The St. Michael Poker & Drinking Club

by Randle, Ned;

  “Oh, my Jesus,” he prayed as he stood over her, “thou has said: ‘Truly I say to you, ask and it will be given, seek and you will find, knock and it will be opened to you.’ Behold, I knock! I seek and ask for the grace of healing for your child, Naomi. Our Father, Hail Mary, Glory Be. Sacred Heart of Jesus, I place all my trust in Thee.”

  Next, he opened the bottle of holy water and poured it into the aspersorium. He dipped the head of the aspergillum into the holy water and slowly flicked the water onto Naomi from her feet to her head. Fine droplets landed on her chin, her eyelashes and her lips, but she showed no reaction to the asperges, so Father Tom made the sign of the cross on her behalf. It was at that moment when he felt the awful weight of responsibility settle on his sore back.

  He pulled the chair closer to her bed and sat down. Picking up his Bible, he opened it to where he’d placed a bookmark and lay it on the bed next to her hip and began to read aloud:

  “Verily, verily I say unto you, He that believeth in me, the works that I do shall he do also; and greater works than these shall he do; because I go unto my Father. And whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do it.”

  He closed the Bible and placed it back on the bedside table. He stood up and raised his eyes and arms toward the ceiling and in a loud voice prayed, “Lord Jesus, in your name I ask that this woman, your sister Naomi, be healed of all afflictions and returned whole to her good husband Theo and to her church. I ask this of you, Father, in your name. I have unshakable faith you will do as I ask.”

  He made the sign of the cross over Naomi’s face and breast. Although he’d prayed loudly, Naomi, so deep in her hebetude, was unmoved by his voice. He sat down in his chair, knowing it was necessary to conserve his strength, and took a notecard out of his pocket and his St. Rita medal in hand and moved into his prayer vigil in earnest by reading a prayer to the saint he’d written on the card:

  “O excellent St. Rita, worker of miracles, from thy sanctuary in Cascia, where in all thy beauty thou sleepest in peace, where thy relics exhale breaths of paradise, turn thy merciful eyes on me. Weary and discouraged as I am, I feel the very prayers dying on my lips. Must I thus despair in this crisis of my life? O come, St. Rita, come to my aid and help me as you did before, in my youth. Art thou not called the Saint of the Impossible, Advocate to those in despair? Then honor thy name, procuring for me from God the favor that I ask. That my faith be like that of the mustard seed, strong enough to move a mountain, and that my prayers restore your sister Naomi to good health. Everyone praises thy glories, everyone tells of the most amazing miracles performed through thee, must I alone be disappointed because thou hast not heard me? Ah no! Pray then, pray for me to thy sweet Lord Jesus that He be moved to pity by my request for her and her alone, and that, through thee, O good St. Rita, I may obtain what my heart so fervently desires.”

  He gently placed the St. Rita medal in Naomi’s right hand and folded her fingers about it, marveling at how delicate and pale her young fingers looked in his rough hand. As he held her hand in his he felt the sores on his back burn and smart and he immediately said loudly, “Get behind me, Satan! You’re a stumbling block to me!” He lay her hand holding the St. Rita medal gently on the bed, close to her side.

  Father Tom picked up his rosary from the table, and with it in his right hand, made the sign of the cross over Naomi. He began reciting the Apostles’ Creed while watching her face closely. It was a creed also recited by Lutherans, and he figured she knew it intimately, and he was hoping the familiar words would draw a response from her, but she slept on. Once he finished reciting the Apostles’ Creed, he started on the Our Father, speaking slowly and clearly, not hurrying through the prayer as he often did when reciting from memory at Mass or alone in his study. Again, he hoped the Lord’s Prayer would provoke a glint of recognition, but she didn’t open her eyes. He next introduced the heart of his Catholic doctrine by reciting the Hail Mary. Naomi shifted her weight in bed, and Father Tom stuttered over “Blessed art thou among women,” thinking, perhaps, this most Catholic of prayers provoked some discomfort. However, she moved no more, and he didn’t stop reciting until he’d repeated the prayer two more times.

