Love By its First Name Read online

  “Well, Rebecca, how has your life’s journey been since last week—Tuesday wasn’t it, because you had to go someplace on Wednesday?”

  Rebecca nodded. “Well, since our last meeting I went to Paris and met the man of my dreams!” She smiled broadly.

  Marilyn turned her head to the side and looked at her questioningly. “And you’re putting me on, right?”

  “Nope, as they say in Paris. That’s what I did.”

  “Nope, as they say in Paris? I thought they spoke French in Paris.”

  “Not in the Paris I went to.”

  “Okay, Rebecca. Tell me where this Paris is located and then tell me about your dream man.”

  “I went to Paris, Kansas, a little burg of less than a thousand people. If you would have told me ever before in my life that I would enjoy spending three days in a little run-down farm town like that, I would have said you were crazy. But, honestly Marilyn, it was one of the most enjoyable and eventful weekends of my life.” Rebecca decided to wait to tell her about Father Jerry and went on to describe Alice and Sy Peterson, Marge Woerner, Ricky Alexander, and Kathy Olson. “Those five people are some of the most real people I have ever met.”

  “And who is the man of your dreams? Is he in Paris, Kansas, too?”

  Rebecca gave her a wistful smile. “Yes, he is.”

  “Rebecca, stop playing games. Tell me!”

  “He is the reason I went to that godforsaken poor little town in the first place.” She reached down, picked up her purse from the floor, and took out a small stack of photos. She picked out two pictures—one close-up of Jerry with his straw hat and faded plaid shirt and the other of him astride the gray horse. She grinned as she handed them to the psychologist.

  Marilyn looked puzzled. “He looks like the Marlboro man.”

  “He does, doesn’t he?” She chose two more pictures. First she handed Marilyn the one showing the priest with Ricky Alexander. “That’s the boy, Ricky Alexander, with the cowboy.” Rebecca smiled as she handed Marilyn the picture of Jerry giving his sermon.

  Marilyn studied the picture for some time. “So, Rebecca, the man you met is a priest? A Catholic priest?”

  Rebecca relaxed back in her chair. “Yep!”

  “Yep, as they say in Paris, Kansas?”

  “Yep.” They both laughed.

  “So tell me about this priest. Is he the one who turned you into a comedian?”

  “He didn’t turn me into a comedian but he and they helped me take myself less seriously, Alice Peterson especially. My assignment was to write an article about the priest. He was wounded at an anti-abortion demonstration a few months ago and then gave a sermon condemning his Church’s position on all kinds of sexual issues.”

  “I think I read about him. In Aberdeen, Kansas, right?”

  Rebecca nodded and went on to tell Marilyn her impressions of Father Jerry Haloran, his work, and people’s reactions to him. Marilyn put a hand to her chin. “Do you know, Rebecca, you sound like someone who is talking about a boyfriend or at least a potential boyfriend?”

  Rebecca felt her face flush. My lord, she never thought of it like that but ... that does explain the way she had been feeling. She left Paris feeling high, then down, then up, then...

  Marilyn interrupted her reverie, “Where are you going, Rebecca?”

  She shook her head as if in a daze. “I don’t know.”

  “About what?”

  “About what you just said—that I’m talking about Jerry like he was a potential boy-friend. I, I like him but.”

  “He’s a priest? You just called him ‘Jerry.’ Why is that?”

  “We had a number of talks and at one point I asked him if I could just call him ‘Jerry.’ He was okay with that.”

  “So what is it about him that you like?”

  Rebecca was sure she looked as confused as she felt. “I’m not sure. I think he reminds me of Paul Brady.

  “Your first stepfather, the one man you truly felt close to. What is it about this priest that reminds you of him?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe it’s his gentleness.”

  “It sounds like you felt very comfortable with the priest. I wonder if part of the comfort was due to the fact that he isn’t available?”

  “Maybe. Anyway, I’ll probably never see him again. But it is a nice dream. I know there is one man in the world I could relate to, now I just need to find a second, huh?”

  “Have you written the article about him?”

  “I finished a rough draft yesterday. I should get it finalized this week. But there’s something about the man that I can’t quite capture.”

