Love By its First Name Read online

  “I won’t have my stepfather’s baby! I won’t!” She was sobbing almost hysterically. “He’s evil, he’s mean. Father, help me.” Her sobbing was heartbreaking. Melanie pleaded, “Please, Father, you have to help me.”

  “Melanie, abortion....” He swallowed hard. “Abortion is wrong. I can’t help you arrange an abortion. Please, let me help you find....”

  “You’re the only one who can help me. I thought you were my friend.” She was screaming now. “You won’t help me. God won’t help me. Nobody will help me.” She slammed the confessional door and he could hear her steps echo in the empty church as she ran toward the exit.

  Jerry remembered sitting there trembling for a long time. He fumbled with the door handle, finally realizing his hands were clenched. He stumbled out of the confessional. The church was empty. He ran to the front doors, threw them open, and looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Melanie.

  All through that weekend Melanie Kurtz’s voice kept ringing in his ears, “Please, Father Jerry, will you help me?” He needed to talk to someone but his usual confidant, Father Wayne Cameron, was out of the question. Wayne might guess who he was talking about and he couldn’t risk violating the seal of confession. He had finally decided on Dr. Resa Candelaria, a psychologist whom he had referred several parish families. He admired her wisdom and understanding and as a former Catholic, she was familiar with the Catholic position on abortion and the seal of confession.

  The first thing Monday morning, he met with Dr. Candelaria and presented a “hypothetical” case of a girl who found herself pregnant by her stepfather and was seeking an abortion. The psychologist stated clearly that anyone who really cared about the girl should immediately help her obtain an abortion. No question! And, by God, she would help! She added, “And what kind of God would condemn this girl?” Even then, Jerry wasn’t worried about God. He didn’t believe in a condemning God. His anguish was over his own long-held conviction about the sanctity of life and the unborn child Melanie was carrying.

  Dr. Candeleria looked at him accusingly and said, “If your hypothetical friend will talk to me, give her my number.”

  When he returned to the rectory, he noticed that the light on the answering machine was blinking. He pushed the button and heard Melanie’s angry voice, “Father Jerry, what color is your heart now? I think it’s yellow.” He heard the receiver crash down.

  “Color of my heart? Where did she get that?” he murmured aloud. He sat down in the desk chair and thought. After a few moments it dawned on him that she was referring to a song he taught the kids when Melanie was in the eighth grade. He softly sang the words as he remembered them:

  Who has touched the sky?

  Who has caught the wind as it goes rushing by?

  None but the few, the few who knew the color of the moon

  The sun by its first name.

  There have been those who walked among us

  Those who knew love like a child’s smile

  They touched the sky, met it eye to eye

  Just by loving one another for a little while

  Who has touched the sky?

  Who has caught the clouds as they go drifting by?

  None but the few, the few who knew

  The color of the heart

  Knew love by its first name.

  Who has touched the sky? What is the color of my heart? Melanie obviously thought it was yellow--the coward’s color. He wondered if he was a coward. And he was quite sure that he did not know love by its first name.

  All day Monday, he thought of going to Melanie’s high school and trying to talk her into meeting with Dr. Candelaria, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Stepfather or not, she was carrying human life in her body, sacred human life. More than once he murmured to himself, “And Melanie, I’m not a coward.” It was as if he had to convince himself over and over.

  He awoke Tuesday morning with the thought that Dr. Candelaria was right, no loving God would condemn Melanie if she got an abortion. He felt lighter as he ate a normal breakfast for the first time in days. As he fastened his clerical collar and put on his black suit-coat, he began formulating a plan. He would call the psychologist and find out if she could see Melanie during the lunch period. He would pick Melanie up at the high school and take her to Dr. Candelaria’s office. He wasn’t completely sure that this would be the best course of action to take, but he knew he had to do something.

