FATHER GEORGE MORRIS was reading scripture when the power went out. The tea kettle was whistling, and he had put his Bible down and was preparing to get up from his desk and walk into the kitchen to have a cup of tea.
“Ah, Lord, the storms of summertime.” He sighed. He reached into one of the desk drawers, found a flashlight, turned it on, and made his way into the kitchen. After pouring himself a cup of tea, he began feeling his way through the cabinets for the candles he knew were kept above the stove.
He found a few votive candles and placed them on small plates, lighting them with the matches he had collected from his desk drawer. He set the candles around the front room of the rectory and sat back down at his desk, the cup of tea beside his Bible. He thought about the scripture he was reading, the Gospel of Mark, and particularly the story of Jesus walking on the water, the story of high winds and fear, a storm experienced by the disciples. He thought of the irony of his reading about a storm, considering what was happening all around him, and had to smile. He opened his Bible to read more but then, realizing that he would not be able to read with so little light, closed the book and considered just going to bed, even though he wasn’t actually sleepy.
He thought of the events of the day, the meeting of the education committee and the decision to start a nursery for the worship hour on Sunday mornings. He thought about his visit to the parish in Quemado and his conversation with Father Quy, the priest serving the two other churches in the vicinity. He recalled the man’s cynical comment that Father George had a cushy job serving only the Holy Family Church in Pie Town, not being responsible to the diocese in Gallup, and how it seemed that Father George had taken to radical ways by not wearing his collar and allowing Protestants to share in regular worship.
George had chosen not to engage with the other priest once he made those remarks. He knew that the other parish priests in New Mexico and the entire Southwest thought the arrangement in Pie Town with the diocese in Gallup was inappropriate and out of line. He knew that Holy Family Church was a kind of renegade organization that even seemed close to breaking ties with the Catholic Church. He understood that once he and the citizens of Pie Town chose to build their own church, without supervision or assistance from the diocese in Gallup, he and the Church were moving into uncharted territory. Father George still referred to himself as a Catholic priest, but he was not in full standing with the Church. It was a unique and precarious relationship, and many other priests were not happy about it.
George had tried to build a friendship with the new priest in Catron County when he arrived, but the orthodox young man, trained in his home country of Vietnam, could never understand the role of the priest in Pie Town. George had decided after this last visit that he would make no further attempts at being friends. He was, after all, deeply involved in the lives of his parishioners, in the events of the community, and happily, he noted to himself, had more than enough friends. If Father Quy wanted to make a connection with George, he knew how to contact him. Pie Town wasn’t that far from Quemado.
George looked at his watch, trying to make out the time, and took a sip of tea. He thought about his afternoon, his visit to Frank Twinhorse’s garage. He had taken in the station wagon he had been driving for the entire time he had been in Catron County. It had not been a reliable vehicle when it was given to him by the Monsignor in Gallup, and now it was simply falling apart.
That afternoon, George had taken his car in because the brakes were squealing. Since he didn’t know a drum from a pedal, and since he needed his car the rest of the week, he was hoping that Trina or Frank would be able to tighten something or oil a part and take care of the problem quickly. He was hopeful that he wouldn’t have to leave it with them for any length of time.
Trina, the young woman who had arrived in Pie Town at the same time that Father George had, was working at the garage. She was good at what she did, loved working on engines, and had learned a lot about auto mechanics while serving an apprenticeship with Frank. She had, in fact, replaced more parts in the station wagon than George could count and had practically rebuilt the transmission earlier in the year. She was quite skilled at her work and very happy in her new job.
When he arrived at the garage, Trina and Frank were nowhere to be found. He called out for them, walked around the bays and into the office, but neither of them answered or showed up. Finally, just as he was getting into the station wagon to leave, Frank pulled up in his tow truck, explaining briefly that Trina was home with Raymond and that she had called Frank over to handle a situation.
Father George knew that Raymond, Frank’s son and Trina’s boyfriend, had been in Pie Town for only about five weeks. The church had thrown a big “welcome home” party for the wounded soldier when he was released from the Veterans Hospital in Albuquerque, and even though the young man seemed a bit uncomfortable with the attention from his hometown, he acted like he enjoyed the gathering. He was quiet but did not seem troubled, shy but not necessarily withdrawn.
George had visited Raymond while he was hospitalized and had seen the physical wounds of war. The young soldier had been in a vehicle that exploded because of a roadside bomb. He was the only one who had survived. His left knee was shattered. Both lungs were punctured. There was significant hearing loss, a fractured skull, brain trauma, and more than eight or nine other broken bones. Raymond had come through numerous surgeries and had been sent home after lengthy stays at medical clinics and hospitals in Afghanistan, Germany, North Carolina, and finally Albuquerque.
Father George had concluded, even though there had been no real cause for his suspicions, that Raymond had suffered as much, if not more, emotionally as physically during his short time of service in war, and after his visit in Albuquerque he had suggested to Trina and Frank that the young man might benefit from support services offered to returning veterans. Both the boy’s father and his girlfriend had explained that they mentioned this to Raymond, but that he seemed unwilling to consider talking about his experience with anyone.
Once Raymond had been home a few weeks, he became increasingly withdrawn, and Father George started paying closer attention. He checked on the young man every couple of days, and even though Raymond wouldn’t look George in the eye and seemed unable to sit still for any length of time, the priest thought everything was going as well as could be expected. He had not seen signs of real trauma for the soldier.
“What kind of situation?” George remembered asking Frank.
The father wouldn’t answer any questions about his son. He had checked the station wagon and announced that the priest would need new brake liners on the rear wheels. He could leave the car at the garage until the parts arrived and were installed, he was informed, or it was probably safe to drive around town if he wanted to return later in the week. George had decided just to keep the car until the parts were delivered.
“Would it help if I visited?” he had asked Frank before driving off. He knew where Trina and Raymond lived. He knew they had moved out of the little garage apartment and into Roger’s house, since the sheriff had moved in with Malene once they got married. “I can drop by, offer to talk to Raymond, offer to drive him to Albuquerque to talk to someone there.”
And George, sipping some more of his tea, recalled how Frank appeared when the offer was made. He had looked away and then turned back, shaking his head from side to side. He had taken a long breath before answering, wiping his hands on the rag hanging from his pocket.
“I like you, Father George. I have since you built the church and did what you did for this little town. I respect your work.” He stepped away from the car. “You have a good heart.”
George glanced away.
And then Frank had hesitated before finishing. He shook his head again. “But you can’t help my son.” He then slid his hand across the back of his neck. “I’m not sure what or who can help him now.” And with that, Frank had turned away and walked into the office. George had waited, thinking he might return, but when he didn’t, George had simply driven off.
Father George considered that perhaps he should have gone over to Trina’s. He didn’t need a reason to visit; the young couple knew the priest often stopped by to see parishioners or community members. They both knew he sometimes dropped in on folks without calling ahead. But George had chosen not to meddle, not that time. He told himself he would wait until he gained permission from Trina or Raymond to step in and offer help.
He had decided that the most he could do at the time, the best he had to offer, was to simply say his prayers. And so, there in the meek light of small candles, that’s what he did. Father George dropped his face, closed his eyes, and folded his hands. Cloaked in darkness, he prayed.