Love By its First Name Page 2

  The easy camaraderie was noticeable and pleasant. Again, the feeling of sadness came over Jerry as he thought of the comfortable way he and his closest friend, Wayne at St. Gabriel’s, had always gotten along. He wondered how long before these men would accept him as one of them, or if they ever would.

  “How did Paris get its name?” Jerry wondered out loud.

  That opened the floodgates. For half an hour, the four men talked about themselves and quite a bit about Paris, the town and county. Joe did most of the talking. Carl had a farm west of town. Paul was the mayor, lived in town but farmed south of town. Bill ran the ramshackle lumberyard across the street.

  “Keep telling him to fix that damn heap of a lumberyard up ‘fore it falls down,” Joe said.

  “Yep, Father,” Paul finally piped in, “yer sittin’ among the big-wigs of Paris. Joe here is the county sheriff.”

  Joe pulled a badge out of his shirt pocket to verify the statement.

  Seems that Paris was named after “ol man Paris” who, at one time, owned “damn near” the whole county. It is the county seat and once had nearly 2,000 people. That was before World War II, when there were lots of small farms and people didn’t travel a hundred miles to get their supplies. Paris even had a daily passenger train until l948. Now the only industry around was an egg ranch and large dairy—both owned by some out-of-town “fellers.” The town of Paris now had a little over 900 people, and Paris County had around 3,000 people, “all told.”

  The priest noticed the men had been studying him all through the discussion, but he already felt at home with them, like going back in time to the small plains town, where he spent most of his childhood.

  The new arrival’s comfort level evaporated when Carl asked, “Ain’t I seen you on television some time ago? Can’t remember what it was all about, though.”

  Jerry looked around the group, and Carl seemed the only one interested in the question. Maybe he could buy some time. “Yes, I was on television back in May. I’ll tell you all about it one of these days.”

  One of the things he appreciated about small towns was that people seldom pried into other people’s affairs, at least to their face. Suddenly he remembered poor Plato outside in the heat. Looking outside, he saw the dog watching him expectantly. “Excuse me a minute. I need to get my dog some water; I didn’t know I’d be in here so long.” He asked Mabel for a pan of water and took it to Plato, then retuned.

  Joe asked, “You a city boy?”

  “I’ve been a city boy since I was 16. Paris reminds me of Henning, Nebraska, where I grew up. Might have been even a little smaller.”

  “Henning’s up there in the corner near Wyoming, ain’t it?” Paul said.

  “That’s where it is. Haven’t been back there in over twenty years.”

  “I’ll be damned!” Paul took off his hat and ran a hand through his balding hair, then replaced the hat. He looked at Jerry, deep in thought. “Ya know, I was up in Nebraska last week, visiting the wife’s kinfolk. One of her uncles told a story about a young fella, just a kid I guess, who killed his pa while the old man was beating up his ma. Think he said it was some twenty-five or thirty years ago.” Paul scratched the back of his head. “I’m pretty sure the guy said it was Henning. The uncle said the kid was one of the finest youngsters he’d ever known. Damnedest thing I ever heard. Didja ever hear anything about that?”

  A chill went down Jerry’s spine. “Yes, I remember it.” His voice was soft as he studied his empty beer bottle for a moment. He looked around the table. Sadness, anger, shame, all welled up in him at once, almost more powerfully than he was able to handle. “I was that young feller,” he said, almost in a whisper.

  CHAPTER 2

  But tell me, where does wisdom come from? Where is understanding to be found?

  The road to it is still unknown to man, not to be found in the land of the living.

  Book of Job, 28, ll:l3

  Rebecca Brady had mixed emotions about volunteering as a writing mentor to abandoned or abused teenage girls, but a promise was a promise. The truth was Helene Walker, her closest friend and Director of the young women’s shelter, could sell snow to Eskimos, and besides, it was a good cause.

  Helene was waiting for her in the lobby when Rebecca burst through the front door, late as usual. “Sorry,” the tall journalist said out of breath, “I thought I had enough time, but I forgot about St. Louis morning rush-hour traffic.”

