Chapter 5

(Herewith the latest sample chapter from my forthcoming novel. Check below for earlier chapters to catch up!)

You’ll have to bear with me today, I’m afraid. I’m beat; I was up most of the night on a sick call.

It was an older fellow, a pretty active parishioner. I guess he’d had a stroke. At least that’s what I think the doctor was telling me. I’m not sure. I didn’t really follow what he was saying. I don’t really need to know the medical details, you know. I’m there to hear his confession and anoint him.

You know, sometimes I think the doctors find a priest at the bedside and assume that he’s going to know medical terms. Maybe they figure if you’re not a patient and you’re not a family member you must be some sort of medical something. You hear a lot of medical terms thrown around, and you don’t really want to stop the doctor and make him explain. I mean, he’s not there to educate me. But I suppose in a few more years I’ll start to understand more of it, just from hearing the terms, you know.

When I was finished with the man himself, I spent a long time with his wife. You can imagine, she was pretty upset, worrying whether he was going to make it. She seemed to think that I had some medical knowledge, too. I can understand that more. I’m sure she’d had a lot of the medial jargon thrown at her— a lot more than I got— and she was trying to digest it all. And then I’m sure she was probably in shock, and scared, and not necessarily thinking all that clearly. So you can see why she’d lump me in with the doctors and nurses who’d been talking to her.

####

Not so much that. From what I understood, the man’s life wasn’t in any immediate danger; he’d survived the most dangerous part. But the poor woman still had plenty of reasons to worry. She was probably facing life with a severely disabled husband, and she wasn’t going to be able to take care of him all by herself. She’s elderly, and she didn’t look to be in very good health herself. There! You see, I’m starting to give out medical opinions. If everybody else thinks I’m a medical expert, I might as well join the club.

Anyway the widow— wait a minute; she’s not a widow. But she’d been worrying that she was going to be a widow, and she hadn’t started thinking yet about what her life was going to be like. So I was trying to reassure her that her husband wouldn’t die, and at the same time— as gently as possible— move her along to think about what she was going to do, to cope with the new situation. Not an easy conversation.

By the time I got back to the rectory, it didn’t make sense to try to go back to sleep. So I just took a shower and got ready for the early Mass— spent a bit of extra time praying for that poor couple beforehand. It wasn’t an all-nighter for me, but almost. So, like I said, don’t be surprised if I’m babbling more than usual today.

####

Thanks. I appreciate that. I’ll try to forge ahead. Just don’t grade me on my grammar, OK?

And thanks for the reassurance. I’m glad to know that Father Burke put in a good word for me. So at least you’re not starting with the assumption that I’m a nut. That’s good to know.

No, really, I’m not being sarcastic. I mean it. Thanks for telling me that. I might not have been so defensive starting out, if I’d known. I guess I should have realized that if he recommended you to me, he might have said something about me to you. But I don’t know; he’s very discreet. I admire that in him.

That’s why maybe I was kind of belligerent when we started, you know. About who’s going to hear what I tell you, and all that. If David Burke tells me I can trust you, then I’m going to trust you. But that’s as far as it goes.

####

Right. I get that. You didn’t want to give everything away before I even start telling you about myself. That’s fair. I get that. But thanks for the reassurance now, anyway.

####

Back to business. What did you ask me? I’m having trouble remembering. I’m really not at the top of my game today.

Oh, yeah. You’re asking the right questions, and I guess I didn’t answer that one completely. I admit it; that was a bit of a cop-out. Well, not exactly a cop-out. It was true, I mean. But I’ll admit I didn’t tell the whole story.

It’s also true that I don’t know why so many people want me to hear their confessions. But I do know how it started, anyway— how those long lines started— and that gets us right to Betsy Howell.

Yeah, I can see what you’re thinking: Here comes the good stuff. Let’s cut right to the chase. But I’m not there yet. We can talk about it if you want— whenever you want, let me know; I’m ready when you are— but right now I’m just trying to give you a better answer about hearing confessions.

What I said last time is true. There were reasons for me to get more business in the confessional than the other two guys. But that only counts the people in our parish: the people who would be coming on Saturday afternoon in any case. There’s no question— no doubt about it— that business started to pick up after I’d been there for a couple of months. I don’t know how long it took exactly. I mean, I couldn’t tell you when I started to notice that the lines were getting longer. My lines, I mean. The other lines weren’t. That’s the point. The lines for me weren’t just longer than for the other two priests, but longer than you’d expect for St. Joe’s. Or at most parishes, I suppose. I don’t know about that; I guess it’s true.

