The St. Michael Poker & Drinking Club

by Randle, Ned;

  At the curb, he turned to listen one more time to her laugh, to see her broad smile, to watch the soft folds of her cotton skirt circumscribe the curves and crevices of her form in the morning breeze until he could barely breathe. As he stared at the couple, it struck him that Naomi’s laugh and cheerful manner were in stark contrast to Theo’s dour disposition and whatever it was that sustained her husband’s doleful worldview, it did not originate with her. He lingered a bit longer, enjoying her laugh, finding it both charming and uplifting, and decided a man could not be in a bad mood hearing that laugh. A normal man, that is.

  It wasn’t until he was in his car driving back to St. Michael that Father Tom could freely breathe again. He was so flummoxed by his array of feelings and by the mental image of Theo’s wife standing splay-footed and relaxed, chin up, the morning breeze blowing softly around and between her sturdy legs, that he drove past the crosstown boulevard, which was the most direct route between St. Paul’s and St. Michael. He found himself on the south edge of town, and when he craned his neck to read the street signs, he was startled to see Billy Crump’s smiling face overhead on a billboard, smug and condescending, his sharp eyes cutting straight into him. It immediately occurred to him the billboard was placed right where it was just for this moment, positioned so he would look up and see Crump’s accusatory smile.

  Was it a godsend, that little bastard’s face on the billboard? A sign? Although he didn’t have the memory for scripture Theo possessed, he had committed a few verses to memory he felt were particularly useful and pragmatic, and Crump’s face caused him to recall Galatians, Chapter Five: “This I say then, walk in the Spirit, and ye shall not fulfill the lust of the flesh.” Walk in the spirit, he told himself; occupy your mind with good. He began to recite the rosary, focusing on the routine exercise, leaving no room in his thoughts for the comely Naomi Swindberg. By the time he’d finished the first decade, he was pulling into the rectory garage. He parked and hurried into the house to change into his vestments for 10:30 a.m. Mass.

  Chapter Seven

  That Sunday night as he tossed and turned in his bed, Father Tom couldn’t rid Naomi Swindberg from his thoughts. He found it a wicked trick of the mind, as he lay in the dark, that he could see her standing at the foot of his bed, laughing, the yellow flowers on her skirt glowing eerily in the dark. And despite covering his head with his pillow and reciting the rosary out loud, he could hear her voice, hear her laughter, and in her words and laughter was disclosed everything he wanted to know about her, significant and insignificant, yet he couldn’t comprehend it. It was as if he perceived all things about her from the apparition, not in a form that could be expressed in words, but as an ethereal essence embodying his long-suppressed salacity in a form that defied words. Even though she spilled out more of her essence with every peal of laughter, he didn’t recognize her impletion; it was as if her soul was speaking to him in tongues in girlish mockery of the fat, old priest whom she’d rendered speechless just by pressing his hand outside St. Paul’s that morning.

  He knew Naomi wasn’t in his room, but her image and voice were so real, so lifelike, he could barely breathe, and he sweated heavily as he labored for air. He tossed his pillow, damp with sweat, on the floor and lay flat on the mattress. He turned to prayer to rid himself of thoughts of Theo’s wife, and as he lay on his back in the dark, he prayed and prayed evermore fervently. He prayed that God would show him one flaw in her, just one flaw, so he could see she was not in reality perfect, but only perfect in her apparitional state. But in the dark, God disclosed to him no blemish or defect. And as he again visualized her standing in front of the church in the morning breeze, her loose skirt fluttering around and between her legs, he was disconcerted by the despicable sensation of a watery mouth and swallowed repeatedly to rid himself of saliva.