  “Like why a man like that would be celibate?”

  “Yes, I wonder about that, too. But there’s something else. He seems so dedicated to doing good, like he’s driven by something. Or, maybe, he is just good in a way I find hard to believe.”

  Dr. Fisher stroked her chin and smiled, “Well, I think that somehow this Paris experience has done something for you. Let yourself think about it and ... well, there’s some kind of message for you in all this. Next week you can let me know what it is. I’m looking forward to reading the article.”

  * * *

  Kathy stepped out of the shower and looked at herself in the mirror. She disapproved of her figure, as usual. Her sister, growing up, called her ‘flubber butt’, and called her fat. Her breasts definitely were too large. She always looked at pictures of models in newspapers and magazines and they were all so thin. The only ones that seemed to look like her at all, were the ones showing off ‘full-figured’ bras and panties. She couldn’t tell for sure but she was almost sure that the reporter doing the article on Father Jerry was built more like a model than she was. And what a beautiful face and that long black hair. Jerry had to notice how beautiful she is. He was really paying attention to her. And Marge let it slip that they had gone horseback riding together. That skunk had never gone riding with me, damn it!

  She stuck her tongue out at herself and vowed to talk to Jerry about that witch when she got back to Paris on Saturday. She looked at the digital clock on the dresser and told herself to get dressed in a hurry, skip breakfast and get to her first class, psychology. Yeah, some psychology. It was mostly about rats and pigeons. It sure wouldn’t help her understand herself or that priest. He wasn’t the right kind of rat.

  CHAPTER 9

  Pull me out of this swamp; let me sink no further,

  let me escape those who hate me; save me from deep water!

  Psalm 69:l4

  On a cold first Saturday of November that hinted of snow, Jerry entered the rectory and took off his black suit coat and clerical collar. He had worn his clerical attire to look ‘official’ for the Methodist church council meeting. They wanted to know about his and ‘their’ Reverend Johnson’s plans for the teen center that they hoped to open in an abandoned building downtown. There were three men, including Sheriff Joe Gaffin, and four women present, plus Reverend Bill Johnson and himself. Jerry had been put on the defensive immediately by one of the men asking about his Saturday evening “service.” Was he trying to lure their children away from the Methodist faith, he wanted to know. Jerry wasn’t sure he had convinced them that he had no intention of doing so and even had encouraged them to participate more fully in their home church.

  Even after the sheriff assured the group that he would make sure there were no drugs or alcohol in and around the center, they thought that they needed to study the matter further. One council member implied that perhaps working with Catholics on the project would harm the church. Jerry hated feeling defensive as well as the suspicious reception he had received—with the exception of the minister and Joe Gaffin.

  He threw the mail he had picked up on the way home on the desk without looking at it. It lay atop Thursday and Friday’s mail, also unopened. Hearing a car pull into the driveway, he looked out the window and saw Kathy’s Toyota. He always looked forward to her Saturday visits, even though he still struggled with the s
exual feelings that arose in him. Two weeks ago, before she left to go to Marge’s, she had given him a different kind of hug. It had a seemingly desperate kind of feel to it. She held him tight for over a minute and then pushed him away. She sounded sad as she said, “I wish it could be different between us, Jerry.” He didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. Maybe today he could ask her what she meant.

  Someone was with her. A young man with long hair pulled back in a ponytail got out of the car and waited for Kathy to come around to his side. When she joined him, he took her hand and headed for the house. Who the hell is that and what is he doing holding her hand? Jerry thought. He couldn’t figure out if he was feeling jealous or more like a concerned father. He couldn’t be her “boyfriend” and, damnit; he didn’t want anyone else to be either. The young man looked around and said something to her that Jerry couldn’t hear.

  He opened the door and went out on the porch, attempting to look cheerful. “Hi, Kathy.” He gave her his customary hug but more perfunctory than usual.

  “Jerry, I’d like you to meet Dylan Bradford. Dylan, this is Father Jerry, the one I’ve told you so much about.”

