Love By its First Name Page 3

  He didn’t know how long he knelt there, but after a while Jerry realized he was stiff and holding a handkerchief to his nose. The bleeding had stopped, and his mom had her arm around him. It was the only time he ever remembered his mother holding him. Jerry whispered, “Mom, I didn’t mean to kill him. I just didn’t want him to hurt you.”

  “I know son, I know.”

  The town marshall reported the incident as an accident. Neither Jerry nor his mother had told another soul the whole story, other than the parish priest. Jerry did tell Father Wayne Cameron a few years ago. Although his mother and the priest assured him it was an accident, he could never quite get rid of the haunting thought that he had killed his father. He did not cry at dad’s funeral. Jerry only recently realized that it was then that he began to numb himself whenever he had strong feelings—positive or negative.

  He snapped out of his unpleasant reverie and looked around at the quiet and thoughtful men at the Cozy Café in Paris, Kansas. He didn’t know, or care, if they could see the tears forming in his eyes.

  The man named Carl chuckled as he said, “Don’t suppose you killed someone else and that’s what got ya sent to Paris, huh?”

  Father Jerry just looked at Carl and then slowly pushed his chair back and stood. Without saying a word, he went to the door, picked up the empty water pan and returned it to Mabel. When he paid for his beer and meal, he left an extra dollar tip for the dog’s water.

  “Don’t s’pose I hit a nerve, do ya?” The priest heard Carl ask as he approached the door.

  Joe Gaffin responded, “That’s one of the most stupid-assed things I’ve ever heard. Carl, sometimes I think you’ve got shit for brains!”

  Plato waited patiently for him at the Bank of Paris, where he found out the parish had a bank balance of over $300,000. The only son of ol’ man Paris had donated $600,000 to St. Patrick’s over twenty years ago, when he sold the land to the egg and dairy people. The Sunday collection never quite paid for expenses, not even the priest’s salary, and so it had dwindled over the years. It was made clear in making the gift that the parish priest was to have sole control of the money and that the Bishop of Aberdeen could not touch it. Jerry wondered why they never fixed up the church. At least he wouldn’t have to go begging to the Bishop.

  When he got back to the house, the air conditioners had done their job. He closed the windows, then began lugging in the boxes and suitcases. Plato followed him back and forth from the car. “You know, Plato, I think you’re going to be a life-saver.”

  Opening a box of books in the office, he held up a card he’d thrown in when he packed up his stuff at St. Gabriel’s that morning. The card had a rainbow-colored crescent moon and a star on the front. He opened it and again read the printed message, “Everyone whose life you touch is blessed.” Below it as a hand-written message, “Dear Jerry, the above message is true. Thank you for ‘touching me.’ Love, Kathy.” In parenthesis, she added, “I haven’t signed ‘Kathy’ to anything for years—feels good.” He started to throw the card away, paused, then placed it carefully in the center drawer. He mumbled to himself, “I’m going to miss you, Sister Kathleen.” He shrugged his shoulders as if to shake off the self-pity to which he was beginning to succumb.

  Returning to the box of books, he found a picture of himself and Melanie Kurtz at St. Gabriel’s eighth-grade graduation. Even in the eighth grade, Melanie looked older and more mature than her years. The picture was clipped to a piece of paper. He detached the picture and turned it over and read his own written words, “Father Jerry, please help me. You are the only one!” On the paper was the poem he had read at Melanie’s funeral. He read it again, and he could feel tears forming. As he placed the picture and poem in the drawer, he mumbled, “I’m so sorry, Melanie, that your life wasn’t blessed by my touch.” He sat there for he didn’t know how long before resuming his unpacking. He completed emptying the rest of the boxes, randomly putting books on the bookshelves.

  As the sun moved to the west, he decided to do something physical to try and subdue the despair creeping up on him. Dragging a lawnmower from the garage, Jerry guessed it had been about sixteen years since he’d mowed a lawn. He got it started after several pulls of the cord. Starting on the road edge of the ‘lawn,’ he noticed that under all the weeds was a good stand of Bermuda grass just waiting for water. For some strange reason, that cheered him up a bit. He was half-finished with the area between the church and the rectory when a young girl, holding something, headed his way. The red-haired, freckled-faced girl said, “The man at the store asked me to bring this to you.” She held out a can of beer.

