Love By its First Name Read online

  Copyright © 2005, 2019 by Don Hanley

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded of otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper, broadcast, website, blog or other outlet.

  ISBN: 978-1-970107-00-5 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019930006

  Love by its First Name is published by: Top Reads Publishing, LLC, USA

  For information please direct emails to:

  [email protected]

  Previous edition published by AuthorHouse, 2005

  Cover design: Teri Rider

  Book layout and typography: Teri Rider & Associates

  eBook formatting by Word2Kindle

  ALSO BY DON HANLEY

  How to Live with Yourself and Enjoy it

  How to Live with Your Partner and Enjoy it

  Wrestling With God

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER l6

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  Acknowledgements

  About The Author

  CHAPTER 1

  God is love and he who lives in love, lives in God and God lives in him.

  1 John 4:6

  What am I doing here?

  Jerry Haloran knew what he was supposed to do, but that didn’t mean he had no other choices. He slowed his faded Pontiac to a halt in front of the white clapboard building—Peterson’s General Store. He parked beside a rusting camper, then enjoyed the car’s air-conditioning for a moment, weighing his options. Picking up the keys would be a sign he’d taken the assignment. In all his twelve-plus years as a priest, he’d always looked forward to each new mission, but not this time.

  He had almost gotten his spirits up for this new venture, but when he entered the small Kansas town with half its buildings boarded up, his despair returned. It was just about the ugliest burg he’d ever seen. If he simply backed his old clunker out of the dirt driveway and kept driving north, he’d be on Interstate 70 in an hour; then he could go anywhere he wanted.

  Sure thing, dimwit. With your leg and this heat, you and this heap would last maybe another twenty minutes, tops. He switched off the engine, took a deep breath, and opened the car door. He moaned quietly and eased himself out of the hissing machine, the back seat was crammed with clothes and the rest of his “worldly possessions.” The humid summer air struck his aching body like a blast from a jet engine; the pain in his right leg throbbed as if he were being shot all over again. He balanced himself with one sore arm, pulled a cane from the front floorboard, and straightened up as best he could. If only I hadn’t been such a coward and had really helped poor, pregnant, fifteen-year-old Melanie, none of this would have happened. He fought off a sudden attack of tears. You sure talk a good game, Haloran, talk, talk, talk—that’s about all you’re good for these days.

  Jerry and his cane made their way toward the store. A sign on its cluttered wooden porch read: “Welcome to Paris, Kansas, Elevation 612, Population 93l. We’re smaller but friendlier.” A thermometer on a porch post read l02 degrees. He glanced across the road to a run-down clapboard church and a bungalow that needed paint. That, he was sure was his new Catholic ‘parish plant’. He winced, shrugged his shoulders and again, almost regretted the sermon he had given that lost him the new, large ultra modern church in Aberdeen and had him exiled to this godforsaken place.

  He hobbled into the country store. A distinguished-looking gray-haired man, waiting on a couple with two young children, was apparently the owner of the store. Even dressed in jeans and a freshly ironed short-sleeved shirt, he looked more like a senator or bank president than a clerk in a dinky store in the middle of nowhere. It reminded Jerry of a well-kept 7-11, except it sold hard liquor, half an aisle’s worth. A stiff scotch on the rocks would do wonders for his attitude right now.

  Jerry waited for the family to leave before making his way to the cash register. “Excuse me, I’m looking for Mr. Peterson.”

  “That’s me,” the gray-haired man said. He had a wrinkled, ruddy face and an easy smile. “What can I do for ya?”

  “I’m Jerry Haloran. I’ve come for the keys to St. Patrick’s.”

  Peterson raised two bushy eyebrows, “And why should I want to give the keys to our only Catholic Church to a complete stranger?”

  “I’m the new pastor.”

  “You’re a priest?” Peterson studied the tall stranger. “What happened to your leg?”

