chapter six

 Chapter Six

 

Bless me Father…

 

            Such pleasant weather in September, a month that nearly always brought the kind of days one wanted to be out of doors. This was a day meant for golf. Frank called the rectory.

            “Father? Frank Malone. Wanna play some golf?”

            “You betcha,” Chris Utermollen answered with alacrity. He had been wanting to get out for months, but things kept coming up, as they always did, at St. Matt’s. “I’ve been wanting to for some time, but couldn’t. Where and when?”

 

            Green Valley Country Club wasn’t the swankiest club in the county, but it did attract a number of small businessmen, lawyers, accountants, merchants, and a clergyman or two. It was a good family club, low dues, a modest monthly bar and dining room minimum, swimming pool, tennis courts and a junior golf program. Frank found it affordable and the guest fees were reasonable. The priest and the plumber met in the club’s parking lot about 20 of 1 and easily made their tee time.

            Chris Utermollen had a hitch in his swing, but his club head came through squarely at just over 100 mph and, most of the time, he hit a good ball. Not long, but generally straight. If he kept a handicap, and he did not for lack of steady playing, it might have been in the low 20s on the USGA scale. Frank was erratic, but hit all his clubs fairly long for his age, and carried a 19 USGA index and a course handicap of 21, enough to sneak into A flight status for club events. The priest was amenable to a small wager, suggesting a dime a skin to Frank’s proposal of a quarter. Frank agreed.

            Frank sliced his tee shot on No.1 compared with Chris’s short but straight tee ball. Frank’s pitch to the first green was long and went into the high rough behind the flagstick. The priest needed two shots to get onto the green, but had only five feet for a par 4. Frank’s chip ran off the front of the green, and he conceded. Chris went to the second tee <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />box 1-up.

            Being friends, the match proceeded with more conversation than determination. No Ben Hogan-like silence for which the Hawk was known. Topics included sports, politics, Church, the parish. The current state of Notre Dame football        brought on verbiage associated with Monday morning quarterbacking. Discussion of Democratic and Republican shortcomings stopped short of hard feelings because it was a good day for golf, after all. Both plumber and priest disparaged the liberal contingents in the Church that would accept a female priesthood, abortion-tolerant Catholic officeholders, and folk Masses (even though their popularity had waned). Their passing mention of the restitution of missing collection money by Al and Irene Rhodes, the couple’s escape from prosecution, thanks to Father Utermollen’s mercy, and the subsequent retirement of Al and Irene to North Carolina’s Outer Banks.

            About the eighth hole when the match was even – after Frank took two straight skins – talk turned to confession. Frank brought it up.

            “Can, or maybe the word is ‘may,’ a priest hear a confession outside of a church confessional?”

            “Sure,” Chris answered. “The Church is wise enough to allow for unusual and extreme circumstances --- accidents, war, and, of course the obvious, patients in hospitals. And, I know, I’ve left out all kinds of situations. The Church even allows for acts of perfect contrition by people in danger of death.” Chris was searching his memory of seminary classes. Fortunately, when sitting on his side of the confessional screen, the priest is in control of his moral theology knowledge.

            “Why do you ask?” the priest asked, mostly out of intuition.

            “Well, I’ve got my reasons,” Frank answered sheepishly.

            The match was interrupted at the turn for the usual stops in the rest room and the snack bar. After some small talk and their second shots on No. 11 Frank started to talk seriously again. Between shots and putts his story came out.

 

            It started when apprentice plumber Francis X. Malone wanted to go into business for himself. He had most of his tools. He still would need some major items that employers always provided. And then there was the matter of a truck. Frank’s savings would cover the bulk of his basic tools and a down payment on a used truck. One thing he really wanted was a video inspection snake. They were not cheap, but they saved a lot of time on a common emergency call --- plugged sewers. Having one also gave customers the idea that the plumber really knew his business.

            Frank managed the steps to self-employment. He got along pretty well without the snake that looked underground and sent pictures back to the plumber. His business grew slowly but steadily. His income left him short of prosperity yet was adequate for marriage and starting a family. Still his snake still could not see.

            Frank got a call one evening to a mortuary, a fairly easy replacement of a leaking faucet. Danier’s Family Funeral Service happened to be next door to a construction site. As he left after completing his job he noticed a truck of Johnson Plumbing and Heating parked on the site behind a construction fence, a fence that seemed to have an opening cut in it. Frank knew that the Johnson truck was fully equipped. He was aware of the fading light. He was at the rear of the business and the rising new building. He was tempted.

