The St. Michael Poker & Drinking Club

by Randle, Ned;

  The man’s words caught Metzger off guard. Although the old priest’s decline had markedly accelerated of late, his stories, sometimes banal, sometimes salacious, were always founded in fact, often facts few others were privy to.

  “Is Father Abernathy leaving?” asked Metzger, gently prodding the old man.

  “Yep. The bishop shitcanned him.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I don’t kid around about things like that, Brian.”

  “Why’d the bishop do that?”

  “Father Tom is a heretic, or so the bishop thinks. Bishop never cared much for him. They’ve butted heads in the past. Anyway, rumor is Tom abandoned his church to go around doing faith healings and other miracles. Guess old Tom thinks he’s Jesus Christ himself.”

  Metzger was so flummoxed by the old priest’s disclosure, he nubbed his pitching wedge and then on his second try, hit the ball over the green. He couldn’t concentrate on his golf game, and over the next sixteen holes shot the worst round of golf of his life.

  Once he was back at his church office, Metzger closed the door and sat at his desk staring out the window and tried to make sense of the story the old priest told him. He knew Tom to be a steadfast and traditional priest, not one to dabble in charismatic practices or chicanery. It just didn’t make sense that he would have abandoned his parish to engage in ontological rites. Nevertheless, if what the old priest said was true, as most of his scuttlebutt usually proved to be, he was faced with daunting questions as to whether he should somehow involve himself in Catholic Church politics and, if he got involved, what could he do on Father Tom’s behalf anyway? He knew a lot of people; a lot of influential people in town, but none near the seat of power in the Catholic Church.

  Metzger looked down at his feet and realized he’d been so distracted by the old priest’s news he’d not taken off his golf spikes when he left the country club. It was then he appreciated the depth of feeling he had for Father Tom, and a sense of awe overwhelmed him. If what the old priest professed was true and Tom had dabbled in faith healing, it was an act of profound transcendence which called into question his own dedication to the cloth. As he looked down again at his big feet and the wide hands resting on his legs, he admitted what he’d before been able to fight shy of: after so many years as a minister, he now cared more about improving his golf game than improving his pastoral care to his congregants. And when he was grinding himself to dust, as he now was, sitting in his office, awkward in golf attire, contemplating the possible end to his friend’s long career as a parish priest, he broadly chastised himself for failing to find most matters in life more important than his handicap.

  The longer he sat at his desk considering the situation, the more conflicted he became. Father Tom’s removal from St. Michael was a matter of great delicacy, but he couldn’t make up his mind whether he should act, and if so, how to act. He felt as if his large body was now a liability, hindering not only movement of his limbs but delicate workings of his mind. He was tormented by indecision, a personality flaw he previously considered aggravating in others but recently claimed as his own.

  He’d thought it a godsend when the assistant minister was assigned to his church, at least at first. Under the auspices of on-the-job training, he allowed her to handle all the awkward and painful and time-consuming situations that called for warmth and compassion, such as counseling the bereaved, visiting the terminally ill, or meeting with couples whose marriages were shattered beyond repair. She, unlike he, was warm and compassionate. She had the patience such situations called for, where he could be graceless in his haste and artless in his sincerity. But he soon learned her personality made her vulnerable, and her training put them in close proximity, and that combination was problematic for them both. He erred in a way he’d never erred before, and as a result, questioned every decision he made, large or small, and lost all sense of self-assuredness and right.

  In regard to Father Tom’s problem, Metzger well understood the dispassionate aspects of church politics, whatever the denomination, where decisions were coldly made to move or dismiss pastors for myriad reasons unrelated to the pastor’s ability to lead his flock. In his own church, however, there was not a single autocrat like the local Catholic bishop. The Methodist Church employed a Council of Bishops, and a decision such as the one to shitcan Father Tom would be based on a consensus of bishops. Moreover, his church employed a Judicial Council made up of clergy and lay persons that reviewed cases referred by the Council of Bishops. In the case of a pastor’s removal, there were several levels of oversight and appeal, and no pastor was subject to the capricious actions of one person.

