Back Where He Started

by Jay Quinn

  That settled, I poured myself another cup of coffee and returned to the table to contemplate my other errand for the following day. After Mass the preceding Sunday, I stopped to shake Father Fintan’s hand. He was an older middle-aged man. He looked to be nearing 60, maybe as much as 62. Surprisingly, rather than just shaking my hand, nodding, and reaching for the next parishioner’s extended paw, he held me fast in a strong grip and asked if I was free to stop by his office one day the following week. I said sure. With traces of his brogue intact, he told me to call him the next day at the rectory to schedule a time and day. Then, with a nod, he was on to the waiting parishioner behind me.

  I was frankly puzzled as to why he’d want to meet with me. I had only just returned a card from the pew in front of me asking to become a member of the parish, though I’d been going to Mass there since early December. I was scared somehow he’d talked to our priest back in Raleigh—a forbidding but tolerant man—and would tell me I wasn’t welcome in his parish.

  Being Catholic and queer, I had an abiding fear that eventually I’d have a pastor who was down on homosexuals and simply wouldn’t tolerate them in his parish. I didn’t really ask much from my church—only not to be beat up from the pulpit. In our parish back home, I’d always kept as low a profile as I could, considering I was raising three children in the church. Toleration was easy to achieve, I thought, as long as you never directly challenged the church any more than you had to.

  Not that this Father Fintan gave any hints of being intolerant. His homilies were quite folksy and charming, and he never was arrogant or condemning. In fact, the parishioners seemed to reserve a great affection for him that I felt all around me. Even seated alone, very near the back of the church, I never got the sense that he lead a cowering flock.

  So, with only mild trepidation, I called Father Fintan, as he asked, on Monday afternoon. He was very pleasant as we compared schedules for the coming week and finally settled on that Thursday. He graciously rang off after we’d agreed we’d meet at the church at 1 sharp.

  Sitting with my coffee that morning, I wondered again what on earth the man wanted to talk with me about. My keeping the Catholic faith of my childhood was nothing I could justify to anyone on any grounds except that it made me happy and it made sense to me. In the past I’d had some spirited conversations with people who were not Catholic (or Catholic no longer) about the Church’s intolerance on several major social issues—not the least was its alienation of its gay members. I told these cynics that as a queer mother figure running a traumatized family that I’d reconstructed out of loss, need, and a lot of love, I knew my effort wasn’t disingenuous, campy, or half-assed. It was real.

  What’s more, it was art: It magnified and glorified a greater reality than my small life. I was rearing three beautiful children and giving love to a man who was often maddeningly complex in his demands and difficulties. I didn’t give a damn that the Church thought my life’s work was “wrong.” It was nothing short of salvation for that man and his three little children. And, it was also my salvation. Armed with that knowledge, and thoroughly convinced that God lived somewhere above his own Church, I had no problems living on the edge of a community of faith built by fallible, human hands. What concerned me was being told I couldn’t cling even to outside edges of my faith—being told that even the third-to-the-last pew in the back of the church was too good for me.

  That old childhood fear of having it all taken away from me dogged me right up to Father Fintan’s office door the next day. After the church secretary greeted me pleasantly, she buzzed Father Fintan to let him know I had arrived. He didn’t keep me waiting a minute before he opened the door to the reception area, extended his hand, and encouraged me to follow him to his office.

  His office was bright and cluttered and lined with overflowing bookshelves that reminded me of my own. As I sat, I noticed a broad range of topics—many I never would have thought to find in a pastor’s office. I was encouraged to see both Bill Moyers and the Episcopal Bishop John Spong among the authors represented.

  “I’m impressed with all your books, Father,” I said. I was fishing tentatively but hopefully.

  Father Fintan waved his hand dismissively at the shelves as he sat. “Some I’ve read, some I haven’t had a chance to get to. I’m just so busy—I don’t have time to keep up with my reading the way I want to.”

  “Still,” I said, “I’ve always believed a full bookshelf is a pretty clear indicator of a vibrant, intelligent mind.”

  “Well, I hope you’re right,” he laughed. “You must be wondering why I’ve asked you in to visit.”