            The young plumber found himself inside the fence next to the truck. It was unlocked. He quickly entered and looked around, shielding his flashlight. There it was --- a nearly new Silver Slither video snake. It was one of the small models, but still a useful one. It was quite easy to transfer to his truck. He excitedly drove away, looking into his rearview mirrors. Nervous, but exhilarated by his audacity, Frank slowed as he arrived near his own neighborhood. He began to feel guilt. Over the years the guilt feelings lessened. They did not dissipate entirely.

 

            “So did you ever make restitution?”

            “No, Father, I didn’t. Didn’t even occur to me.”

            Chris put his 5 iron shot on the collar of the 16th green. By this time, Frank had fallen into mechanical shots. His mind wasn’t on the game, so as a consequence he was hitting better. Funny game, golf.

            “So why did you bring it up? What do you intend to do about it now?”

            “Dun no. Guess that’s why I did bring it up. Wanted you to help me, I guess.”

            Frank was silent as they finished the hole. “Well, I suppose down deep I want to do something. Maybe that’s why I asked that question about confession.”

            “So you do feel guilt. Your conscience hurts. I’m guessing --- you never have confessed stealing the, the, ah, ‘Silver Slither?’”

            “That’s right.”

            “Frank, I’m in a strange position right now. I’m trying to take some money from you at golf, but I can’t forget the collar. I believe I’ve never counseled anyone on the golf course before. But you seem to wish that I would do that. Right?”

            “Yaah,” Frank said after a beat or two.

            “You wish forgiveness, the forgiveness of Christ in confession; am I correct?”

            “Yes I do.”

            “Do you go to confession regularly?”

            “Once a year or so. Whadda call it? Easter duty? Don’t you remember me? Maybe not. The lines get long at holidays.”

            “Something like that. Yes, Church law says confession at least once a year, or when you commit serious sin. And no, I don’t remember your confessing. I’m supposed to forget what I hear after giving absolution.”

           “Well, will you hear my confession now, Father?”

            Now is was time for Chris to pause. “I think we should finish the game. You’re 2 up and dormie. I’ve got 17 and 18 to try to halve the match. Besides, you should examine your conscience; that takes a little time. You can wait ‘til Saturday for regular confessions, or you can call and we’ll arrange a time before that. The rite of Reconciliation is a Sacrament, maybe this isn’t the time or place. But, and I think I have to say this, it’s not for me to turn you down if you insist.”

            The priest and plumber walked on in silence, pulling their bags.

            “Let’s call it a draw, Father,” Frank said as they split to go to their second shots on 17. “Can you meet me in church about 5:30?”

 

First draft unedited novella

                             MAPLEWOOD, VIRGINIA

                              (or, maybe, St. Matt's)

                                       [With apologies to Sherwood Anderson]

Chapter One

 

What’s In a Name

            Six o’clock is always too early for Chris. He knew he stayed up too late, but there was a lot or reading to do. Still he was a good enough priest to make sure he began Mass promptly. Six-thirty was about as late dedicated parishioners could catch Mass and get to work on time.

            Nonetheless, it was always a scramble for him to wash and dress and say a prayer and be at the altar on time.

            Before he had knelt next to his bed for a moment and climbed in he had been reading St. Thomas Aquinas, contemplating the theology that churchmen for centuries had relied upon to set church doctrine. Chris Utermollen was orthodox in his training and faithful to that education in carrying out his priestly duties. Not all of his congregants in St. Christopher parish were of the same mindset; they, however, seemed to accept their pastor and his teachings because he had the good humor of a slightly overweight middle-aged man.

            After Mass that day a thirty-something parishioner of a more progressive bent appeared in the sacristy with his opinion on the subject that currently was agitating most of the congregation. Sean O’Conner, a graduate of Boston College, challenged Chris on who would be the new patron saint of St. Christopher’s. Chris, of course, had been pleased when the bishop assigned him to church dedicated to his namesake. Now the Vatican had decided the sainted man who bore on his back across a raging stream the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity was fictive. The parish needed a new name and Chris had persuaded his bishop to permit the parishioners a voice in selecting a new patron. The name “Chistopher”, of course, described the act of the fictional character rather than merely being a given name.

            Sean argued for his favorite American saint, Elizabeth Seaton who dedicated herself to teaching children after she was widowed. A St. Elizabeth of Hungry parish already existed in the diocese; that should not deter the bishop from honoring an American saint. Chris was not opposed to that saint as the parish’s new patron, but he was not enthusiastic either. Besides, he did wish as much input from the parishioners as he could get. The project, he supposed, would bring more reaction than perhaps anything he might be involved in, other than taking a stand – or appearing to take a stand – on some controversy that would inspire those in the pews to spew letters of complaint to the bishop. The absence of girl altar servers in the diocese had already caused the bishop a lot of stomach upsets because of local reaction.