  He was still pondering all this and its implications as he picked up his briefcase and walked down the rectory’s long hall. He needed to finalize some teacher-training plans at the diocese’s Religious Education office. He would call Dr. Candelaria from there.

  As he passed the front door, he heard the blast of a truck’s air-horn, followed by the screech of brakes. He quickly opened the door and saw a red-and-yellow cement truck with its huge mixer turning over and over. My God, he thought, it’s hit someone! He could see the plaid skirt that the Trinity High School girls wore.

  Dropping his briefcase and running into the street, he shouted to the frightened and shaking driver, “Get on your cell and call 911!” Getting down on all fours and looking under the truck, he saw that it had stopped before the rear wheels ran over the girl. Blood and other fluids trailed from the front right wheel that crushed her lower torso. Her body was mangled.

  Trembling, Father Jerry crawled under the truck, unmindful of the blood. Lookingdown at the swollen face with blood oozing from her eyes, nose, and mouth, he was still able to recognize her. “Oh my God, Melanie! Oh my God!” Shaking uncontrollably and tears rolling down his face, he laid down near her, put his arm around her and pulled her close, as if to breathe life back into her. Resting his face next to hers, he whispered, “Oh Melanie, why didn’t you wait? I was going to help you today. Oh, Melanie, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” With a wave of emotion rolling through him, over and over, he kissed her bloody face, repeating, “Oh, Melanie, I’m so sorry.”

  He was still lying with her when the truck driver came back and squatted down near his feet. He, too, had tears running down his face. “I called 911,” he said, “Father, she ran right in front of me, I couldn’t stop in time.”

  Lifting his now bloody head, Father Jerry looked at him and yelled, “Go away.”

  Kneeling as best he could under the truck, the priest looked down at Melanie, pushed her dark hair from her once-beautiful eyes and stroked her forehead. Her skin was warm as if there was some life still there. He wanted the driver to turn off the cement mixer but he was gone. The loud noise and constant turning seemed to echo the waves of emotion that continued to course through him.

  Knowing that her soul had already left her body but wanting to do something, the priest began the words of the Sacrament For The Dying. With trembling hands and tears streaming down his face, he made the sign of the cross on her forehead, and prayed: “Through this holy anointing, may the Lord in His love and mercy….”

  He paused. “Oh Melanie, I’m sorry I didn’t show you that love and mercy.”

  He haltingly continued the anointing. “May He, in His love and mercy, help you with the grace of the Holy Spirit.” Her skin was turning cold and felt like fine parchment where it wasn’t covered with blood. He made the sign of the cross on her hands, saying, “Through this anointing, may He free you from your sins and raise you to life.” He added, “Melanie, you don’t have any sins to be forgiven, but have no fear, you will have a new and more wonderful life.”

  He then whispered, “Oh, Melanie, I’m so sorry, I’m so very sorry,” and gently attempted to lower her eyelids over her brown eyes, eyes that still seemed to be pleading with him. He could not close her eyes because they were too full of blood.

  He remained at Melanie’s side, even while the police questioned him, unashamedly letting the tears run down his face. He did not think of his own bloody appearance. He didn’t move until Melanie’s broken body was placed in the ambulance.

  He told the police he would notify
her family and have someone identify the body.Jerry shook a little as he remembered where he was. He took a deep breath and turned to look out over Lake Paris. His left lower arm and hand was resting on the table. He felt a soft hand touch his. Rebecca’s eyes were soft and he could feel his own tears. He hadn’t told anyone the whole story of Melanie’s death because so much of it was a matter of the confessional. For months, he felt a deep desire to tell Melanie’s story to someone, for Melanie sake. He knew it was really for his own sake. Maybe Rebecca could be the one. He knew, intuitively, that she would not tell anyone else, if he asked her. An added incentive was that she would be off to St. Louis and he would never see her again.

  “Where did you go just now? It must have been a sad place.”

  Without looking at her, he answered simply, “Yes it was.”