  Jerry took the can from her. It was icy cold, and he placed it against his forehead before popping it open. “Well, thank you, sweetheart. That’s really nice of you.” He wiped his hand on his jeans and held it out to the girl. “My name’s Jerry, what’s yours?”

  “April Sanders.”

  He guessed her to be about seven. “April’s a pretty name. You live around here?”

  “No, we live in Aberdeen. We’re going to camp and water ski on Lake Paris. Mommy and me think it’s too hot, but Daddy says there are shade trees. Is that true?”

  “You known, April, I really don’t know. I just moved here today. I haven’t seen the lake yet.”

  “Are you a gardener?”

  Jerry looked down at his sweat-soaked tee shirt and dirty jeans. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

  A man called from a camper with a boat hitched to the back. “April, we’re ready to go.”

  “Thanks for bringing me the drink, April.”

  “You’re welcome.” She ran to the camper.

  Jerry wondered what it would be like to go camping with a family. In his many years as a priest in Aberdeen, he’d never thought about doing anything with a family. Hmm, too busy he guessed and wondered how many more “new” and disturbing thoughts he’d have out here on the lonesome prairie. He mowed for a while longer and then found a hose and sprinklers. His back and leg were killing him as he limped over to the store. He thanked Sy for the beer, bought bread, cheese, and lunchmeat for sandwiches and food for breakfast. Before he left, he said, “Looks like there’s a lot to do over there. What happened to the steeple?”

  “Tornado took it off before we moved back here.” Sy stroked his chin. “I’d say over twenty years ago. They’ve replaced the tarpaper a couple of times, that’s about all.”

  On Saturday Jerry toured the town and lost count of the number of run-down and boarded up houses and other buildings. The high school was the largest and nicest building in town. A sign proclaimed, “Paris Unified High School—Home of the Wheatshockers.” The discouraging tour of the town took all of fifteen minutes. He took a look at the county’s ‘pride and joy,’ Lake Paris. It did have shade trees and several nice camping areas.

  After a dinner of sandwiches, beer, and self-pity, Jerry called Father Wayne Cameron. Wayne picked up the phone after the first ring. “Hi Wayne, Sitting there trying to figure out how to inspire the people tomorrow?”

  “Hi, Jer, ol’ buddy, how’s the new parish?”

  “Forlorn, I’d say.”

  “And you with it, I suppose?”

  “No, I’m just pitiful. How’d the meeting go with his Excellency?”

  “Good and bad, I’d say.”

  “Tell me the good first.”

  “The good is that I told him I wouldn’t change my stance. The bad is. . . I guess it’s bad, don’t know yet. I’m ordered to leave St. Gabriel’s for a smaller parish September first.”

  Jerry knew Wayne did not want to add to his misery, but his words made him even more depressed than he’d been all day. All he managed to say was, “You don’t know where yet, huh? Wayne, I’m sorry I’ve put you in such a bind.”

  “Don’t be sorry. You said what needed to be said.” They chatted a few more minutes and closed with Wayne telling him that he’d keep him posted about the new assignment.

  The one Mass scheduled for 9:00 Sunday morn
ing was the dreariest celebration Jerry had ever had—no altar boys or girls, readers, flowers, or music. The only thing that could possibly be positive was that there were more people attending than he had been led to expect. After Mass, he greeted all who stayed to the end of the service. Bill Cochran, the ‘bootleg’ Catholic, was there with his wife and three teenage children. The boys had the same depressed countenance and limp handshake as their father.

  April Sanders, holding her mother’s hand, approached Jerry and said scoldingly, “You lied to me!”

  “Now April.” Her mother appeared shocked at the girl’s outburst.

  Glancing at the mother, Jerry put his finger to his lips. He knelt down in front of the little girl. “I did?”

  “Yes, you did. You told me you were a gardener.”

  “Um…” Father Jerry stroked his chin. “I did, didn’t I? Well, I was a gardener when I met you, April, wasn’t I?”

