The Only Good Priest

by Mark Richard Zubro

  In the city at Scott’s penthouse we found a message on his machine from his parents. His relationship with them is tricky. His status as the winningest pitcher in baseball for the past ten years and the highest paid player in the game is a source of intense pride for them. As he won more games, their standing in Waskalosa, Alabama, soared from that of backwoods dirt-poor farmers to a reflected national celebrity. Plus Scott gave them a new home and enough money to enjoy a comfortable retirement. After he came out to them, their back-country born-again Baptist roots kept them from seeing or talking to him for months. The rest of his family, especially Scott’s favorite sister, had worked on them to change. Despite their initial rejection and hurt, he’d continued to send them a monthly check, and they’d continued to cash it. Starting the Paris negotiations to end the Vietnam War was easy compared to what he went through before their visit. They insisted on staying in a hotel. Scott’s got enough room at his place to house the entire population of Waskalosa.

  I’d told him if my being out of the way would help, I would understand. That got me an icy no. He’s never mentioned it, but I think the positive reception we get from my parents, brothers, sister, nephews, and nieces adds to his sense of frustration when dealing with his parents.

  His parents’ message said that because of all the recent airline accidents, perhaps they should wait a few weeks, then take the train. Scott called them immediately. How he can remain so calm while talking to them is beyond me. His deep voice rumbled assurances to Waskalosa for several minutes before he hung up.

  He came and sat next to me on the couch overlooking the view of the Loop.

  “We could go to Alabama,” I suggested.

  “Nope. Here,” he said. “My territory. My lover. They’ve had time to get used to the idea of us. I’d also like them to meet your family.”

  “If you can get yours to agree, I’m sure my mom and dad would cooperate.” He nodded thoughtfully. We changed and went down to his second-floor gym. We used the machines and weights for an hour.

  At four we hurried to meet Monica Verlaine and Neil at the Gay Tribune office. Neil appeared in a well-tailored navy blue business suit. Monica wore a rust-colored velvet pant suit with a wide back belt and a scarf that draped from shoulder to waist, wide at the top, narrow at the bottom, colored a red, orange, yellow, and rust paisley.

  I brought them up to date about Jerry, Clarence, and the chancery. I mentioned the possibility of the Lesbians for Freedom and Dignity kidnapping Jerry.

  “Priscilla was her usual self today at work,” Monica said. “She fought with two advertisers, screamed at a receptionist, and balanced the books.” She gave a grim smile. “I don’t know enough about that group to know if they’d do kidnapping or not, or in this case why. I can’t see a benefit for them.”

  Neil said, “They don’t work by reason. Who knows why? I think the real obstacle is their inability to make decisions and act on them. Priscilla can organize books, figures, an office, but she can’t organize people. A lot of people resent her. It was a mistake to elect her head of Faith. Her group is too bumbling to get to the suburbs, take the kid, and hide him successfully.”

  Scott said, “According to what you and the cop said, they have done some successful violence.”

  “Mickey Mouse shit,” Neil said, dismissing their past activities.

  I said, “They could have hurt Jerry.”

  “Not deliberately,” Monica said.

  “Accidentally or any other way, they better not,” Scott said.

  We left the newspaper and drove to the cathedral rectory, where we had our appointment with Clarence’s mystery man from Sunday. Many of the priests who worked in the chancery lived at the cathedral rectory only a few blocks away. We parked on State Street and walked up the wide stone steps to the front door.

  A young priest opened the door and ushered us into a first-floor hall that had a black-and-white checkered tile floor, down the center of which ran a mahogany-colored rug. We went up a formal staircase to the second floor, where the decor changed. This was all quiet elegance in a gay Gothic sort of way. Fifties religious articles filled small tables at regular intervals down the hall. We stepped on plush deep-blue carpeting. Various cardinals, bishops, and archbishops from Chicago’s past peered across at one another from portraits along the length of the hall that the young man led us down. We passed a room painted outrageously green.

  The priest walked with his hands concealed in the long sleeves of his cassock. He had a fresh round face, all glowing red cheeks and frowning decorum. He led us to the office of the Rev. John Smith, one of Chicago’s numerous low-level auxiliary bishops. Just outside the door, our guide’s frozen look broke long enough for him to request an autograph from Scott, who signed the back of a holy card the priest produced from the depths of his cassock. “Thank you,” he whispered gratefully, then leaned closer. “I’m a big fan of yours, Mr. Carpenter.” He melted away down the hall.

  I gave a knock. A soft murmur bade us enter.

  We walked onto a blue carpet thicker and even deeper in color than in the corridor. White oak paneling covered three of the walls. The room might have been a sitting or drawing room in a nineteenth-century mansion. A set of hard-cushioned chairs and a settee were placed around a window whose heavy three-quarters-closed navy blue drapes shut out the blur of the cathedral next door. Paintings of religious shrines, properly lighted and hanging at regular distances from one another, adorned the walls. I recognized Fatima and Lourdes. One or two other chairs, best described as indoor graveyard furniture, were scattered about the room. Brass lamps on delicate side tables provided light from either side of the settee. A man in an impeccably tailored black suit and Roman collar rose to greet us from the seat at the window.

