Love By its First Name Page 7

  “I’ll bet you did. I will tell you one more thing that might help explain my eyes. And, Alice, this can be confidential, can’t it?”

  “Of course, dear, if you would like. I am not a gossip anyway.”

  Not wanting to talk about the rape, Rebecca told her that her fourth stepfather had been abusive and that she ran away from home when she was fifteen. She lived with a wonderful childless couple named Grace and Al Ripen. “You know, Alice, you remind me of Grace. She was so kind and gentle. Maybe that’s why I’m willing to tell you all this.” Rebecca hesitated, part of her wanted to be more truthful but…

  She saw only compassion and understanding in Alice’s eyes. “I’ve never told anyone this before, outside of therapy.”

  Alice gave her a little smile. “Thank you for telling me all this, Rebecca. It is a gift. You definitely are worth your salt.” The frail lady chuckled. “Our Father Jerry, too, has experienced a great deal of pain, and it has nothing to do with his being sent to Paris.”

  “Do you know what it is?”

  “Some of it. I hope that he will tell you. I would feel like I was violating his confidence if I told you what I know.” Alice looked over Rebecca’s shoulder, then added. “I do wish he had a wonderful woman to share his life with. I believe he is lonely. This celibacy business is nonsense.” Alice smiled mischievously. “I sometimes think those bishops have little peckers that are so shriveled up they can’t think straight.”

  Rebecca couldn’t help but giggle. “Alice, I really like you!”

  “That’s mutual, my dear. It doesn’t take weeks to get to like someone, just openness, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, definitely. What more can you tell me about Father Haloran, being that he is my project?”

  “He is very intelligent, hardworking, kind, sensitive and, I hate to say it, wasted in Paris. He brings communion to me every morning and always stays and chats with me about his life and his ideas. He should be a bishop, I think.”

  “Is he well received by the people here?”

  “By most, I’d say.” Alice put one frail hand next to her mouth. “I probably shouldn’t say this but I understand that the local ministers told him he wasn’t Christian enough to join their little association. Please ask Father Jerry if you want to include that in your article. Hell, in my book he is more Christ-like than those boobs will ever be.”

  Rebecca looked at the pictures on the wall and asked about them. Alice told her at length about her six children and eleven grandchildren. The children ranged in ages from thirty-five to seventeen. “Sy and I have been married thirty-seven years and they have been wonderful years. I am dying prematurely, I guess you’d say, but I have had a grand time. Rebecca, I have genuinely enjoyed talking to you. Right now I am very tired and need to take my medicine. I do hope you can stop by again. And I hope your article is a good one. What magazine do you write for?”

  “Women Today.”

  “I’m sorry to say I’ve never heard of it.”

  “I’ll make sure you get a subscription.” Rebecca bent down and kissed the older woman on the cheek. “Alice, thank you so much for talking with me.”

  “I hope you can stop by again.”

  As Rebecca crossed back over the road, she felt very relaxed and alive. Alice had injected something, maybe not wisdom, but something. She didn’t get any particulars about Father Haloran but she did get more than an inkling of his attitude and spirit. That would definitely help her story. She wondered how much detail he would share with her.

  Stepping up to the rectory porch, she noticed that all the cars and trucks were gone except her own and the dusty Pontiac. The cross was up, the side of the church, facing the house, shone with new paint, and a new sidewalk connected the church to the house. She glanced at her watch, it read 4:45. Oh my God, poor Alice. She had no idea.

  Rebecca knocked on the screen door. There was no answer. The main door was open and she went in. She had to pee so bad that she could hardly stand it. The dog greeted her at the door. The larger bedroom door was closed and she could hear water running. Not remembering if there was another bathroom in the house, she looked in the kitchen and the smaller bedroom. The dog followed her. She went back to the closed door and not hearing any water, she knocked. “Father Jerry, are you in there?”

  “Yes, who is it?”

  “Me, Rebecca Brady.”

  “I’ll be out in a minute, hold your horses.”