  Nothing like getting to the point, I thought. I said, “I am. I was wondering if you’d spoken with Monsignor DeMarco at my old parish in Raleigh.”

  “No, I haven’t spoken with him. Is there any reason why I should?”

  I was a bit thrown by his response. “No, I don’t suppose there is. It’s just that, becoming a new parishioner in a small town, I didn’t know if you ever call to ask about people …”

  Father Fintan smiled sympathetically. I felt my carefully streaked hair, my age and lack of a gut, my clothes—everything about me screamed Gay. I felt I stood out, starkly alone, in a church full of families. I braced myself for his response. “No, I don’t do that,” he replied. “We pastors don’t check references. I’m just happy to have you as a new parishioner. As large as this church is, I still like to have a chance to meet everyone and learn how I might best meet their needs as their pastor.”

  My relief must have been apparent.

  “Does this surprise you?” he asked.

  “No, Father,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I really appreciate it. I’m just not sure how to begin.”

  The kind man smiled. “First, I’d like you to know I’m not here to judge you. I hope that will help you consider me a friend as well as your priest.”

  I wanted desperately to believe him—to accept the warm connection he was offering. I looked at his waiting face, made my decision, and decided to risk it.

  As I spoke, Father Fintan leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk. He nodded encouragingly as I went through the story of my life. Glancing at the clock behind him, I was amazed to realize I’d been talking for a half an hour when I concluded with: “So I’m here to start a new life. I’m not really bitter about how things turned out, or I try not to be. I just want to make the most of the chance I’ve been given to begin again. And I want you to know I’m not a big activist. I didn’t come here to cause discord in your parish. I just simply want a place to come and worship. Do you understand?”

  Father Fintan smiled, took his feet off his desk, and leaned forward on his forearms to look at me earnestly. “I do understand. I think it’s remarkable that you’ve come through such a disturbing experience as your separation and divorce, as you say, without being bitter. I believe you have a pretty healthy spiritual life, and that’s what I’m concerned with. Considering what I hear every day, yours isn’t a unique story at all. What I don’t want to see is you distancing yourself from the Sacraments, especially Holy Communion.”

  I was stunned and very grateful. “Father, thank you,” I said. “You can imagine how scared I was to come to see you. I was really afraid you’d refuse to give me Communion. I was scared you’d never accept me in the parish.”

  “Chris, I wouldn’t be doing my job if I drove you away from the Church.”

  “That’s a very enlightened attitude, Father. There are many people out there who don’t share it.”

  “That’s true,” he said. “But, the Church sometimes acts hysterically in reaction to social change. But it makes me incredibly aware of other’s difficulties. I think of how hard it must be for gay Catholics to live their lives under constant scrutiny and condemnation.”

  I nodded and looked away. There was so much more I could have said, but exploring that topic could have taken the afternoon, the day, the week. It was enough that Father Fintan was both per
ceptive and intelligent in a way few other priests had been in my experience. I could have taken up the man’s entire afternoon talking.

  “Chris, I do welcome you into our parish, and I want to see you at Mass. I’ve been a priest for nearly 30 years. You’ve not told me anything I haven’t heard before, though I have to say I’ve met very few people, gay or straight, who could’ve managing to rear three children under such difficult and peculiar circumstances.”

  “Thank you for that, Father. Up to this point it’s been my life’s work to the exclusion of everything else. Now I’m paying the price for that.”

  “Yes, you said you were having trouble finding a job. Let me ask you, can you type?”

  Immediately alert, I answered in the affirmative.

  “A parishioner who has a small clinical psychiatric practice is looking for someone discreet to do transcription and to work in the office five days a week as a receptionist. I think you’d be ideal. If you’re interested, I could pass along your name and have him give you a call.”

  “Absolutely!” I said. I was beginning to believe the man was a saint, and I told him so.

  “No, I’m hardly a saint,” he replied. “I’m just trying to do my job.”

  “Father, for what it’s worth coming from me, I think you’re doing great.”

  ‘Well, I thank you. But now I must be a priest and ask something of you.”