It’s not like the checkout line at the grocery store, or at the bank or the post office. There, you just choose the shortest line every time. But some people want some extra time before they go to confession; they want to prepare themselves— or maybe they’re happy to postpone it for just another couple of minutes. Whatever. Anyway, people don’t necessarily stay away from a long line.

I think a lot of people wanted to try out the new priest, to see what I was like as a confessor. Something new, you know? That’s natural enough.

The Monsignor has his regular customers: the folks who have been going to him for years. But I think a lot of people in the parish avoid him. Ed Mulvey has his regulars, too— mostly kids, but a fair number of middle-aged folks, too— but I think some of the older people avoid him, too, for different reasons. He’s so informal, such a hail-fellow-well-met; that makes some people uncomfortable. So that leaves me. Ed’s line moves along quickly, though; the people are in and out pretty fast.

Oh, but we’ve been through all that, haven’t we?

####

Yeah, thanks. Feel free to break in any time. I don’t want to keep repeating myself, just wasting your time and mine. It helps when you steer me back on track. Especially today.

Actually, now that I think about it, at first, I wasn’t the one who noticed that my lines were getting unusually long. It was the Monsignor. Which figures; he notices everything around St. Joe’s. I don’t remember, though, exactly when he first mentioned it. I think he was waiting for me to complain— or at least maybe giving me a chance to complain. Why would I? I didn’t have anything else important to do on Saturday afternoons. We already went through that, too, didn’t we?

It was in the fall, I know, that we had this conversation, because now I remember pretty much exactly when he mentioned it. I’d just come back, late on a Saturday afternoon, and of course he was watching the football game, and the 2^nd half was just about to start. He said that he’d noticed I was getting some extra work, and that a lot of the people in line weren’t familiar faces, so he figured they were coming from outside our parish. He said something about how I was going to have to deal with that problem. I distinctly remember he called it a problem. He said it with a smile, but then he shook his head, and I could tell— don’t ask me how— that the “problem” he was talking about was Betsy. Then Tim Brown almost broke a big return on the 2^nd-half kickoff— that’s why I remember the whole episode— and his attention went right back to the game, and that was the end of that conversation. I didn’t have anything important to do, but the Monsignor did; he’s very dedicated to his Notre Dame games. It’s funny. He didn’t go there. I’m sure he doesn’t have any relatives who went there. But it’s like a part of that old-time Catholic thing: you eat fish on Friday and you root for Notre Dame on Saturday.

For me, like I said, I’m not missing anything if I spend more time in the confessional on a Saturday afternoon. What else would I do? I don’t have any hobbies. I could go shoot some hoops— I do that sometimes. Sometimes I’ll sit down and watch the game with the Monsignor, but that’s just to pass the time; I’m not really that interested. I might go out for a run, especially if the weather is good. I’m not built for long-distance running, but I can still go two or three miles without any trouble, and still have time for a shower before dinner. I might work on my homily for Sunday, but I’ve usually done that already. A lot of the time I’ll just end up reading a book. Or tell the truth, I’ll waste a bunch of time trying to figure out what I should do.

####

Well, like I said, the Monsignor thought Betsy was responsible for those long lines. So you see it’s not just me. Of course I’m the one saying so, but I guarantee you this: if you asked him he’d say that same thing.

Betsy was always going to be a “problem,” I suppose, if you look at it that way. Not necessarily a “bad” problem. Definitely not a bad person. A very good person, actually. Saintly in many ways. But she could— she does— drive people crazy. Especially priests, I think. The Monsignor told me: “She’s a good woman, and she’s going to go right to heaven, and then she’ll be God’s problem.” I like that: “She’ll be God’s problem.” It’s how I feel, a lot of the time.

Ed Mulvey wasn’t that generous (if “generous” is the word I’m looking for); he thought Betsy was a pest. He told me right away, the first time I sat down and talked with him, a couple of days after I moved into the rectory in June. He didn’t even wait to get acquainted— you know, ask about my background, and that sort of thing— he just launched right into his complaints about the parish. It was kinda late at night, the Monsignor was already in bed, and Ed had just come in from a night out with his friends. He’d had a few, and he launched right in. I had the feeling that he’d been complaining to his pals over the drinks, and I was getting the overtime session. The Monsignor was too strict and old-fashioned, he said, and the parishioners were too conventional— I think “bourgeois” was the word he used, because it was a word he used a lot— and Betsy Howell was a pest. I’m quite sure that’s the word he used in that case; I remember it clearly. She was the only person in the parish that he mentioned, other than the Monsignor. She was on his mind, and she was a pest.