  “Did it have to do with the young girl’s suicide? Sister Martha said something about you feeling responsible for her death.”

  Jerry turned toward Rebecca. Her eyes were as soft as her voice. “Yes, I was responsible.”

  “Will you tell me about it? I will keep it confidential if you prefer and not put it in the article.”

  “Why would you want to do that? I mean, what good is it to you, if you can’t write about it?”

  She sounded a bit angry as she said, “Besides being a journalist, I’m also a person, a person with feelings!” Rebecca evidently saw some kind of pain on his face and so she softened her voice and added, “You seemed so…so hurt when you were reflecting. I just want you to know that I care.” She looked puzzled and confused as if she was wondering why she said that.

  Something in him believed her, maybe it was only his need to unburden himself. He decided to take the risk of sharing the story with this stranger. “Okay, it might help me to share the story with you. And thank you for not sharing this with another soul. It is extremely confidential.” And so, slowly and with tears, he told Melanie’s tragic story with a woman he had known for less than twenty-four hours. He hoped he would not regret it.

  By the time he was finished, Rebecca was crying and, Jerry was surprised to notice for the first time, holding both his hands in hers. She let go with one hand and reached in her pocket for a tissue. “Thank you for telling me this story, Jerry. Is it okay if I call you Jerry?”

  He nodded and looked around self-consciously, hoping no one saw them touching. He quickly withdrew his hands from the center of the table. “Thank you for listening. I haven’t told anyone else about all this.”

  They both let the silence reign between them for some time. Rebecca was the first to speak. “Jerry, I’m wondering about the younger girl. Julie, isn’t it?” The priest nodded and she went on. “Do you think the stepfather will molest her, too? Shouldn’t the child protection people be notified?”

  “I’ve been worrying about that for months. I can’t report it because it would be a violation of the seal of confession and I’m still afraid that what Melanie said could be true, Kurtz would kill her and her mother.” His face was wrinkled in pain.

  “I can understand the second part but not the first. Surely you wouldn’t let a church rule prevent you from protecting a child from rape?” Rebecca looked at him for an answer.

  “It is more than a church rule, it is a sacred trust. Most of the time it works very well.” He wondered if Melanie’s case was one of the exceptions. The thought added to his feelings of guilt.

  “Have you heard from her mother and sister?”

  “No, not directly. I understand from Father Cameron that they are okay.”

  Wanting to take the focus off himself, Jerry said, “Yesterday you said that you had some trauma in your younger years—want to talk about it?”

  * * *

  Rebecca squinted as she looked at the priest. She was thinking about her own trauma when she was fifteen. He said that she was the only person he had told of Melanie’s molest and suicide. Rebecca had told only Dr. Marilyn Fisher, her therapist, about her own rape and abortion, and then she had only mentioned that it happened. She had never told anyone the whole story, ever. She looked at the man, a priest, across the table from her. She found herself wanting to tell him about what she considered to be the most traumatic event in her life. Up until that moment, she was sure that she would never tell a man about what had happened to her as a child. But this man, sitting across from her at a picnic table out in the middle of nowhere, would understand her, perhaps better than anyone she had ever met. The emotions he had expressed as he told Melanie’s tragic death made Rebecca feel a kind of trust that she had not felt since she was seven years old.

  Rebecca told Jerry about Paul Brady and her devastation when he left and how the devastation was compounded when she learned that he was not her biological father. She told him about the next two stepfathers, non-descript men about whom she remembered very little except that they were wealthy and each one moved she and her mother into more lavish apartments in Manhattan. “The fourth one was the real bastard,” she said, looking over at the priest to see his reaction.

  “Tell me about him.”

  Rebecca seemed to lose some of the courage she had when she began telling the story. She looked at the table and blurted out, “He raped me.” Without raising her head, she peeked up at the priest.

  Jerry started to reach across the table and take her hand but changed his mind when he saw a car approach. He simply said, “That’s horrible. I can understand if you don’t want to talk more about it, but sometimes it can be helpful.”

