Love By its First Name Page 14

  Kathy stood. “Yes, mother. Don’t forget, Dylan and I have to be there too.”

  Marge sat at the head of the table, Jerry on her left and Kathy and Dylan on her right. Kathy wanted to scream at Dylan when he put his hand on her leg but was sure that would only make things worse. She glanced at Jerry to see if he noticed and then began eating awkwardly with her left hand. Kathy felt like a teenager as she smiled and giggled at the young man’s inane comments about religion, music, and nearly everything. She wanted to shout, “Don’t be such a jerk and quit making me look like an idiot!”

  Jerry ate only a little and then excused himself, saying, “I still have some work to do to get ready for Mass. Thanks, Marge, for the dinner.”

  He acted as if she and Dylan weren’t even there. He’s mad at me, I’m sure, Kathy assumed.

  Dylan said, “See you at Mass, man.” Kathy smiled.

  Following Jerry to the car, Marge asked, “Are you upset about the article? More particularly, are you upset that I took the picture?”

  Jerry backed up and leaned against the car. “No, Marge, I’m not upset that you took the picture, more upset that they put it on the cover. And I’m upset with myself that I let Rebecca stay around and get information for it. When did you get your copy of the magazine?”

  “Thursday, I think. I thought of calling you but thought that you would talk about it when you were ready. When did you get yours?”

  “Don’t know. I opened three days’ mail this afternoon—the first time I’ve seen it.”

  “I talked to Rebecca yesterday. She asked me how you took it. I had to tell her I didn’t know. Are you going to call her?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it.”

  Marge put her arms around him and gave him a hug. “Jerry, I hope you won’t worry about it too much. I do think it is a good article, gives voice to your message, a message the world needs. Call Rebecca. She doesn’t want to hurt you.”

  Between his thoughts about the article and Kathy’s disappointing behavior with the Dylan character, Jerry had a difficult time concentrating on what he was doing at Mass. He was rather infuriated when Dylan, after sitting through the Mass with a smirk on his face, had the audacity to receive Communion. After Mass, Kathy and Dylan drove out to Marge’s. Marge could not find anyone to stay with her father, so she had stayed home. Dylan would drive Kathy’s car back to the rectory “later.” Jerry wondered if he was supposed to wait up for the little creep?

  After taking off his cassock, Jerry searched for the card Rebecca had left him. He didn’t know what he would say to her if she answered the phone. She probably wouldn’t answer on a Saturday evening. He punched in her number. The phone rang four times and the answering machine intoned her delightful voice, “This is Rebecca, please leave...” The message was interrupted by her live voice. “Sorry about that, I was in the other room. Who is this?”

  “Hello Rebecca, this is--”

  “Jerry, it’s so good to hear from you!” She sounded genuinely glad. “I was hoping you’d call. How did you like the article?”

  “Ah, the cover.”

  “Isn’t that a great picture? Marge took some great shots, don’t you think?”

  There’s only one, Jerry thought. What is she talking about? “Why did you put the picture on the cover?” He sounded angrier than he intended.

  “It wasn’t my idea. It was the editor’s, but I think it’s a great break from the usual cleavage-revealing bimbos. So, did you like the article?”

  “Not really. Rebecca, where did you get the picture of Melanie Kurtz and me? Oh, and of course you know that the caption under the little old house is a lie.” He just couldn’t get the anger out of his voice.

  Rebecca lost her initial cheerfulness. “A good reporter never reveals her sources and on the second point, my caption read: ‘A house similar to...’ The editor changed it because she said it made it more dramatic, and who would know the difference, except a few people in that dinky little town. By the way, Marge herself didn’t recognize it and she’s lived there all her life.”

  Jerry didn’t know what to say, so he remained silent. “Jerry, why are you so angry? I honestly thought the article was very positive and reflected you and your message quite well. So please tell me.”

  How could he tell her that he was in a near panic about facing the Bishop over it? “I, uh, just think it is, oh, a bit too much exposure.” The anger had been replaced by an overwhelming feeling of weariness.

  “Don’t you want the world to hear your message?”

  Again he remained silent.