  “I don’t have any horses but I really need to use your bathroom!” Rebecca was nearly screaming. She pushed open the door. The priest stood there with only his boxer shorts on and a tee shirt covering his head. He quickly pulled the shirt down. She rushed to the bathroom. “Sorry, I got to go bad.” She slammed the door.

  When she came out, he was dressed in black pants and a blue plaid short-sleeved shirt. His jeans and work shirt were in a pile on the floor with the dog on top of it all. He asked pleasantly, “Have a nice visit with Alice?”

  “Yes, definitely. She is a wonderful person. You know, I was just thinking that even if you refuse to talk to me anymore, it was worth the trip just to meet and talk with her. I feel better than I’ve felt in days or maybe months. She’s dying but has more life than most people I know. Alice has quite a sense of humor, too. You know what she said about your priestly celibacy and your bishops?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t be surprised at anything Alice would say. Tell me.”

  “That celibacy is nonsense and is probably due to the fact that the bishops’ little peckers are so shriveled up they can’t think straight.”

  The priest doubled up with laughter then stood straight and said, “Well, that’s our Alice. You know, Miss Brady... It is Miss, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but please call me Rebecca.”

  “Okay, Rebecca. Anyway, what I was about to say is that Alice and Sy are two of the most authentic people I’ve ever met. They are one of the reasons I truly find living in Paris a joy.

  “I can understand enjoying them but I’m not so sure about enjoying Paris.”

  Father Jerry headed for the living room. “I’m going to have a beer. Join me?”

  “Sure, why not?” She seated herself on the couch, assuming the recliner was reserved for the priest.

  He came halfway across the living room holding two bottles of Coors. He stopped suddenly. “Oh, would you prefer a glass?”

  She would, but “going native” would probably mean drinking out of the bottle. “The bottle is fine,” She said, hoping she didn’t sound phony.

  He seated himself on the recliner. “So, are you going to head back to St. Louis this evening?”

  Before answering, Rebecca looked around the room and noticed that he had picked up the newspapers and magazines and even vacuumed the floor. The dog was at his feet. “What’s your dog’s name?”

  “Plato.” He reached down and stroked the dog behind the ears.

  “As in the philosopher Plato?” Plato looked at her quizzically.

  “Yes. Fits him, don’t you think?”

  “I guess. I’ve never had a dog.”

  “Where did you grow up? I’d guess back east somewhere.”

  “Yes, New York City, until I was twenty-two.”

  “Then to St. Louis?” Rebecca nodded. “And you still haven’t answered my question about heading back there this evening.”

  “Well, I was hoping to stay over another day, get a little better feel for the place.” She still was hopeful that she could have a real talk with him. “As I drove in I didn’t see anything like a motel, hotel, or bed and breakfast.”

  “There aren’t any.”

  “I notice you have an extra bedroom.”

  * * *

  Surely she’s joking, Father Jerry thought, but it doesn’t look like it. Two beautiful women telling him the same thing in a little over a month floored him. If he were an ordinary bachelor, probably neither of them would even suggest it. Or would they? He was sure he didn’t know anything about women. Maybe
Kathy was more than teasing; she was sort of flirty that first weekend. He smiled. “You’re not serious?”

  “Why not? Are you planning to have company?”

  “Let me ask you something. Have you ever asked a man if you could stay over in his house before?”

  “No. But I’ve never been out in the middle of nowhere or in a place where there wasn’t a hotel.”

  Maybe she’s serious! “And, I gather you don’t know much about priests and small towns.”

  She looked startled. “You mean I wouldn’t be safe with you?” Then she smiled, a rather coquettish smile, it seemed.

  “Right this minute, someone or several someones, know that you are in this house with me. That’s okay because I have a number of visitors during the day, but if you stayed overnight...”

  Rebecca laughed, “The shriveled-up-pecker rule, huh?”

  Jerry had to laugh. “It’s related. It’s the scandal rule. It would be scandalous even if you were fat and ugly and my maiden aunt. Seriously, you must have enough for your article. You heard the people at lunch, you’ve talked to Alice Peterson. And you’ve seen the fair city of Paris.”