  There was more than a touch of bitterness in her voice as she said, “Confession is good for the soul, isn’t that the way it goes?” Her smile was not really a smile but more of a grimace.

  He whispered, “Like I said, sometimes.”

  Rebecca took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, “Okay, here goes. I couldn’t stand him the minute my mother first introduced us. He said something like, ‘Well, aren’t you the pretty one, just like your mom.’ He had this leering smirk that made me sick. I avoided him as much as possible. Several times he patted me on the bottom when I passed him. I complained to my mother, but all she said was, ‘Don’t pay any attention— that’s just the way men are!’” Rebecca paused and thought for a moment, that in many ways, her mother was right. She again scrutinized the priest to see if she could, in any way, detect if he was like most of the men she had encountered in her life.

  Seeming to notice her hesitancy, Jerry asked, “Something bothering you, about me, I mean?”

  “No, not really, I was just thinking about the way my mother regarded men. So, anyway, after my mother and that jerk were married about six months, she was out for the evening. It was the first time the jerk was left alone with me. I stayed in my room and went to bed about ten. I was almost asleep when I felt someone sit on the bed.

  There was no lock on the door or I would have used it. It was the jerk. I yelled, ‘Get out of my room!’ He just sat there and said, ‘Rebecca, why are you always so unfriendly toward me?’ He had pulled the sheet and blanket off me and grabbed my arm as I moved to the other side of the bed. I was terrified. The asshole kept saying things like, ‘Rebecca, I just want to be close to you. We can be friends. I do love you.’ And all the while, he’s pulling me back to his side of the bed. I screamed until he put his big hammy hand over my mouth. I bit his hand and he started ripping off my pajamas, snarling, ‘You little bitch, now you’re really going to get it!’”

  Rebecca couldn’t hold back the tears. It took her a few minutes before she continued. “So he raped me.” She looked away.

  Jerry waited several moments and then asked, “Then what happened? Did you tell your mother?”

  “Yes, and you know what she did?” The priest shook his head. “She slapped me and said that I must have seduced the bastard.”

  Jerry sighed resignedly. “I would like to say that I’m surprised, but I’ve heard of that kind of thing too often. So what did you do?”

  “I slapped her back and then I ran away. Fi
rst I went to a girlfriend’s house and then to an old couple’s house. I helped them out for room and board and worked at a pharmacy after school.”

  Rebecca looked at Jerry defiantly and was surprised when he said, “I don’t know why, but I somehow think there is more to the story.” He tilted his head to one side in a quizzical way.

  She shrugged her shoulders and said, “Yes there is. I found out six weeks later that I was pregnant.”

  “And?” Jerry made a cranking gesture with his right hand.

  “And I got an abortion.” With a certain amount of pride, she added, “And I paid for it twenty-five dollars a month out of my drug-store earnings.” She wondered what the priest would think of that, despite his sermon. This was a real-life case, and to her that made a difference.

  “Any regrets?”

  Rebecca was surprised by his response. It was a simple question and she could not find any trace of an accusation in his tone. “None at all.”

  He stared at the table with a worried look on his face.

  “Jerry, tell me what you’re thinking. Are you condemning me?”

  “No.” He looked into her eyes and continued, “I was thinking of Melanie Kurtz and wondering why you had the courage to take care of yourself and she didn’t. And I was wondering if it could have something to do with how we in the Church teach children to always obey, and to doubt themselves. I’m sorry. I do that a lot. Someone tells me something very personal and profound and I go off on some philosophical or theological tangent. Thanks, Rebecca, for sharing all that with me. It means a lot to me that you trusted me enough to tell me about that time in your life. How do you feel right now?”

  Rebecca smiled. “You sound like a therapist. I feel surprisingly good, really. Thank you for listening.” Again, she reached over and took his hand. He gave her a reassuring squeeze. She felt like giving him a hug but….