The Framed Father

One-1

One

I BEGIN TO REPLY TO Helen’s latest email when there’s a knock on the door of my cell.

“Come in,” I say, quickly closing my laptop.

“Excuse me, Father Tom,” a young brother says.

“Yes, Brother Thomas?”

“There’s a call for you on the main line,” he replies, somewhat out of breath. “The Archbishop.”

“Did he say what he wanted?”

Brother Thomas shakes his head. “No, he didn’t say. He just told me to get you as quickly as possible. Apparently, he’s been trying to call you.”

A summons like this is not to be disobeyed and I follow Brother Thomas quickly down the dimly lit hallway to the office. The blinking hold light shows the line the Archbishop is waiting on.

Lifting the receiver, I begin, “Hello, Your Eminence what—”

“Father Tom, I need you to go to Saint Clare’s immediately,” he orders before I can finish my sentence.

“Excuse me?”

“How soon can you leave?” he asks.

“Well, I don’t know,” I reply. “I have several—”

“Let me clarify,” the Archbishop interrupts. “When I say immediately, I mean today. When I ask how soon can you leave, I mean how long will it take you to pack?”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Why the urgency?”

He hesitates. “A . . . A situation has arisen that needs to be addressed quickly and quietly.”

“What kind of situation?”

The Archbishop sighs. “One involving Father McCoy.”

I furrow my brow. “What kind of situation could Father McCoy be involved in?” Having met the young priest, I have a hard time coming up with one that would agitate the Archbishop so much. I like Father Leonard McCoy, but he seems too scared of his own shadow to be involved in anything that might be termed “a situation.”

“Something has come to my attention,” the Archbishop continues. “I need you to look into it.”

“With all due respect, Your Eminence, you haven’t answered my question. Are you going to tell me what you want me to look into?”

Silence. “Hello, are you still there, sir?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “I’m here.” A pause. A sigh. “We’ve received an anonymous allegation of misconduct against Father McCoy.”

“What kind of misconduct?”

“Father Greer, are you being obtuse on purpose? What kind of misconduct do you think? All right, I’ll come right out and say it. We’ve gotten an anonymous allegation of s****l misconduct involving Father McCoy and an adult member of the parish.”

I pause, then burst out laughing. “You’re joking!”

“Do I sound like I’m joking?”

“But really, Your Eminence. We’re talking about Father McCoy. Leonard McCoy? The same Father McCoy who is pastor of Saint Clare’s Parish in Myerton? That Father McCoy?”

“Yes, Father, the one and only.”

“But have you met Father McCoy? I mean, it’s absurd! He’s the walking definition of milquetoast. This has to be a joke.”

“I do not find it the least bit funny.”

I pull myself together. “No, sir, of course not. We need to take the allegation seriously.”

“We can’t afford not to,” the Archbishop says. “We’re still trying to recover from our past behavior and we can’t discount something like this or sweep it under the rug.”

“I agree,” I say. “So, who is he alleged to have . . . committed this misconduct with?”

I hear papers rustling. “The parish secretary.”

I burst out laughing again. “But I know the parish secretary,” I say. “She’s my mother-in-law. Anna’s an attractive woman for being in her early sixties, but she’s—“

“I am certainly not talking about Anna—Mrs. Luckgold, Father,” Archbishop Knowland says.

“But she was serving as parish secretary when I left Myerton four months ago.”

I can hear the Archbishop shuffling papers. “According to the allegation, the parish secretary’s name is Rachel Watson.”

“Before I left Myerton,” I say, “Anna told me they were interviewing for the position but I hadn’t heard that Saint Clare’s had hired one.”

“Is there any reason why you would have heard, Father?“

I think of my weekly emails from Helen Parr, an old friend whose acquaintance I had renewed during my brief time as Rector of Saint Clare’s parish in Myreton last year. In keeping with our commitment to avoid personal entanglements, her emails typically concern goings-on in the parish and in the town of Myerton itself. She has not mentioned the parish hiring a new secretary, but then again, I guess she might not have noticed unless she had to go into the office for some reason.

“No, sir. There really is no reason.” I answer.

“This says that Ms. Watson,” the Archbishop continues, “is a single woman in her late 20s.”

“Hmm,” I say. “Not your typical parish secretary. Not like the last one.”

“Exactly, which is why we have to get on top of this,” the Archbishop says. “I need you to go to Myerton to sort this out.”

“What do you—”

“Talk to Father McCoy, get his side of the story. Interview this Watson woman, see if anything alleged is true.”

I hesitate to ask the next question I have, but it needs to be asked. “Have there been any other similar allegations against Father McCoy in the past?”

“No, not one,” the Archbishop says. “I had his file pulled the moment I finished reading the letter. He’s squeaky clean, not so much as a hint of scandal at his previous assignments.”

Considering his last assignment was at the Archdiocese assisted living facility, I’m not surprised.

“What exactly are the allegations?” I ask.

He hesitates. “I don’t want to get into them over the phone,” he says. “I sent a copy by email to Saint Clare’s.”

“So Father McCoy knows about the allegations?”

“Yes, I called him last night to tell him.”

“I bet he had a restless night.”

“He’s not the only one!” Archbishop Knowland exclaims. “This hasn’t been good for my blood pressure or my ulcer!”

“Does he know I’m coming?”

“He knows someone is coming. Frankly, you were not the first name on my list. You’ve shown a tendency to, well, get a little too involved.”

“I hardly think being involved in one murder investigation—”

“—two, Father, if you include your wife’s.”

I pause. The Archbishop says, “Sorry, Tom. I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn't fair. But you got too involved last time you were at Saint Clare’s. Because of that, you weren’t my first choice. But I got to thinking that your familiarity with the parish, with the town, with the authorities could come in handy.”

I furrow my brow. “Are the police involved?”

“No,” the Archbishop insists. “No, not yet anyway, since the letter does not imply anything illegal has happened. That’s one thing I want you to look at.” He paused. “If Father McCoy did something egregious to this woman, something that broke a law, then I want you to find that out, and I want you to report it. You know the Myerton Police’s lead detective, correct?”

I’m careful before answering. “Yes, I got to know Detective Parr fairly well. She’s a good detective.”

“What kind of person is she? In other words, will she give the Church a fair shake?”

“Oh, definitely,” I say, remembering our relationship of 20 years ago. “She was raised Catholic and may have stumbled in her faith as a young adult, which most people do, but it’s my understanding from her own words that she never stopped attending Mass completely. But she has not been involved in a parish since the death of her husband. Still, last I spoke to her, she had begun attending Saint Clare’s.”

“Well, hopefully, this will not be an issue. If the police need to be involved, involve her. We’re not sweeping another problem under the rug. But don’t do it unless you uncover something that is a crime.”

“I understand.”

“Oh, I should also say you’ll be taking over the public ministry of Saint Clare’s until this matter is cleared up.”

“But what excuse will I give?”

“I’m sure you and Father McCoy will think of something appropriate.”

I sigh. “What do I tell Father Abbot? We’ll be leaving him in a bit of a lurch.”

“That’s not my concern,” the Archbishop yells. “He’ll have to manage for a while. We’ve got to get this taken care of. Pack up and get on the road to Myerton. I’ll be waiting for your call.” He hangs up, leaving me looking at the receiver.

I ask Brother Thomas if Father Abbot is free. “I think I saw him go in the Grotto's direction. He’ll probably be back soon.”

“That’s all right,” I say quietly. “I’ll go to him there.”

***