Chapter 6

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

Betsy Howell cut a comic figure as she rushed up the center aisle. But nobody was watching.

She wore, as always, a simple pastel dress— powder-blue today— that was worn and faded and at least a full size too small: obviously bought twenty years and twenty pounds ago. Her glasses, with their outsized round frames, accentuated a round, ruddy face. Her matching kerchief, barely secured to her thin gray hair with a single bobby pin, trailed out behind her, giving the impression that she was marching into a breeze. Her quick little choppy strides and her shortness of breath added to the impression that she was moving fast. She was not.

This was Betsy’s usual pace: never fast yet always in haste. She arrived at the church every morning at least ten minutes before the early morning Mass but gave every indication that she was late. She was always a bit breathless, giving the impression that she was running behind schedule. In reality she had no schedule, apart from the list of things that she had chosen freely to do. She lived by herself, had a decent income from her savings, and could have lounged through her days idly. But then she would not have been Betsy.

Today Betsy wanted to catch the young woman who had been at the 7 AM Mass for several days in a row now, bringing her brood of small children. Betsy, who knew all the regulars at this Mass, didn’t know this woman.

“Good morning,” she said brightly. “It’s nice to see a new face here in the mornings— and to see all these other beautiful young faces!”

Two little boys frowned, unhappy to be described as “beautiful.” But their mother thanked Betsy for the compliment and introduced herself as Ellen Wheeler.

“Are you new in town?” Betsy asked, already thinking about whether the children would register for CCD classes, whether the boys would want to be altar boys. She had spotted a man with Ellen and her children at Sunday Mass. She assumed that was her husband, but didn’t want to seem nosy.

“Yes, we’ve just moved in, from New Jersey,” Mrs. Wheeler said. “My husband took a new job with a law firm in Boston, and we were lucky enough to find a home over by the town forest.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful neighborhood. Have you met the Tynans? Or the Lavalles? They’re in that neighborhood too— nice young families like yourself.”

“No, we’re just getting settled,” Ellen replied. “Haven’t had time to make new acquaintances.”

“Well, you will, I’m sure.” Betsy repeated that the Wheeler family would be welcome at St. Joe’s. “It’s a wonderful parish,” she said; “you’ll love it here— all of you.”

“Actually I guess we’re closer to St. Bartholomew’s,” Ellen said. “But we didn’t feel very comfortable when we went there.”

“Oh, no!” Betsy agreed emphatically. Then she stopped herself; she wouldn’t say anything negative about another pastor. It wasn’t necessary, anyway; this young lady didn’t need convincing.

“What’s that young priest’s name?” Ellen asked, gesturing back toward the altar at St. Joe’s. The conversation was interrupted for a few moments as she corralled a toddler who was wandering toward the street.

“Oh, that’s Father Miller. He’s a wonderful priest— a very holy priest, too, although he acts so simple and down-to-earth. Do you want me to introduce you?”

“Yes, I do. But not now. I need to get these kids home for breakfast before they start acting up.”

“Oh course, of course,” Betsy replied. “We’ll have to talk again soon.”

“Yes, let’s,” said Ellen. But she kept moving, shepherding the children toward the car, without making any attempt to set a date.

Filing away what she had learned about the new family in town, and thinking which of her friends from the same neighborhood could drop by and welcome the Wheelers, Betsy went about her regular routine: dusting around the statues, rearranging the flowers on the side altars, making sure that everything was ready in the sacristy for the 9 o’clock Mass. Msgr. Catano would be celebrating that Mass today, so she finished quickly and made herself scarce.

Unlike many parishioners at St. Joe’s, Betsy was not afraid of the monsignor. But she knew that she would be testing his patience— which was limited— if she was fussing with things in the sacristy when he arrived. She knew that because he had told her, in so many words.

Msgr. Catano was a good man: a good priest and a good pastor. Betsy conceded that much. But he had never taken much interest in her spiritual life. The monsignor believed that the Church should serve the needs of ordinary people in their ordinary lives. Betsy, on the other hand, was a mystic; of that she had not a sliver of doubt. There was very little that was “ordinary” about her spiritual life— as she would tell anyone who would stop to listen. The monsignor no longer listened.

Betsy had more luck talking with Father Glenn, until he was transferred to another parish. He had spent hours with her, discussing St. Teresa and St. Catherine of Siena and even, on a good day, Blessed Mary of Agreda, then listening to Betsy’s reports about her own experiences. Betsy became quite certain that Father Glenn had a special gift of his own, although he never quite believed her.