  But that was how his church operated and not Tom’s. He’d heard comments from his old golfing pal that the bishop was a difficult man, highly educated but vain and temperamental, much taken with the power and ceremony of his office. However, even such a man wouldn’t make an impulsive decision to remove a popular parish priest, Metzger reasoned. One thing that Metzger was able to decide is that there had to be reasons beyond his ken on which the bishop based his decision to remove Father Tom from St. Michael.

  Hence, Metzger was troubled by a specific aspect of the old priest’s gossip. Sitting in his office he recalled it word for word: “He abandoned his church to go around doing healings and other miracles.” As he pondered the import of the comment, he wracked his brain trying to figure out if Father Tom might have engaged in some sort of conventional intervention or rite which a distraught individual may have confused with a miracle or healing. Every congregation and parish had its sick, and visiting and praying with the sick were ordinary pastoral duties. Perhaps a grateful but overwrought parishioner made bold assertions about Tom’s powers.

  On the other hand, if there was a scintilla of truth in the old priest’s accusation, Father Tom’s activities would have been extraordinary. He knew from his many years at First United Methodist Church that Belle City was like any small city. It countenanced its fair share of chin wagging. And miracles were rare. Had Father Tom actually been involved in faith healing, it had to have been a clandestine affair and the object of his ministrations had to be a person of unquestioned rectitude whom the priest could trust to not disclose his involvement.

  At a loss for ideas and feeling impotent in the face of his friend’s pending dismissal from his parish, Metzger decided to call Theo Swindberg and Billy Crump to see if they had any thoughts on how to intervene on Tom’s behalf. He was just about to dial Theo’s number when he put down the phone. He remembered Theo’s wife Naomi was very ill, perhaps on her deathbed, and he didn’t want to disturb them with Tom’s problem. However, the recollection of her grave situation gave him pause. Yes, Theo’s wife has been very ill. And who would demonstrate greater rectitude under the circumstances than a prissy little Lutheran and his wife? At that moment, he allowed himself to consider the accusations made against Father Tom as true. And if so, they very likely could involve Naomi Swindberg. As fantastic as the thought was for a number of reasons, it made sense to him. He picked up the telephone and called Billy Crump.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  In response to the doorbell, Theo opened the parsonage door to find Brian Metzger and Billy Crump standing on his front porch. “We need to talk to you,” said Metzger.

  Theo looked up and down the street and then invited the men into his parlor. Once they were settled and declined his offer of a cup of coffee, Theo asked them the purpose of their visit, abruptly and nervously, like an anxious man who delved into the formality of asking questions while worried about the import of the answers he might receive.

  “Father Tom,” answered Metzger

  “What about Father Tom?”

  “He’s been called up before the bishop,” said Crump. “It’s serious.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Tom Abernathy’s not the only Catholic I know in this town,” Metzger replied.

&nbs
p; “I’m sure it’s just a rumor. Maybe a little dustup blown out of proportion.”

  “The bishop said he abandoned his parish for days and dabbled in some heresy or the other,” Crump said.

  “Rubbish.”

  “The word I heard was, quote, ‘The bishop shitcanned him.’”

  “Scatological rubbish.”

  “My sources are pretty reliable.”

  “Well, if Father Tom is in some sort of pinch, I’m sure it will all work out. I’m sure the bishop is a reasonable man.”

  “Not this bishop. He’s an arrogant, preening bastard, and according to my sources, Tom and the Bishop have butted heads in the past. Now the bishop thinks he has Tom by the balls.”

  Theo raised his eyebrows at the Metzger’s last remark. “Please, Brian, Naomi is in the other room.”

  “Sorry, I’m upset.”

  “We need to pray for Tom,” Theo said.

  “We need to do more than pray, Theo,” Crump butted in. “He could lose his parish, maybe even his commission. And we think you know something about Tom’s whereabouts when he was away from his church that could help his case.”

  “Why would you think that?” asked Theo, his pale cheeks flushed and warm.