  Jerry ran his hand through his thick black hair. The demonstration in May and the pain of his own blood oozing through his pant leg and onto his fingers flashed through his mind. “… I had a little accident, I guess you could say.”

  “The way you’re gimping around here, it doesn’t look like a ‘little accident.’” Peterson smiled and held out his hand. “Welcome to Paris, Father. It’ll be nice to have a full-time priest for a change.”

  They shook hands. Jerry said, “Thanks. Good to be here.”

  “Yeah?” Peterson looked skeptical. “You all right, Father? You look a bit pale.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Jerry said. “But I could use some water.”

  Peterson opened a refrigerator door and handed him a plastic bottle of cold water. “Here. I keep these ready all the time. This heat’s rough on everyone.”

  “Thanks.” Jerry gulped down a few swallows.

  “How’d you mess up so bad they sent you way out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  Jerry shrugged. “The Bishop thought I needed lighter duties.”

  Peterson chuckled, “Getting used to Siberia is an acquired taste.”

  “Isn’t Siberia supposed to be cold?”

  The older man laughed, “Nice to meet a fellow exile.”

  Jerry laughed with him and then joked, “Did the Bishop decide you needed lighter duties too?”

  “Oh, I exiled myself. Used to work in Kansas City. Big corporation. Bad situation. Alice, she’s my wife, grew up here, so we moved back some years ago. It’s quiet; we kinda like that.” Peterson opened the cash register, plucked out a set of keys and tossed them to Jerry.

  The priest snagged them with one hand like a first baseman catching an errant throw. “Thanks a lot, . . . Mr. Peterson.”

  “Call me Sy. If you call me Sylvester, I’ll kick your other leg. And don’t go jumping to any conclusions; wife’s the only Catholic in our marriage. Want to meet her?”

  “Sure.” Despite the air-conditioning, Jerry ached now, almost head to toe.

  Sy ushered him through the back door into a spacious and pleasant living room. Family pictures adorned the redwood walls and bookcases. The room had the medicinal smell of a hospital.

  “Alice.” Sy said gently, “Meet your new pastor, Father Haloran.”

  Jerry half-expected a robust farm wife and almost gasped when he saw a small, emaciated woman with only wisps of hair left on her head. She had hazel eyes, a narrow nose, high cheekbones and full lips, all indicating she had once been a beautiful woman. H
e glanced at a picture on the wall, and wondered if it is their wedding picture. The room was far from cool, but the old woman sat wrapped in a colorful afghan.

  Alice turned off the television, and slowly turned in their direction. She grimaced, attempted a smile, and haltingly extended her hand.

  Jerry knelt beside her recliner, placing his cane on the floor. Pain shot up his leg with the ferocity of a thunderbolt, and through years of practice, his face showed no pain. Gently taking her hand, he said, “How nice to meet you, Mrs. Peterson.”

  “Call me Alice.” Her voice was almost a whisper, but her eyes glowed. “It will be wonderful to have a full-time priest again. The one from the Abbey last summer used to bring me communion every Sunday. He was a nice young man. Will you bring me communion?”

  “Every day, if you’re not too much of a sinner.”

  Her eyes twinkled. “Oh, you like to make jokes? That’s good, but I’m afraid my sinnin’ days are but a dim memory. The cancer’s taken most of the fun out of me.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Your eyes tell me that you have some mischief in you yet.”

  Alice smiled and looked over at Sy. “I like this fella.” She turned back to Jerry. “I don’t know why you’ve been sent way out here to our poor little town, but I’m glad. Are you a drunk?”

  Jerry had always liked the way the old and dying said what was on their minds. He winced, thinking of the times he’d over-indulged on alcohol since last May, but he gave Alice a soft, “No, I’m not a drunk.” She could not know how much her enthusiastic “I like this fella” had meant to him. He felt something warm awakening in him.