  “Seriously, I could go with what I have but there is still something missing. I don’t really understand some things. Isn’t there some place I could stay?”

  He didn’t know if Marge would be interested in having another overnight visitor. He was afraid she would think he was trying to turn her place into a hotel. She was going to put Kathy up tomorrow night. He could give her a call and knew that she would be honest with him. On the other hand, it would probably be better if Rebecca left town. Jerry asked himself why in the world he would want to accommodate her. Was he flattered that such a beautiful woman was being so interested in him? Perhaps, but he found himself, almost involuntarily, saying, “There is one possibility I can think of. I’ll call her.” He went into the office to make the call. He knew Marge’s number but was afraid that the reporter would get the wrong idea if she saw him punch in her number without looking it up.

  Marge answered on the second ring. “Marge, this is Father Jerry. I want to ask for another favor. Please be brutally honest with your answer, okay?”

  “Aren’t I always brutally honest?”

  “Yes, I think so. Anyway, I have another unexpected visitor who showed up today and needs to stay over.”

  “I’m going to start answering the phone, ‘Marge Woerner Hotel’.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

  “I’m teasing, Father. I really look forward to Kathy’s visit every Saturday. She’s sweet on you, you know?”

  “Marge!” He sounded truly exasperated. They’d gone over this before. Kathy was fifteen years younger; she was a very beautiful and nice young woman but, he kept insisting to himself, she was not sweet on him. But he would not tell Marge that saying these things just encouraged too many fantasies in his prurient, and probably sinful, mind. She probably already knew it and just liked to see him squirm.

  “What’s this visitor like? A woman, I suppose.”

  “Yes. She’s a journalist from St. Louis and has been asked to do a story on me for some reason.”

  “Is she nice?”

  “I’ve been pretty busy today so I haven’t talked to her much, but I’d say so.”

  “Well, I was going to entertain Bill Cochran this evening. We’re having an affair you know?” She giggled. “But I could put him off. Is she more interesting than Bill?” Marge and Bill had gone to school together and she once said that he was as dull then as he was now.

  Jerry pictured the sullen Bill Cochran sitting at the Cozy Cafe table. “My dog is more interesting than Bill Cochran.”

  “I’ll put her up on one condition.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That you’ll both join me for dinner. I’ll make my famous lasagna. Oh, one other thing. I have to have your permission to give her the real low-down on you.”

  He laughed, “You don’t have the real low-down on me, so you can tell her whatever you want.”

  “You might be surprised what I know. See you around six-thirty, okay?”

  “Thanks, Marge, you’re wonderful.” He walked back to the living room. “It’s all set, dinner and a bed. Only one catch.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I have to join you for dinner.”

  “I have no problem with that. I could hear your end of the conversation. This Marge sounds quite interesting and humorous. What does she do?”

  “Right now, she is taking care of her father, who’s terminally ill with emphysema. He’s in a sort of coma most of the time. She’s on a leave of absence from Northwestern University near Chicago. She teaches chemistry.”

  “So she doesn’t have the ‘low-down’ on you. Who does? That’s who I want to talk to.”

  “No one really. Perhaps Father Wayne Cameron.”

  “I met him—he was moving some stuff out of the house in Aberdeen. He’s nice. He took some time off and invited me to lunch. He told me a little about you but I wouldn’t call it the ‘low-down.’“ Rebecca touched her chin thoughtfully. “When we got back to the house, rectory, I guess you call it, I helped him put some boxes in his car. I talked to the new pastor of St. Gabriel’s but he gave me only a few minutes. I got the impression he didn’t like either one of you. He said something about you both being radical-liberals.”

  “He would. To give you some idea of his mentality, I was once having a discussion with him about some church teaching. I quoted a few modern theologians and he looked perplexed. I asked him if he had ever read any of them. He looked me in the eye and said, and I quote: ‘Listen here, Haloran, I went into the seminary when I was fourteen and I haven’t had an original thought since then. I let the Church do my thinking for me!’ He was so proud of himself.”

