The Penitent Priest

Two

Two

Monday is a parish priest’s traditional day off. Since arriving at Saint Clare’s I had not had the time to learn about the parish or get my office organized. There were files on the desk, put there by Glenda I assumed, that I needed to go through. After my first cup of coffee and morning prayer, I sat down at the desk and began to familiarize myself with the parish. I knew I would have a couple of hours of silence because Glenda was out.

After thirty minutes, my eyes began to glaze over. I’ve never had much of a head for numbers, and trying to make sense of Saint Clare’s financial statements was taxing my limited powers to the utmost. I couldn’t tell if the parish was running a deficit, had a surplus, or was breaking even. From what I knew of other parishes around the country, the truth was probably somewhere in the middle.

I plowed ahead with another folder labeled baptisms and confirmations. While Saint Clare’s did not have a lot of money, it was rich with people. Since January, twenty babies had been baptized into the Church; also, four adults entered the Church the previous Easter and five more were preparing to join the next. The folder on religious education also showed good, healthy numbers. Whatever was going on in the parish, it was good.

The doorbell rang. I didn’t get up at first, because I thought Glenda would get it. By the third ring, more insistent this time, I remembered she was still out. I went to open the door.

On the front stoop was the man I saw Glenda talking with the previous day.

He seemed surprised to see me. “Good morning,” I said.

He didn’t speak at first. He looked like he was in a daze. I couldn’t tell if he was high or just confused.

I tried again. “Can I help you?”

“Huh?—Oh, yeah, sorry Father,” he finally said. “Is, ah, is—is Glenda here?”

“No, she’s out right now. She should be back soon, Would you like to come in?” I opened the door wider so he could come in.

“No, no, no, that’s—that’s okay, Father. I’ll, ah, I’ll just call her later—”

“—Is there something I can help you with?”

“You?” He seemed shocked by the question.

“It is kind of what I’m supposed to do, help people. Comes with the collar.” I smiled, hoping the joke would put him at ease.

It didn’t work. “No, no, I’ll just get Glenda later. Sorry to bother you.” He turned and walked off, looking back over his shoulder at me.

“What’s your name so I can tell her you stopped by?” I called after him. He didn’t answer me. I stood looking after him.

I went back to my desk and picked up where I left off. I had only been back at work for a half an hour or so when the doorbell rang again. I looked up from my papers to the general direction the sound was coming from.

“Some day off,” I said.

This time, it was a woman at the door, one I recognized.

“Hello, Chloe,” I smiled.

Chloe Archman smiled. It was the smile of a person who had the choice of either laughter or tears, and chose laughter only because it wasn’t socially awkward.

“Hi Tom—Father Tom,” she said.

“Tom’s fine, Chloe. Please, come in.” We hugged, and I showed her into the small sitting room opposite my office. She sat on the edge of the couch, hands folded in her lap. I sat opposite her in an ugly seventies-brown armchair. A spring poked me in the back.

“Sorry I missed you at Mass,” I said. “John told me one of the kids is sick. Are they better?”

“Oh, yes, she’s doing much better. A twenty-four hour thing. The kids are at home. We homeschool but someone comes in to watch them a couple of mornings a week. I teach one class per semester at the college.”

“So you’re back teaching. English lit, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” She paused. “So, how have you been?”

“Fine, fine.”

“Good, good.”

There were a few moments of silence. We just looked at each other.

“Can I get you something to drink? Water, coffee?”

“No I’m fine.” She sighed. “Sorry, this is harder than I thought it would be.”

“What is?”

“Coming here. Seeing you—my best friend’s husband—for the first time in ten years. You know, I thought about what I’d say when I finally saw you—oh, I had some choice words in mind for you. Leaving without saying good-bye. Not coming back one day in ten years. Not a card, not an email, not so much as a text. The only thing we ever heard was from Anna—we couldn’t believe it when she told us—so at least we knew you weren’t dead. I was so, so angry, with so many things to say. But I can’t say any of it now because you—”she gestured with both arms “—are now a priest.”

I nodded.

“Worse, you’re my priest,” she continued. “So is it a grave sin to be angry at a priest?”

“No graver than being angry at anyone else.”

“Oh, okay, well—I’m angry at you, Tom. Really, really angry. You left Anna, you left John, you left me. You were the only connection I still had to my best friend. I was devastated when she was murdered. I was devastated when you left. But you know what, not nearly as devastated as John.”

“John?”