  “Don’t worry about it. After all these years, if there’s one thing I know about you and time; there’s regular time and then there’s ‘Becky-time.’ I told the girls to expect you about 9:15, so technically, you’re right on time.”

  Rebecca scowled and took a deep breath, stuffing keys into her purse. “That’s really embarrassing—’Becky-time’? How long has that been going on?”

  Helene smiled. “It’s not a big deal. Come on.” She hurried across the lobby. “To Rene and Denise you’re a big-time reporter and role model who’s taken time from her busy schedule for them.” She entered a set of numbers into a computerized door lock, opened a set of double-doors, then waited for Rebecca.

  “Are those their names?”

  “Yes. Just remember, they’re kids—despite how tough they may try to act. Rene is sixteen, both parents dead; she’s here because she’s under arrest for prostitution. Denise is also sixteen and came here after her father shot and killed her mother and baby sister.”

  Rebecca closed both eyes and shook her head. “Are you sure I’m the person for this job? I have to tell you that right now I feel about as inadequate to help these two girls as Ann Sullivan must have felt after her first day with Helen Keller.”

  Helene stopped in front of a single door. “You’ll be fine, Rebecca.” She turned and gave her friend a quick hug. “You’re always putting yourself down. Trust me, I wouldn’t let just anyone spend time with these girls. You have so much more going for you than you even realize.” Helene walked to the door. “I’ll introduce you, get the three of you settled in, and then I’ll leave. If things go badly, just push the buzzer on the inside door jam of this door. Someone will be there within ten seconds.”

  * * *

  As Rebecca drove back to the downtown St. Louis offices of Women Today, she shook her shoulders to rid herself of some of the sadness that seeped into her bones from listening to Rene and Denise’s stories. She had a hard time holding back the tears but chuckled when she remembered how Rene kept challenging her to talk about her love life. “Tell us about yer fuckin’,” the sixteen-year-old had said. “You do fuck don’t you?”

  Rebecca realized her embarrassment was indicative of how uptight she had been with the girls. She wished she could have laughed or at least smiled, instead of being outraged at Rene’s goading. The two girls had definitely touched her, and they were going to teach her a lot more than she would ever teach them.

  Women Today occupied the entire eighth floor of an attractive glass and steel building that also housed attorneys and high-tech companies. The upscale magazine had been creeping up in the women’s magazine market, closing in on the fifth spot in circulation and paid subscriptions. Rebecca felt personally proud that it had more articles of substance than any of the other mainstream women’s magazines.

  Before entering the office, Rebecca made a detour to the women’s room. She brushed her shoulder-length black hair and touched up her makeup. She stood back from the mirror and straightened her light rose summer suit, wondering if Denise had been admiring her or her clothes when she said she was beautiful.

  Rene then scolded Denise, “Quit staring at her clothes, Midget, she ain’t gonna give ‘em to ya.” Almost anything would have been better than the faded old print dress Denise wore. Rebecca made a mental note to ask Helene if it would be okay to take the girls shopping one day soon.

  Sitting down at her computer, she pulled up her article on the children’s conference in Washington. Just as it appeared on the screen, Gayle Matthews, the editor, entered, dressed
in a dark green suit with matching earrings. She was a bit overweight, but it only added to her commanding presence. She plopped down on the chair next to Rebecca. “I’ve been looking for you. You’re late.”

  “I told you I’d be late on Monday. Getting forgetful in your old age?”

  Easy banter was the way these two women communicated and one of the many things that made Rebecca’s job pleasant. “So, why have you been looking for me, other than to chew me out?”

  “How’s your article on the children coming?”

  “Pretty well. I should have it wrapped up this afternoon, tomorrow at the latest. Then, I’m supposed to do that article on the so-called ‘demise of women’s liberation.’ But I can tell you have something else in mind.”

  “Of course. We have to keep you out of mischief, you know.” Gayle handed the folder to Rebecca.

  Rebecca opened it and saw a number of newspaper clippings. “So what do we have here?”

  Gayle chuckled. “A trip to Paris.”

  Rebecca only smiled, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Now that does sound interesting. I’ve never been to Paris.”

  “This Paris isn’t in France, it’s in Kansas.”

