Chapter 5: The Church Speaks

It was a heady feeling that consumed James as he marched up the stairs to his apartment upon his return from school that day. He had already decided to pour himself three fingers of Scotch before making some dinner. It wasn't to make him forget, or to help him think. It was just going to be his private celebration.

Yes, it was a real breakthrough; it was all so perfect. Raymond was a shy, but respectful young man who seemed grateful, eager to start his adventure in Math. James was the Tour Guide and was certain that all would go well.

Nathan performed admirably in his director's chair, in James' estimation, making it all possible. Henry Thompson and Ed Cassidy played their supporting roles brilliantly, too. James was the star, the central figure in the real life play. It was Guatemala anew—a second chance. He never thought it would come to him again, especially after he left the priesthood. He could see now that it was truly his destiny. The occasion deserved a Scotch—or maybe two. It couldn't be more than that. He had papers to correct. He didn't feel like working that evening, but the formula had brought him this far; no reason to jinx it.

He changed his plan a little. He put water on the stove to boil some pasta and started heating some spaghetti sauce in a little pan. He would have his celebration while his dinner cooked. He performed his kitchen chores and then clinked three ice cubes into a glass. He covered them with the whiskey and sat down to enjoy it.

He decided to draw up a plan for Raymond's tutelage after he corrected the homework, which he would do after he ate. For now, he wanted to relax and he couldn't help thinking about how events in his life had led to this moment. If hadn't given up his Holy Orders it would have been impossible. It didn't usually work that way; it proved out that phrase: 'God works in mysterious ways'.

He had no hard feelings toward the Church or the Order. It was just that the priesthood had dried him out. He never really practiced his priestly profession to the fullest. He had always been a teacher with plenty of priests around to perform the rites; the Church had traded the bestowal of Holy Orders for his adherence to vows that bound him to his service. He had become a shepherd without a flock, a missionary to believers. His vows hung from his shoulders like a coat of chain mail, a protection from without and within.

"No hard feelings—no regrets," he said out loud. Did he say it to himself, or to God? He was not sure. He thought about making contact with the local parish. He hadn't confessed or received communion since he left the Order. That would be complicated, since he had to fit his activities with Vicki into that scenario. If he confessed it, he knew that a condition of absolution would be to cease committing the sin. He would not promise to 'avoid the near occasions of that sin' if he did not mean it. He would not omit confessing it either, throwing little sins to the confessor like bones to a dog. Better to bear this sin than blasphemy. One can lie to oneself, but not to God.

He thought more about his deeds with Vicki. Perhaps it was no sin—nothing to confess. It was like Nathan's admonition to keep his own business to himself. He would think about this and if he came to believe it he would confess and take communion.

The sound of his pasta water boiling over onto the burner pierced his introspection. He jumped out of the chair to turn down the flame. The water hitting it made the blue flame jump about with flares of yellow flicking out in many directions. It suggested to him that he was steps away from the gates of hell, daring them to open.

Ireland is the Land of Saints and Scholars, it is often said. Like many clichés, it is not true. It is, rather, a place that gives birth to tormenting, elfin, leprechaun-philosophers. They disguise themselves as elder priests and migrate to America to torture their protégés, passing out lyrical dictums with Communion. The younger priests cannot understand, but know well that the cruel riddles are full of undeciphered wisdom. They tear open their souls and stuff the words inside. As they grow old, they pry out the meaning, in hope that God will be revealed to them.

One such Irish priest was Fr. Brendan McNulty. He was appointed rector at the school where Jamie taught. He had little to do with the operations of the school. Rather, he was in charge of the community of priests who resided there. He was a short, slightly built man with a square jaw and pug nose. His hair was silver; his age known only to him and God, and, of course, the Prefecture Office in New York City. He spoke with the brogue of the auld sod although he had been in America for several decades. James had heard him speak without it on a number of occasions, but the old priest always had the accent ready and used it whenever dispensing grace and truth.