The funny thing is, though, that she didn’t pester Ed. Maybe she had in the past, and then she’d given up on him. I guess she’s always had a priest— usually a young priest— who was kind of like her special project. Maybe that was Ed at one point, a few years back. I don’t know. She doesn’t bother Msgr. Catano all that much— only when she wants to start some sort of new program in the parish— and at least since I’ve been there, she’s left Ed Mulvey almost completely alone. But she’d fastened on Bob Glenn (that’s the guy I replaced; he did his two-year stint at St. Joe’s right after ordination), and when he left she fastened on me.

####

Let me tell you something about that. When the Monsignor sat me down, that day when day I arrived— this was a couple of days before Ed Mulvey took his turn at it— he gave me a different sort of story. First he told me why I was there— that the archbishop likes to assign him a newly ordained priest who’s an idealist, so that he can show him the ropes. “I don’t want you to lose that idealism,” he told me. “If you do, you’re lost. But I’m going to temper it with a dose of reality about parish life. By the time you’re done here, I hope you’re going to better priest, with a deeper prayer life. But you’re also going to know how to run a parish bazaar— and turn a profit on it. You’re going to know how to spot the people who can help you, and the people who will waste your time.”

(You know, I bet that’s pretty close to exactly what he said— verbatim, I mean. I remember it pretty well. At least I think I do. I definitely remember the message, for sure— maybe not the exact words, but I think I’m pretty close. What he said stuck with me. I thought it sounded like very good advice. I still do.)

Betsy, he told me— she was on the top of his list, too, that first day— was both. She was going to help me, and she was going to waste my time. That was an unusual combination, he said; and she was an unusual old lady. That’s when he said that line about how she’s going to be God’s problem. That stuck with me, too; and I’m quite sure I got that line exactly right. Remember I hadn’t even met the woman yet, and he was giving me a pretty vivid picture. Right from the start I knew that she was a big part of life at St. Joe’s.

You know, people underestimate Msgr. Catano. He’s so phlegmatic. He just sits there. You think he’s doing nothing. It sure looks that way. But he’s listening, and he takes a lot in. When he decides something, you know he’s thought a lot about it, and figured out all the angles. I remember once we were talking about training the altar boys, and he asked me: “Is Eddie Trainor still clowning around in class?” I had mentioned that I’d had some discipline problems, but I’m quite sure I hadn’t mentioned any names, and he hadn’t asked me. Somehow, he found out anyway.

He’s constantly talking to people around the parish— and when I say he’s talking, mostly he’s listening. And he doesn’t take days off. I mean, actually he does take days off. He’ll go golfing with Tom England. (They must be terrors on the course; I think they both shoot about 120.) Or he’ll go with his old high-school teammates to a ballgame. But when he’s at work, he’s working. And as a matter of fact he hasn’t taken a real vacation since I came to St. Joe’s. Considering what’s been happening there, I suppose he hasn’t felt confident he could leave. I don’t blame him.

If you try to strike up a casual conversation, a lot of times he’ll put on that Grumpy Old Man act. But if you have something serious to discuss, he’s helpful. In fact I’d say, really quite wise. He’s not really part of the “in crowd” at the chancery— the Old Boy network— probably because he doesn’t want to be. But they all ask him for advice, still. He doesn’t offer it; they ask him. I know the archbishop relies on him. It’s true— no doubt in my mind— that the Arch sent me to St. Joe’s because he thought a couple of years with Catano would be good for me. Of course that’s exactly what the Monsignor told me, too, that first day. And he was right— even if they’re all wondering about that right now.

####

Yeah, I know; you shouldn’t have to say it. We’re not here to talk about Msgr. Catano. Sorry I’m rattling on. You can’t say I didn’t warn you: when I’m tired, there’s no filter. But the Monsignor is part of the story here. It’s remarkable, thinking back now, how well he predicted things— at least up to a point.

