Physically, I’m not like a lot of your other sixty-five-year-old males. First off, I’m in really good physical condition. My doctor told me I would beat the male lifespan averages by a decent margin. Second, I could still knock the living butt-squirts out of men half my age. Working at the tannery into my thirties and pushing around them heavy carts piled with cow and pig carcasses had bulked me up pretty good. God gave me big wrists and hands, prison boxing gave me the tools for using them and the confidence in knowing I could take a heavy blow to the head and still keep my legs and my wits. Most of the time, at least.
So, when Father Duncan said he wanted to drive me to the hospital, I told him if he did, I wouldn’t get out of the truck when we got there. Sure, it was a concussion. So what? Boxers got a hundred of them each time they stepped into the ring, and I sure wasn’t an exception.
“Just take me home,” I told him. “Viola can care for me. She’s done it before.”
So here we were, Father grinding through the gears of my Willys, coming up on the church rectory where we’d need to make a right at the traffic light and then another right at the stop sign to my house in the middle of the block.
“Here, Father, I wanted to show you this.” I pulled out a folded paper from my jeans pocket. “I found it in Sister Magdalena’s room this morning.” Father Duncan downshifted as we approached the traffic light, his footwork on the clutch better this time, the truck easing to a stop. I unfolded the test paper Sister Magdalena had graded. I put it between us, on the seat. “Tell me what you make of it.”
The light changed to green and Father’s hands and feet got busy shifting and foot-clutching and turning the steering wheel. One glance at the paper was all he needed. “It’s a catechism test.”
“Right. But look at what Sister wrote in red at the bottom after the last true-false question. It says, ‘Forgive me, he is mine.’”
We needed to be at a full stop for him to do as I’d asked, and since we had only one more turn to make before we got to my street, Father held off looking at the paper. It was coming up on six p.m. Still some sunlight left, dusk not yet surrendered to dark.
It was past my suppertime but apparently not Father’s, since I was hearing noise as we cruised by the side entry for Our Lady’s rectory. Tinny, blaring music coming from the open kitchen window, near as loud as the school’s PA system. Mrs. Gobel’s radio. Which meant that, among other things, the rectory supper hadn’t been served yet.
The side door to the rectory opened and out came Our Lady’s young novice Harriet looking a bit flushed, a small laundry bag held tight to her bosom with both hands. Harriet was a dutiful young girl given to Mona Lisa smiles and few words. Wasn’t really a novice yet but rather a postulant, or pre-novice, which meant that among other things she still had all her hair, a wispy auburn under a black veil, both veil and hair off her waify face because she was walking fast.
“Evening, Harriet,” I called to her from the truck, trying to better Mrs. Gobel’s radio.
I saw Harriet’s lips move, but I didn’t hear her because of the music. When she passed in front of the rectory’s kitchen window, the wild rock ’n’ roll piano playing stopped. Harriet flinched, her voice lowering so as not to be shouting.
“Pickin’ up Monsignor’s warsh,” she repeated for me then raised the gathered white bag she was carrying by its drawstring so I couldn’t miss it. I nodded to her just before she entered the back of the convent, managed a smile to go with it. The truck rolled to the stop sign.
“Monsignor’s ‘warsh,’” I repeated for Father, the hillbilly accent intentional. “Seems the monsignor don’t let his dirty laundry pile up for very long, seeing how often he has her collect it for him.”
For sure I wasn’t as dumb as that comment made me sound, but Father’s poker face said he wasn’t taking the bait. After a few seconds I lost my patience.
“Look, in case you haven’t picked up on it, there’s a real problem here, Father. I don’t know what the monsignor’s selling, to Harriet or to anyone else, but he’s for sure selling it through false promises, outright lies, and bullying, and taking advantage of his position just so he can get some jangle for his dangle, know what I mean? This girl comes from a poor West Virginia family. She’s someone’s daughter who’s gone off to a place her folks probably won’t never get to visit, to serve the Church and to obey God. She’s as pure as they come, and she’s fallen prey to this, this crazy, sonovabitchin’ monster. Sorry for the language, Father, but you need to understand. The monsignor is ruining lives.”
Father guided the truck onto my block, and now I saw Viola poking her head out from behind our silver aluminum storm door, looking anxious.
“Whatever stories he’s feeding people,” Father said as he pulled the truck curbside, “I don’t think he sees them as lies. So maybe you’re right. Maybe he is unbalanced. It happens to clerics as well as laypeople. You’ll have to trust me when I say I’m working on it.”
Before I could respond, Father added, “Remember, it’s innocent until proven guilty. Works the same way with the Church. But the Church is going to send him a message I think he’ll understand, and soon.”
Viola came down our front stoop as fast as her arthritic joints could take her, calling to me every other step. “Johnny! Oh, Johnny! Sister Dymphna called about what happened. Are you all right?” Father handed me my truck keys.
“I’m fine, sweetie,” I called back to her. “Another dose of aspirin and some supper is all I need.”
Father was out of the truck a few seconds after me. “Sister Magdalena’s note on this test paper,” he said in a low voice before Viola got to the bottom of the steps, “tells me she may have fallen victim to Monsignor as well. With predictable consequences.”
He tucked the paper into his jacket pocket. Sister’s funeral Mass was scheduled for Wednesday of next week, and a number of Church dignitaries were expected to attend. Maybe Father and the Cardinal were going to do some talking beforehand, to work on this “message” for Monsignor that Father had just mentioned. His face turned pleasant as Viola clamped her hand onto my wrist. She gave me a hug.
“Told you I’d get him to stop by, honey. Viola, this is Father Connie Duncan, all growed up and filled out, come back to us here in Three Bridges as Our Lady’s new parish priest.”
Viola gave him a hug and they talked, but I wasn’t paying attention. Father’s last comment about Sister Magdalena and the monsignor had my mind all tied up.
“Predictable consequences.”
Sure enough, her pregnancy was a real possibility. But trying to kill her own children?
What could bring a person to do that?