I could see tears beginning to form in her eyes.

“Oh, Tom!” She cried, and buried her face in her hands. I grabbed a nearby box of tissue and handed it to her. She took out a couple and wiped her eyes.

“Anna told me he’s had some problems.”

“Not just some problems, Tom. Oh, you don’t know, but then how could you—you weren’t here.”

“Well I’m here now. Tell me what’s going on.”

She exhaled. “After he came home from the hospital, he seemed to be doing well—I guess as well as could be expected. He was still in pain, but the physical therapy was helping and he was working hard at it. He got stronger, he was seeing a therapist to help him process what happened, he was becoming the John I knew. Well, you remember how he was.”

“I remember. After a while, he seemed like the old John.”

“He was doing so well,” Chloe said. “Then, he began to change. He became withdrawn, spending more and more time by himself. He didn’t want to see anyone or do anything. He spent all his free time either locked in his office or taking long walks by himself.” She paused and wiped her eyes as the tears began to return. Then she looked at me, rage returning to her voice.

“And, by the way, you and Joan were not much help. It seemed like everytime we wanted to do something, Joan was too busy with her new business.”

I lowered my head, knowing that what she said was true. Joan was so busy back then, trying to get her design business off the ground. But I also remembered a few times when I tried to get John out for a boys night, only to have him turn me down. I was hurt at the time, but now I realized I should have dug deeper, reached out to him more when he needed me.

I was wrestling with these thoughts while Chloe continued, now in the voice of spent, rather than active, rage. “Not long before you left, his leg began bothering him—he reinjured it somehow, he thinks when he tripped on the back stairs while taking the trash out.”

“That’s why he uses the cane,” I said.

Chloe nodded. “But before that,” she went on, “his mood changed. His depression got worse and he began having nightmares. He started drinking. When he reinjured his leg, he couldn’t get around without the cane. He’s been in pain ever since. He won’t do physical therapy anymore—says it's voodoo, doesn’t work, I don’t know when he decided that—just takes pain killers and drinks.” A tear snaked its way down her cheek. “But I can handle the physical pain. That doesn’t worry me as much as the other.”

“What other?”

“The moods. The depression,” she said. “He’ll be happy one minute, then screaming with rage the next.”

That didn’t sound like the John I knew. “Has he ever hurt you or the kids?”

“Oh no, no, he’s never laid a hand on us. He has the presence of mind to go scream in the garage when he’s really angry. I think he knows I’d leave if he ever did anything like that.”

“He needs to get help, Chloe,” I said. “Before he hurts someone.”

“I’m more concerned about him hurting himself. When he’s really down, he begins to talk about how he’s responsible. That it’s his fault people died. He says he’s a coward, how he should have done something to help instead of hiding, about how he betrayed them, about how the wrong people always die.”

“But that makes no sense,” I said. “He received a commendation. There’s no way any of that in Iraq was his fault.”

“I know. But he’s been carrying a big load of guilt for a long time.”

Guilt. That was something I knew about.

“Is he seeing anyone?”

“No, not anymore,” she said. “He did for a while, see both a therapist and a psychiatrist, right after he came home. It was helping.” She shrugged. “Then he stopped.”

“Why’d he do that?”

“Well, he told me he didn’t need to go anymore, but I don’t know the real reason.” She sat back and sighed. “I’m about at the end of my rope. I was wondering if maybe you could talk to him?

“I’ll try,” I said. “But I don’t know what I can do.”

“You were—are—his friend. He used to listen to you. I’ve run out of ideas. Besides, you’re a priest.”

“That doesn’t give me a magic skill. He’ll have to want to talk to me. He’ll have to want help. Do you think he does?”

She thought for a moment. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

I sighed. “Okay, Chloe. I’ll try talking to him. In the meantime, I’ll keep you and your family in my prayers.”

She smiled, a real smile this time. “Thank you, Tom. Thank you so much.”

After she left, I had settled back into my study with another folder, this time on the Knights of Columbus, when I heard the front door open. What sounded like two people came in.

“There’s no reason to bother the Father about this,” Glenda said.

“I just want to ask him if he would mind if we had one this year,” a young woman replied.

“Father Anthony has said no each year for the past five years,” Glenda continued. “It would be just too disruptive.”

“Well Father Anthony’s not here, and it will not be disruptive. We’re just talking about a small, simple production—”

“You will not talk to Father about this because—”

By this time I was standing in the doorway. The young blond woman with Glenda was one I recognized from the 10:30 a.m. service sitting with her husband and four blond children.