  I was wary, but the man had just accepted me into his parish and helped in my job hunt, so I was open to hearing what he had to ask. “Shoot,” I said happily.

  Father Fintan stood, indicating our time was finished. “I’m having some trouble finding people willing to spend an hour with the Blessed Sacrament during the times we have set up for Adoration. If you’d consider coming for an hour of prayer in the chapel once a week, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “I could do that,” I said. “I mean I’ve never done it before, but—”

  “It’s not at all formal. You’ll just come and sit for an hour. You can meditate, say the Rosary, or just have a conversation in your mind with our Lord.”

  That sounded pretty good to me. “When would be a good time? When do you have need of someone? Right now, I have plenty of time.”

  Father Fintan chuckled at my eagerness. “Let’s wait to see what you and Dr. Rivera work out. I intend to give you a very good recommendation.” He gestured toward the door. “That’s his name by the way. Rivera, Tony Rivera.”

  As he opened the door for me, I reached for his hand. Taking it and holding it in a firm handshake, I said, “Father, thanks so much for the warm welcome. You’ve gone out of your way to make me feel at home here.”

  Father Fintan shook my hand in return and said, “No, thank you. I’m looking forward to having you as a parishioner. Will you call me to let me know you and Tony have talked?”

  “Certainly, Father,” I said. “And I’ll let you know about the Adoration time as well.”

  I walked back to my car in an unexpected shower of snowflakes and with a surprising sense of optimism. I slowed my pace and marveled at how quickly things could turn on a dime. All my angst about the Church had dissolved. My fear of being judged and found unworthy was gone. And there was the possibility of a job! Not just a job frying burgers or bagging groceries, but a job that was appropriate for someone my age and, perhaps, a job that would give me a chance to stretch my mind some.

  Happily I drove away from the church in a flurry of snowflakes and happy possibilities. As I crossed the large bridge spanning Bogue Sound, I suddenly remembered the coming weekend was the first anniversary of Zack’s leaving. In a year, my entire life had changed. And it wasn’t a desolate anniversary at all. As I reached the top of the long bridge’s high hump over the water, I glimpsed the ocean beyond the narrow strip of beach. Surrounded by a riot of snowflakes, I felt incredibly lucky to live at the beach year-round. It was an altogether beautiful place, and I sincerely believed I belonged to it now.

  I still had another happy errand to run: I had a puppy to meet. After the bridge deposited me on the island, I turned right onto the beach road and tried to remember what Steve Willis looked like. “Who knows,” I said aloud over the car radio’s chatter. “I might just find out if Steve Willis still likes me.” I laughed at how quickly I could segue from spiritual matters to my carnal ones. It didn’t seem such a big deal right then—my life was all of a piece. One happy thing called to and ran toward another. “Who knows,” I said. “I might just fall in love.”

  I consulted Heath’s handwritten directions to Steve Willis’s place in Salter Path. Turning off the beach road onto an unpaved road leading back to Bogue Sound, I drove through the helter-skelter assortment of small bungalows that lodged the original inhabitants of the island. Salter Path had been settled by squatters on the Roosevelt heir Alice Hoffman’s land. Many robber baron families had acquired whole islands off the coasts of the southern states. Almost all of Bogue Banks had belonged to Alice Hoffman at one time.

  When two particularly devastating hurricanes had finally driven the inhabitants of Cape Lookout to the mainland and Harker’s Island, some had settled in Salter Path. They lived there for generations until Alice Hoffman grew weary of paying their taxes. She offered title to the land to the families who had lived there for a generation or more and insisted in return that they pay the taxes on the tracts they occupied. Fiercely independent and contrarian, the squatters resented the gift and the obligation. The settlement of fishermen and their families remained unincorporated to this day.

  I wondered how Steve Willis ended up there. Willis was a local name, but I clearly recalled Heath saying his family had moved there when he was 12 or so. It seemed unlikely that someone from off-island could settle easily among the clannish squatters.