  April wrinkled up her face. “Yeah, I guess so. But you’re really a priest.”

  “Can’t I be a priest and a gardener, too? I’ll bet you’re a student and a daughter and a helper to your mom.” He winked at April’s mother. She smiled.

  “Okay.” April looked up at her mother and then blurted out. “Can you come to dinner with us today?”

  He looked at her parents and they shook their heads yes. The father introduced himself as Bob O’Conner, his wife, Linda, oldest son, Al, and younger son, Steve. “You’re welcome to join us if you don’t mind camper grub.”

  “We’ll barbecue.” Linda seemed happy with the idea. They set a time and gave directions.

  After taking communion to Alice, he returned to the rectory and began figuring out how to avoid having another such dismal Sunday Mass. At 6:00 p.m. he headed for Lake Paris. As he approached the small grove of cottonwood trees, he spotted Bob and April O’Conner standing near the road in back of the camper. Bob motioned him forward and Jerry unrolled his window to ask where he should park. April smiled, but her father looked grim.

  Bob approached the priest’s car and said to his daughter, “April, please go back to the table and join your mother, she needs your help.” The girl waved and left. O’Conner put his hands on the car door. “Father, uh…, oh…, ah…, you can’t stay for dinner with us. I’m sorry.”

  “Is someone sick?”

  “Uh, no Father, that’s not it. Oh, hell, sorry Father. It’s uh, well, Linda talked to her sister this afternoon and, uh, well, she said that you were the priest who gave the sermon about…, well, you know, that was in all the papers. Is that true, Father?”

  Jerry had to muster all the control he had to take a deep breath and simply say, “Yes.”

  “Well, I’m sorry about all this. Linda and I had a big fight this afternoon, and I finally gave in, I….”

  The priest cut him off by rolling up the window, putting the Pontiac in drive, and without saying a word, he drove off. Back at the rectory he opened a fifth of Chivas Regal someone had given him for Christmas and poured himself a water-glass full. Jerry looked at the drink and thought of Alice Peterson dying of cancer across the street and asking him if he was a drunk. After another moment of hesitancy, he muttered, “To hell with it!” He put the glass to his lips.

  CHAPTER 4

  My heart is ready, God

  --I mean to sing and play

  Psalm l08: l

  Kathy Olson was nervous as she drove her old, battered Toyota down Paris’s so-called main street. God, what a dreary place. It would be a dreary place even if it wasn’t raining.

  She wasn’t sure how Jerry would receive her. He sounded a bit cold when she told him that she wanted to come to Paris and visit with him.

  She immediately felt disappointed when she saw Father Wayne Cameron’s car parked in the driveway next to the rectory. She liked Wayne but she wanted a private visit with Jerry. Parking the Toyota behind Wayne’s car, she turned the rearview mirror towards her and brushed back her shoulder-length blonde hair with her hand and checked to see if her lipstick was okay. Jerry had never seen her with lipstick; in fact, he had never seen her when she wasn’t a nun. She glanced down at her bare legs. She would look stupid wearing white shorts in the rain. It wasn’t raining when she left Manhattan, Kansas; it was a beautiful, warm September day that looked like it would get hot. She mumbled, “Oh, well, “ as she opened the car door, poked the umbrella out and popped it open.

  A big brown and gold dog jumped off the porch and greeted her with a wagging tail. Kathy pushed his nose away from her crotch and ran for the porch. She was up on the porch before she saw Jerry standing in front of a lawn chair. He said, “Hi, Kathy. Welcome to Paris!” He put out his hand as if to shake hers but she rushed past his hand and gave him a hug. It seemed like five minutes before Jerry put his arms around her and then she squeezed him tighter than he did her.

  Kathy let go of him, stood back and held his hands. “It’s so good to see you, Jerry.”

  “Good to see you too, Kathleen.”

  “It’s Kathy now. Kathleen makes me think of being a nun. Is that Wayne’s car there.”

  “Yes. He’s in the house taking a nap.”

  Wayne pushed open the screen door and bounced out. “He is not! Hey, Kathleen, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” He held out his arms and gave her a hug, a better and closer hug than Jerry had. That surprised her.