There was intoxicating kindness in his voice. A listener willingly became immersed in it. Resistance to the Word would melt away. Too late, one would feel the hardness of the lesson underneath the velvet cloak until it descended upon the unwary soul. Yet, the disciples would be as grateful as though they had been present at the Sermon on the Mount. It was with the brogue that one warm day the last summer he called James to him.

"Jamie, come here into m' office right away!"

"Yes Father," Jamie answered as he stepped inside. Father Brendan was seated at his desk. The aroma of fresh-burned pipe tobacco hung in the air of the small office like incense at High Mass. Indeed, the always-present pipe with the curved stem and large bowl sat in a glass ash tray at the side of the desk. It was the man's lone self-indulgence. A simple crucifix was mounted on the wall behind and above him.

"Close the door and sit, boy," the older man bade, not looking up from the documents that he held. Finally, he peered at Jamie over the top of his glasses. "Are ye sure that ye want t' be doin' dis. Yer mind's made up, is it?

"Yes, Father. It hasn't changed since we discussed it the last time," Jamie answered.

"Dat bein' th' case, Jamie, yer release papers are here fer ye to sign. Dey're right here in m' hands. I'll just get Fadder Mark to witness. Stay where y'are."

The old man slowly trod out of the room. He returned after a minute. "He'll be here presently." The two men looked at one another in silence while they waited.

A young priest walked into the office. Father Brendan signed in several places. He turned the papers around and handed them to Jamie. "Sign here ... and here and here, right next to where I did." Jamie signed without hesitating. It was anticlimactic. He had waited over six months for the release. The signing was a formality, yet Jamie had kept every vow—he would never break them until released.

Father Mark signed as the witness after Jamie did. "Good luck to you, Jamie. I'll miss you." The two younger men embraced. Father Mark bowed his head and shuffled sadly out of the room.

Jamie started to rise. "Just stay seated where y'are. We're not done yet—not by far!" Father Brendan ordered. Although Jamie was no longer a priest, and no longer under the older man's command, he obeyed him. Father Brendan sat back down. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his middle.

"I suppose ye t'ought dat I would try to talk ye out of it one last time," he said. "Well, I decided not to. Yer not cut out for the life of a priest, not at all. At long last, it's not the life for ye."

"Father, I obeyed every vow. I always did my best," Jamie protested. "There was never a reason to doubt me, except when the secretary at Holy Sacrament Parish accused me..."

"Ah, dat! A very unfortunate thing, dat was. Very sad, indeed, but t'wasn't yer fault, was it now?" Father Brendan interrupted.

"Yes," Jamie agreed. "But as I was saying, I was obedient..."

"Yes, Jamie! I know. Ye never committed any sins," the older man, who had become agitated, interrupted. He leaned forward, tore his spectacles from the bridge of his nose and pointed his finger at Jamie "But dere's a sin ye haven't yet learned of—the Eighth Deadly Sin. Yer've been committin' it, boy, as long as I've known ye. And 'tis the reason why yer not cut out fer d' priesthood."

"Eighth Deadly sin?" Jamie contorted his face in confusion.

"Aye, the Eighth Deadly Sin!" the old man shouted, pounding the tip of his still pointed finger down on the desk. "Yer been committin' it, boy, and not even knowin' it." He paused and calmed his voice. "Yer been committin' it all o' th' time." He finished as he waved his hand in the air across his chest to emphasize the scope of Jamie's commission.

"Well, Father," asked a suspicious Jamie, "what then, is the Eighth Deadly sin? Tell me so that I can stop committing it."

The old man's ire started rising anew. He jumped from his chair, leaned forward on locked arms and clenched fists. "I'll tell ye what it is!" he growled. Then he sat back down leaned back in his chair and folded his frail hands over his stomach once again. He exhaled deeply. Jamie leaned forward, intent on hearing the answer.

"I'll tell ye what it is at a time of m' own choosin'," he said as he smugly stared Jamie in the eye.

The culmination of the exchange turned Jamie into a crestfallen challenger. The final riddle, the key to truth, denied once again. He was certain to never find it. He was tired of questions—always deeper, more difficult questions. He had enough of unanswerable questions, unsolvable riddles. Make it black or white! He wanted truth, plain and simple. He wanted it soon, before he was too parched for it to take root.