  He tried praying again, and as he prayed, Father Tom’s thoughts wandered from Naomi to Theo until he finally gave up on the prayers and concentrated on Theo, reasoning that by concentrating on the husband, he could temper his improper fascination with the wife. Soon, however, his thoughts circled back around and circumscribed both of them with wonderment. He wondered how Theo could be such a dour old prig with Naomi in his life. He wondered if Theo knew what he had in the woman, or if he appreciated her as a mate. He wondered if Theo had a prurient bone in his body. He wondered if Theo ever slipped into the bathroom after Naomi bathed to smell the sweet confection of her soaps and powders as he had done as a boy after his mother’s bath. In his wonderment, he imagined Naomi sitting on the edge of the tub wrapped only in a towel, slowly working lotion into the soles of her feet, and with that, he realized his wonderings had gone too far but he was at a loss as to how to stop them.

  “Cleanse me from secret faults, Lord, and spare your servant from sins to which I am tempted by another,” Tom spoke out loud, reciting a favorite psalm of St. Augustine who, through his writings, was a spiritual mentor and moral conscience for men like him consumed by sins of the flesh. But images of Naomi at her bath intruded on his Augustinian prayer. Old priests had a cure for thoughts like these, he reminded himself, and those cures went beyond mere prayer. He considered getting out of bed and going into the back yard and cutting a stout willow switch from the tree overhanging Cat’s grave, but he was exhausted and admitted that he could beat himself bloody and raw, and she still would invade his thoughts. He lay there for hours until he finally rid himself of all thoughts of Naomi by slipping into a hypnopompic state wherein he was haunted by another female voice:

  “Tommy!”

  “Yes, Mama?” he whined in in his stupefaction.

  “Get up and get ready for school.”

  “I’m tired Mama; I want to sleep a while longer.”

  “No, Tommy, get up now. I’m leaving for work. I don’t want to worry about you falling back to sleep and being late for school.”

  “I’ll get up, Mama. I promise.”

  “Now?”

  “I’m awake, Mama.”

  “That’s my sweet lamb, my sweet boy. Your lunch is on the sideboard; when I get home from work, I’ll make you a good supper, you hear?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “And no fighting today.”

  “No, Mama.”

  “I don’t want any more notes from the Sisters, you understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And do your chores when you get home.”

  “I will.”

  “I know you will, Tommy, my sweet boy, my sweet little lamb.”

  Father Tom awoke Monday morning, tired and dispirited from the lack of restful sleep. He’d slept, but restlessly and only in brief fits, as eidolic laughter and womanly voices insinuated themselves into his smattery dreams. But he forced himself to get out of bed to begin the week. He looked at the clock and realized he had to hurry to get cleaned up and ready for morning Mass. He had no time for coffee and struggled across the churchyard, slipped unseen into the sacristy, and donned a cassock and alb. He stepped out into the chancel and appreciated that Monday morning Mass was always poorly attended, which suited him just fine. He recited the opening words of the liturgy either staring down at the text or casting his words aimlessly over the heads of the calculable elderly who peopled weekday Mass. He conducted the liturgy half-heartedly, and in his fatigue, repeated much of Sunday’s homily. He relied on routine to muddle through his priestly duties, both during Mass and during the rest of the day. Monday evening he sat at the edge of his rose garden and sipped wine until the combination of wine and fatigue rendered him enervated and he trudged up to his bedroom and collapsed on his bed and slept.

  And all that week, Father Tom struggled to get up in the mornings. During the day, he tried to keep busy, to keep his mind off Theo and Naomi and focus on his duties to his parish. He said morning Mass, attended obligatory meetings of the Parish Council and Finance Committee on Tuesday evening, and made visits to the sick. The
evenings he had no meeting, he tried to occupy his mind by piddling in the rose garden, weeding, pruning, and mulching until darkness forced him inside. Once inside, he spent the rest of the evening and into the night reading scripture, praying, and preparing his homily. When he met his spiritual obligations, he treated himself to a glass or two of wine and watched the last few innings of the baseball game on television. He was in luck that week because the Cardinals were playing games on the West Coast and the telecast lasted late into the night. He watched television until he nodded off, and hopeful of a decent night’s sleep, rousted himself, turned off the set and made his way up to his bed.