  “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Are there many priests like that?”

  “A few, not many, thank God. So what did you learn about me during your stay in Aberdeen?”

  Rebecca glanced at her watch. “What time do we have to be at Marge’s?”

  “Six-thirty, we have a few minutes.”

  Rebecca leaned forward and folded her hands on her knees. “I got most of my information from Father Cameron, because most everyone else either made general comments like: ‘He’s very nice,’ or, ‘He’s very kind and intelligent,’ etc. A few said you were too liberal and were extremely unwise to give that sermon and that the Bishop was very tolerant to let you stay in the priesthood.” She stopped to see his reaction to the last remark.

  His only reaction was to ask, “What did Wayne tell you?”

  “Wayne? ... Oh, Father Cameron. Let’s see, he said you grew up in a large, poor family, seven children, in Nebraska. That you came to Aberdeen as a teenager after your father died.” Rebecca sat back against the couch. “You know, Father Cameron sort of hesitated about your father’s death. When I asked about that, he just said there was a tragic accident. Can you tell me more?”

  This woman is sharp, doesn’t miss much, Jerry thought. If he told her about his dad’s death, she would put it in the article. “I just as well tell you because if you nose around a bit, you’ll find out anyway.” He saw Rebecca stiffen but she didn’t say anything. He went on, “My dad was choking my mom and I pulled on his shirt. Pulled him over backward and he hit his head on a stove.” Jerry looked out the window for a moment and then added, “He died. I was fourteen.”

  Silence reigned between them for several moments before Rebecca said, “That must have been awful.”

  He looked at her, and she seemed to understand his anguish. “Yes, it was.”

  “I’m going to take a wild guess. You decided to become a priest right after that.”

  The reporter was far more perceptive than he could ever have imagined. “Yes I did. What made you guess that?”

  “In my interviews with people, I’ve often found that many make momentous, life-altering de
cisions, after a tragedy.”

  “Do you? Or maybe you never had a tragedy in your life.”

  The question seemed to take her aback, for she sat thoughtfully for some moments before answering. “I’ve had my share of tragedies, I think. But Father Haloran, you are the subject of the article, not me.” She looked at him with what he thought was defiance. She sounded more than a bit haughty and a hard look had returned to her eyes.

  Jerry waited a moment and then said, “You can find out about my father’s death elsewhere but I ask you not to say I killed my Father.”

  “Have some people said that?”

  “Only once to my face, back in Henning, Nebraska, where I grew up. A kid and I got in an argument and he said it.”

  “What did you do?”

  Jerry gave her a grimace-like smile. “I gave him a black eye. I was suspended from school for two days.” He looked at his watch. “I think we better head out to Marge’s.”

  * * *

  As Rebecca followed Jerry’s Pontiac out of town to Marge’s farmhouse, she reflected on their very personal exchange. There’s some experience he’s keeping to himself, she thought. And it doesn’t have anything to do, at least directly, with the death of his father. She found herself liking him and thinking that he really could not be a child molester, but then she wasn’t a psychologist and really didn’t know what the profile would be on such a person. Anyway, he was nothing like any man she had ever dated, especially the egotistical Sam Hawkins. For a moment she thought that it was too bad he was a priest and living in podunkville.

  Although the priest drove slowly, his car created a minor dust storm and she had to stay back a hundred yards. He pulled into a long dirt driveway and parked next to a large two-story white house with a porch all along the front and one side. The lawn had only a little green left in it and the flowerbeds were bare except for a few late-blooming roses. She parked behind his car and Father Jerry quickly moved to open her door for her. A tall, dark-haired, slender woman in her late thirties or early forties came out on the porch. University professor or not, Rebecca had expected to see some kind of dowdy-looking farm-wife type. This poised woman was wearing a stylish yellow dress and had intelligent blue eyes and a welcoming smile.