"Now, Jamie," Father Brendan resumed, "though we're no longer brethren in the Order, we're still brothers in Our Lord. I bear ye no ill will. Ye must find a path fer yerself in th' world. Find the truth that eludes ye, boy. Serve God in yer own way. Ye'll find out fer yerself what is meant by the Eighth Deadly Sin, and when ye do, ye'll have yer truth, and more."

Jamie was beginning to feel sad as he knew that the final parting was soon to be.

"Stay seated, Jamie, and I'll give ye m' blessin' before ye go." He rose from his chair and placed his left hand on top of the younger man's head. With his right he hewed a cross through the air, "In nómine Patris, et Fili, et Spirítus Sancti." he recited.

"Amen." Jamie uttered and crossed himself.

"Now fer somet'in' else," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "All dat yelling gave me a tickle in me t'roat. I'll have one wit' ye fer th' road." He reached into his bottom desk drawer and produced a bottle of Irish whiskey and two glasses. He poured an ounce into each glass.

"God be with ye, Jamie." They both downed the dram and set their glasses on the desk. The old priest poured them another. "May th' wind be always at yer back. May th' road rise up to meet yer feet." They downed the second dose.

"I know dat ye'll come back to see me one fine day, Jamie. Until ye do, I'll be t'inkin' of ye and praying fer ye."

Jamie stood and embraced his old mentor. "Thanks for everything, Father." He picked up his papers, and turned, and walked out the door without a further word. As he walked down the hallway, he wiped some wetness from his eyes.

Ethan Chandler sat at his desk, staring out the window as the late morning sun pushed its way over the rooftops on the opposite side of the street. He was working on his Sunday sermon, and he had not progressed very far. He well knew that Jarrod Morris expected him to say something about the Church finances. It was a bitter pill. Begging for money from the pulpit was something that he had always promised himself that he would not do. It would be a cruel humiliation. He was a man of the cloth, not a barker in a carnival.

He thought about weaving it into the sermon, not asking directly. It would take a lot of finesse to bring it off. Subtlety was not his strong suit. What would be the use of doing it, anyway? It wasn't those seated in the pews that he needed to reach. It was the empty seats that needed attention.

A solution dangled in front of him like a cluster of ripened grapes on a vine. It occurred to him that Providence had just tapped him on the shoulder.

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," he said profoundly to himself out loud. It was a confluence of words and events. Only the Almighty could have brought it all together. There was Jarrod's urging him to use the pulpit for fundraising. Howard Jones exhorted him to uncover scandal. Just as it all appeared to be idle committee talk, Becky brought him that which bound it all together in the form of this 'Mr. O'Toole'.

"The truth shall issue forth on the lips of an innocent child," he pronounced to the empty room. He was making up his own Scripture, not worrying about the offense. What did Isaiah or Jeremiah have over him, except the advantage of time and place? Here and now he would take his place among them. But, did he dare?

"I am Ethan, the strong one," he proclaimed to bolster his nerve. God needed no evidence. By nexus, neither did he. He reasoned that it would come forth fast enough, once he laid the truth out in the open for all to see and hear. Truth was absolute. God was Truth. Truth did not come about because of evidence. Evidence would be gathered to lie like a wreath around the Truth to buttress the weak among the believers. It was all Black and White. He, Ethan the strong one, would be the hand of God; it was up to him to turn the screw.

Ethan rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. It felt a little fuzzy back there. He was overdue for a haircut. There would be just enough time for one before lunch. He put on a cardigan and walked the two blocks to Harvey's Barber Shop.

"Hello, Ethan!" Harvey called out as the Reverend opened the shop door. "I got up this morning and told the Missus, 'Ethan's about due for a haircut'."