  Discouraged because he already found his tongue dry and his voice weak, Father Tom took a swig of water from one of the bottles and chanted, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.” He found his voice and said, “This is the First Joyful Mystery, The Annunciation,” and repeated the Hail Mary ten more times, which took considerable concentration, particularly each time he recited, “Pray for us sinners, now, and at the hour of our death.” Despite his intense concentration, at least three times he stumbled over the word “death.” After completing the ten Hail Marys, he repeated “Glory be to the Father” and announced the Second Joyful Mystery—The Visitation.

  He looked at his watch and realized he had been at his task barely two hours. He removed his watch and dropped it in his grip. He got up from the chair and walked to the dresser where there was a clock, and he turned it around so it faced away from him. He didn’t want to be distracted from his obligation by the slow passage of time. He wanted to be suspended in time, not subject to it.

  After reciting the Second Joyful Mystery, Father Tom repeated the Our Father and moved slowly through another decade of Hail Marys, this time concentrating more fervently to avoid stumbling. He was pleased with himself for reciting flawlessly, then rebuked himself for his vanity. He’d begun to sweat from the intensity of his prayer and the warmth in the room, but he accepted that it was Naomi’s comfort which was important, not his own. He knew when death crept near, it dragged along the cold like a bride’s veil of ice. He removed his collar tab and put it on the table, undid the cincture and methodically unbuttoned the thirty-three buttons down the front of the soutane. He removed it and placed it, already heavy with sweat, over the back of the chair to dry. In the event Naomi awoke, he wanted to be able to clothe himself quickly and properly. He sat in his black trousers and damp T-shirt and continued to pray, “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

  As he prayed, he was transfixed by the familiarity of the face on the pillow. Gazing at her on her deathbed, he understood, subliminally at least, what it was about the woman that had captured his imagination and roiled his feelings.

  “I am faithful, Lord,” he said. “I have faith. I know all of your prayers and the proper invocations. Please hear me. Mother Mary intercede for her.”

  As he prayed, he watched the daylight beyond the window shade dim into twilight. He’d lost track of time, as he had wanted. He repeated each decade of the Rosary. In between the decades, he improvised lamentations regarding her loss to Theo, to her church, to the world itself. But never to himself. As he methodically continued with his formal prayers interspersed with his improvised prayers and supplications, he saw the shadows cast by the sunrise play on the window shade. Yet he didn’t waver, didn’t stop; he felt strong and robust, more vigorous and more intuitive of his calling than ever before in his ministry. His spirits buoyed, he continued to beseech Jesus Christ, the Lord and Savior of the universe, to heal the child resting in front of him. He had pangs of hunger and his hands were shaking, so he stopped praying briefly and ate a candy bar, chewed a stick of jerky, and washed it all down with three fingers of Jameson. He felt the glow of the whiskey spread from his belly to his limbs, and fortified by another light, he plodded on with his prayers.

  As he leaned forward in the chair praying, a random thought entered his mind and disrupted his prayer. He wasn’t sure if it was a vestige of a precept he’d learned years ago or a novel insight which had insinuated itself into his consciousness. In any case, he realized for the fi
rst time that Naomi’s illness might be a manifestation of a troubled marriage. Theo had hinted at problems the day they met in the coffee shop. He wasn’t sure, but he decided that rather than praying for Naomi alone, he might better serve her by praying for Theo as well. And their marriage. He began to diligently pray for emotional healing of both man and wife; he prayed that any iniquities which were troubling them and their marriage would be forgiven; he prayed for each spouse to forgive the other for any real or imagined failing; and then prayed relentlessly for their relationship to be healed, along with Naomi’s body, if that relationship indeed needed healing. Once he added Theo and their marriage to his prayer vigil, he felt as if an unacknowledged nettle that had been irritating the wounds on his skin was lifted off his back, and he continued praying with renewed vigor and purpose.