  This he did a couple of nights, and consequently Wednesday and Thursday nights he had near-restful nights’ sleep. But by Friday, as the weekend drew near, thoughts of Naomi nearly overwhelmed him. Beginning Friday night, her specter breached his dreams, and he awakened with a start, angry that he couldn’t shake his infatuation. And infatuation is how he finally justified his feelings. An innocuous, childish infatuation which should be easily overcome by a grown man, particularly a middle-aged priest. He admitted to himself that his fiery infatuation with Naomi Swindberg was kindled by the brief and unexpected encounter he had with her the previous Sunday outside St. Paul’s as she stood next to Theo in the receiving line. And he reasoned that because he’d only seen her one time, and very briefly at that, she’d become enlarged in his mind, an outsized darling of his thoughts.

  Perhaps she was an icon to which he endowed more appealing attributes than she deserved, he told himself. It may well be, he then reasoned, that her allure was potent only because of the weakness of his character precipitated by the loneliness he felt more acutely since he lost his pet. Moreover, she made such an impression, because he’d not expected to find anyone like her married to Theo Swindberg. He finally convinced himself that if he steeled himself and saw her again, just one more time, he’d be prepared to see her in a different light, and she would assume more realistic proportions in his imagination, and he would rid himself of his infatuation. Another furtive look at Naomi would desensitize him like an allergy shot, he concluded, and allow his natural defenses to alleviate the irritant.

  Father Tom figured Sunday morning Theo, being a punctilious little bastard, would adhere to his rigid liturgical schedule and start processing down the center aisle of his church toward the exit at a minute or two after ten o’clock, with Naomi in his wake, and he decided to drive past St. Paul’s at just the right time to see her standing out front next to her husband. So, after 8:00 a.m. Mass, he changed into a plaid shirt and a baseball cap and sunglasses. He chuckled at his reflection as he walked past the study window and wondered if old Cat would recognize the shifty old priest if he were to suddenly come back from the dead like Lazarus. He sat down at his desk and stared at the clock on the wall. He started having misgivings about the plan, but he knew of no other remedy. Contemplation and prayer were failing him. He had no one to talk to about his feelings. Once he saw her, and realized she was a mere woman, he could move on.

  He waited in his car at the end of the block just past St. Paul’s. When Theo stepped out of the narthex and headed down the church steps, Tom put his car in gear and moved slowly down the street toward him. Theo took his position and stood stalwartly and glumly, a Lutheran hymnal in hand, waiting to meet his congregants. As Tom rolled nearer Theo, he lowered his car window and heard the exit hymn echoing from within St. Paul’s nave—“Abide, O faithful Savior, among us with Thy love; Grant steadfastness and help us…” as the congregants began their exodus. However, he went deaf as Naomi stepped through the church doors and walked toward Theo. There she was, just as Tom had imagined her for a week, bright and attractive and perfectly formed, wearing a blue sheath skirt, white, buttoned blouse and stylish ecru heels, which made her stand almost a head taller than her husband. Although he couldn’t hear a thing, Tom kept the car window open as he moved slowly toward Theo and her. He could see she was engaged in a lively conversation with another woman, and just when he was parallel to her, she threw her head back and laughed the merriest, most charming laugh he’d ever heard, and he reflexively praised God for restoring his hearing at just that moment.

  He felt his heart pounding, looked away, and being careful to avoid bowling over a group of congregants crossing the street, pulled away quickly from the curb and headed back to the rectory. When he got home, he went upstairs to his bedroom to change clothes for 10:30 a.m. Mass. He threw the ball cap and shirt on the floor in disgust. He was lightheaded. He paced back and forth, barely able to lift a foot, stumbling and swaying, but not stopping. He could feel his old rage rise in his chest, and when he stopped near the head of his bed, he drew back his right hand and drove his fist through the papered wall, just under the porcelain crucifix, which was left swinging ominously like a pendulum on its hanging nail as he stared mutely at the damage done.