Harvey English was a congenial man, just turned sixty. He owned the town's only barber shop, unless one counted the farmhouse kitchens where wives hacked away on husbands and sons. Harvey grew up in Bates; he was acquainted with everyone, knew almost all of them. He was lanky with white, well-groomed hair and a trimmed moustache. Harvey loved a good story and a good joke as he went about his work. There were two bulletin boards in the shop. One hung on the wall where patrons would post things for sale or the poster for the next concert of the Town Chorale. The other was Harvey himself. One could tell him a piece of news and be sure that it got passed on.

"Right you were, Harv. Just a little trim, if you please."

The barber shop was empty except for the two men. Harvey slapped at the leather seat with a towel and Ethan climbed in.

"Haven't noticed you in the congregation lately, Harv," Ethan said as the barber finished fastening the smock around his neck.

"Sorry about that. Ethan," Harvey said as Ethan put him on the spot. "It just seems that we're always tied up every weekend." Ethan wasn't Harvey's favorite customer. For one thing he never tipped. He was, moreover, a man who didn't appreciate a good joke, or an embellished 'remember when' story.

"For example," he went on, needing to prove his point, "last Sunday we were up in Buffalo visiting my daughter and son-in-law and the new baby."

"Very nice, Harv. Everyone doing well?" Ethan asked as a courtesy.

"Fine, fine!" Harvey replied. "I wish that we could see more of them. Buffalo's not too far, though."

"Well, you'll want to attend this Sunday!" Ethan returned to the point. "I've got a special sermon prepared."

"Oh?" Harvey's interest piqued.

"A revelation; a warning!" Ethan proclaimed, tantalizing the listener.

"Who, what, Ethan?"

"I'll only say that it's something happening right now and it's about the school," Ethan replied.

Harvey rubbed his chin, trying to decipher what Ethan meant. If it was about the school, and Ethan thought it important, then it had to be about teaching Evolution. Ethan often had sermons on that subject, although it never seemed to sway the School Board. Or perhaps it was ... Harvey decided to probe.

"Did you mean the Elementary School, Ethan, or the Middle School?" he asked cautiously.

"No, it's the High School!" Ethan answered tersely. Ethan knew that Harvey had swallowed the bait and he just had to set the hook.

Harvey thought for a moment. Of course, it was about sex. Little doubt, with all those young people coming of age, and all of the obscene material they could get at nowadays.

"What about the High School?" he probed. The hook was set. All that was left for Ethan was to reel him in.

"I've said too much already," Ethan answered. Harvey had finished the hair cut and removed the smock. "I hope that I see you on Sunday, Harv." Ethan knew that he would. Ethan paid Harvey (no tip) and went back home to have lunch.

"Raymond, it's almost time for you to go, but before you do, I'm going to give you some reading on the Theorem of Limits. You have to master this to start Calculus," James said.

It was nearly five o'clock. He and Raymond were sitting at James' kitchen table. It was the boy's first tutoring session.

"You mean you're going to teach me Calculus already?" the student asked.

"I didn't think that you would be so nervous about it, Raymond. We can slow down the pace a little if you want," James teased.

"No way!" Raymond shot back. "It's just that..."

"Just what, Raymond?"

The student cast his eyes down at the page, trying to figure out whether to answer.

"C'mon, Raymond, you had it half way out already."

"It just that whenever I ask the teachers in school to go faster they get angry," Raymond blurted out.

"The teachers have a lot of students to worry about, Raymond. Here, it's one-on-one," James explained.

"Yes, sir," Raymond mumbled; he sounded unconvinced.

"Why do you think so?" James queried.

"My mother says it's because I'm half-Indian. She says that they don't want me showing up the white kids," Raymond poured out the truth. At least it was his truth. James made no judgment.

"I don't know about that, Raymond. Here, at least, we'll go as fast as you can handle it." James looked Raymond in the eye. "Fair enough?"

"It sure is!" the youth said and beamed a broad smile.

Now here are the pages that I want you to read. Read them twice if you need to. Then do these problems. Don't forget the geometry and trig problems that I gave you earlier. And, most of all, don't neglect your regular course work."

"No problem!" an exuberant Raymond assured.

"We better get downstairs. I would guess that your mother is waiting in the driveway already," James said.