  According to the clock in Theo’s parlor, twenty-four hours passed and then thirty-six. Theo was nearly overwhelmed by the anxiety felt by a man when there were matters of great consequence afoot affecting his life and all he can do is sit idly by and let matters run their course. He was so agitated by his inactivity he couldn’t eat or sleep, although he’d dozed briefly on the sofa in the parlor when nervous exhaustion overtook him. More than once, as he waited, he started to chew the fingernails on his left hand, but he stopped, offering his minor demonstration of willpower as penance for his failures as a husband and as minister of the Lord. Under the stress of sleeplessness and plummeting blood sugar, his mood swung back and forth between a feeling of self-satisfaction that he’d risked everything—his education, his reputation, his position, his sense of moral superiority—to save his wife, to abject self-loathing for relying on another man to stand in his stead.

  Once, when his anxiety nearly caused him to vomit, he crept on his hands and knees to the bedroom door and strained to hear Father Tom’s prayers and supplications. He couldn’t make out the words, but he heard the priest’s voice as it rose and fell in a hypnotic rhythm, and reassured, his nausea subsided, and he stood up and walked quietly back to his chair in the parlor to read his Bible. However, as soon as he sat down, he was immediately embarrassed by his comparative fecklessness, and he got down on his knees in the middle of the room and recited aloud a Lutheran prayer for healing:

  “Dear heavenly Father, you intend her body to be a temple of Thy Holy Spirit. May it be Your gracious will that she enjoy Your healing power, that she may seek You, serve You, enjoy You and depend on You, through the physical life You have given her and shared with her, in Jesus Christ, my Lord. Amen.”

  The words were no sooner said when he realized the reedy timbre of his little man’s voice offering an insincere, canned prayer was worse than not praying at all. He was on the floor contemplating his weakness as a man when he was startled by a loud thud. A minute later, he heard Naomi calling him from their room: “Theo! Theo, come here, I need you!”

  Theo scrambled to his feet, ran to the bedroom door, took the door key from his pocket, and let himself into the room. He nearly gagged from the staggering stench of excrement and raw body odor. Naomi was out of bed standing over Father Tom, who lay motionless on the floor. She held one of his arms in her hands. “He fell out of the chair,” she said. “Help me get him up.”

  Theo got down on the floor next to Father Tom and felt his neck for a pulse and found it to be weak and slow. He called his name, but Tom didn’t respond. For a brief moment he thought the priest was dying and in his anguish and confusion, thought little of Naomi, of her being out of bed standing next to the priest, the back of her nightgown streaked with runny shit.

  “I need to call an ambulance,” Theo said.

  “Wait,” Naomi said. “I think he just passed out.”

  She walked into the bathroom, soaked a washcloth in cold water, and kneeled on the floor next to Father Tom, wiping his forehead and temples with the cloth. Awash in a rich damask fragrance emitted by Mister Lincoln roses, the priest opened his eyes, and seeing Naomi leaning over him, smiled, thinking her his mother and that he was dead.

  “I’m calling an ambulance,” said Theo. “Naomi, get back in bed.”

  “I think this man is a priest,” Naomi said blankly. “Why is there a priest here?”

  “I’ll explain it all to you after I call an ambulance.”

  “Was he praying?”

  Theo didn’t respond.

  “Was this priest praying for me, Theo?”

  Theo couldn’t respond. Naomi’s comportment both elated and dumbfounded him. And he had presence of mind enough to understand an admission of Tom’s purpose would be an admission that he’d abdicated his duties both as a husband and a pastor and would distance himself even further from Naomi. But it really didn’t matter now. He could only stare awkwardly at Naomi, who was silently staring at Tom lying on the floor. She finally said, “I understand.”

  “No, Theo, don’t call an ambulance,” Father Tom said weakly from the floor. He propped himself up on one elbow. “I don’t need an ambulance. Just get me into the chair.”

  Theo struggled to lift Father Tom, so Naomi grabbed an arm and together they lifted him into the side chair. Father Tom looked up at Naomi standing over him, hands on her hips, her gown soiled and stinking. At that moment, Tom thought she still was perfect. But he felt nothing for her but hope.

  “Oh, my, how embarrassing,” she said when the stench informed her of the soiled condition of her night clothes. “I need to get cleaned up. I’m so embarrassed you saw me like this.”