Father Mulvey, on the other hand, was completely unsympathetic. He wasn’t just uncomfortable with Betsy, like the monsignor; he was openly hostile. He had told her flatly that he did not believe anything unusual was happening to her. He would not listen to her talk about her mystical experiences. He was downright rude, she thought—although she tried to keep such thoughts to herself— and prayed that he would come to a better understanding of his duties as a priest, his obligation to listen to his people.

When Father Glenn had been transferred, Betsy worried that she wouldn’t have a priest at St. Joe’s who could counsel her. That shouldn’t have been too much of a problem, because she made regular trips downtown for long talks with Father Barry, and occasional visits to Weston to consult with Father Burke. But she felt the need for steady spiritual direction closer to home.

So, she had been delighted when she first met Father Miller.

“You must be Betsy Howell,” the tall young priest had said when she came up to introduce herself, the first day he offered the early-morning Mass.

“How did you know that?” she asked, taking a step backward, feigning surprise.

“Monsignor Catano told me all about you,” he answered with a smile. She already knew that; he could tell.

“Well I hope he didn’t just say that I was an old nuisance,” she said, putting her hands on her hips, doing her best (which was not very good) to convey the impression that she was offended.

When she learned in their first long conversation (on his second day at St. Joe’s) that Father Miller too was taking spiritual direction from Father Burke, Betsy was overjoyed. A kindred soul! She poured out her stories to him, and as he listened attentively, she became convinced that he too was a mystic. His denials had very little impact on her. He told her that he had read The Dark Night of the Soul and loved it; wasn’t that evidence enough of a mystical nature? He listened to her, and nodded sympathetically, and she thought he gave every indication that he understood when she told him that she had experienced the third mystical death. Yet he insisted that there had never been anything at all extraordinary about his own spiritual life. Betsy reasoned that if Father Miller had not experienced any special spiritual gifts, that could only mean that he had special gifts he had not yet discovered. She wondered what they might be, and waited patiently in the confident expectation that those gifts would manifest themselves.

Once convinced that a priest had such gifts, Betsy could not be persuaded otherwise. When she spoke about Father Miller’s profound spiritual depth in his hearing— which she did frequently, at first— Andy’s protests only strengthened her convictions. He was certainly a mystic, she thought, and since he constantly denied it, that must mean that he was an unusually humble mystic. She learned to temper her enthusiasm when Andy was around; she didn’t want him to annoy him, so that he’d start avoiding her, the way Msgr. Catano did. (She was canny enough to know that the pastor had probably cautioned Father Miller about her.) But in his absence, she told anyone who would listen that he was a living saint.

This morning, after her chat with that nice Mrs. Wheeler, Betsy found herself talking with a handful of adolescent boys, who were shooting hoops in the parking lot while they waited for their altar-boy training class. When she told them that they were very fortunate to have Father Miller giving them instruction, one buck-toothed youth with a badly cracking voice agreed heartily. “He’s awesome!” the boy said. “He teaches us all sorts of moves.”

Moves? Betsy was puzzled by the term, “moves”— not one she had heard in connection with service at the altar— but undaunted. She was ready with a discourse on the young priest’s undoubted holiness, when another boy piped up: “Yeah, and he can dunk!” Seeing that Betsy had no idea what they were talking about, the boys launched into explanation, talking two or three at a time. Eventually she understood: Father Miller had the habit of playing basketball with the boys before— or maybe after, or maybe both— their classes.

Well, good for him. Betsy had heard something about Father Miller’s athletic background, and although it meant nothing to her, it was further evidence of his excellence as a priest that the boys were attracted to him. Of course they were! Another sign of holiness! And he could dunk!

Back on familiar ground, Betsy proceeded with her little lecture, telling the lads that they should listen carefully to everything Father Miller told them, because he was a very holy priest. “You can learn a lot from him,” she assured them; “not just about basketball.” Because Father Miller was so humble, she said, they might not realize that he was a brilliant scholar. Then she caught herself, realizing that she was exaggerating: an offense against honesty. “Well, at least I think he’s brilliant,” she corrected herself. And that was true; his thoughts on monastic silence had struck her as profound. “Anyway, that’s not what’s important, really. The important thing is that he is a holy priest. You should imitate him. Maybe someday some of you can be priests, too!”