  Her smile faded. “Kansas?”

  “Oh, Kansas isn’t so bad. Remember I grew up and went to college in Lawrence, so be careful what you say about my home state.”

  The reporter put the folder on her lap. “It’s still not France. So what’s the big deal in Paris, Kansas?”

  “I don’t know how big ‘the deal’ is, but it’s about a Catholic priest. Read these articles and I think you’ll agree he’ll make a great story. One of the main themes will be the abortion issue.”

  “Come on, Gayle, we’ve been over this before a 100 times. Remember I turned down the trip to Florida when they had the shootings down there. I’m too pro-choice to be objective on abortion.”

  “The priest will be the main focus, not abortion. Remember what happened two years ago? I went against my better judgment and sent little Miss Eager-Beaver; she brought back a superficial piece not worth spit. I want something about this guy that has depth and scope and a personal angle, and you’re just the one to do it. You’re a professional and know how to put your biases aside and write a good story.”

  “Isn’t there anyone else? How about Sheila Vernon? She’s a good writer and a Catholic to boot, so she’d know something about priests. I’ve never even talked to a priest in my entire life.”

  Gayle reached over and touched Rebecca’s head. “Hello? Sheila is eight months pregnant.”

  Rebecca gave her editor a resigned look; a moment from her childhood flashed through her memory. “Okay, Gayle, for you—only for you.”

  “You look like I just stole your Easter basket. What’s the matter? “

  She couldn’t look her boss in the eye. “Nothing.”

  “So, are you going to do it or not?”

  “I suppose,” Rebecca answered without enthusiasm.

  After lunch Rebecca finished the article on the children’s conference and put it on Gayle’s desk. She then decided to look over the papers in the folder Gayle left, even before beginning her research on the women’s movement. The first one was from a May issue of the Aberdeen, Kansas, Daily News. The headline read, “PRIEST SAVES LIFE OF ABORTION DOCTOR” and described how Father Gerard Haloran, age 42, had saved Dr. Justin Breen from being shot by a woman from Oklahoma. The priest sustained multiple gunshot wounds in one leg and was in serious condition in Aberdeen’s Mercy Hospital. Two pictures accompanied the article: one showing the assailant behind the priest, a middle-aged woman carrying a sign: “Dr. Breen is a Baby Murderer.” The other picture showed a grimacing priest wrestling the woman to the ground.

  According to the article, the demonstration was one of the largest ever held in the United States. Dr. Breen was the target because he was one of the few physicians in the entire Midwest who performed third trimester abortions. The St. Louis Post-Dispatch and even the New York Times had articles on the incident. Rebecca couldn’t believe she’d missed the original articles in the St. Louis papers. Three weeks after the shooting, the Aberdeen paper had a second article about Father Jerry Haloran. The headlines read, “HERO PRIEST BLASTS HIS CHURCH.” The lengthy article outlined how the priest gave an impassioned sermon, contradicting Catholic teachings on masturbation, birth control, homosexuality, and abortion.

  On the last subject, the priest didn’t seem to be pro-abortion but believed it was not immoral under certain conditions—not such an outrageous stance as far as Rebecca was concerned, but maybe it was for a priest. She’d have to look into that. Evidently, it was newsworthy enough to deserve small articles in the Chicago Tribune and New York Times as well as the St. Louis papers.

  Rebecca re-read the Aberdeen article, noted the Jeff Heathcote byline and circled the name; the article sounded as if the reporter had been there to hear the priest. He noted Haloran enjoyed a reputation as one of the outstanding priests of the diocese—on track to become a bishop, according to sources. But, according to Heathcote, the May speech ended such talk. She made a note to look up the reporter.

  The last article in the folder was a small notice from an inside page of the Aberdeen paper, “DISGRUNTLED PRIEST EXILED.” The piece stated that Father Gerard Haloran had been “re-assigned” to Paris, Kansas, a hamlet over one hundred miles northwest of Aberdeen. The notice had been dated one week after the sermon.