  Naomi hurried into the bathroom and closed the door. Father Tom heard the water from the shower. He realized his own body stunk from sweat and whiskey. He looked around the room at the mess he’d made. The half empty bottle of Jameson’s sat in a puddle on the dresser top; there were shards of beef jerky strewn around the room, along with discarded water bottles and candy wrappers. His soutane hung on the chair back. His T-shirt was yellow with sweat, and while Naomi was in the shower, he put on the clean T-shirt, donned the soutane and inserted his collar tab. He looked in the mirror and saw that he needed to comb his hair, which he tried to do with little effect, and he also needed a shave.

  “I need to go home,” he said to Theo as he packed his books and icons in his grip. “It’s finished.”

  When Theo arrived back at the parsonage after driving Father Tom to the rectory, Naomi was back in her bed, showered and fresh and wearing clean night clothes. He heard the rhythmic whirl of the washing machine in the laundry room. He looked around the bedroom and saw that she had straightened it: the trash was gone, the furniture tops wiped clean, and the bottle of Jameson’s was capped and sitting on the dresser. Without opening her eyes, she told him she was tired and needed to rest, so he left and went to the parlor to pray and contemplate what he’d been a party to.

  Theo gave Naomi’s improved condition short shrift. He assumed her flurry of activity—the cleaning up the bedroom, showering, dressing, doing the laundry, not to mention her ministrations to Father Tom as he lay on the floor—was nothing more than an example of the paradoxical effect of stress on a weakened body. Her display of vigor likely resulted from being startled out of her lethargy by the great clomp of the priest falling down on her floor. He assumed, now that she was back in bed, she’d slip back into her torpor until the angels called for her.

  Oddly, he was more worried about Father Tom’s well-being. Once he’d gotten him back to St. Michael, it took all his strength to help him up the rectory stairs to his bed, and as soon as he fell on the bed, he began to snore loudly and irregularly. Theo had removed the priest’s shoes and collar tab and loosened the buttons on his soutane. He wanted to sit with him for a while, but Naomi was home alone, and he’d already bailed on his husbandly responsibilities too readily by driving Father Tom to the rectory, so he went home to be with his wife.

  As Naomi slept, Theo spent his time scouring his memory for scripture passages relevant to the emotional upheaval in his life
. His wife was still going to die, he knew, and through his selfishness, he likely damaged the health of the only friend he’d ever had. Although his memory was impaired by his pothered emotions, he still knew there was nothing in the Bible applicable to the mess he’d caused. Nevertheless, he combed through the Bible and Luther’s Small Catechism and pondered the events that led up to his finding Father Tom collapsed on the bedroom floor with Naomi standing over him, soiled and stinking.

  He looked up from the texts as if he’d had a revelatory thought. The thought occurred along with the image of the sweaty priest sprawled on the bedroom floor with his wife tugging mightily on one arm to move him. It was at that moment he considered for the first time the possibility that Naomi might be healed, and with that epiphany, he felt a presence in the parlor, looked up from his Bible, and saw her standing near the doorway. She was hungry, she said, and was going to fix a bite to eat. She wanted to know if he would like to join her. When he told her she should go back to bed, and he would make her something to eat, she just giggled and said that was nonsense; she was perfectly capable of making a sandwich. She laughed again and walked out of the parlor.

  Theo got up from his chair and followed her into the kitchen. He was weak from hunger but had no appetite, so he flopped down in a kitchen chair and watched her going through the wonderfully mundane motions of taking two slices of bread from the loaf, rummaging through the refrigerator for cold-cuts, mustard, and pickles, and placing her plate on the kitchen table across from him. She sat down and ate. Although he’d seen her eat a sandwich countless times, he was now fascinated by her ritual: first, she cut the sandwich in half, cross-corner; she took one half and nibbled evenly from each corner. He realized it was the manner in which she always ate a sandwich, an everyday act he’d never really appreciated before. He wondered if she knew she was slowly destroying the hypotenuse of the triangle eating it that way, and then he silently cursed his own erudition, and cursed his other niggling traits that took the joy out of so many simple acts of their married life.