  “Had to ask. We’ve had our share at St. Patrick’s. Poor Father Blaise was such a kind, shy man but couldn’t stay away from the bottle.” She stopped herself, as if ashamed of talking negatively about Father Blaise. She gave Jerry a thorough once over. “So, what did you do to that pompous old Bishop to get yourself sent to sleepy old Paris, Kansas?”

  “I guess he figured I needed some peace and quiet.”

  She nodded. “And you’ve kissed the Blarney Stone too. I heard a new priest was heading our way back in June. What took you so long?” She looked down at his cane on the floor. “That leg keep you away all this time?”

  Jerry smiled. “About three weeks’ worth, but I also needed to finish my master’s, so I took a little detour to Loyola University in Chicago.”

  “Master’s in what?” Alice asked.

  “Education.”

  Alice’s eyes sparkled brighter. “Think we might need a little education out here on the prairie, do ya?” She squinted her eyes and extended her hand again. “What did you say your last name was?”

  “Haloran.”

  “An Irishman, eh? Well, I hope you won’t get bored with our little parish, Father. And you really will bring me communion?”

  Using his cane, Jerry stood up. “You count on it.” He bent down and took her hand. “I’ll see you in the morning, Alice. A delight to meet you.”

  When he and Sy were back in the store, Jerry asked, “How bad is her cancer?”

  “Petty bad, it’s eating up her whole body. Doctors told her a year ago she had about three months to live. But she hangs in there and suffers in silence. Docs want her in the hospital, but there’s not much they can do. She’s had chemotherapy and radiation about all she can stand. Now, well …”

  “I’ll see her every day.” In more ways than one, Alice reminded Jerry of his mother. He gave a little wave of the keys toward Sy and said, “Thanks for these. Nice meeting you, too.”

  When Jerry was nearly through the door, Sy shouted after him, “Oh, Father, the church is across the street, if you didn’t already know. And there’s a young dog over there. Father Blaise kept him, called him Pluto, I think. Been giving him food and water every day. He’s friendly.”

  As Jerry limped toward his car through the searing heat, he glanced at the church and rectory across the road. The clapboard-sided buildings looked like they hadn’t been painted in years. The top of the steeple was missing and its tarpaper-covered stump barely rose to the roof ridge. The little rectory, some fifty yards north of the church, had a front porch that sagged so much it looked ready to collapse. At least the repairs will give you something to do—for a few months anyway, he told himself.

  When Jerry finally pulled his car onto the gravel drive and parked, a big, gold, brown, and black dog, complete with dirty, matted fur, came running to the car wagging his tail. Collie-shepherd mix, he guessed.

  The priest reached out and got his hand licked. Taking the dog’s head in both hands, he petted him and studied the animal for a moment. “You have intelligent eyes, buddy. But, you’re not a ‘Pluto,’ you’re a philosopher. From now on your name will be Plato.” The dog pushed against Jerry’s leg, as if agreeing to the name change.

  The cornerstone of the church caught the priest’s eye; it read l92l. “Well, Plato, let’s see what this place looks like inside.”

  Maybe between Alice, Sy, Plato, and the repair work that needed doing, he could dredge up enough spirit to stay for a year. After an hour inspection of his new run-down assignment, sweat poured down Jerry’s face and back. He hobbled from the church and re-joined Plato, now quietly panting in the shade. “Good thing God invented air-conditioning, right Plato? Without it, we could probably give away free money on Sundays and no one would come.”

  He decided it was time to start meeting the rest of the town. He remembered the Cozy Café from when he’d driven through Paris, no more than a few blocks away. It was one of the few buildings that wasn’t boarded up.

  “What do you think, Plato, want to go for a walk with me?” The collie wagged his tail. “Got to do something to get rid of this limp and these sore muscles. Nothing worse than a middle-aged priest who looks like he’s ready for an old people’s home.”

  Only one old pickup passed him on the way. He thought of the saying, “Only mad dogs and Englishmen venture out in the noon day sun.” He saw no one else. Sweat poured out of him and soaked his white T-shirt and jeans.

