by John Ayang
Fr. McCarthy was almost the opposite. A prim and loyal firebrand of the Church, defender of orthodoxy, guarded in speech, a veritable fan of Pope Benedict XVI, although he had schizophrenic outbursts of anger when frustrated. He knew this, and would often be ashamed of it later whenever it got the better of him in an unguarded moment. He enjoyed the company of his friend, Fr. Polanski, his wisecracks, and his sagacity, despite his scathing criticisms of the Church. Some priests who knew them well thought they were like a pair of shoes, always complementing each other, though never quite agreeing with each other on many things. On such occasions, they followed the unwritten rule of agreeing to disagree, moving on and not in the least ruffled by each other’s outspokenness. In any case, Fr. McCarthy cherished and cultivated the sounding board he discovered in Fr. Polanski. He often mused to himself that Fr. Polanski, though sixteen years his senior, had become a father figure in his life, making up for what he missed from his real father who, though not really estranged from his priest son, was, nevertheless, reserved in character. Father McCarthy never really enjoyed a conversation with his father on an intimate level, but there was a kind of mutual respect between them, the kind that he would gladly lose for a warmer relationship. Since he met Fr. Polanski, he never really missed the warm presence of his adopted father in his life.
He slowed his car to thirty-five mph, since there was ample time, and cleared his throat. “I had a moment of weakness yesterday when I was with Stacy Donovan,” he began.
“Oh, my dear, Nick. My dear Nick,” Fr. Polanski said, patronizingly. “Always remember what your spiritual director taught you in the seminary: when talking to a beautiful lady, look straight at her face or forehead, but never at her booby bosom, her curvy waistline, or her shapely legs. Say the Ave Maria, Ora pro Nobis ejaculation silently in your mind.”
“Okay, Charlie. Hold it! Hold it!” Fr. McCarthy interrupted, chuckling tolerantly at his friend’s raunchy spiritualizing. “I’m not talking about that weakness.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I’m talking about my usual nemesis. I had an outburst of anger when Stacy gave me the discouraging news that the judge was moving my case to trial.”
“Oh, I see,” Fr. Polanski said, getting serious. “And why was that, if I may ask? Surely you knew that the case might be moved to trial?”
“I thought the judge would see the frivolity of it and just dismiss it,” Fr. McCarthy said plaintively. “The case lacks merit, Charlie. You know that. The Church has the authority to make laws governing her subjects and to enforce such laws…”
“Here we go again,” Fr. Polanski said, exasperatingly.
“You know what I am talking about, but that’s not what worries me, in any case,” Fr. McCarthy quickly assured. “It’s the racial angle they are trying to create in the case.”
“Again, with Blacks constituting only nine percent of your parish population, don’t tell me you didn’t see that coming, Nick,” Fr. Polanski said.
“Maybe I did, but just thought they wouldn’t dare play that card,” he responded. “But now that situation is aggravated by the fact that the trial judge is Black.”
“Okay, I didn’t know that,” Fr. Polanski said, somberly. “I now understand your fears.”
“Good, I now put my fears into question form,” Fr. McCarthy said, relieved that his friend was beginning to agree with him. “Do you think that I will have a fair trial considering the situation of things?”
“Mmm, let’s see,” Fr. Polanski heaved his bulk to one side and continued in measured tones. “I would say it’s fifty-fifty. Let’s just say the judge knows she was sworn onto the bench as a custodian of justice. And don’t forget, too, that Cardinal Felice is a popular and powerful figure, not just in the Church, but in the city, also. I doubt whether the judge would risk offending him by being unfair.”
“Well, Charlie,” Fr. McCarthy responded. “As you said, it’s fifty-fifty. You never know who has an axe to grind with the Church and may find in this case the opportunity to embarrass the Cardinal. But I will take the fifty-fifty wager, though fifty out of a hundred ain’t too consoling.”
“It ain’t too discouraging, either,” Fr. Polanski countered. “Now can we quit the glum side of things and talk about tennis?”