“Glenda,” I interrupted. They looked at me.

“Oh, Father,” Glenda said. “I was just telling Miriam that—”

“Thank you, Glenda, but why don’t you let Miriam talk. Miriam, you had something you wanted to ask me?”

“Well—yes, yes Father Tom,” Miriam said. “I wanted to ask—well, some of the other moms in the parish thought—you see, Christmas is in a few months—

“Yes, that seems to happen every year,” I said. Smiling, I added “What would you like?”

Miriam inhaled, then slowly exhaled. “We were wondering if you would approve us getting some of the children to do a nativity pageant.”

“You mean the children playing the various parts, Mary, Joseph, shepherds, kings. A few toddlers dressed as sheep.”

Glenda interjected. “I told her it would be impossible, Father.”

“Really, and why is that, Glenda?”

She seemed stunned that I would question her statement. “Well, well—it just would be. The Advent and Christmas season is just so busy, and the children would disrupt everything.”

“Now Glenda, if Saint Clare’s could survive being used as a hospital during the Civil War, I think it can survive a small nativity play.” I turned to Miriam. “Sounds like a fine idea, Miriam—what is your last name?”

“Conway. Miriam Conway. Thank you Father, thank you so much. Now we thought maybe Saturday, a week before Christmas.”

“Actually I have an idea. Isn’t there a Christmas Eve vigil mass, Glenda?”

“Yesss, at 5:00.”

“Good. Why don’t you do it at the Vigil Mass?”

Miriam smiled, “Really?”

“At the Vigil Mass?” Glenda was not smiling.

“Yes. I would think that mass would have a lot of children attending, parents wanting them to get to bed early. It would be fun for them. We’d do it instead of the homily. What do you think, Miriam, do you think everyone would go for that?”

“Absolutely! Thank you, thank you Father. This means a whole lot to us—more than you can know.”

Miriam shook my hand, made a face at Glenda, and left. After she was gone, Glenda turned to me.

“Father Anthony—”

“Is not here, Glenda. Let me ask you, just between you and me, did he ever actually tell the ladies he didn’t want a nativity play?”

Glenda hesitated. “Well, well, not exactly—”

“I thought so.” I paused. “Glenda, I understand that you spent a lot of time acting as Father Anthony’s gatekeeper. I’m sure he appreciated it. But you don’t need to do that with me.”

“You cannot spend your time talking to every parishioner who wants your attention.”

“I know, but I can speak to most of them,” I said. “From now on, I’m available for anyone who wants to talk to me during office hours.”

“Father Anthony didn’t keep office hours. People had to make an appointment.”

“Well they can make an appointment, but if they stop by and I’m here and I’m not in the middle of something critical, I’ll be available to them. Okay?”

Glenda stiffened. “Yes, Father. If you’ll excuse me, I have to put the groceries away and start dinner. You’re having chicken tonight.” She grabbed her bags and stormed out.

“Oh Glenda,” I called. She stopped in the doorway and turned slightly. “Someone stopped by to see you.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know his name. I saw you talking to him yesterday after church. Anna thought it was your nephew.”

The blood rushed from her face. “He, my, he stopped by the rectory while you were here?”

I furrowed my brow. “Yes, it was while you were out. Is everything okay Glenda?”

“What—yes,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “Oh yes, Father, everything is fine. I’ll call him after I finish lunch. I’m sorry he bothered you.”

“It was no bother, Glenda. I didn’t know you have a nephew. Does he live with you?”

“Yes, yes, Roger, he’s my sister’s son,” she said quickly. “He’s staying with me while he works a construction job at the College. I’ll call him in a bit.”

She had just cleared the doorway when the phone rang. I looked at the clock. It was just eleven. I had to be in the church by 11:30 to get ready for the Noon Mass.

“Lot more lively place than I thought it would be,” I mumbled to myself. I picked up the phone.

“Hello, Saint Clare’s rectory.”

“May I speak to Father Tom Greer, please?”

“Speaking.”

“Oh, Father Greer, good. My name is Nate Rodriguez. I’m a freelance documentary filmmaker.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I was wondering if I could interview you for my next film project.”

“Me? Why would you want to interview me?”

“Well, you see, my project concerns an unsolved murder.”

I froze. “An unsolved murder?” I said slowly.

“Yes. The unsolved murder of Joan Greer.”