  So, Rebecca thought, the sermon outraged the church authorities enough to get him sent to the boondocks. What had happened with the priest? What turned him from one of the fair-haired boys to an outcast? Why did he risk giving such a sermon? He appears at an anti-abortion demonstration, then, three weeks later, blasts his church on that very issue, as well as other church teachings having to do with sexuality.

  She returned to the first article and studied the two pictures. This Father Haloran doesn’t look too happy as he studies the lady with the sign. In fact, he looks almost as tormented in this first picture as he does in the second one after being shot. He’s obviously a tall man and well built, but she couldn’t really tell from all his facial expressions what he looked like.

  “Well, Gayle Matthews,” she muttered to herself, “I think we might just have an unusual story here.”

  CHAPTER 3

  If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you.

  Gospel of Thomas

  Jerry took a deep breath to hold down the panicky feelings that arose in him when the man named Paul, sitting at the Cozy Café in Paris, Kansas, mentioned that “a young fella, just a kid I guess, killed his pa while the old man was beating up his ma” twenty-some years ago. It was an accident and only his mother and the parish priest knew he had anything to do with it.

  Even without closing his eyes, he was fourteen years old and helping his dad finish a big remodeling job on one of only three nice houses in Henning. His dad had quit drinking a year after he and Jerry’s mom divorced. At the time of the divorce, she moved with his two youngest sisters to Crawford, Nebraska, a town twenty-five miles away. His four older siblings, two brothers and two sisters, were married, struggling and living in four different western states. In the two years since the divorce, his two younger sisters had never visited their dad, but Jerry had gone to visit them about every two weeks. Jerry stayed with his dad because he felt sorry for him, at least that was what he thought at the time. As an adult he realized that, even though his father was often a mean drunk, he loved him and needed a dad.

  The owner of the house they were working on, knowing of the previous drinking problem, agreed to pay the eight thousand dollar remodeling bill only when the job was complete. Dad had not been able to send a child support check for the three months, so when he received the paycheck, he was happier than Jerry had ever seen him. “Now, I can send your mom some money, and some extra. You clean up here, and
I’ll deposit this and send her a check.” Jerry wanted to holler or clap or do something to celebrate, but that kind of show of emotions was always greeted by a comment like “don’t get too excited.” Just the previous weekend his mom and sisters bawled him out for not bringing money with him when he made the trip from Henning. He wanted to catch a bus and head back to Henning right after he arrived in Crawford, but there was no bus scheduled that day. After cleaning up, he found himself skipping as he made his way home. Arriving at the little bungalow, even through the closed door, he could hear his mom’s voice. That in itself was unusual, as she was usually quiet as a mouse. Evidently, she had taken the bus to Henning. She was yelling, “You’re drinking again, aren’t you? You’re a no good selfish bastard!” Her yelling frightened him as it always did because it always led to some kind of violence from his dad. Jerry had often reflected on the fact that the only times he had ever seen his dad touch his mother was when he hit her. He opened the door just as she slapped his father. Dad grabbed her by the neck and began choking her. Without thinking and with a rage building in him, Jerry ran and caught his father’s arm. Dad backhanded him so hard, blood spurted from his nose and he went sprawling to the floor. Jerry wiped his face with his shirtsleeve and jumped back up. He was not going to give up. This time he took hold of his dad’s shirt collar and pulled as hard as he could. He could see his mother grasping at dad’s hands, turn blue, and gasp for air, making short gurgling sounds. Jerry couldn’t seem to get his father to let go. He put both hands on his collar and yanked as hard as he could. His father lost his balance and fell backward. Jerry jumped out of the way. It seemed like his dad was falling in slow motion and hit his head on the edge of the cast-iron cook-stove; he appeared to bounce slightly away from the stove and then thudded to the floor. Blood flowed from a wound on the back of his head. Jerry fell to his knees and cried, “Daddy, Daddy!” Seeing a dish towel over the back of a chair, Jerry grabbed it and tried to stop the flow of blood from dad’s head, not heeding the blood still pouring from his own nose. Dad didn’t move a muscle. Mom knelt on dad’s other side and took his hand, feeling his wrist. With tears flowing down her cheeks she said quietly, “He’s dead, son.” He began bawling like he had never bawled before.