He told me what would happen when Betsy got hold of me— which, he said, would happen very soon. She’d get me involved in conversations with other people about saints and mystics. Then when she had me alone she’d tell me about her mystical experiences. “If you take her seriously,” he said— “which you should”— and I remember, there he stopped for a second and waited until we had eye contact, I guess to make sure I knew that he was serious— “she’s going to try to convince you that you’re a mystic, too.” Then he asked me if I thought of myself as a mystic. “No,” I said. “Far from it.” “Good,” he said. “If you can take her seriously, but not let her convince you that you’re both mystics, you could do a lot of good— for her and for yourself and maybe for the whole parish.”

I guess it hasn’t worked out that well. Certainly not for me or for the parish. Not yet, anyway. I hope the jury is still out. That’s why it’s a relief to know that you weren’t ready to write off as a lunatic right away. But I did take the Monsignor’s advice. I did take her seriously.

And what’s more important, I didn’t let her talk me into thinking that I’m a mystic. That part was easy; I’m not.

But here’s the problem: I haven’t convinced Betsy. In a way, you know, I think that’s why I’m here today. I don’t think I’m a mystic. But Betsy does, and she’s made enough noise about it so that the guys at the chancery think it’s coming from me. It isn’t, let me assure you. That’s important. I don’t like it. I don’t want it. It isn’t true.

But I’m off on a tangent again. I was telling you about the Monsignor’s warning. Ed Mulvey had never taken Betsy seriously, he told me. (I could’ve guessed that. He doesn’t take anyone very seriously. Ed is part of the story here, too. But I won’t complicate things any more just now.) He thought Ed was making a big mistake— that a priest should always take people seriously, especially if those people are serious about their faith. Bob Glenn did take her seriously, he said, and here’s what happened with Bob— and will probably happen with you. (By the way, when I had lunch with Bob, a few months later, he confirmed pretty much everything the Monsignor said.)

It’s a two-part thing, the Monsignor told me. First Betsy will want to talk to you about her own spiritual life. She’ll decide that you understand her on a deep level, and ask you to be her spiritual director. If you say Yes, you may later find out that you’re not her only spiritual director. She has enough questions— enough spiritual needs— to go around. Then— part two— she’ll start telling all her friends that you have a special gift: something like discernment of souls. And you might be surprised how many friends Betsy has. They’ll come flocking to you, and if you’re not careful you’re going to have your own little cult, right here at St. Joe’s. “That’s the one thing I don’t want,” the Monsignor said to me. “I don’t want a little mystical cult in my parish.”

Well, I’m sorry to say that he got one— like it or not. Not a bunch of mystics, but it is almost like a cult. He didn’t like it. I didn’t like it either. I still don’t. But I didn’t know how to stop it— still don’t— and I guess neither did he. Neither does he, I should say. The problem isn’t going away. I’m not the problem, and the problem isn’t going away.

But you see, the Monsignor knew what was going to happen. His predictions turned out right. Mark that down, too. I mean, he didn’t predict the whole thing, the whole uproar. But he did predict that Betsy would rope me into something like a little cult. And remember, he predicted that on the very first day I was there, before he knew anything about me. So, this isn’t about me; it’s about Betsy.

####

No, I can’t say that I resent her. That’s not it. I’m certainly not angry with her. It’s more complicated than that.

When Ed Mulvey said that Betsy is a nut— which is something he said quite a lot, as things developed— the Monsignor didn’t argue the point. She may be a nut, he’d agree. But she’s not just a nut. There’s something going on there. He wasn’t ever willing to say outright, one way or another, whether he believed any of her stories about mystical experiences and revelations. I think he’d say that some of what she experienced might be supernatural, even if a lot of it was emotional or imaginary or something. That’s pretty much what I’d say, anyway, and I think we’re on the same wavelength. There is something going on with her. She has a very active prayer life, and she has a very active imagination. I don’t know where the one stops and the other kicks in.

“But she is very prayerful; that’s a fact,” the Monsignor would say. “And she is very charitable; that’s a fact, too. And I’ve never heard her say anything that isn’t 100% in accordance with the teachings of the Church; she’s never been mixed up with any sort of screwball prophecies. And what’s most important for us, as the priests of St. Joseph’s, is that she has enormous influence in this parish.”

Sorry; am I going down a rabbit hole here? I’ll try to get back on track.

You know what, though? The way you have these chairs arranged, so that we’re not quite looking at each other: that’s intentional, isn’t it? I mean, I feel a bit more comfortable talking about myself— a bit less uncomfortable, I should say— if I’m not making eye contact. Is that the idea? Yeah, I can see how that works. The trouble is, if we’re not looking right at each other, and I’m really tired, like I am today, my mind starts wandering.

