The Framed Father

One-3

“IT’S RIDICULOUS. IT’S absurd. It’s preposterous. It’s . . . it’s scandalous!”

I watch the agitated, red-headed cleric pace up and down in the Rectory living room. He’s been this way since I arrived, only four hours after the Archbishop’s conversation with me at the monastery.

He hadn’t greeted me when I knocked on the door. Much to my surprise, Anna answered.

“Tom, thank God,” she had said. “I can’t get him to calm down.”

“What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here? He called me,” Anna explained. “At six o’clock this morning he called me. Fortunately, I was up. He asked—begged me to come over. He sounded agitated, so I came right away. He’s been in the living room the whole time. Sometimes, he’ll sit and stare at the wall, then he’ll get up and pace back and forth, mumbling to himself, gesturing with his hands. Then he got a call and when he hung up, he looked at me and said, ‘Father Greer will be here around noon. Can you make sure the guest room is ready, please?’” She stopped. “What’s going on, Tom? Why are you here?”

I’m not sure how much to tell her. “The Archbishop called me. He asked me—ordered me—to come.”

“Why?”

I choose my words carefully, admitting, “I can’t say, really. He asked me to look into a . . . complaint against Father Leonard.”

She looks confused. “Who could have a complaint against Father Leonard? He’s the least offensive person I’ve ever met.”

For Anna to call someone the least offensive person she’s ever met is high praise. She has firm opinions about most people, many sharp, few incorrect. It is a trait I have found comes in handy.

“That,” I say, responding to her question, “is what the Archbishop wants me to look into. He wants me to see if there’s any merit to the complaint.”

Anna’s countenance turns serious. “Is Father Leonard in some kind of trouble?”

I sigh. “I don’t know, Anna, that’s what I’m here to find out. Listen, I can’t say any more, the Archbishop asked me to be discreet.”

She puts her hand up and insists, “Say no more, I won’t ask anything else. Though,” she smiles, “you know I can find out if I want to.”

“And I’m asking you, Anna,” I say firmly, “not to.”

She nods. “Okay, Tom.”

The first words out of Father Leonard McCoy’s mouth when Anna shows me into the living room are, “Father Greer, I’ve done nothing inappropriate with Rachel Watson!”

Anna’s eyes get big. So much for discretion, I think. I glance at Anna and get a look that is a combination of surprise, concern, and assurance. Surprise at the accusation, concern for Father Leonard, and assurance that I can trust her not to say anything.

“Why don’t I go make us some coffee,” she says. Returning a while later with a tray holding a coffee pot and two cups with a creamer and sugar bowl, she says, “I’ll be in the back cleaning if you need anything.” A moment later, I hear the door to the kitchen close, music coming from her phone, and the exhaust fan over the oven running. When Anna has to stay out of the loop, she does it, no matter what the temptation.

Father Leonard spends the next half hour continuing to pace up and down the living room, sometimes quietly, sometimes uttering words of protest, all the time agitated, just as Anna had described.

“Please sit down, Leonard,” I say finally,exhausted by his exertions. “Calm down. No one is saying you’ve done anything wrong.”

“Then why did the Archbishop send you? Why is he removing me from public ministry?” He runs his fingers through his mop of hair, grabbing a handful and pulling. “Oh, what would my mother say if she were alive to hear about this?”

“The Archbishop,” I say, trying to sound as soothing as possible, “sent me to look into the allegations. Discreetly, quietly. He wants me to take over your public duties, well, to give you a break.”

“But what will we tell people? You’re not supposed to be here. Everyone knows you’re at Our Lady of the Mount.”

“I don’t think we need to make a big deal of it,” I tell him. “I’m here in town for two weeks, visiting family and friends, and I’m helping at the parish. A vacation, we’ll say.”

He slumps back in his chair and I shift on the couch. I’m pleased to see new—or at least newer—furniture in the rectory. Someone has gotten rid of the sixties vintage thrift-store rejects and replaced them with much more comfortable, much less threadbare furnishings. I recognize a couple of pieces as ones from Anna’s house. She must have done it when she was parish secretary.

“Why don’t I get us a fresh pot of coffee,” I say standing up. “Give you a chance to calm down. Take a few minutes and we’ll continue talking when I get back. Okay?”

Father Leonard looks at me, his mouth in a firm line, and nods. “I’d prefer tea if you don’t mind.”

I carry the tray into the kitchen. Anna turns to me, eyes wide, and exhales.

“Well,” she says, “that’s something.”

“Now, Anna,” I say as I empty the coffee pot and fill it with water.

“So that’s why the Archbishop sent you here,” she whispers. “You’re replacing Father Leonard?”

“Oh, no, no, not at all,” I say, pouring the water into the coffeemaker and scooping coffee grounds into the filter basket. “Can you put on a kettle of water for Leonard? He wants tea.”

“Of course he does,” she mutters, then fills the kettle. “So if you’re not here to replace Father Leonard, what are you here for?”

“To look into it,” I say. “To see if there’s any merit.”

“I can tell you there’s no merit,” Anna scoffs. “I mean, Father Leonard? Inappropriate? I doubt he’s ever done anything inappropriate, or even thought anything inappropriate.”

“I told the Archbishop as much, but he insisted I come and investigate immediately. He says the Church can’t be seen as taking any accusation lightly, no matter how improbable.” I shake my head. “I have to say I agree with him.”

“Well, I see his point. But why you?”

I shrug. “Not sure. He said I wasn’t his first choice, but decided I was the best person for the job.”

“Well,” she says as the kettle whistles. “If you can find Joan’s killer after fifteen years, you can get to the bottom of this.”

“Well, that wasn’t me, that was mostly Detective Parr.”

Anna looks at me and smiles. “Don’t you mean Helen?”

I glance her. “Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Anna says. “I know there’s something there, though I’m not saying you’re in any spiritual danger. Still, it’s in your eyes when you say her name. It’s in her eyes when I mention you.”

I open my mouth to speak when Anna goes on, “So who made the allegation?”

“No idea. It was anonymous.”

“Well, whoever did it either doesn’t know Father Leonard and Rachel, or really has it out for one or both of them.” She hands me Father Leonard’s mug, a bag of Earl Grey already steeping in it. “You will not find anything.”

“I hope not,” I say. “I really hope not.”