The Penitent Priest

One

One

I hadn’t been at Saint Clare’s Parish since my wife’s funeral.

Now I was standing before the altar about to pour holy water over the forehead of the squirming infant in the arms of his proud mother. We got to the part I had been nervous about. I carefully took little Benedict James from his mother’s arms and held him over the font. I picked up the silver shell, dipped it in the water, and poured the water over his head. The little boy was still and peaceful, looking at me with wide-eyed wonderment. I had worried for days that he'd scream the entire time, and prayed that he wouldn’t. Fortunately, this one time, my prayers were answered.

I handed Benedict back to his mother, breathed a sigh of relief and turned to the assembly.

“Let us welcome Benedict James Reynolds into God’s family.”

The crowd applauded, punctuated by the cries and screams of the dozens of children in the pews.

The 10:30 a.m. Mass was a lively, well-attended one. From what I could tell, the church was almost to capacity. The pews were filled with young families, but all ages were represented. The earlier Mass was older, quieter, and not half as full. I recognized some of the people from years ago. Anna Luckgold, my mother-in-law, was there, third row from the front. Glenda Whitemill, the parish secretary, sat in the front row studying my every move.

She had also been at the 8:00 a.m Mass.

I made it through my first mass with more than an audience of five since—well, ever. Everything was fine until the end. I had just finished the prayers before communion when I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. Glenda Whitemill had left her seat and moved to the altar with the other Eucharistic Ministers.

Instead of lining up with everyone else, Glenda came right to my elbow and whispered, “Remind the parents to keep their children in the pews.”

“What?”

“They only come up if they’re old enough to receive communion. Otherwise they have to stay put.”

I looked at her and shook my head slightly. “I’m not going to do that. The parents can bring their children up for a blessing.”

“But Father Anthony—”

“Is not here,” I said, firmly. “Now please go back with the others.”

She looked at me, her eyes burning with indignation.

“Yes, Father,” she said quietly. She walked back and stood with the others.

After that, everything went smoothly. After the final prayers I said, “Please be seated for just a moment.” The congregation sat down, mothers and fathers wrestling reluctant toddlers and older children back into their seats.

“Before the final blessing,” I said, “I just want to say how happy I am to be here at Saint Clare’s. I look forward to the next four months with you, and I want to say that my door is always open if you have a need or concern. I’ll do my best, but I’m not planning on making any major changes, since I’ve never been in a parish on my own before, so please bear with me as I find my way.”

I heard a wave of murmurs through the church, intermingled by the fussy children. I tried to read people’s faces, I thought they looked approving—except, of course, for Glenda Whitemill.

I let the murmuring die down. “Most of you are newer to the parish.” I paused before going on. “Some of you may remember me from—from my previous life.” I saw Glenda jerk her head up at that. I heard more murmuring and thought I noticed a couple of signs of recognition. “I look forward to renewing old acquaintances, and making new ones in the short time I’m here.”

That was not really true. My real hope was that my brief return to Myerton would be quiet and uneventful. I was only at Saint Clare’s because the Archbishop had ordered me there to fill in for Father Anthony. I had no more desire to stay than I had when I left everything behind ten years earlier.

I gave the final blessing, the final hymn started, and I proceeded down the aisle with the altar servers. I thanked everyone, then went outside.

The day was one of those sunny, clear days in mid-September which has the last taste of summer and the first taste of fall. It was warm, but with a cool breeze that made being outside in full mass garb tolerable.

I placed my hand against one of the six white marble columns that lined the portico. Saint Clare’s was an imposing structure, said to be one of the largest churches west of Baltimore. The white Ionic building was constructed in the 1850’s to replace the earlier brick parish that had burned. Funded by the small donations of Irish immigrants who made their way into the Allegheny Mountains to work on the railroad, as well as the larger ones of benefactors who employed them, the church had seen untold numbers of baptisms, as well as weddings and funerals.

Joan and I had stood under its soaring vaulted ceiling in front of friends and family as we exchanged our wedding vows. She wore white, looking impossibly beautiful that day, her veil covering her chestnut brown hair as it flowed gently over her lace-covered shoulders. Father Anthony, whose place I was taking, had officiated that day.