  “Jerry, what the hell is wrong with you? Let me guess, you’re worried about what that Bishop of yours will think when the magazine goes on sale on Monday, aren’t you?” Now Rebecca was the one with the anger.

  He hated to admit it but finally uttered a weak “Yes.”

  “Well, you tell that old goat that five people who call themselves ‘fallenaway’ Catholics have already read it and said if they could find a priest like you around here, they’d go back to church in a minute. So there!”

  He smiled a little as he could picture her sticking out her tongue when she said “so there.” “I don’t think that would help with this Bishop.”

  “Well, I think it is a good article and I pictured you as a courageous man. That, I’m now thinking, was a lie! You gave a wonderful sermon and are doing great work in that little backwater town. You are afraid of what some stuffed shirt thinks about an honest article about you and your message? Jerry Haloran, I think you’re a coward!” With that, she hung up the phone.

  He sat staring at the telephone and muttered aloud, “You’re right, Rebecca, but you really don’t understand.” He was startled as the phone rang. He reluctantly picked it up and said a weary “Hello. “

  Rebecca, still sounding angry, said, “I talked to Alice Peterson yesterday. I sent her an advance copy like I did you and Marge. She thought the article would stir up a hornet’s nest, as she put it, but that it was a wonderful piece and that the nest needed to be stirred. I respect her opinion more than yours.” Again she hung up.

  All day Sunday, he felt like a huge axe was hanging over his head. He had his usual Sunday dinner with the Rev. Bill Johnson and his wife but didn’t discuss the article, he’d wait to see what their reaction would be. Maybe they wouldn’t even buy a copy.

  When he returned to the rectory, he fed Plato and tried to get lost in a mystery novel but kept thinking alternately of Kathy with her new friend and the damned article.

  Around ten, he let Plato out for his evening break. He again sat down and tried to get into the novel. He heard a couple of cars drive by and one seemed to have backfired.

  It made enough noise to startle him a little. He looked at his watch: it was ten-twenty. Time for Plato to come back in. He turned on the porch light and opened the front door. He called, “Here Plato. Here Plato, come on boy.” Usually the dog responded immediately. He called again and then stepped out onto the porch. He thought he heard some kind of noise over by the church. Because of a coming storm, there was no light from the moon or stars and the porch light didn’t reach very far. Although the visibility was low, he saw what he thought was the outline of a pick-up truck.

  He hurriedly walked to the kitchen and got a flashlight and went back to the door. He stepped outside just in time to see the pick-up spin its wheels and speed away. Still wondering what had happened to Plato, he headed toward the church with the flashlight moving back and forth in front of him. He had gone only a few steps when he saw the lettering on the side of the church: BEWARE THE ANTI-CHRIST WHO HATES THE UNBORN! HE’S GONNA DIE! The lettering was in red and large enough to take up nearly the entire length of the building. Strangely, Jerry was not nearly as upset by the message, as he was about messing up the newly painted church, and his worry about . Plato. Where was the dog?

  He frantically beamed the flashlight all around, and finally seeing a movement over near where the pick-up had been
, he headed that way. Plato was lying on his side. The dog whimpered as Jerry knelt down near him. He touched his head as he moved the light over his body. Plato was bleeding from a wound on the upper right, back leg. “Oh my God, Plato. They hurt you!” Tears came to Jerry’s eyes as he examined the leg more closely. The dog had been shot! He quickly pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wrapped it tightly around the leg—over the wound, just as had been done for him at the abortion protest.

  Jerry stood up and said, “I’ll be right back, ol’ boy. I’ll get the car.” Plato whimpered as if he understood. Although Paris did not have a medical doctor, it did have a veterinarian (Animals outnumbered people about a hundred to one in Paris county.)

  Jerry grabbed an old plastic tarp from the trunk and placed it over the back seat, and then backed the car up to near where Plato lay. He figured the less he moved him the better it would be. Plato weighed about seventy pounds and it was quite a struggle getting him into the car. Just as he was about to pull out of the yard, he thought he better call the vet.

  Again he addressed the dog, “I’ll be right back, big fella.”

  As the mild-mannered man examined Plato, Jerry continued to stroke the dog’s head and unabashedly let the tears fall. As he had done so many times in the past six months, he realized how easily he cried since Melanie’s death.

