Authors: Chuck Stepanek
The first few tentative bites were gratefully accepted by his stomach. Feeling somewhat assured he picked up one of the shingles covered with a mound of eggs and crammed a third of it into his mouth. This too avoided gastro rejection. The peaches were a good addition and the milk, a dubious proposition at first, was also accepted as family.
It would have all been fine and well except for the fact that it left Gus alone with his thoughts. While he had been cleaning up his room and cooking his hangover remedy, his mind had been occupied (at least somewhat) by the task at hand. Now, with no distractions, other than which bite should come next, his mind was free to roam through all of the consequences ahead of him.
The boy – the dad – the other boys – the church council – the police – They rolled through his brain like an out of control amusement park ride. Each time he resolved (denied) one, there was another manic roller coaster to take its place, careening off the tracks, smashing into his sanity. He should stay. He should go. Would they dare arrest him? Would there be a trial? And would the newspa– Christ the fucking newspaper! He hadn’t thought of this before – his picture would be on the front page of every wire-service subscribing rag in the
Midwest
! And there was television and radio and fuck oh fuck, this could follow him forever!
What his stomach had gratefully accepted
,
his mind now frantically vetoed. His throat constricted to a pencil line, a briny taste rose in his jowls, and his diaphragm heaved. As the food began rising up on its return journey Gus
scrambled to his feet
and lunged for the sink.
Perk-a-perk-ah-perk-ah! The coffee maker sang its merry song of golden goodness. Meanwhile, across the way; Gus wretched violently.
3
The coffee maker had done its job and Gus had done his, and now the two had come together at the expanse of kitchen table. A large man with a small cup, a cup designed more for a prim meeting of the women’s guild than for chasing off a bad hangover. But warm ups were close at hand, and this he did often (albeit unnecessarily) just for the sake of distraction.
He had grimly cleaned up the sink and trashed the rest of his meal. On a notion he had also retrieved the wastebasket from his own room and deposited its contents into the dumpster at the back of the building.
And here he sat. Tortured by the thoughts that tugged at his brain and yet encouraged by the notion that each passing minute brought him closer to –
The phone rang.
A small yelp escaped the large man. The man who was once a boy and had yelped in a similar manner while being ravaged by the ogres. He sloshed his coffee and his index finger became lodged in the too small cup handle. “Damn it!” Anger. Fear. Both.
A second ring.
Gus scowled at his own weakness but focused on the god-damned fairy cup. “Fuck!” He caught himself as if the person who was calling could overhear his oath. “Damn thing” he muttered, wrenching the diminutive cup from his hand.
The phone insisted a third time and Gus rehearsed his story. ‘What’s that? I have no idea what you’re talking about. Yes, the
boy was in my room. Yes, I talked to his father, no, no, heavens no! I am a man of the cloth. Bearing false witness is a sin.’
He reached from where he was seated, took a breath, and picked up on the fourth ring: “Father Milliken.”
“Father, something awful has happened.” Okay. So this was it.
The caller had not even identified themselves, probably didn’t want to be identified. But of course, the rumors of what had happened were already spreading around town and this one nosy nitwit needed to hear it direct from the source. Hear it for themselves so that they could be the star attraction at their bowling league, sewing circle or whatever godforsaken gossip-fest they attended.
Gus did not respond. Could not respond. The caller filled the gap: “You need to turn on the television right away!”
Gus felt every life-giving molecule swept from his body. His mind became blank as each consequence he had imagined was now flat stark reality. He was busted. Arrested. Tried. Convicted. And branded for life by the media.
“The President has been shot!”
It was a good thing that Gus had practiced his story. It was the only thing he could rely on (part of it at least) while he sorted out what was going on in his head. “What’s that? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” It was just as he had rehearsed although unwittingly a purely honest response.
“The President, John F. Kennedy,
our
President, was shot in Dallas today. They don’t know if he’s going to live.”
It wasn’t the church council, not the police, not even the concerned parent of a congregational child. This was just some anonymous person telling the local priest that the catholic
P
resident had been shot. And perhaps hoping that his phone call would earn him a few extra crowns in heaven.
“The President has been shot.” Gus repeated softly into the hand piece. It was the best news he had ever received.
4
The occurrence of major life events, of the magnitude of a presidential assassination (especially of a
catholic
presidential assassination) prompt people, communities and congregations to either look more closely at their own lives – or – to become oblivious to their small role in the world and be dragged along by the power of a nation.
The brave look inward. The deniers hide in the fallout.