  Chapter Eight

  After a recent meeting, Father Tom admitted to himself the St. Michael Poker & Drinking Club was a failure, at least from his point of view. He sat at his desk in the study and considered dissolving the club. He no longer looked forward to the company of the men as he had in the weeks immediately after convening the club. In truth, the group had done little to assuage his pervasive loneliness which, sitting at his desk, he felt more acutely than ever before. His loneliness was aggravated by his chance encounter with Naomi Swindberg.

  The only aspect of the meetings he really enjoyed and lifted his spirits, if he was honest, was the time he spent alone with Theo straightening the basement. But this time also exacerbated his feelings of guilt. An unintended consequence of forming the club was that he was burdened by an intense and sinful infatuation with another man’s wife, which was reason enough to disband the group. Each time he sat across the card table from Theo or worked quietly alongside him tidying the cellar, he was tempted to blurt out his feelings for Naomi to relieve the awful pressure that had built up in his soul. Theo’s quiet decency flummoxed him; familiarity had caused him to be even more bewildered by Reverend Swindberg. During the poker games, Theo remained punctilious and dour but unwaveringly polite, playing each hand in an estimable way, never overplaying and never relying on the bluff, and this caused Tom added consternation. He wanted to dislike Naomi’s husband.

  He wanted to place the blame for his disappointment in the club on the other two players. As he sat at his desk he tried to resist dwelling on the off-putting idiosyncrasies of these men that inspired his animus. He’d obsessed over them enough, he knew, and it was petty and uncharitable. Yet, three months of meetings had confirmed his earlier assessments of the other two men. Billy Crump proved himself to be an impulsive gadfly. He refused to fold bad hands, bet recklessly, and if he lucked into a pot, he was loud and aggravating and sometimes profane in his casual invocation of Christ’s name. During the game the prior evening, Crump took Tom to the raise limit on an ace high, and when he called, Tom laid down three jacks, causing Crump to cackle and crow, “Looky there, looky there, praise Jesus,” as Tom raked in the pot. What galled Tom even more was his supposition Billy’s character traits indicated the man may well be an Aries, like himself. And Billy’s stories continued to wear thin. He’d told his funniest anecdotes at the early meetings, then moved on to dark and humorless stories. And when these failed to get the reaction he wanted, he resorted to repeating plot lines of earlier tales with variations only in the operative details, which caused Tom to dismiss all of Billy’s stories as so much bullshit. Except, that is, the story about Billy dancing across the revival stage. Tom acknowledged the little man could dance.

  Metzger, over time, continued to overplay his affability and confirmed Tom’s assessment the appealing trait was superficial and transitory. Tom couldn’t put his finger on precisely why Metzger declined in his estimation, but he thought it might be related to an emerging hauteur which Metzger earlier had concealed. His disinterest and obvious distraction implied he was there onl
y in his big body; his thoughts were elsewhere, and Tom was suspect. Had Metzger taken the measure of the other men, as he was prone to do, and found himself to be a cut above? Did he have a competing interest outside the group? Tom began to lose the good feelings he’d had for the man when he knew him only as a co-presider at Lenten ecumenical services.

  Giving into temptation, Father Tom grudgingly admitted there was another aspect of the man’s personality that added to his devaluation in his estimation. It was Metzger’s excruciatingly noncommittal, tippy-toeing approach to each hand of poker. It was a petty consideration, but Tom considered it all the same. During recent games, his bets and raises were equivocal; his decisions to stay in or fold were chary and time consuming. The Methodist demonstrated pernicious inaction which disclosed an aggravating timidity and indecisiveness or distraction, traits which were off-putting to a man like Tom Abernathy. For a big man, there wasn’t much there, is how Tom summed up his estimation of Brian Metzger, and he imagined him to be a Libra.