“Of course, of course,” Fr. McCarthy livened up. “Let’s see. Where shall we begin? Shall we begin by agreeing that I’m going to beat you in the first two sets?”
“I would pawn my racquet first thing tomorrow morning, and send my tennis gear to the Salvation Army, Nick! True to God!” He responded, pretending to feel insulted at such an outrageous claim.
“Okay, Charlie, take it easy,” Fr. McCarthy cautioned. “Go easy on the pre-fight boast, and don’t swear a big Herodian oath that you might regret having to make good on when I beat you.”
“Nick,” Fr. Polanski called, looking at Fr. McCarthy with a faint indulgent smile. “Just admit you are an amateur tennis player coming to learn from a professional. Tell you what?
“What?”
“I’ll fete you sumptuously at Fogo de Chao, complete with any wine of your choice to wash it down, if you return my first service. It’s a Brazilian restaurant in the southwest part of the city.”
“Oh, get off it, Charlie,” Fr. McCarthy dismissed. “Doesn’t it occur to you that you might be presuming too much here? Remember, meals at Fogo de Chao don’t come cheap. So, I caution you again, don’t be a Herod.” He pressed hard on the brake pedal to bring the car to a stop, as he nearly jumped the red light. “By the way, I invited Stacy. Hopefully she can make it. She said she might be running late.”
They were at the last stoplight before the gates of the Seminary. From there, they could see the large compound with its tall buildings of dull red bricks. The life-size statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary could be seen from the lights. The well-mowed lawns dotted with tall pine trees and lined with equally well-trimmed bushes and flowers bestowed an atmosphere of tranquility on the campus that made it feel almost like a seventeenth-century monastery. The lights changed to green and Fr. McCarthy drove a block and turned left onto the main avenue of the Seminary campus.
The seminarians were still engaged in their afternoon studies when Fr. McCarthy and Fr. Polanski pulled up in the parking lot adjacent to the tennis courts, twin courts of concrete done to Wimbledon standard, painted deep green with white lines and grey nets, the funding of which was donated in memory of Bishop Nold by some rich couple who wished to remain anonymous. Greg was already there sitting in the open door of the driver’s side of his Toyota RAV 4, his legs out on the tarmac. He was talking to someone on the phone. He quickly ended his phone conversation as the two clerics alighted from their car still debating who was going to trounce the other and who was going to have to eat the humble pie. Greg put his cap on and moved toward Fr. McCarthy and Fr. Polanski.
“Good afternoon, Greg,” Fr. McCarthy called out. “I see you were quite early.”
“Yeah, I am,” Greg responded. “I guessed coming to play with two priests meant I needed to arrive on time so I won’t have to go to confession for tardiness.”
“Well, what can I say,” Fr. McCarthy replied. “Sounds like it was a good plan.”
“Good afternoon, Greg,” Fr. Polanski greeted and added, “Your mama raised you well. Being on time is evident of good upbringing.”
“There you go,” Greg demurred, taking Fr. Polanski’s proffered hand. “Good afternoon, Father. Mama always said, ‘Don’t you be late for your appointment with a priest’. I tell ya, I’ve always tried my very best since then.”
“Evidence of good upbringing,” Fr. Polanski concurred again.
“Don’t worry, Greg,” Fr. McCarthy interjected. “The only person who should go to confession after the game is Charlie here, for bogus pre-game boasting.”
Fr. Polanski stopped in his tracks, feigning a tripping misstep. He
turned to Greg and said, “This guy would debate St. Peter at the Pearly Gates, that he is the Redeemer and not Jesus.” He turned to Fr. McCarthy and all but commanded, “Get onto court and let me give you a whooping for impudence.”
“I will let you priests play first,” Greg conceded. “I’ll watch your hands so when I come in, I won’t spoil the tempo.”
“Why not get in with Nick and let’s warm up first for a couple of minutes,” Fr. Polanski said.