Gus had a lot to deny, and with an entire nation affixed to the happenings in Dallas and DC his transgressions hid easily. Besides, he was suddenly busy and in demand. His first phone call of the day was certainly not his last. Several parishioners had requested special services of the rosary and opportunities for confession. Normally he would have loathed such requests. But by god if this wasn’t a wonderful distraction, not only for himself but for the others who could make his life uncomfortable.
To think that earlier today he believed the people were going to turn on him. But look at things now. The people were turning to him! They needed him and of course would protect him from the lunatic ravings of anyone so upset by the
P
resident’s death, that they’re driven mad and make false accusations against a priest.
Gus began building his defense. He called the two most gossipy members of the woman’s guild and asked them to pass the word that a special rosary would be performed tonight at 6 pm followed by confession until all have been served. He shared the same information with radio station KNEW (we put the KNEW into Elmwood’s music). The receptionist who took his call had
clearly been crying. “I’ll pass the information along to the disc jockey. It’s a shame we can’t broadcast the service.” Gus immediately brightened and said: “My wonderful child of God, you put him on the phone right now!” KNEW would undergo a change of format at least for one night.
Calls were placed to the 5 church council members to let them know that they were being prayed for this time of crisis. And then on a whim, and more for his own benefit than others, Gus also dialed up the sheriff’s office where he got to speak to the man himself. “Thank you for your concern Father, actually things are really quiet now, it’s eerie. Everyone watching the TV I guess. But I’m grateful knowing there’s someone out there looking out for our spiritual needs. Any of the guys I can spare tonight will be at your rosary you betcha.”
The work was a great distraction. By keeping busy, Father Milliken was able to keep his mind from going renegade.
He spent the rest of the day making last minute calls to ushers and altar boys, all were eager to offer their assistance in this time of crisis. He panicked for a moment when the task of snow removal entered his mind, and then stood stock still. Why no, that had been taken care of last night by
-
by the father of the boy. The walks were clear, and now it was- he looked at his watch- it was 5:15! The day had gone by and he had hardly thought about last night’s ugly incident since receiving the call about the
P
resident.
Five-fifteen. If anything were to have happened it would have happened today; during ‘business hours.’ Plus, this was Friday! Suddenly Gus felt exonerated of his demons. “Five-fifteen!” he said triumphantly to the pleasure of his own ears. “Must get ready for church!” And with that he exited the sanctuary of the rectory for the first time that day.
The air was sharp but still. To the west a corona of colors; red, orange and pink commingled with the cirrus clouds above the setting sun. Gus paused for just a moment to take in the omen
while an old verse found its way to his lips: “Red sky at night, sailors delight.” Fair weather; smooth sailing. He smiled at the thought, then caught himself. Best not to let any early arriving parishioners, indeed he could see a thin line of sinners making their way up the steps of St. Marks, catch him in the act of smiling on this grievous occasion. He adjusted his thoughts to the task ahead. ‘Full house.’ He mused. ‘If they’re getting here this early it’s gonna be a sellout.’
He turned up the walk that led to the side door of the sacristy. The walk was clear. The boy’s father had done a good job.
5
The rosary service was a somber smashing success. Every pew filled. People standing on the edges, spilling out the front door, even kneeling in the main aisle. The four deputies from the
sheriff’s
office were garishly led in via the sacristy door to be seated in the front row. KNEW spliced a microphone to the churches phone line and sent the feed back to the studio and out to the 30 mile radius of their 1,000 watt tower.
Father Milliken: “Hail Mary full of grace, the lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus.”
The congregation: “Holy Mary mother of god pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death amen.”
And among those many voices in the congregation was a man with no rosary but who instead fumbled two keys, one for the car, and one for the house. And with him a woman who frantically twisted and knotted her rosary. The miniature Jesus on the cross flipping wildly like a circus acrobat. And between them, a boy. A boy of perhaps
4
, maybe
5
years old. A boy who used to stand on the pew and take in the sights around him; but who now sat unmoving. Hands at his sides, eyes down, chin on his chest.
Throughout the 58 prayers of the rosary Father Milliken kept his eyes on this trio. He made eye contact with the man once (who shrunk in repose) with the woman three times (whose eyes darted constantly like Mexican jumping beans) and the boy from whom there was nothing.
‘They’re not going to say anything.’ Father Milliken reflected in wonder.
Father Milliken: “Glory be to the
F
ather,
S
on and
H
oly
G
host.”
The Congregation: “As it was in the beginning, now and ever shall be, amen.”
A packed church, a radio station broadcast, officers in uniform and a family that he had once feared – now stone cold mute. Gus Milliken was feeling more and more like Father Milliken. He was building a strong defense. And while he didn’t believe in reincarnation, the president’s death had given him new life. Damn, why couldn’t a president die every day!