Authors: Daniel G. Keohane
“Our jobs seem pointless; perhaps the children were loud this morning, wanting more syrup on their pancakes.” He paused and smiled. The usual chuckles from the parents did not come. “Why do we do this... this everyday routine of life? Because it is God's will that we provide for our children. That we live our days not in one new adventure after another, but in normalcy, in the day-to-day victories that, as a whole, make a solid spiritual life.”
Normalcy
. The key to calming the waters. The people
were
visibly calming. The soft look of contented listening crossed their faces. Boredom, perhaps. He hadn't been a priest all these years without accepting the inevitability of parishioner inattention. But he would rather they be bored than afraid. They should
not
be afraid. Not in church.
He continued, “Saint Malachy, in his days, wondered many of the same things.”
He would give them what they need, what they crave. Slow things down. Keep things simple. Do not let them become afraid, as
he
was afraid. “Many of the other saints and martyrs would turn to God and ask why....”
* * *
Some in the crowd talked loudly amongst themselves. Frightened sounds, angry words drifting over the people’s heads. Nick knew he’d lose control soon if he didn't keep talking.
The young priest stepped back onto the altar so everyone could see him raise his arms. The crowd silenced, save the sobbing of the older children - many of whom obviously understood what he was telling them.
They were going to die.
“I'm not trying to be a sensationalist,” Nick said, lowering his arms. “I'm not trying to scare you. I'm not trying to be a prophet like these other people, though they most truly are.” He put his hands flat against his chest. “What I am is your priest, the one you turn to, to learn the teachings of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, the laws of Moses and the psalms of David. I took an oath,” he swallowed, pushed on, tears now falling down his face though he tried to keep any emotion from his words, lest it stop his sermon.
Not this time. Not this one
. “I swore to God that I would devote my life to His people. He brings you all before me. I swore to be unwavering in my devotion, to serve as the light which so many of you need to find God.
“How horrible if, when faced with something of this magnitude, I turned away from you, sinned against you by covering the truth. God has given us such strong and vivid signs.
“Even
without
taking anything else into consideration - think of the rain. Of the storm which appeared from nowhere. Think of its nature, raining over every land and leaving the seas at peace.
“It was a wake up call, my bothers and sisters. God is shouting from heaven for us to listen. He hates the sin and corruption, the violence and self-servicing materialism of the world. He's tired of being ignored, of being written off as an old-fashioned,
old age
concept. He's as real and tangible as you or I. More so, even. And He demands that we stop looking away, and look at Him! Even so, even with our apathy and ignorance and rebellion, He loves us and wants to give us as much time to give ourselves to Him as possible. The thief in the night is coming, my beloved ones, and the Lord is shouting for us to wake up and prepare!”
* * *
Now and then someone shoved Jack aside if the preacher wandered too close. One burly man in a Red Sox jacket grabbed him by the collar of his long coat. Michael pushed his way easily through the crowd, but before he reached the skirmish, a police officer grabbed the man and pulled him away.
The cop looked familiar. Perhaps he’d been here before, listening to Jack’s sermon instead of catching bad guys. Maybe the cop knew there would be no more criminals in a short while.
“Okay, friend,” he said to the man in the jacket, “get going.” As soon as he was released, the man muttered the usual curses about the “loony” needing to be locked up. With a cop in his path, he stuffed his hands into his jacket and walked away.
Mitch Leary turned around to offer Jack advice on avoiding collisions with people, but the preacher was heading off in the opposite direction, spouting his nearly unintelligible sermon to the growing crowd. The policeman didn't think Jack recognized him anymore. Not that it bothered him. The
crowd
bothered him. Before the bizarre storm the preacher had garnered more news coverage than followers. Now, he estimated three hundred people milled about Christopher Columbus Park, many under the pretense of touring Boston’s Long Wharf. Some looked amused. Some angry. Everyone, in their own way, afraid.