Aha! That’s part of your plan, isn’t it? Very tricky! You want to get people talking freely. Trouble is, on a day like today, you might get someone going to sleep— or putting you to sleep.

OK, anyway. To put it simply, the Monsignor was right. What he predicted came true. Betsy befriended me right away. She got me involved in conversations with other people, then one-on-one, and then she announced to the world at large that I was a very holy priest, and everyone should come to me for spiritual counsel. Believe me, that was her doing— her idea, not mine.

####

I don’t know. We’d talk, and she’d come away saying that I’d given her some deep spiritual insight. I didn’t think so. I thought what I was saying was pretty humdrum, predictable— what any priest would tell someone. But she’d make it sound as if she’d been talking with St. John of the Cross.

That happens, you know. Well of course; you would know! It must happen to you, too. Am I right? You talk to somebody, and you let them do all the talking, and then they say you’ve had some great insight that helps them. When the truth is, they’ve had the insight themselves. All you did was help them talk it out, and realize what they probably thought all along, deep down.

Yeah, it happens a lot. Sometimes being a priest is a little like being a shrink, I imagine. More than a little. You talk to people about their problems, and the truth is that they know what they need to do. Most moral problems boil down to very simple questions. Not always; sometimes things really are complicated. And when I say it’s simple, I don’t mean it’s easy. A lot of times it’s tough to do the right thing. But people usually know what the right thing is. You just help them talk themselves into it.

####

Unfortunately, no, I can’t. I can’t tell you what I was saying to her. Not without revealing what she was telling me. And I won’t do that.

Didn’t we talk about this before we started? We should have. I realize that it may make things harder for you, but I’m not going to talk about anything that I said, or anything that I heard, in confession or spiritual direction. You know about the seal of confession, of course; that’s absolute. There isn’t the same seal with spiritual direction, but I still consider it confidential. I’m not going to talk about that.

Here’s what I can tell you: Betsy would talk to me about what was going on in her prayer life, in her spiritual life. It was extraordinary. (I can tell you that much because she’d tell you that much— in fact she tells everybody that much.) She’d tell me some details, and I’d try to respond appropriately. That’s really all I’m going to say. If you want to know more, you’re going to have to talk to Betsy. Believe me: she’ll tell you more than you want to know.

####

Yeah, I know. See, this is another reason why it’s crazy that I’m even here! If the folks at chancery really wanted to know what was going on with me— whether I was running off the rails or something— they could have talked with me, and they could have talked with the Monsignor, and they could have talked with Betsy. But they haven’t talked with the Monsignor about me; he told me that, and I believe him. And they haven’t talked with Betsy. Maybe they don’t want to talk to her; maybe they think she’s just another batty old lady. But she’d be happy to talk to them, if they asked her. But you can’t ask to talk to her. You can’t just call someone out of the blue and say, “You need to talk to a shrink. Come to my office.” But they can tell me to see a shrink, and I pretty much have to do what they say. So, they’re out of the loop, and you’re talking to me, and you can’t get the answers you want. It stinks!

OK. I’ll calm down. Deep breath.

Anyway, Betsy started telling other people to come to me for confession and spiritual direction. That’s when the lines outside my confessional started to grow. That’s the simplest answer to your question. It was like Betsy conducted an advertising campaign, and that’s what brought me the extra business. The same thing had happened with Bob Glenn, but if it was a problem, it didn’t get out of control.

It didn’t get out of control for me, either, for a while. But it never would have, if things had just gone along the same way. So there were long lines outside my confessional. That was OK; I didn’t mind.

But then Betsy had her collapse, and that’s when things really got wild— when things did get out of control.

####

No. I can’t talk about… Just… No. Could we talk about something else? Why don’t we talk about her collapse, and what I did then? Isn’t that the whole reason why I’m here?

####

No! No, no, no. Dammit, don’t go there. I get it— I get that you want to “understand the background” before we start talking about miracles. But I’m saying those conversations are off limits.

####

Whaddaya mean, “Whaddaya mean?” Wasn’t I clear, just a minute ago? We’re not going to talk about what I said to people in confession or spiritual direction. That’s not negotiable.

####

No! Come on; look. I’m not going to talk about it. Period. Ask me another question.

####

OK, that’s it. I’m not going to sit here and be grilled. I have better things to do, and I’m definitely not in the mood today. We’re done. See you later.