  The vet straightened up, after cleansing and bandaging the wound, and said, “Well, Father, he’s lost a lot of blood, but his heart is good. He’s gonna make it. I’ll need to keep him overnight and then, if you like, you can take him home. He’ll have to stay in the house for a couple of weeks.” Bud looked at Jerry and smiled. “He means a lot to you doesn’t he?”

  “Yes he does. He’s been my lifesaver.”

  The vet looked puzzled but Jerry didn’t try to explain. Plato was asleep from an anesthetic, but Jerry patted him on the head and said, “See you in the morning, ol buddy.” He was very relieved that Plato was going to make it. He wasn’t sure what he would do if the dog had died. It would be like losing a child. He wondered if he would be able to tell anyone how much Plato meant to him and wondered, too, if anyone would understand if he tried.

  * * *

  On Tuesday morning, Jerry sat down on one of two stiff-backed chairs in the outer room of Bishop John Mazurski’s office. The summons from the Bishop came on Monday afternoon. Father Tom Preston, the vice-chancellor, was the messenger. “Father Haloran, the Bishop has received numerous calls today on the scandalous article about you that appeared in some women’s magazine. His Excellency wants to see you tomorrow morning at eleven.” Wanting to rub Preston the wrong way, Jerry had asked if the Bishop would be coming to Paris to meet with him. Preston officiously answered as if he was serious, “In the Bishop’s office at eleven.”

  He was more relaxed about this visit than he had been earlier, immediately after his now infamous sermon. Plato’s near-death, changed something for him, like whatever the Bishop’s reaction would be toward the magazine article, it wasn’t nearly as serious as Plato’s life—or, or course, anyone else’s.

  When he took Communion to Alice Peterson on Tuesday morning, he told her that he had been called into the Bishop’s office. She had taken his hand and said, “It’s about that article, isn’t it?” He nodded and she went on, “Now, Father Jerry, don’t you apologize for that article nor criticize Rebecca. It is a good article and you should be proud of yourself! I am proud of you.” For a moment there, he felt tears well up in him. He always wanted his own mother to use those words.

  Bishop Mazurski, short, nearly bald, and overweight, appeared in the doorway and said solemnly, “Come in, Father Haloran.”

  Jerry was sure that it was going to be a repeat of their meeting in June. He sat down on the chair in front of Mazurski’s oversized desk. He loosened his shoulders and relaxed his mind by smiling inwardly as he wondered if the Bishop’s penis was truly shriveled up.

  Mazurski’s hands shook as he picked up Women Today. “Now tell me, Father Haloran, what do you have to say about this?”

  “It tells me, Bishop, that we still have freedom of the press in this country.” Much as he disliked the publicity, he wasn’t going to give an inch to this pompous ass.

  “It was our agreement, was it not, that you would not talk to any member of the press or the media?” Mazurski sounded like he was about to explode.

  “If you read the article, Bishop, you would notice that there is not a single quote from me.”

  The Bishop thumbed through the magazine. Jerry would bet that he hadn’t read it, just heard rumblings from his conservative cronies. “Well, the writer does have a great deal of information about you. Did she visit Paris, Father Haloran?”

  “Yes she did.” Jerry again stifled a smile and added, “When she refused to leave I thought of having her arrested ... but I couldn’t think of any grounds to do so.”

  The chubby little man looked at him as if he were serious. “And what were her sources for all this, this, uh, garbage?”

  Feeling more than a little angry, Jerry wanted to ask, “So, the story of my life and my work is garbage?” Rather than fan the flames, he simply said, “Bishop, I wasn’t too pleased with the article. I called Ms. Brady and asked her about her sources. She gave the stock answer that a reporter does not reveal her sources.”

  “Well, I will have to take your word on this. It does go against the spirit of our agreement, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that, since I gave no interview nor made any speeches.”

  “Well, hmmmph. Father Haloran, another matter has come to my attention and it is this: I understand that you are giving Communion to non-Catholics at some kind of rock-concert Mass you are having out there. Is that true?”