  Father John Smith had a full head of black hair, a clean-shaven face, the aforementioned perfect suit, and a Roman collar, along with the most highly polished black shoes I’d ever seen, including my time in the Marines. I guessed him to be in his mid-fifties.

  “Welcome,” he murmured. He offered and I shook a soft, damp, fish-shaped hand. He led us to the chairs opposite the settee. As we sat, he offered us tea. We declined. High tea at the cathedral rectory. Next they’d invite us to Solemn High Vespers.

  He began with consolation. “You have my deepest sympathy in the matter of your missing nephew. I pray for his immediate safe return.” He proceeded to chat about the baseball season and about teaching school and gave us minor tidbits of idle gossip about the new archbishop’s getting used to his position. Cardinal Bernardin had been elevated to Prefect of the Congregation of Religious in Rome. The new man had arrived three months before.

  Tiring of his smooth chatter, I broke in. “We’re here about Father Sebastian’s death.”

  My change of topic occurred without a murmur or hint of discomfort on his part. I explained our concern, and our knowledge of a cover-up on the part of church officials, and demanded information.

  He smiled, took a bite of cookie, a sip of tea, replaced saucer and cup on the tray, and wiped each finger individually with a monogrammed cloth napkin, which he then proceeded to fold neatly and place next to his teacup. If he touches one more thing on that tray I thought, there’ll be another death in the clergy.

  But he didn’t. He crossed one leg over the other, steepled his hands, and placed the tips under his chin. “The situation at St. Joseph’s Church is most unfortunate. We need to find the most diplomatic way to resolve all the issues involved.”

  “You’ve got a possible murder, a married priest with a baby, and a possible kidnapping by one of your priests.”

  “You have no proof for your first and last assumptions,” he said. Smith was the kind of guy who, when he was a kid, loudly dealt out insults begging for fights so he could run and tell teacher when someone finally got mad enough to beat the shit out of him. In college, his kind organized study groups to show off how much more he knew than anybody else the night before the test. He would brag about an A
paper, hoping you got an F. He was a nerd with a chip on his shoulder.

  “Why is there a cover-up?” Scott asked. “And how can you get the police to go along with it?”

  The entire output of the spring run of Vermont maple syrup was as nothing compared to the sugared tone the priest now adopted.

  “We don’t expect outsiders to understand the workings of Holy Mother Church,” he said. “History has proven we know what is best. You speak of matters you can’t possibly fathom. We need to leave these complicated matters in the hands of those of us who are used to dealing with such issues.”

  “You mean lots of priests die every year whose deaths you have to cover up?” Scott asked.

  “I refer, of course, to the level of complexity rather than specific issues,” Father Smith replied.

  “What happens to Father Clarence?” I asked.

  “After a decent interval he’ll be transferred to a quiet parish.”

  “And the woman?” I asked.

  “We have ways of dealing with such issues that I’m not at liberty to discuss. Suffice it to say that most of the women in earlier cases have found it advantageous not to make a public scandal.” He harrumphed. “I’m sure you’re not naive enough to think that Father Clarence is unique.”

  “I thought the kid might be a little unusual,” I said.

  “A trifle,” he conceded, “but well within the ability of this diocese to handle.”

  “Like you cover up for priests who molest kids,” Scott said.

  “You raise an unfortunate issue. Yes, we have priests with faults. Some are alcoholics, a few are thieves. Jealousy, ambition: we are not exempt from human vices. You judge us harshly?”

  “You bet your ass I do. You’re in the do-good business. You set yourselves up as better,” Scott said.

  “Some people might direct the same kind of comment towards you as a baseball player and gay man. I make no judgment. In the church we try our best. Some fail. Most are good priests doing excellent work in thousands of quiet ways for good and decent people.”

  I said, “Father Clarence told us about the cover-up.”

  Another sugary smile appeared. “Please, gentlemen. He’s a frightened man with his world crumbling around him. It’s unfortunate your nephew misunderstood some garbled words.”

  I began a protest, but he held up a hand to forestall me.

  “Spare me. You’re intelligent men. You’ve told some of your suspicions to the police.” It was a statement, not a question, but I nodded anyway. “Well, they haven’t been here,” he continued. “If they choose to give no credence to a twelve-year-old, who am I to insist to the contrary?”

  “You pompous son of a bitch,” I said.

  He chuckled. “That’s been said to me since first grade. I find it a natural ability that is essential in my job as diocesan trouble shooter.” He paused, rubbed a hand thoughtfully along his jaw, then resumed. “I have a bit of advice for you gentlemen. Don’t you think it better for your reputations, and because of the nature of your relationship, to avoid the possible publicity and inherent dangers of this kind of meddling?”

  I smiled and Scott laughed out loud. My lover said, “I guess you think you’re making a threat. We aren’t impressed. The truth’s coming out with or without your help.”

  In the middle of the silent elegance of the room, Smith calmly raised an eyebrow. “Is there anything else I can do for you gentlemen?”

  On the street I said to Scott, “I feel like I’ve just been raped by the entire Chicago Bears football team at high noon in the center of Daley Plaza, and no one’s going to do anything about it.”

