by Randle, Ned;
Naomi ate and didn’t speak, her eyes scanning the room, taking in every appliance, utensil, plate, cup, condiment, canister, and knickknack as if she were inventorying the kitchen to see if everything had remained in the place it occupied before she took to her deathbed. Theo sat across from her in awkward silence and tried to think of a response to the inevitable questions as to why she’d awakened in her bed to find a Catholic priest in his trousers and T-shirt, sweaty and foul, on their bedroom floor. And why was it she now felt well enough to clean the room and do laundry and shower and dress and fix her own sandwich and eat? However, as they sat at the kitchen table, there was a sweet quietness between them. Naomi raised no questions about the events of the past couple of days, and Theo decided not to broach the subject with her as she ate. He focused on her and her alone as she relished her food and didn’t worry about how he would best explain the details of the affair if she asked.
Yet, he couldn’t stop being himself for very long. He was uncomfortable with dissimulation and felt like he needed to say something to his wife, this woman who now sat across the table from him as she had most mealtimes through the many days of their marriage, eating a sandwich, seemingly oblivious to the profound event that moved her from her deathbed to a kitchen chair, leaving her whole and hungry but incurious. His prodigious memory failed him as he searched for a snippet of scripture to put events into perspective, to segue into the less-than-believable story of her unexpected flush of good health, which he was not quite ready to believe was a healing. When he couldn’t think of something scriptural to say to her, all he could blurt out was, “I love you, Naomi,” to which she replied through a mouthful of food, “I know, Theo. I know.”
Chapter Twenty
Across town, Father Tom slept. He later awoke to pounding on the rectory door. He looked at his alarm clock and realized he’d been in bed for almost twenty-four hours. He crawled out of bed and put on his bathrobe and went downstairs. He looked out the front window before he answered the door. Monsignor Manring, the Coadjutor Bishop for the Diocese, was standing on his stoop. Tom knew Manring to be a shameless toady, a man perversely titillated by delivering distasteful messages from the bishop. Father Tom opened the door, and Manring greeted him with a quick nod of his head. The coadjutor did not deign to step inside the rectory, and in his characteristic brusque manner he announced from the stoop that he was at St. Michael to summon Father Tom to a meeting with the bishop at the cathedral and provided no details, save for the day and time.
The meeting between Father Tom and the bishop was to be held in about a week. As he had promised himself, and his mother, in the intervening days, he rid his mind of thoughts of Naomi. He didn’t inquire as to Naomi’s health; he didn’t drive by St. Paul’s; he didn’t whisper another silent prayer for her. He didn’t need to; his soul informed him of the certainty of her recovery, and he was content.
For the next week, he focused on his duties as pastor of St. Michael. There indeed had been a temporary priest when he was gone, a native of Kenya who, he learned from his parishioners, had a pronounced accent which he aggravated by speaking very rapidly, rendering him doubly difficult to understand. Father Tom had only been gone a few days, but his old parishioners fawned over him at morning Mass, and he was happy to be back. They inquired tactfully about his absence, but he deflected their questions by merely saying “priest business.”
He found renewed enjoyment in the mundane tasks of a parish priest, more enjoyment than he’d found in years, and attributed his pleasure to the realization, because of his impending meeting with the bishop, his days of doing the work he’d loved for decades were coming to an abrupt and ignominious end.
In the evenings during that interval before his meeting with the bishop, when he didn’t have parish business to attend to, he worked in his rose garden, raking together small piles of dropped petals, and pruning the bushes for winter. He mulched the plants, pulled weeds, and generally tidied the flower bed. He sprayed his concoction on the occasional vagabond aphid or thrips. He found working around the plants satisfying, and the pleasure of the tasks was compounded by the constant thought of his mother and the lessons of husbandry she’d shared with him years ago. The pleasure also was augmented by the sweet rose scent that still was pervasive even though the growing season was coming to an end. The morning of his meeting with the bishop, as he walked to the garage, he stopped at the rose garden and grasped the stem of a late-blooming, yellow hybrid tea rose, bent down to sniff its fragrance, and as he did, petals fell to the ground. He picked them up and put them in his trouser pocket.
As he drove downtown, Father Tom assumed the meeting would be formal, yet brief, with the outcome preordained. His first assumption was confirmed when he approached the front door of the cathedral wearing simple black trousers, his black suit coat, a black cotton dress shirt, and his Roman collar, while Father Gregory, one of the bishop’s many assistants, was dressed in a formal black cassock and black skull cap as he unlocked the massive front door and allowed him in. The two priests exchanged nods but no spoken greetings. Father Gregory locked the door behind them and the two remained silent as they walked together up the main aisle, through the nave to the chancel, where the bishop was seated on his cathedra.
The bishop was wearing his violet mozetta and skullcap. His large pectoral cross was well polished and blindingly reflective in the chancel lights. On the bishop’s left stood Manring, the coadjutor, wearing an ornately embroidered chasuble over a starched, snow-white alb. The bishop’s secretary, whose name Father Tom couldn’t recall, dressed in a formal black cassock and skull cap, was seated at a small table positioned below the chancel, adjacent the nave, three steps down from where the bishop sat, prepared to record the proceedings. Looking back and forth from the bishop to the coadjutor, Father Tom thought it fortunate he had bothered to iron his trousers and shirt and insert the tab. His uncharacteristically presentable dress and Roman collar were, however, the only outward signs of respect for the bishop he could muster. But he was the bishop, after all.