  His leg throbbed worse than ever as he entered the restaurant door. Inside, the café didn’t look too cozy, but it was cool and clean. Six tables with oilcloth covers and worn wooden chairs filled the space in front of a counter with seven stools. The only customers were four men sitting at the largest table nearest the counter. Two empty chairs at the table had dirty dishes in front of them, and the four men were drinking beer. One man was without a hat, but a line across his forehead indicated where a hat usually sat. One sweat-stained straw hat, a DeKalb, and a John Deere baseball cap remained atop the other three.

  The four locals watched as Jerry limped to the counter. He nodded to them and sat down on one of the middle stools. Immediately, a heavyset woman emerged through the swinging saloon doors in back. “What’ll ya have, hon?” Seeing Jerry looking up and down the counter, she pointed to a whiteboard above the coffee maker. “There’s the menu.” From the look on her face, she probably wanted to add, “stupid.”

  The menu was limited to chicken soup, chicken-fried steak, hot beef sandwich, and a hamburger. “How about a hamburger and fries?” he asked.

  “Ain’t got no fries. How about some chips?”

  “That’s fine and …” he glanced over at the round table and decided to imitate the others, “. . . a bottle of Coors.”

  The four men hadn’t said a word, even to each other. Rather than introduce himself, Jerry folded his hands on the counter and waited for the food. He could hear the hamburger sizzling on the grill.

  The waitress brought his beer without a glass and plopped it down in front of him. She didn’t say a word. Maybe the sign about this Paris being friendlier was a lie.

  His hamburger arrived along with a small bag of Fritos. The waitress stepped back and folded her arms across her ample chest. “You just passin’ through?”

  “No, ma’am, I’m just moving here.”

  “In that case, my name’s Mabel.
” Her face softened into a smile, and she extended her hand.

  He shook her hand. “I’m Jerry Haloran.”

  “Ain’t had anybody move in here for some time. What do ya do?”

  “I’m the new pastor at St. Patrick’s.”

  “Oh, so it’s Father Haloran, is it? I figgered they’d just close the place down after Father Blaise left. He weren’t worth much, but he did hold services, I guess. So, what do you think of our poor little rundown berg?”

  One of the men spoke up. “Aw, Mabel, don’t give ol’ Paris a bad name.”

  Jerry looked toward the speaker, who said, “Padre, why don’t ya join us? We’ll fill ya in about our paradise here. Mabel, do yer job and clean off this mess and make room for our newest resident.”

  The town’s new priest picked up his plate and beer, and stood for a minute while Mabel picked up the dishes and wiped off the table. The men appeared to be in their forties and fifties. As he sat down, the speaker touched the brim of his straw hat and put out his hand. “I’m Joe Gaffin.”

  Jerry gave him a firm handshake.

  “This here’s Paul Gilbride.” He pointed to the one with the John Deere hat, “Over there’s Carl Johnson.” Carl was the one with the De Kalb hat. Each man nodded toward Jerry. “And sitting next ta ya there is Bill Cochran. You’ll want to talk to him ‘cause he’s a bootleg Catholic. Needs some goosing about religion, I think.” Joe chuckled, took off the straw hat, and ran one hand through his hair.

  Jerry shook Bill’s hand, the only one he could reach without stretching across the table. “Glad to meet all of you.” He looked at Bill. “What’s he mean by ‘bootleg Catholic’?” He nodded toward Joe.

  Before Bill could respond, Joe blurted, “That’s somebody who goes to church only at Christmas, Easter, and when out-of-town relatives show up. Ain’t that right, Bill?”

  Bill looked at his beer and mumbled something like “I guess.”

  Jerry turned to Joe. “So, Joe, are you a bootleg something, or are you a regular something?”

  Carl chuckled. “Naw, Joe ain’t something, he’s a nothing.” Paul and Joe laughed with him, and even Bill smiled a bit.