“Yeah, Greg, let’s do a warm-up first,” Fr. McCarthy agreed. “I have invited Ms. Donovan, the Archdiocesan attorney, to join us. We can play doubles today.”
“Okay, looks like it’s gonna be a great evening,” Greg said as he lightly returned Fr. Polanski’s warm-up service.
Fr. Polanski, Fr. McCarthy, and his parish council chairman played the warm-up game for about ten minutes. Eventually Fr. Polanski called for a formal game. Greg took the sideline to await his turn while playing the umpire.
“Ball!” Fr. Polanski called, threw the bright yellow ball from a freshly opened can, high up in the air, and swung his racket.
Whack!
“Five love,” Greg called out. Then he noticed that Fr. McCarthy was still motionless in the crouching position he took, racket ready in hand, seemingly waiting for the ball. Fr. Polanski noticed it, too, and both looked quizzically at Fr. McCarthy.
“What?” The latter asked plaintively, pretending to be ignorant of why they were looking at him sideways. “You called service and I’m waiting for the ball.” Fr. Polanski and Greg broke out laughing.
“Father, the ball was served,” Greg said, amid heaves of laughter.
“Was it?” Fr. McCarthy asked, feigning surprise and sending the other two into another merry guffaw.
“Okay, Nick,” Fr. Polanski said, barely able to rein himself in. “I repent for that brutality. That was my special 215-mph service. I thought you would live up to your pre-game boast. Otherwise I should have treated you to a gentler service. Get to the other side. I’ll try and be merciful.”
“Alright, Charlie. No need to laugh till you tear up. I concede that that went by so fast, I couldn’t even react to it,” Fr. McCarthy said. “Don’t be merciful. Just serve.”
The two clerics battled each other for twenty minutes and three games before Fr. McCarthy agreed to let Greg take his turn, having lost all three games without scoring any advantage. After two games, which Greg also lost, Fr. Polanski allowed Fr. McCarthy and Greg to play each other, while he rested, sitting on the hood of their car, sipping cold lemonade from the ice chest they had brought.
Stacy was an hour and fifteen minutes late and was all apologies. She was impeccably dressed in a white polo shirt, white cap, white short skirt with white knickers underneath, and a pair of white tennis shoes that looked very new. Her gear was all Nike. Her well-chiseled, slender legs and her very slim abdomen revealed someone who took her gym time seriously. Fr. McCarthy again caught himself wondering why she wasn’t married. Such an intelligent woman with such a killer body! He quickly shook off the irreverent revelry and welcomed her to the game. Stacy was introduced to the others. They played six games in doubles and two rotating games each in singles. Fr. McCarthy was surprised that Stacy could play so well. She got one game with Fr. Polanski and dislodged him twice at game point before he could beat her at the third. Fr. Polanski was equally surprised at her prowess. During small talk between games, Stacy managed to squeeze in an invitation to dinner at her mom’s place in two days’ time. Greg politely declined with some ‘good’ excuse. Fr. McCarthy had a lot at stake to say “no” to a dinner invitation from Stacy, and Fr. Polanski, a self-proclaimed lover of gourmet dinners, was bereft of even a bad excuse for declining, and decided to tag along. As the evening was beginning to get dark and they were preparing to go, Stacy decided to take Greg aside for a ten-minute conversation. Those were ten very fruitful minutes, as she later confessed to Fr. McCarthy.
Houston, Texas
October 26, 2012
FR. MCCARTHY WAS IMPRESSED and awed at the same time with the opulence of the Donovan residence. Ensconced in a calm non-descript part of South Post Oak Boulevard, not quite two miles from former US President George H.W. Bush’s home, which sat on a four-acre lot, facing a miniature, man-made, rectangular lake that was not more than 1,200 square feet. The lake spewed four fountains at its four corners which glowed beautifully at night in crimson and yellow, opal blue and turquois, indigo and pink, green and crystal white. Four black-gilded stands, topped with white, opaque light globes—five on each stand—lined the short fifty-foot driveway on either side leading up to the ornate arc that stood like a sentry in front of the house. On the arc was inscribed the words, “Welcome to the Donovans’.” It appeared black against the dull red color of the arc during the day, and at night it glowed neon white. Ten feet beyond the arc was the main entrance of what, to Fr. McCarthy, looked like a palace. Immediately behind the entrance was a six-foot-wide arcade that split to the left and right, skirting a twenty-by-twelve-feet swimming pool. It was railed off at the end facing the main entrance.