At the chancel steps, Father Tom genuflected before the bishop, who, in turn, nodded his head and beckoned him to move up one step toward him. Monsignor Manring stood with a smug and self-satisfied smirk, and Father Tom felt a powerful urge to bound up the steps and punch him in the face. The old secretary, on the other hand, sat at his table with a look of sad resignation on his.
The proceedings began abruptly, with no introductory comments. In response to a backhanded wave by the bishop, his secretary began reading a list of grievances against Father Thomas Abernathy, some going back many years, none especially serious by itself. The list included the Mass he’d held for the suicide almost thirty years prior, a proscription in place when Father Tom performed the rite, but which had fallen into disfavor in the intervening years. Nevertheless, the admonition remained in the record. Other transgressions included his slovenly appearance, his lack of collegiality, and frequent backhanded slaps at the bishop in his weekly homilies. None of the grievances on the list read so far were particularly offensive, yet all of them were makeweight in a bundle.
The last and most serious accusation was his purported abandonment of St. Michael for several days without explanation. Tom silently accepted the accusation, but felt, as he was being accused, that leaving the voice message for the bishop’s secretary should, in a small measure, mitigate this transgression. However, the secretary made no mention of the message, and Tom remained silent and didn’t offer any reference to it as evidence in mitigation of the offending behavior. As he listened, Father Tom stood with his hand in his pocket and fingered the yellow rose petals he’d picked up in his garden and held his tongue.
After the grievances were read, the bishop asked Father Tom if he had anything to say in his own behalf.
“No, Your Excellency,” he responded, using a term of address he’d not used since he was a young priest. He was puzzled as to why these words popped
into his mind at this time and even more than puzzled, he was chagrined he’d used them under the circumstances.
“Come, now, Father Abernathy, you’ve never been one to mince words. If you have something to say, now is the time to say it.”
Father Tom again demurred, this time addressing his accuser only as “Bishop.”
“Do you deny you left St. Michael without explanation as to why?”
“No, Bishop, I don’t deny it.”
“Would you like to explain yourself?”
Father Tom chafed at the bishop’s tone. His anger informed him to remain quiet, however, and not to respond, lest he say something he might regret. Nevertheless, with his years of service to the church and adherence to its formalities, he was inculcated with the rules under which the hierarchy functioned and understood the relationship between a bishop and a parish priest. As much as it displeased him, he reflexively felt he owed the bishop, his superior, some explanation as to his absence from St. Michael.
“I had to attend to the sick,” he said.
“To the sick? How many sick? Was there a plague that passed through Belle City I wasn’t aware of?” the bishop asked, drawing a wry smile from the Coadjutor.
“I misspoke. I had to minister to one person who was very sick.”
“I see. You abandoned your parish to minister to one very sick person?”
“Yes.”
“What was the result of your ministrations to this very sick person?”
“She’s well now.”
“She?” he asked, raising his eyebrows in the direction of the Coadjutor, who issued a barely audible sniggle at the bishop’s implication. Again, Father Tom had the urge to bash Manring in his nasty mouth.
“Yes, a woman,” he answered.
“So let me be clear about this: you abandoned your church without explanation to minister to a woman, a very sick woman, as you described her, who now is well?”
“Yes.”
“You healed her by your ministrations?”
“I was only an instrument of God.”
“You deem yourself an instrument of God?”
“Not I.”
“Who then?”
“Her husband.”
“Who is this woman?”
“I can’t say.”
“As the bishop of this diocese and your superior, I insist you to tell me who this woman is,” the bishop said loudly, leaning forward on the cathedra.
Father Tom didn’t respond. The bishop beckoned Father Tom to move one step closer to him such that the bishop’s face was so near him Tom could see the tension and frustration in the man’s eyes and count the beads of perspiration on his upper lip. Father Tom studied the bishop’s face for a quarter minute and as he did he saw the bishop’s tension and frustration begin to dissolve away. At that point, he knew the bishop would not press him for more information. Father Tom understood that the bishop’s demeanor changed with realization he had Father Thomas Abernathy right where he wanted him, and being a talented inquisitor, the bishop knew better than to ask one more question, one which might afford his subject the opportunity to wriggle free with an exculpatory answer. They maintained their positions in awkward silence for nearly a minute longer. The bishop closed his eyes and rested his chin on his chest in what Father Tom knew to be mock contemplation.
“My preliminary decision is to remove you as pastor of St. Michael,” the bishop finally said, without looking up. “You can respond in writing to the list of grievances, if you so choose. In any event, I’ll give this matter due consideration and render a final decision. In the meantime, attend to your duties. You are dismissed.”
The bishop made a sign of the cross in Father Tom’s general direction, and Tom genuflected, turned around, walked down the long aisle escorted by Father Gregory. He exited the cathedral without a word to anyone.