  “Lucky guess,” said Crump.

  Theo began to fidget and twitch, sweat beads formed on his forehead. He coughed nervously and started to chew the nail on his right ring finger. He finally said, “There is nothing I can tell you.”

  “Looky, here, Theo,” said Crump, “me and Brian don’t know what you know, but if you know something that’ll get Tom off the hook with the bishop, you better spill the beans.”

  “I…I can’t.”

  “Jumpin’ Jehoshaphat, Theo, the man’s life’s work is on the line!”

  The two visitors sat staring at Theo who, for his part, sat pensively in his armchair, left leg crossed over the right, his left foot waggling nervously, his right hand hovering about his mouth.

  “I took a solemn oath,” he finally blurted out. “I can’t tell you anything.”

  “I took no oath,” Naomi said as she entered the parlor, chin up, an impish glint in her eye.

  “Hush, Naomi,” said Theo. In the instant he’d heard her words, the terrible ramifications of the truth cascaded through his mind. He had a life’s work, too, and it all could come to naught. The Synod surely would remove him from his office for his dalliance with a priest from the Roman church. What would he do? What would they do? “Just hush.”

  “Don’t you hush me, Theo Swindberg. These gentlemen have a right to know their friend is a saint.”

  Theo placed both feet on the floor and rested his elbows on his knees, head in hands, looking blankly at the floor as Naomi matter-of-factly told the story of how she was dying, that she was filled with cancer, that she had scans that showed all her internal organs being eaten away by the cancer, and how Father Tom came and prayed over her, how he suffered for her, how his faith healed her. And how she knows him to be a saint.

  “Father Tom was right here, where God wanted him to be,” she added. “And you can tell that bishop he can go straight to hell.”

  “Naomi!”

  “Oh, Theo, you silly little man,” she said, and laughed a sardonic little laugh. “Did you offer our guests some coffee?”

  Metzger and Crump sat dumbfounded as they watched Naomi walk out of the room. She was thin, they noticed, but graceful and composed, and her skin was flush with a healthy pink color. After she left the room, Theo slumped back in his chair, closed his eyes, sighed a long, relieved sigh, calm and relaxed.

  “It’s true,” he finally said. “Everything she said is true.”

  “Was there some mistake?” asked Crump. “I mean, could the doctors have been wrong from the get-go?”

  “No,” said Theo without opening his eyes. “I saw the original scans myself. They pointed out all the dark blotches. Told me she had only a short time to live.”

  “And now?”

  “Her scans yesterday were as clear as Christ’s conscience.”

  “It’s a miracle for sure,” said Crump. “Praise be to God!”

  The three men sat silently contemplating the profundity of what they were privy to. “What do we do with this information?” Metzger finally asked,

  “Nothing,” Theo answered. “Nothing. I promised Tom.”

  “Looky here, now, Theo. I’m not one to have a man break a solemn oath, but folks need to know about this. That bishop needs to know about this. Like your wife said, she never took no oath. Me and Brian never took an oath—”

  “Billy, please,” Theo said. “Please.”

  “Well, I don’t know about you,” Crump said to Metzger, “but I’m gonna go home and pray on this. Pray hard. And hope the Good Lord guides my footsteps. Somebody has to do something about this situation. Yes, sir. Gonna ask Jesus what to do about this.”

  “And I’m sure he’ll tell you, Billy. You’re an instrument of God,” Theo said in a voice struggling under the weight of sarcasm. “A bona fide instrument of God.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After he’d finished packing the few personal belongings he had at the rectory, to take his mind off his trouble with the bishop and the end of his career as a priest, Father Tom decided to attend the tent revival Billy Crump was holding on the grounds of the Grand Hope Nondenominational Family Church. What the hell? He was practically a layman, free to consume his spiritual sustenance anywhere he wished. Besides, he’d only heard about such spectacles and wanted to see one for himself. He found a passably clean sport shirt and khakis, and remembering the bishop’s comments about his appearance, skimmed them with an iron to flatten out most of the wrinkles. He walked out of the rectory door and sniffed the rose garden, thinking it as fragrant and sweet as he’d ever smelled it for so late in the year. Out of habit, he made the sign of the cross over Cat’s empty grave, walked to the garage, and climbed into his automobile.