At the opposite end, overlooking the pool, were three large doors. The middle door opened into a large dining area, the left door opened into a large sitting room set theater-style with an eight-by-six-feet movie screen over a low fire place that was alive with artificial electric flames that looked red hot, but were, in fact, cooler than Lake Placid in winter. The third large door on the right opened into another sitting room, furnished in the regular way with a central glass-topped coffee table and settees of costly synthetic fabrics. Another door from that sitting room to the far right opened into a game room with a pool table and other games. A corridor ran between the dining area and the second sitting room, leading to two guest rooms at the far end. A staircase from the same corridor led upstairs to the Donovans’ private rooms. All the bedrooms were upstairs. The dining room and the second sitting room had high, gilded ceilings ornamented with gold linings. At the center of each room was a large crystal candelabra that glowed during the day and sparkled beautifully during the night. The sheer architectural complexity of the entire edifice was awe-inspiring. And Fr. McCarthy and Fr. Polanski drank all of it in as Mrs. Donovan bobbled around giving them a short tour of the building. The furnishings, too, were all of very costly brocade and satin material, carefully chosen by Mrs. Donovan herself. Fr. McCarthy could tell that she was an expert decorator, as she explained how she came to decide which material should go where and which furniture should stay where.
Family photographs and single ones, intermingled with scenic paintings and pictures, were stationed at strategic positions all over the house: on the mantel piece, over the window ledges, on small high tables that seemed to be made just for that purpose, and so on. Each photograph, painting, or scenic picture had a history which Mrs. Donovan was only too glad to throw out in short summaries. Fr. McCarthy couldn’t help wondering whether she had worked as a tour guide or as an appraiser of art works before. And there were not a few art works in wooden sculpture and porcelain, too. Mrs. Donovan took it all in stride in her wonderful, short historical summaries. When she eventually led them around to the large dining room, they had spent almost twenty minutes touring the house.
“I hope everybody is hungry after the tour,” Mrs. Donovan called out, obviously announcing her wish rather than asking a question, as she started pulling out the seats.
“You bet, Mrs. Donovan,” Fr. Polanski replied, good-naturedly.
“Good,” she said and continued pulling out the chairs. “I did that on purpose.”
“What? Pulling out the seats?” Fr. Polanski asked, breaking Mrs. Donovan’s monologue and faking wariness, as if she had implied something ominous was about to happen.
“Nope. The tour,” she replied. “A short walk or brief exercise before dinner usually whets the appetite. Fathers, would you please do us the honor of sitting at the heads of the ta
ble?” she asked as she assigned the two clerics to opposite ends of the table.
“Is Mom lecturing y’all, expounding on her ‘healthy-eating-habits theory’?” Stacy quipped as she came in from the kitchen, bearing a service pan full of fried rice. She placed it on a pad on the table and added for the benefit of their guests, “She believes in lots of eating rituals, like which course should go first and which should be eaten last, what type of dressing matches what type of salad, and so on.”
“Well, I think good eating order is health-inducing,” Fr. McCarthy said, glad to be able to chip in a word edge-wise to match Mrs. Donovan, who, throughout the brief tour, chattered excitedly. “For instance, you wouldn’t eat your dessert before the main course.”
“Brilliant, Father!” Mrs. Donovan concurred excitedly. “Brilliant! My daughter doesn’t believe eating is an art. She and her dad…they just throw food in their mouths, masticate, and ingest it. That’s all. By the way,” she added as an aside, “Geoffrey is away on a business seminar. He will be back in a day or two.”