Al l of this emotion gave Leary a growing sense of dread. Across the way, Sullivan caught his eye. The officer had been assigned to the corner of Atlantic Avenue by the hotel. Mitch gave a quick nod, meaning things were still okay. Rany Washington, a stunning young woman who'd come on the force only three months earlier, kept her place further down, between the crowd and the pathway leading to Commercial Wharf. She was gazing at Jack, her attention to the scene admirable. Mitch hoped that her focus was more on the crowd than the preacher's words. There were times when he wasn’t so sure.
“Time to pray,” Jack said, his voice a scratchy, pained sound. “Father!” He raised his arms to the sky. His skinny wrists poked out from the sleeves of the long coat, the cast all but hanging from his right. “Forgive these people! Forgive me! Lead us unto your salvation!”
* * *
Nick stopped for a moment, lost in his own swirling thoughts, confused about where to go next. He closed his eyes, tried not to picture himself the bedraggled street preacher he imagined he must sound like to some. He was their shepherd,
had
to be, now more than ever before.
He opened his eyes and began to whispered, “For our own –”
“You're insane!” A tall, bald man abruptly stood, then realized what he'd done. He hesitated, face was red and blotchy with anger and embarrassment. The man added quietly, “You're
all
insane.” He pushed past the people in his pew, shoved past more at the back of the church and left. A few others stood, though with less of a display, and led their children out of the church.
Nick knew he had to ignore them, though all he wanted was to run down and beg each of them to stay and listen.
“Whether you choose to believe what they're telling us or what I'm saying today, that's your choice. Whether you walk up the ramp in June and board one of these ships, or join me here in the church to celebrate Mass, you need to believe. You need to take hold of your heart and soul. Look closely at what and who you are, in the eyes of the world and in the eyes of God.” His own words suddenly registered. It was the truth, once he accepted without question standing here before his flock. Whether they were his own words or that of the Spirit did not matter. They were Truth. He would not join Margaret’s crew, even if there were any spaces remaining after the past couple of days. His place was here, with these people. Nick had to serve them for what time he had left on this Earth.
* * *
“Good morning, Betty.” Father McMillan took the old woman's hands in his. She smiled up at him.
“Thank you, Father,” she whispered, “for not falling in with all these crazies telling us the world is coming to an end. Just a little rain storm and everyone's shouting about doomsday.”
“These are always questionable months for weather in New England, Betty. We should be thankful for the warm sun this morning. After all,” he raised a palm skyward, “it's not raining now.”
She smiled. “Thank God for that.”
“But it will rain,” a teenage boy said behind her. “That's what they're saying. How come you didn't talk about it?”
McMillan didn't recognize him. This was often the case lately. People who did not frequent church were now attending in droves. This morning Holy Trinity had twice the usual attendees. He forced himself to smile, stay calm.
“It's not my place to spread unauthenticated rumors, as so many others are doing.”
“Unauthenticated? But you saw the weather. That rain -”
“Stopped,” McMillan interrupted. “If there was to be a flood, I would think it would have continued on for a while longer, don't you?”
“But they said it was a warning. That it wasn't the final storm!”
McMillan wasn’t deaf to his undertone of pleading. Parishioners continued out of the church. Some heard and nodded in agreement; others showed exasperation with a dismissive wave or rolled eyes, and continued down the steps. Some of the first group looked ready for a fight, so hung back. The priest's heart began beating faster. A situation might develop. He prayed for his self-restraint to calm the others.
“I'm not saying one way or the other. The Holy Father in Rome is convening now with the Cardinals. I think we should wait for them to - “
“But they didn't get the visions! What would
they
know?”
“Young man,” snapped Betty. “You show some respect for the Holy Father!” She counted her next points on each gnarled finger. “The Pope is infallible, and like Father McMillan here, he is
not
going to rush to judgment over a few loose cannons! He’s - “
“Loose cannons? Have you listened to them? I don't mean that nut-job at Faneuil Hall. I mean everyone else.”