  Father Tom arrived late to Billy’s Church and couldn’t find a place to park his car. The parking lot was full, and the ushers had directed drivers to park on the grass in the church yard, but the church yard was also packed with cars, requiring the ushers to send him in search of street parking several blocks away. There were cars parked up and down the street as far as he could see, so Tom drove nearly a quarter mile away before he found a spot. He walked quickly in the direction of the church amid clumps of others who also were hurrying to the tent revival. Most were strangers to him, except for a handsome family consisting of a young father, a mother and two cute little kids, a family who regularly attended 10:30 a.m. Mass at St. Michael, but who were at that moment so intent on their walk and keeping the kids out of the traffic, they didn’t recognize him.

  Tom eyed up the tent as he neared it. It was an impressive structure; but rather than a canvas tent, as he expected, it was a blue and white striped canopy held up by an array of spaced-apart aluminum poles and secured in place by ratchet straps extending between the tops of the poles and tent stakes in the ground. Tom estimated the canopy to be about sixty feet long and about forty feet wide. There was portable picket fencing extending around an end and both sides, leaving one end open so the attendees could be herded under the canopy. Tom stood in line and made his way in and noticed strategically placed five-gallon plastic buckets adjacent the entryway, already seeded with loose cash.

  There were rows of rented folding chairs neatly aligned under the canopy, the rows divided in half by a center aisle. Tom figured there were a couple hundred folks in the seats, leaving only a few open singles about the array. The vinyl canopy was holding in the body heat, and despite the open sides, the scant breeze did little to cool the air, and he sweated through his shirt as he wandered around looking for a vacant chair. He nearly walked out before he found one in the middle of the last row, near the entrance.

  At the f
ront end of the aisle was a riser occupied by an odd assortment of musicians playing an odd assortment of instruments, including a banjo, a bass guitar, a zither, an electric keyboard and a snare drum. Immingled with the musicians were several singers, both young and fresh-faced boys and girls and some old codgers and crones. The musical act started the revival by warming up the crowd with old-time gospel music. Tom recognized the first few songs, although he’d not heard them since he was a kid. He found the banjo picker, who reminded him a bit of Earl Scruggs, most entertaining, particularly during his solo in “Are You Washed in the Blood?” A young girl, perhaps ten or twelve years old, had an amazing voice, untrained but pitch-perfect as she belted out “Jesus Loves Me” with abandon.

  When the last tune was winding down, Tom could hear murmuring from the front rows. He craned his neck to see Billy Crump off to one side of the stage, pacing nervously until the musicians laid down their instruments, locked arms with the singers, and bowed to the crowd. In an instant, Billy bounded onto the stage and stood with his arms spread wide, a great smile on his face, soaking up the raucous adulation of the people.

  “Praise the Lord!” he shouted over the cheers and applause. “Looky here, looky here, looky here! Praise Jesus! What a crowd! Am I blessed or what?”

  “Yes!” the audience shouted. “Blessed!”

  “Praise and hallelujah!” he shouted back.

  Tom focused on Billy as he moved across the stage, floppy old Bible in his left hand, waving with his right, pointing to spectators, offering random words of recognition such as, “Good to see you brother.” “Howdy do, sister.” “Good to see you, friend.” He had a way about him in front of a crowd, Tom had to admit. And he looked good. The short hair on his great round head was neatly trimmed; he was wearing charcoal gray slacks and a wine-colored sports jacket over a snow-white mock turtleneck. Tom looked him over head to toe, trying to figure out what was different about his poker club buddy, other than his clothes, until he settled on his feet. Billy was wearing steel gray western boots with massive heels that made him stand at least two inches taller than his normal height. Elevated as he was, with his short legs and outsized head, he had the comical look of a malformed homunculus, and Tom could not help but chuckle out loud.