  Jerry held the screen door open. “Come on in. Kathleen… oops, Kathy, you can tell us about your new adventures in college.”

  After she and Wayne sat down at opposite ends of the couch and Jerry sat stiffly on the recliner, Wayne said: “Well, Kathy, what do you think of Jerry’s new metropolis?”

  “Rather dreary, I’d say.” She tucked one leg under the other and noticed that Jerry watched every move she made. Trying to sound relaxed, she asked Jerry, “What do you think of your new parish?”

  “Oh, it’s great, lots of time to meditate, play carpenter and painter, counsel people.”

  “Counsel people? From around here?” Wayne asked, incredulously. “You’ve got what? Twenty families?”

  Jerry chuckled and sounded indignant as he said, “I’ll thank you to know I have twenty three families, counting a divorcee and an old bachelor south of town. But they are all pretty self-sufficient. My counselees come mostly from around Aberdeen and guess what their problems usually involve?”

  Almost simultaneously, Wayne and Kathy said, “Sex!” They both giggled.

  “Yes. Mostly about birth control, pre-marital sex, permission to have an abortion. I’m sure that my client load will diminish when they realize I don’t tell them what they want to hear. I tell them to follow their consciences but they want permission. When will people begin to think for themselves?”

  Wayne answered, “Oh, about the same time the majority of priests do.”

  “What about bishops?” Kathy asked.

  “Hell, they wouldn’t even be bishops if they thought for themselves,” Wayne said.

  “Take our friend here, Kathy, when he was first ordained, he wouldn’t utter a word unless he was sure a bishop or pope or the Bible said it first. He talked like he just had breakfast with God. And now he tells me that the ministers of Paris won’t even let him join their ministerial council because, and I quote, “He’s not Christian enough!”

  Sounding hurt, Jerry asked, “I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

  Kathy looked at each of them with a bit of amazement and was glad that they seemed to include her in their banter. “So, Wayne, when did you notice Jerry began to think for himself? Before you answer, I had lunch already but you know what I would really like?” She couldn’t keep from giggling.

  “I’m sorry, I should have asked. Would you like something to drink?”

  She giggled again and asked softly, “How about a beer?”

  “Hey, Jer, she really has changed! Kathy, I often offered you a beer when we were at St. Gabriel’s but you always refused.”

  “It was against the rules.” Kathy squirmed as sh
e added, “Now, I don’t have any rules.” She noticed that both men glanced at her legs as she kicked off her sandals and put both feet under her. She could feel herself blushing. “I mean, I don’t have anyone ready to tell a mother superior every little thing I do.”

  As Jerry headed for the kitchen, Wayne shouted, “Bring me one, too, Jer.”

  “Jer, Jer? I never heard you call him Jer, before.”

  “I only do that in private.”

  Jerry called from the kitchen. “And don’t you start, Kathleen.”

  “I will, if you don’t start calling me Kathy.”

  When Jerry returned with three bottles of beer, he asked, “So, Kathy, what are you doing at Kansas State?”

  “Right now I’m working on a Masters in education although I might change it to counseling.” She went on to tell them how exciting she found college life, so different from her undergraduate years when she was still a nun. When she finished, Kathy asked Wayne how things are going at St. Gabriel’s parish in Aberdeen.

  “As of two weeks ago, they were fine. Now I don’t know. As you know, I was transferred to St. Mary’s in Lakeside.”

  Kathy looked shocked as she said, “No, I didn’t know. What happened? Why were you transferred?” She looked at Wayne and then at Jerry.

  “Well, the Bishop asked me to give a sermon condemning everything that Jerry said in his now infamous sermon. I refused and so I’m now a pastor on the other side of the diocese. It’s not bad. A really nice parish with about 200 families and Lakeside is a wonderful metropolis compared to this little hellhole.”

  “Don’t you dare call my city a ‘hellhole’!” Jerry acted like he was going to jump out of the chair and attack. He relaxed back and added, “It’s only hot in the summer.”

  Kathy ignored Jerry and said, “Wayne, I’m glad you didn’t give in to the bishop. I didn’t hear Jerry’s sermon, but I read about it and I definitely think he said some things that needed to be said.”