, in any case, what can be done about it? The most convenient weapon is a gun. And this country has guns all over the place—”

  “I know what you’re going to say, dear: Something to the effect that if people want to kill somebody, they’ll be able to do so—as long as they don’t mind what happens to them afterward.”

  “Well, that’s true, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose.”

  Both lay motionless staring at the barely visible ceiling. They could hear the water running in the bathroom down the hall. Rick was getting ready to retire, whether or not his homework was completed.

  “Besides,” George said, “Lieutenant Tully is doing his best to guard us. Two of his men are just outside the house now.”

  But Nan wasn’t thinking of the guards. The running water called her attention to Richard and their other two children. The hardest part for Nan in this entire enterprise had been the reaction of Ron and Alice. She knew this affected George, too, but not as deeply, she felt, as it did her.

  She and George had, of course, talked about this—many times—in the past. But the added consideration of today’s attempted murder made it now imperative to get this into the open and air it out. This was as good a time as any. “How do you feel about the kids?”

  “The kids?”

  “In all your thinking, planning, have you thought about the kids being involved in this at all?”

  Silence.

  “To be honest,” he said finally, “the thought has crossed my mind. I try to rid myself of such considerations as quickly as possible. It couldn’t be.”