Sure enough, as they rounded the corner of the house Raymond's mother sat in her car, waiting to pick him up. It was a station wagon that looked like it had seen better days. James met her several days before in the conference room at the school following the meeting with Nathan and the other men.

Raymond's mother was about the same age as James. She carried a few extra pounds that gave her body a lumpy appearance. Her brown hair was unkempt, hinting that the day's travails with the children and overdue bills made her give up on keeping it in place. She was careful not to give away her thoughts, by wiping any expression from her face. Perhaps it was that, or because she was tired.

"Hello, Mrs. Jacobs!" James called to her as they approached the car. "Did we keep you waiting?" She shook her head but did not speak. "Raymond did well. I gave him some assignments. I think that this will work out real well."

"I don't know why you're doing this for no pay," she uttered as she looked away. "We don't want charity, but we can't pay."

"Raymond needs this, Mrs. Jacobs, and I'm enjoying it," James countered.

The woman ignored his remark. "I made these for you—to pay something," she mumbled. She thrust a paper plate with a dozen cookies out the open window of the car.

"Thank you, Mrs. Jacobs. You didn't have to do this, but I'm glad that you did!"

"It ain't nuthin'," the woman mumbled, looking away again.

"More than you think, Mrs. Jacobs. A single man like me doesn't get this kind of thing very often unless someone thinks of him," James insisted.

Well, alright then!" Raymond's mother answered, her tone brightened a little. She rolled up the window and started backing down the driveway.

James watched the station wagon back down about thirty feet or so. Then he waved good bye and turned back toward the back of the house. As he did, there was something moving that he saw in the corner of his eye. It didn't surprise him. It was the curtain in the nearby window in Mrs. Wilkinson's part of the house.

He didn't think that the landlady would like the tutoring sessions, but this was a point on which he would dig in his heels. He paused to see if the old woman would come waddling out the front door for one of her interrogations. When she didn't, he started walking slowly to his stairway. He would give her every chance to confront him, if she wanted to.

When Mrs. Wilkinson failed to venture from her lair, James considered the matter closed. He bounded up the stairs ready to get some dinner ready. He had some sliced ham from the Thrifty Mart and some eggs, so he decided that he would try that. That would give him a good base when he went out for his run early the next day.

James bounded out of bed the next morning looking forward to his morning exercise. He threw on his running clothes. As he stepped lively to the door he glanced at the scrubbed skillet and plate in the dish drainer. He congratulated himself on getting the eggs cooked just right the night before, and credited the meal for his feeling so good that morning.

He was stretching in the yard looking up at the early morning sky. It promised to be a rainy day, but no sign of rain yet. As the days of September ticked away the mornings were getting chillier. He reminded himself that shorts wouldn't be enough. He'd have to get out his sweatpants. He finished his stretching and started on his route.

The coldness of the morning air encouraged him to quicken his pace. The streets and houses had all become familiar landmarks as he loped past them. James found his stamina and muscle tone improving with the daily routine. At some point, he reckoned, he would have to expand his route. He wanted to get in as much work as possible because when winter arrived the snow might make it impossible to keep a daily schedule.

As he ran, he started thinking about his new charge, Raymond, and Mrs. Wilkinson peering at them from behind her curtain. He expected a complaint or an interrogation from her, but received none. Maybe he was just imagining that he was to meet opposition at every turn. Why would the old woman even care?

"Why indeed?" he answered himself, pondering the obvious point of Raymond's social status. He didn't know if his assumptions were true or not. It was easy to assume, given his low regard for the unpleasant lady. He realized that it didn't matter. Only Raymond's tutelage and, of course, his part in it mattered.

James was amazed that a young man in Raymond's circumstances could rise to the level that he had. He decided on the spot during their first tutoring session to accelerate the lesson's pace. It was apparent that there was a lot of potential in the young student. It was the right decision, because he saw the spark that he ignited in the pupil as soon as he did it. Raymond had every tangible factor arrayed against him. Most of the other students had everything in their favor. Raymond stood where he did on the academic ladder; his classmates—well, they stood lower.