He also said her funeral mass, not five years later.

People began coming out. Children ran past, chased by frazzled moms hastily saying, “Thank you, Father,” as they hurried by. I shook hands, said, “Thank you very much” to people who said, “We’re glad you’re here” and “Good homily, Father.” No one I recognized at first. Then, a large man about my age stopped. With him were two twin teenage boys. Leaning on a cane, he extended a beefy hand. I laughed, grasped his hand, and gave him a hug.

“John Archman,” I said, “how are you?”

“Good to see you, Tom,” said the big bear of a man. “Or maybe I should say Father Tom?”

“Tom’s fine. I didn’t know you were still living in Myerton.”

John nodded. “Chloe wanted to raise the kids here, it’s near her parents. And I like it too.”

“So, what are you doing now?”

“Consulting,” Archman said. “The new Tech Center outside of town.”

“Bit far away from DC for consulting, isn’t it?”

“Internet, teleconferences, you’d be surprised how little face-to-face time is required in IT consulting.” John turned to his boys. “John, Mark, say hello to your godfather.” The twins said hello then asked their dad if they could hang out with their friends until time to leave.

“Don’t make me come look for you,” John said as they ran off. When he turned back to me, he grimaced.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yea,” he replied. “My leg still gets to me sometimes. I’ll have to get back into physical therapy.”

Soon after 9/11, John had enlisted. He served two tours in Iraq. During the second tour, an IED exploded as his squad was on patrol. He was the only survivor, and was himself severely wounded. “So,” he said, looking me up and down. “You’re a priest now. I’ve gotta tell you, I didn’t see that one coming.”

“You’re not the first one to say that to me. Is it that remarkable?”

“No, not remarkable, it's just—I remember what you and Joan were like together. You were inseparable. I envied you two that. Chloe and I—I’ve never seen two people in love as much as you two were—I knew how devastated you were after her—” John paused. “Joan was special,” he whispered.

“Yes she was,” I said quietly.

“Then you left and didn’t tell anyone where you were going. No one heard from you for a while. Then when Anna told us—none of us could believe it. ” He paused. “So how did it happen?”

It was a question I heard frequently, especially when people learned how old I was when I was ordained. Granted, most priests didn’t enter their vocation when they were thirty-six. Even fewer received the vocation after they were married. But my situation was different. So, I kept getting the question, one I was getting kind of tired of being asked.

“It’s kind of a long story,” I replied. “I don’t want to get into it right now.”

He held up his hands “Okay, okay. No problem. But you said you weren’t in a parish before here? What have you been doing?”

“I’ve been the archivist for the Archdiocese since my ordination, so I’ve been at the main office for five years. I was in a parish briefly at the beginning, but it didn’t work out.” Another subject I didn’t want to get into.

“Well,” he said smiling. “It is good to see you. Chloe will be sorry she missed you. Home with a sick kid. Hey, we’ll have to have you over for dinner. Catch up.”

I hesitated. “Maybe when I get the time. But give Chloe my best.”

John’s smile faded. “Sure, sure Tom. When you get the time. I’ll tell Chloe you send your best.” I watched as John, leaning on his cane, went off to find his boys.

“So you’ve seen John,” Anna said, having come up behind me. I turned.

“He’s missed you,” she said. “You were his best friend.”

“And he was mine.”

“He could have used a friend like you over the last few years.”

I looked at her, puzzled. “He hasn’t had an easy time since you left,” she explained.

“He seems fine to me, except for the cane.”

“Looks are deceiving. He’s struggling. Chloe tells me these last few years have been hard.”

I remembered how John was after he came home. The physical wounds were slow to heal. The emotional wounds festered. Joan and I were as supportive as we could be, but after a while John just withdrew.

I looked at her. I didn’t know how to answer.

“Anyway,” she smiled. “Good job. Everyone seemed really pleased.”

“Except Glenda.”

“Oh,” she waved her hand, “don’t worry about Glenda. She’s had the run of this place for years. It's about time someone stood up to her.”