The crowd closed in. The air grew thick with tension. McMillan interrupted the boy with a wave of his hand and as stern a voice as he could manage. “This is not the place to discuss this. People are trying to leave the church.”
“People should be
going
to church, every day. Not leaving!”
“I repeat, this is not the place to discuss this.”
“Then
where
?”
“Do like the priest says and shut your mouth!” Elmer Brevan was an old, old man who’d been an usher in the church as long as McMillan could remember. He broke ranks and leaned over the boy. His hands were raised into fists. McMillan moved between them.
“I won't have this sort of -”
Elmer shoved him aside, not realizing what he was doing in his anger, then stepped towards the teenager. The boy hesitated, uncertain whether he should fighting such an old man. Elmer had no such qualms. He opened his hands and shoved. The kid stumbled backwards and waved his arms to regain balance. He managed to grab the iron railing at the top of the stairs. Someone held the old man by the shoulders. The boy took advantage and lunged forward, throwing awkward punches into Elmer’s face. A women pulled him back by digging her fingernails into his cheeks and yanking sideways. He screamed then toppled sideways down the old brick steps. Father McMillan recovered from his shock enough to look for help, saw only a fist as it slammed into his left eye. In the flash of pain, he saw more people stepping over the boy and running up the stairs to join the fray.
The police officer on traffic duty knelt beside the teenager at the bottom of the stairs and shouted into his shoulder-mounted microphone. The kid waved him away, embarrassed but bleeding from small cuts in his face. McMillan turned to see who had struck him but was suddenly disoriented… too many people behind him, some running down the second staircase, some with wide-eyed children in tow.
Behind the priest someone shouted, “She's got a gun!”
McMillan turned around, the words registering as he stared into the face of a young woman glaring back up at him from the sidewalk. Under her sweatshirt’s hood, her greasy blonde hair framed the rage which twisted her face and froze the man's heart. That, and the pistol held in front her.
Everything fell into slow motion. The front of the gun flashed silently. Someone fell sideways against his shoulder, an older woman,
Gina Hamer
, he thought automatically. Her black hair tumbled forward, obscuring his view of a police officer tackling the hooded shooter onto the ground. Gina’s weight pulled McMillan down to his knees. He rolled her sideways, and only then realized half of her face had been shot away.
* * *
By the time Nick's sermon was finished and he’d gone through the motions of the rest of Mass, nearly half of the congregation had walked out. Not all because of anger or disbelief, but because their sons and daughters were crying, sometimes screaming in terror.
Praise God for your mercy and love
, Nick thought as he and the lay-minister distributed Communion.
In your mercy save these children. Save their parents, for through the mother and father are the little ones saved.
He prayed Margaret and the girls were OK.
From the looks he’d received during Eucharist, some frightened, others angry, Nick decided to break with tradition. When the service ended, instead of leading the processional down the aisle and out the front door where he could greet everyone as they went home, he stepped from the altar, turned right, and proceeded directly into the Sacristy.
The murmurs grew louder as he did this. Nick hoped the people would understand. Those who needed counsel knew where to find him.
* * *
“Pancakes this morning, Dora. And some sausage if it’s not from last year’s kill.”
“Don’t let Grim hear you say that, Hon. Good to see you ordering real food. Haven’t seen you much for a couple of days, and when I did, you left most of your food on the plate. Shouldn’t waste like that, even if you
did
pay for it. You been sneaking into that hotel’s cafeteria?”
“I’d never cheat on you, D. Just celebrating a return to normalcy. How’s the TV?”
“It’s wonderful! You do something to fix it?”
“Nope. Mother Earth fixed your reception, not me.”
“That doesn’t sound too scientific... more coffee? You need to drink slower or you’ll burn your throat clean out of your body, what with the way
I
make this stuff.”
“Heh, sorry. Please... thanks. I told you things would go back to normal, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did. You just didn’t sound too convincing yesterday. Your little North pole go back home where it belonged?”