  Jerry would have liked to tell him that he truly believed that Communion should be a sign of love and unity among all people, but the Bishop would not agree and that would lead to even more conflict. The priest decided to hedge. “Bishop, since I have been in Paris, over thirty people who had ceased attending Mass for years, have returned. Should I give them the third degree to make sure that they were practicing Catholics at one time?” He was telling the truth as far as it went, but knew that many more who were not Catholic did receive Communion.

  “Well, be vigilant on this matter. You know the Church’s teachings on this subject. I would like to return to the article. I want you to explain to your people at St. Patrick’s that you no longer hold the views given in that sermon that was quoted in that article.”

  “That would be a lie, Bishop. I do still hold those views. I will not give such a sermon.”

  Bishop Mazurski turned almost purple. “And I suppose that if I insist that you do or be suspended from the priesthood, you, again, will threaten to hold a press conference and announce to the world what has happened.”

  “Yes, Bishop, I would do that. I believe I am a very dedicated priest who is doing the work of Jesus Christ and I will do all in my power to continue to do so.”

  “You may be dedicated, but I’m not sure to what. Father Haloran, you are a free thinker!”

  He was so loud, Jerry was sure the secretary could hear him. “Thank you, Bishop.”

  “Thank me, for what?”

  Jerry got up from his chair. “For calling me a ‘free thinker.’ I think that is why God gave me a mind. Good day, Bishop.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Happy the man who discovers wisdom, the man who gains discernment.

  Proverbs 3:l3

  On Sunday evening as Jerry sat at the dinner table in the home of Rev. Bill and Gail Johnson, he thought about how different his life would be if he had a wife and two young children to share it with. He stared at Gail but averted his eyes as soon as he realized he was staring. He sometimes wondered if he looked forward to Sunday evenings so he could gaze at the beautiful minister’s wife rather than engage in the stimulating conversations he had with her husband. The priest hoped his look was not lustful, even if, he was ashamed
to admit, it was.

  After dinner, Jerry dried the dishes after Bill washed them while Gail took care of the kids. They spent an hour and a half in Bill’s tiny ‘den’ working on plans for the teen center. Jerry found himself dreading going back to the empty rectory when they were finished. Gail didn’t help much when, just before he left, she asked, “Isn’t it lonely going home to an empty house?”

  He mumbled, “Yeah, sometimes.” That definitely was an understatement. He thought of Kathy, Marge, and even Rebecca and mentally chided himself for it. As he drove back to the rectory, he felt lonelier than he had felt in weeks. It had been a hellish few days. Rebecca had sent a hundred copies of the magazine with his picture on the cover to Sy Peterson and the storekeeper had beamed when he told Jerry that it had sold out in three days. “Never made so much off a magazine before. Father Jerry, you’ve put ol’ Paris on the map.”

  From what he could tell, the article was generally well received by most of the townspeople. Two of the ministers called and told him he was a disgrace to the “cloth.” A few old people had refused to greet him at the post office, but more were like Sy, congratulating him for making the news. He guessed most people had accepted his history months ago and so the magazine article wasn’t such a surprise.

  Marge was visiting Alice Peterson when he returned from his meeting with the Bishop. He told them about the meeting, including his threat to hold a press conference. He smiled to himself as he thought of Marge clapping and Alice attempting to join her with her frail little hands and arms when he told them he thanked the Bishop for calling him a ‘free thinker.’

  Jerry slammed the car door and locked it, a habit he had begun only after last Sunday’s vandalism. He had painted over the graffiti that night before sunrise. He glanced over at the church and was relieved to see that there were no new words painted on its side.

  He had begun keeping Plato in the house while he was away. The vet had said, “He’ll be a bit lame for a few weeks, so he should take it easy.” The poor dog needed to be protected from whomever had shot him and he needed time to heal. As Jerry opened the rectory door, Plato greeted him at the door with his tail wagging so rapidly he nearly fell over. Jerry knelt and held the dog’s head in both hands, “You’re a great guy, Plato. Who would want to hurt a fellow like you?” Since the first week in Paris, he had been talking to the dog as if he understood every word he said. He headed for the bathroom. “Well, Plato, it’s been a week since those jerks came by. Think they’ll try again?” He patted him lightly on the head.