“I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

“You didn’t. You did what Father Anthony should have done a long time ago. But Father Anthony isn’t inclined to confrontation. And Glenda is—”

“Yes, she certainly is.” The day I arrived Glenda Whitehall made it very clear what she thought of me.

“I don’t know why the Archbishop sent you,” she had said. “Father Anthony’s coming back. He doesn’t need to be replaced.”

“I’m not replacing Father Anthony,” I had said. “I’m just here for four months while he....rests.”

“We can get along just fine having a priest show up for mass,” she went on like I hadn’t said anything. “When I spoke to the Archbishop—”

“You called the Archbishop?”

“—I told him we didn’t need a resident priest. I asked him just to send one around for mass on Saturday nights and Sundays. He gave me some hogwash about a parish needing to have a resident priest. I told him exactly what I thought.”

She went on like that, all the while showing me through the rectory, a two-story house sitting next door to the church. A covered walk from the front door led to what I assumed was the sacristy. Another path led to the sidewalk. The first floor had a reception area, office, a meeting room and a small chapel. Upstairs were three bedrooms—Father Anthony’s and two guest rooms, including the one where I would be staying—a small study, and a kitchen and eating area. The furnishings looked like rejects from Mike and Carol Brady’s home, frankly hideous shades of brown, yellow, and that tried and true staple of the 1970’s color scheme, avocado. There was a worn and threadbear quality to the whole place, much like Whitemill herself.

I realized I had not seen Glenda coming out of the church. Not knowing where she was made me nervous. I looked around in the crowd.

I finally spotted her. She was standing on the corner, speaking to a man about my age. He was about my height and wore a pullover hoodie and jeans that hung loosely about his frame, showing he was quite a bit skinnier than I was.

“Who is that?” I asked Anna.

She turned. “Who?”

“That guy over there talking to Glenda.” They were too far away to hear, but she was shaking her right finger in his face, and he was shaking his head emphatically.

“Hmm,” Anna said. “I’m not sure. I know Glenda has a nephew, and that could be him, but I can’t say for sure. Not sure I’ve ever seen him.”

The man stormed away from Glenda, who just stood looking after him.

“He’s not a member of the parish?”

“I don’t know—he could be, and just comes to the earlier service. Or only shows up at Christmas and Easter, I really can’t say. I don’t know everybody, Tom.”

Glenda turned. She looked upset. Looking around to make sure no one had observed the scene, she walked quickly down the sidewalk to the Rectory.

The crowd had thinned out so there were only a couple of small groups talking to each other, their children running up and down the steps. Some had started an impromptu game of tag on the grass between the church and the parking lot. In a couple of minutes I’d be able to go inside, take my vestments off, then spend the rest of the afternoon resting.

“Why don’t you come over for lunch,” Anna said. “ Nothing fancy, just sandwiches.”

I hesitated. “Anna, I’m kinda tired—”

“I’m going to see her this afternoon,” Anna went on. She paused to let that settle in.

“It’s been a long day,” I said. “I’m really drained. Maybe another day.”

She looked at me, not saying anything. I saw the accusatory look in her eyes and braced myself. Then she smiled.

“It’s okay, Tom,” she patted me on the arm. “Some other time.” She began to walk away, then turned and said, “I’m sure she likes them.”

“Likes what?”

“The carnations,” Anna said. I shook my head. “The peppermint carnations?”

Peppermint carnations. Joan’s favorite flower.

“What about peppermint carnations?” I said, thoroughly confused.

“You really don’t know what I’m talking about,” Anna said. “You haven’t been sending peppermint carnations to her gravesite once a month?”

“No, it isn’t me,” I said. “Sorry.”

Anna sighed. “Oh. I just assumed. Guess one of her friends.” She began to walk away.

“For how long?”

“It’s been a long time. Almost ten years,” she said over her shoulder. “I thought it was you. Guess I was wrong.”

I walked back into the church. In the sacristy, I took off my vestments and turned the lights off in the church. I looked around. The only light came through the stained glass windows and the candles. Incense still hung in the air; I could also smell the oil on my hands from anointing the Reynolds baby. The building was at peace.

I was not.