  I found the house easily. It sat at the end of the oyster shell road, next to the water’s edge. It was a simple white clapboard house with black trim and shutters. It was perched on stubby pilings that gave it a five-foot lift, above what I took to be some past storm’s high-water mark. From its back deck a pier extended over the water to a dock. A trim white day shrimper was tied up there. In the yard, crab traps sat in stacks in various states of rust and repair. I saw no kennels, but I did see Steve’s truck. The entire yard seemed to be both drive and parking lot, so I simply pulled up next to Steve’s truck and cut the Expedition’s engine.

  As I got out, I heard a Chessie’s unmistakable baying and I peered through the snow to see Steve on his front porch. He was pulling a thermal undershirt over his bare, lean, long-waisted, torso. He commanded the dog to sit, and waited for me to walk through the snow and up the steps to the porch.

  “I guess I’m bringing the snow with me,” I said.

  “Snow got here way ahead of you.” Steve offered his hand, and I took it. The large male Chesapeake Bay retriever on the porch sniffed me anxiously. With a grasp that returned and held my initial squeeze, he tugged me up the last few steps to the porch.

  “Who’s this then?” I asked. I extended the back my other hand toward the dog’s head. The dog jerked his head back warily despite my deliberately unthreatening gesture. He sniffed at my hand and gave a low growl.

  Without letting go of my hand, Steve nudged the big dog with his knee, knocking him away from me. “Get on away then, ya ill-natured son of a bitch.” The dog sat on his back haunches, unperturbed by Steve’s roughness. “His name’s Petey.”

  Aware the man was still holding my hand, I looked up at him and smiled. “Like in The Little Rascals?”

  Steve gave me a blank but still interested look.

  “The dog in The Little Rascals? The old movies—they still show them on television sometimes. His name was Petey.”

  Steve let go of my hand and stuck his hands in his pockets, suddenly seeming shy and defensive. “Don’t know about all that. I don’t watch much TV, wasn’t ever one for wasting time that way. This dog here’s name is Parson’s Peter the Great, Eye-Vee on his papers. AKC-registered. That’s kind
of a mouthful when you just want to call the bastard for his supper. I just call him Petey.”

  Still sitting, Petey nudged my hand for a head rub. I turned away from Steve’s odd-looking eyes. His stare was disconcerting as much for its frankly appraising glare as for his eyes’ riveting color: The irises a navy-blue rim that paled to nearly gray at the black pupils. I bent toward the dog and ruffled his ears. “Is he the puppy’s daddy?”

  “Yep. He’s the sire. C’mon in and you can meet the mama and the puppies.” With that, Steve broke his stare and opened the front door.

  Once inside, I looked around. The place was painted white and sparsely furnished—two navy-blanket-covered white sofas and a grass cloth rug covering the floor. A fire crackled behind the hearth’s wire grate. The teak end tables were like ones I’d seen in Gardeners Eden. Small stereo components were set up on the mantel along with a large photograph of a shirtless, grinning Steve next to a tail-hung black marlin on the scales at the Morehead City docks. All in all, it was totally not what I expected. It had the look of someone who had an eye for design—not the digs of a brusque outdoorsman. “Cool place,” I offered.

  Steve closed the door and stepped from behind me. Truculently he asked, “What did you expect? A raggedy-assed recliner, a Bud Light neon sign and pine paneling?”

  “No … that’s not what I meant at all,” I replied.

  “Heath told me he thought you’d be amazed.”

  “Then Heath was being an asshole.”

  Steve laughed and turned toward a doorway off the living room. “You might as well come on then and drag your jaw along with you. The puppies and their mama are out on the porch behind the kitchen.”

  I followed along through the door that lead to a trim, neat kitchen. It held a heavy table with wheat-twist-turned legs and four Windsor chairs. It looked as if Martha Stewart had just left it. “Nice kitchen too,” I said to be irritating.

  Ahead of me by four steps, Steve just shook his head before he stepped through another doorway. Following along behind him, I entered an enclosed porch with windows on three sides. The porch looked directly out over the pier and the dock. The room was suffused with the snowy light reflected off the gray choppy sound. I didn’t bother to examine the furnishings, because as soon as I entered the room, I was set up by a swarm of puppies. The mama dog padded along after them to sniff me and look up appealingly at Steve.