  Dylan, not much taller than Kathy, wore a baggy unbuttoned shirt over a white tee shirt. He gripped Jerry’s hand almost hard enough to make him wince and said, “Nice to meetcha, man. Kath talks a lot about you.”

  Jerry withdrew his hand and resisted the urge to shake off some of the pain. Already he found himself disliking the little weasel—with his pretentious handshake, hippy look, calling Kathy, “Kath,” and the smarmy smile. Did Kathy dredge him up in the past two weeks? Or was he somehow in her life before her last visit?

  “Dylan is a music major at K-State and has volunteered to help me with the kids. Isn’t that wonderful?” Kathy looked star struck at the young man.

  “Sure, that’s great. Welcome to Paris, Dylan.” Yeah, Haloran, be the all-loving, kindly pastor, he thought to himself. The little jerk has no interest in the kids’ music; he just wants to be with this beautiful young woman.

  Of course, Kathy noticed his lack of enthusiasm and frowned. “We stopped by Marge’s on the way. She said she would cook dinner for us and would like for you to join us. Could you?” She sounded like a teenager asking good ol’ dad to join her and her date. “Oh, and Jerry, would it be okay if Dylan spent the night in your spare room? I told him I was sure it would be okay.”

  He wondered how he could say “no” to these requests without coming across as an old grouch or offending her. He didn’t want to eat with the little creep or have him in the house. He wondered if her request that he sleep in the rectory meant that she wasn’t sleeping with him, or was it just a way of not looking bad to Marge and him? He kept all this to himself and, without smiling, said, “Sure, I’ll join you for dinner. Dylan, you can use the spare bed. You can bring your stuff in now, if you like.” Put some warmth and enthusiasm in your voice, Haloran, Jerry commanded himself. Don’t be such a prig, she isn’t your daughter or girlfriend, just a friend, so be friendly.

  After Dylan brought in his small overnight bag and scowled at the dinky guestroom, he and Kathy went over to the church to join the kids. Jerry went into the office and stared at the mail. He sat down and wondered why he was so upset with Kathy bringing a young man with her? How would he feel if someone else had brought him? Was he jealous? Of course not! Another voice entered his head, Come off it, Haloran, you want to be Kathy’s one-and-only even if you won’t admit it. He told the voice to shut up and that she was just a friend who was free to do whatever she wanted.

  More to distract himself than from any genuine interest in the mail, he took out a letter opener and began to slit the envelopes. The bottom item was a large manila envelope with Women Today letterhead and “Rebecca Brady” written underneath. He opened it and pulled out the magazine.

  “HOLY SHIT!” he shouted as he looked at the cover, a full-color picture of himself sitting astride Marge’s gray horse. In bold white letters across the bottom of the picture were the words: NOBLE KNIGHT OF THE PRAIRIE.

  A post-it note was attached: “Hi Jerry. I hope you enjoyed the gift I sent you for hosting me over that weekend. This is an early copy of the mag.—it will probably go on sale next Monday. Hope you like it—note: no quotes. Rebecca.” Gift? Early Copy? He looked at the envelope. It was postmarked the previous Monday. He remembered that there was a card in his post office box notifying him that he had a package. Each morning he had picked up the mail before the window had opened. He meant to go back and get the parcel but kept forgetting, until today.

  Well, let’s see what the little lady said about me, he thought. Noble knight! He wondered who came up with that. He opened the magazine to the article. First he glanced at the pictures. A smaller version of the cover picture appeared on the first page of the story. The caption read: “No, he’s not the Marlboro man, he’s Father Jerry Haloran.” Oh, Lord! At the bottom of the page was a picture of him giving the sermon on that Saturday evening. The following page had a picture of the house-shack near where Ricky Alexander lived. The caption for that picture stated: “The house where Father Haloran grew up in Henning, Nebraska.” Damnit, Rebecca, that’s a lie! On the same page, he was atop the steeple putting up the cross: “The cowboy-priest is a carpenter!”