Betsy wrapped up her exhortation quickly when she saw Andy approaching. Faulting herself for getting carried away and making a mental note to mention it in confession tomorrow, she withdrew toward the church basement, saying that she needed a cup of tea. She noticed, as she left, that Father Miller was unusually quiet as he greeted the boys. She knew the reason: no doubt he could guess what she had been saying, and he was uncomfortable again. She would have to be more careful.

She drank her tea— reading St. Francis de Sales as she sipped it— then did the Stations of the Cross. Now it was time to head to her home, just a couple of blocks away, for lunch and a quick nap. But as she headed off, she ran into Ellen Wheeler again. The young mother was with her husband now, and after introducing him she explained that they were headed for the rectory to talk with the Monsignor. They wanted to register in the parish and find out about enrolling their children in the Catholic schools. In a brief conversation Betsy learned that the husband— Paul— was also going to Mass every day, at St. Anthony’s Shrine downtown, near his office in the financial district. So, she was right: they were just the sort of good Catholics this parish needed.

In a rush as always, Betsy poured out a torrent of advice. The Wheelers shouldn’t let Msgr. Cataldo frighten them; he was a solid, fair, good man. But— she couldn’t help herself— they should be sure to get acquainted with Father Miller, who was a wonderful priest. Maybe they could invite him to bless their new home. And he was a wonderful spiritual director. She explained in a matter-of-fact tone that he had helped her to understand her own experiences, especially her mystical deaths. Ellen and Paul Wheeler exchanged anxious glances. Betsy— having reached the decision that these were kindred spirits— assumed that they were worried about keeping the Monsignor waiting. So with a nervous laugh— in which they joined— she let them go.

Many people laughed nervously in conversations with Betsy. Many others avoided her, or excused themselves quickly before she could build up a head of conversational steam. She was an object of fun for most regular parishioners at St. Joe’s. But at the same time, she was well loved, because anyone who had come to know her— anyone who had survived that first gale of one-sided conversation— found that she was a genuinely charitable soul, who not only prayed earnestly for everyone she met but also found concrete ways to help many people, especially those who were in trouble. She visited the sick and the elderly— including, in the latter category, more than a few people younger than herself. She made it her business to know when the few poor families in the parish were short of groceries, and had no compunction about asking wealthier parishioners to help them out. She found little gifts for children. She brought meals— not very tasty, but filling— to households after a birth or a death. Nearly every active member of the parish had experienced Betsy’s generosity, one way or another. They might laugh at her, but for the most part it was friendly laughter.

Since she spent several hours a day in and around the church, naturally Betsy knew the people of St. Joe’s very well, and spoke frequently with the people most involved in parish affairs. This was an unusually busy morning in that respect, though, because as she turned away from the Wheelers, she saw her Dr. England approaching. He was going to make a quick visit in the church, he said, and then he was taking the Monsignor out for lunch.

Tom England had been a regular guest at her house years ago, when Betsy’s husband was alive. He was an old friend: certainly not one of the people who avoided her. But Betsy might have tried to avoid him, if she’d had the time. Dr. England had been nagging her for months to come into his office for a checkup. Sure enough, after a quick exchange of greetings he asked her again: “When are you going to come see me?”

Betsy tried to laugh it off. “Oh, I’m terrible; I keep forgetting,” she said, with her brightest smile. But Dr. England would have none of that. “No, I don’t think you’re forgetting, Betsy,” he said, taking a serious businesslike tone. “You’re avoiding it.”

“Look, Betsy,” England continued. “I’m worried about you. Your breathing isn’t healthy, and I think you know it. It’s not going to get better by itself. You need to take better care of yourself. That’s not an option, Betsy; it’s moral duty!” He knew that last line would strike home.

Betsy still did her best to preserve a jocular tone. “Father Miller said exactly the same thing just the other day,” she replied. And in a teasing tone: “Are the two of you conspiring?”

“No, I haven’t spoken with him,” England said. “But I’m not surprised that he’s noticed. We’re just two sensible people, reaching the same obvious conclusion.” There was some tension in his voice; Betsy recognized the tone as a rebuke. Her “girlish charm” wasn’t working.

Seeing that she was outnumbered, Betsy surrendered. “OK, I’ll call and make an appointment this afternoon,” she promised.

Dr. England nodded, mollified, and went on his way. But he doubted that Betsy would call his office. And she didn’t.