  “You know,” Scott said. “Change that black suit and collar to a button-down shirt and gray sweater, and he could be the guy the bartender at Roscoe’s described who met Sebastian on Sundays.”

  Scott was right. I thought of going back and asking, but assumed that the most we’d get was another suave denial.

  We had several hours to kill before our next appointment. I wanted to try following Priscilla again. Monica and Neil had told us she’d be at a Neighborhood Crime Watch meeting at Halsted and Aldine until ten.

  We dined at My Brother’s Place in its usual quiet elegance. We don’t get there often enough.

  We hit the streets around nine-thirty to be buffeted by a rising wind off the lake. On the car radio we heard that the National Weather Service had issued a winter storm watch for the metropolitan area. If the temperature plummeted close enough to freezing, we could be in for some nasty weather. At the moment, fifty-degree temperatures held.

  7

  Even though we’d given ourselves extra time, we almost missed Priscilla. We couldn’t find a parking space anywhere near the Beat Representative Office of the Twenty-third District. In Chicago each police district has a Beat Representative program. It’s sort of like a community relations office with overtones of ombudsperson thrown in. As opposed to the bad old days of Chicago police riots, nowadays the department is more conscious of the necessity of positive dealings with the non-crime-committing sector of the public.

  We wound up having to park south of Belmont and had to hurry back through the gathering wind.

  Our plan of attack was simple: Follow Priscilla. All the church leads seemed such dead ends I wanted to chance chasing her despite any risks, and as small as the possibility was that it would lead to the solution of Father Sebastian’s death. Since last night’s fiasco, we wanted to be sure she hadn’t taken precautions against our following her. Certainly she’d be cautious, might even have someone follow her to be extra safe. If a shadow protector existed tonight, even if we lost Priscilla, we could follow that other person to a hiding or meeting place.

  Through the plate-glass windows we saw the group members standing in small clusters, pulling on winter garments. We hid in the shadows up Aldyne. We’d approached down the cross alley from Melrose and met no one. Facing due east, we felt the force of a rising wind almost directly in our faces.

  Priscilla stood at the door in what looked like amiable conversation with a uniformed officer. Moments later she finished pulling on her gloves and strode out the door. She turned north on Halsted. We waited.

  A minute passed. Scott whispered, “We’ll lose her if there’s no protector and we don’t follow soon.”

  Fortunately, none of the others had walked north. A few waited at the bus stop across the street. Others had scattered in different directions. I began to move forward but caught myself at the last second. A well-muffled figure stepped from the shadows on the other side of Halsted. The layers of heavy winter clothes prevented identifying it as male or female. I saw a short person in jeans with glasses under a furry hat who turned north also.

  “Is that the one?” Scott asked.

  I shrugged. We were just starting out, and already our plan had serious flaws. “We’ve got to try it,” I said.

  Following turned out to be surprisingly easy. The figure peered carefully from side to side and forward into every shadow but, fully confident in the role of protector, never looked back. After a few moments of following, I felt much better. We caught occasional glimpses of Priscilla a block and a half ahead. Up Halsted we went, past Addison, with a darkened Cubs park a few blocks west, glanced in the windows of the Twenty-third District police station, beyond a few gay bars and the bus turnaround to where Halsted ends at Grace. There our little parade continued up Broadway all the way to Irving Park.

  With no hesitation we followed the westward turn down Irving Park. With the wind now at our backs, walking became far more comfortable. At any time Priscilla could suddenly have taken a car, hailed a taxi, or been joined by a friend, any of a thousand possibilities. Fortunately, she walked on. I was determined to keep following until we got whatever information we could get. I knew we didn’t have any factual evidence, but Priscilla was right up there with Father Clarence at the top of my kidnappers list.

  When we got to Graceland Cemetery, following became more difficult. The south
side of Irving Park Road has a chain link fence and no possibility of concealment. The north side of the street has a brick wall with extremely limited hiding places. We found one spot where the wall jutted out and waited. We saw the protector cross Clark Street. We hurried forward, still staying on the opposite side of the street. The figure passed the Burger King and post office and kept going.

  On the right up ahead loomed the mass of Lake View High School. Across from it on the block between Greenview and Ashland stood a structure that surpassed the high school in immensity.

  At the corner of Greenview and Irving Park, the protector gave several last searching glances around. From our hiding place a half block away, we could see clearly. On the last few blocks he or she had been much less careful. After a last look back, the person scuttled down Greenview. We hurried forward.

  The structure was a huge old church-school complex, all interconnected. It took up more than two thirds of the block. We were in time to see the protector slip through the hedge surrounding the complex.

  For a moment an indoor light silhouetted him or her in a recessed opening in the building.

  Carefully, in case they’d set up observers, we explored the outer perimeter of the structure. It looked to be a church school from the old days when religion was the center of community life. I’d been to enough meetings of gay activist committees in such structures to make a fair guess at the interior from the placement of the windows. The front half consisted of church on the top floor, with offices on the ground floor under it. The back half, several stories taller than the vast front, looked to consist of basement and first-floor classrooms and a second and third floor auditorium, probably with a stage. I suspected the fourth floor contained a low-ceilinged gym.