  He hoped the article was better than the stupid captions. He started reading. The article digested his now-infamous sermon criticizing the Church’s teachings on birth control, masturbation, homosexuality, abortion, and his plea for more comprehensive sex education. He turned to page fifty-six. More pictures, starting with a picture of the two houses in Aberdeen, one he had bought when he was eighteen and the one behind it that he had built when he was twenty-one. Where could she have learned about that? The center picture was the one from the Aberdeen paper showing him grappling with the woman with the gun. The blood from his wound covered his pant leg. His hands shook as he saw a picture of himself with Melanie Kurtz. He quickly scanned the page to see what Rebecca had said about Melanie and himself. He breathed a sigh of relief as he noticed that she only mentioned that the teen’s tragic death had affected him deeply, another tragedy only one week prior to his being shot at the pro-life demonstration. He opened the desk drawer and took out the picture of Melanie. Yes, it’s the same one. How did Rebecca get a duplicate? Surely she didn’t get it from Angela Kurtz. He then noticed that Melanie’s poem was in a sidebar at the bottom of the page. And where did she get this? He wondered. On the same page was a picture of Kathy singing at Mass. The caption read: “The beautiful music coach at St. Patrick’s.” She was mentioned only in the lively description of the Youth Mass, including the priest’s throwing Kenny Gaffin out of the church for being ‘disrespectful.’ Rebecca described the incident including the hat, the thumping and the ‘f ... you’ remark.

  Turning the page, he saw a picture of Ricky and himself obviously singing. He had forgotten that Rebecca was taking pictures at that time. Ricky’s moving poem appeared on the same page. The last page showed pictures of the ultra-modern and large St. Gabriel’s church as well as Paris’ little church. He read the text near the pictures: “Was Father Haloran transferred to the small parish as punishment for his rather unorthodox sermon? A few people indicated that this was the case but no one would go on record stating it was so. An element of fear seemed to prevail when questions about the internal workings of the administration of the Diocese of Aberdeen were raised. The Bishop of Aberdeen, John Mazurski, refused to be interviewed for this article.”

  The article concluded: “Father Jerry Haloran wrote on his ordination card: ‘No matter what great things a man may do in life, unless he becomes a loving person, his life is a failure.’ In observing him and talking to those who know him well, one cannot help but applaud the wonderful work he has done, and is doing, as a priest. He is, indeed, a noble knight and loving person.”

  Jerry looked at that last sentence for some time. He muttered, “Am I a loving person? Rebecca, I’m not so sure y
ou haven’t jumped to conclusions.” He glanced at his watch and realized he needed to get over to the church for confessions. As he headed out the door he thought that the cover alone would be enough to get him an audience with the Bishop. Some of the tension drained from him as he walked to the church.

  Kathy and Dylan were pouring over the Women Today article when Father Jerry arrived at Marge’s house. They both looked up and grinned. Dylan said, “Hey man, you’re a celebrity. Good article, huh?”

  He doesn’t look too pleased, Kathy thought.

  “I don’t know—haven’t decided yet,” Jerry answered non-committedly.

  Marge entered from the kitchen. “So, you’ve read it. I think Rebecca has captured your story pretty well.” She smiled. “Maybe she portrays you a little too saintly but other than that... What do you think?”

  “Like I said, I don’t know yet.” His tone was rather accusatory as he said, “Marge, Rebecca asked you to take those pictures of me on the horse, didn’t she?”

  She smiled, “Yes. Pretty good for an amateur, don’t you think?”

  Kathy chimed in, “Marge, they’re marvelous! Did you know you were taking a cover photo?”

  Marge continued to look at Jerry questioningly and answered, “No, and I don’t think Rebecca did, either. Jerry, give us an honest opinion about the article.”

  “It worries me a bit.”

  Kathy thought he looked more like he was about to have a panic attack.

  “I’m sure I’ll get a call from the Bishop on Monday—as soon as that rag hits the stands.”

  “Rag, rag?” Kathy feigned outrage. “I’m going to tell Rebecca on you. So what more can the Bishop do to you? He’s already sent you to the dinkiest parish in the diocese.”

  “I don’t know. We’ll see.”

  Marge took Jerry’s hand and pulled him toward the kitchen. “Come on, children, we have to eat fast, our Noble Knight here has to get back for the Youth Mass.”