On the drive back to St. Michael, Father Tom considered whether he should have addressed the bishop, in a general way, in his own defense. The bishop had complete power over him and could subject him to a spectrum of punishments from a mild rebuke to laicization. But only if he remained a parish priest. He’d always been a pragmatic parish priest, he reminded himself, and as such concluded he’d followed the proper course of action. Nothing he could have said would have dissuaded the bishop from implementing punishment. For the first time in his life, he just didn’t feel like fighting.
Father Tom didn’t like it, but he admitted to himself his soul was tired; an acedia had set in as soon as he walked into the cathedral nave and saw the bishop on his cathedra. The entire experience—the preparation, the ritual, the bishop’s reaction—had taken a toll on his spirit, as well as his body. It wasn’t that the effort had not borne fruit; it was, in truth, a vindication of faith and depth of spirit beyond all earthly powers. However, where before he would have been combative in his interview with the bishop, with a tired soul, he’d accepted his fate without a whimper. He concluded his acquiescent behavior in the face of the bishop’s charges was an appropriate reaction. He knew his purpose for becoming a priest was fulfilled, and he had nothing else left to do. He decided not to respond in writing to the list of charges. Instead, when he returned to see the bishop, he’d hand in his resignation and retire.
During his second meeting with the bishop, before the bishop could make any pronouncement, Father Tom handed him his notice of retirement, which the bishop read with thinly veiled pleasure. In response, the bishop gave him two weeks to get his affairs in order, with instructions to be out of the St. Michael rectory after 10:30 a.m. Mass two Sundays hence.
Father Tom knew he needed to make good use of his time. When he arrived in the rectory garage, the first thing he did was find his garden trowel and gloves. He went into the kitchen and picked out an appropriate piece of Tupperware. He got a roll of duct tape out of the junk drawer. He walked out to the rose garden and sat down on the dirt under the willow tree, donned his gloves, and dug up Cat’s body. He was careful with the trowel so as not to do more damage to the animal than nature had already done. He opened the handkerchief and found rigor mortis had set in. The fur was matted and patchy; there were various insects infesting the flesh. The body was beginning to putrefy and was malodorous. He secured the shroud and placed Cat’s body in the Tupperware container, closed it tightly, and wrapped several lengths of duct tape around the seal to make sure it was airtight.
Chapter Twenty-One
Although intended to be confidential, news of Father Tom’s meeting with the bishop seeped down through the levels of church hierarchy until it dripped into the receptive ears of an elderly, retired priest, one of Brian Metzger’s golf buddies. Metzger had played golf with the old priest and two other men at least once a week during fair weather ever since the course marshal grouped them together on a crowded day to speed play. The priest’s mild senility, along with his proximity to the seat of Catholic Church power, made him a favorite of the foursome when they were on the course. He was an entertaining raconteur, except when he babbled during another player’s putt, and he had an endless supply of anecdotes and gossip. And Metzger loved gossip, particularly gossip about local clergy, and he was sure the retired priest, who seemed to filter nothing he said, would share with him any aspersions on his own character and considered the old man a canary in the mineshaft of his own behavior.
In any event, during their Wednesday morning round, the old priest began talking about Father Tom’s situation as the players stood on the second tee. As always, he began his story with this prefatory, “You didn’t hear this from me,” and as always, each member of the foursome swore himself to secrecy. As he withdrew his ancient persimmon wood driver from his golf bag, the old priest asked if any in the group knew Father Tom Abernathy. The other two of the foursome, not being clergy nor even lay Catholics, remarked in a disinterested way that they only knew him to be the pastor of St. Michael, but neithe
r had formally met the man. Metzger, holding back until he heard the substance of the old priest’s gossip, admitted only that he’d met the man a few times, but didn’t know him well.
The old priest carried his ball and driver to the tee box, resulting in a maddening pause in his story as Metzger waited for him to hit. As he usually did, the old priest sliced an errant drive to the right, barely the distance of the ladies’ tee. Metzger, always the proficient golfer, teed off next, hitting a nice drive about 260 yards down the middle of the fairway. After the two other golfers hit their tee shots, they climbed into their golf carts and headed towards their balls.
The old priest always rode in the golf cart with Metzger. The other two golfers felt self-conscious riding with a priest and thought Brian, himself a clergyman, best suited to chauffeur the old cleric around the course. Once they both were in the cart and Metzger started down the cart path, he looked expectantly at the old priest, whose only comment was, “I think that’s my goddamned ball over there” as he pointed to a ball near the cart path. In his decline, the priest had become foulmouthed, even blasphemous, a condition the other golfers considered humorous and endearing in an old man of the cloth. Metzger just wanted the old priest to get on with his story about Tom Abernathy. After the old man hit an acceptable three wood, and Metzger caught up with his own ball and played it within twenty yards of the green, back in the cart, he looked over at the priest and asked, “What were you saying about Father Abernathy?”
“I mentioned Tom Abernathy?” he asked with a befuddled look on his face, and then sat quietly, the befuddled look changing to one of pensiveness, until his eyes flashed, and he said, “Yes, good man, that Father Tom. We’re gonna miss him.”