               “Judas priest, Father!  You don’t want a woman saint’s name on this parish,” Sean shouted in disgust. Father Utermollen chastised him, “Do you realize youhave used an euphemism for the Savior’s name?” Chris managed to mollify Sean by saying he would add St. Elizabeth Seaton to his list, and then managed to turn the conversation to baseball. The hometown triple-A club was in a slump.

 

            The priest went to the rectory and made himself a fattening breakfast featuring bacon and cinnamon toast with plenty of butter. Afterward when he had finished his daily office reading in his breviary, he got down a book of saints from his study’s book shelves. There were martyrs, and religious order founders – men and women – and the stigmatics. None of the names seemed to strike a note with him. And, he remembered, it was he who had persuaded the bishop to consider the suggestions of St. Christopher’s parishioners. Still. Maybe he could nudge them in his direction, should he be able to settle on a favorite saint’s name.

            Chris’s book of saints happened to be an old one that contained a listing for Christopher that went so far to note that he had died circa 251 at Lycia. It also noted that “many legends had grown up around his name.”  The account continued that “he was an ugly giant who made his living carrying people across a river.” Christopher, it noted, was the patron of travelers “and in modern times particularly of motorists.”  Because of that last notation, the Vatican’s recantation on the saint led to numerous accounts in the press commenting on all those medals that motorists kept in their cars would be only souvenirs, and talismans.

            A couple of other Christophers were listed in the saints book, both Italian priests of the 13th and 15th centuries. So should one of them be picked as the successor patron? That would require a lot of explanation, if not a change in the rectory’s letterhead.

           

            Chris prepared for bed, crawled in and his thoughts ran rampant then settled on what to rename the parish. O’Connor was becoming a real pain. He was lobbying other members of St. Christopher to swing toward Saint Elizabeth Seaton. That was his call, of course. Yet, there should be a way to stimulate more interest in a new name. Chris tried bringing it up in his Sunday homily, but few suggestions were coming into the rectory. The next thing Chris remembers is a buzzer going and going. He had a half hour ‘til Mass.

 

            Mabel Schnetzer and Ester Langford were daily communicants, and daily complainers. They couldn’t understand why St. Christopher had been removed from the official listing of saints. Their line of attack was to flank the rectory and make a direct assault on the chancery. Bishop Hemrick was not accustomed to people coming up to him after his Masses to complain; he knew how to handle obsequious Catholics, but not those who wanted something other than what he had ordered his pastors to do. The widows Schnetzer and Langford told him upon his scheduled visit to St. Christopher that there was no need – indeed, no necessity – to change the name of the parish. His repetition of the opinion from Rome, which he now had down pat in a sentence of mere boilerplate, did not convince the ladies.

            “You’re so kind to take such interest in this parish’s dilemma,” Bishop Hemrick said, or words to that effect. In truth, he wanted to tell them to shove off, but that was the kind of language the old sailor from the Korean Conflict was reluctant to use. Insteadhe encouraged them to submit their choice of St.Gregory to Father Utermollen.

 

            The deadline having arrived, Chris called a meeting of the parish council to consider the names proposed for the parish. General Henry Allen Peperdyne, the retired Marine who chaired the council, had organized the name selection process with the precision of a phalanx Alexander the Great might have ordered into battle. His laptop at hand, he appointed Anne Curran at his left to open the suggestion box and read off the suggestions, and he asked Jake Oberstar at his right hand to take notes. The general would construct a spreadsheet and tally the results on his computer.

               Little time elapsed before General Peperdyne discovered there was no pattern, and very little duplication in the suggested saints or titles for the Lord or Mary. His spreadsheet was anything but a battle plan. He admitted to himself that his prowess as an organizer was found wanting. His phalanx had crumbled. A Colonel Blimp would have harrumphed and banged the gavel at that point. Peperdyne coolly named Anne Curran and Jake Oberstar a committee of two to pull together a list of ten of the twelve dozen or so names suggested for submission to the parishioners in ballot form. The ballots, he suggested, were to be passed out by ushers at all Masses two weeks hence. Pencils would be at the end of pews so that the congregants had no excuses to leave without marking their choices.

 

               St. Isidore the Farmer got the plurality for some reason Chris could not conjure. The runner-up, St. Ethelbert, probably finished high because the parish was close to home of a NFL franchise whose current star running back was Omar Ethelbart, close enough for football fans. The general wanted to take the first two names and have a run-off election, so to speak. Chris was not too sure, and besides, no female saint’s name had garnered many votes.

 

               Sean O’Connor showed up at the next Council meeting, arguing with passion and a background paper for St. Elizabeth. Council members could come up with no logical reasons to counter his arguments, but for the sake of their process, rejected him out of hand.

               Chris faced no real deadline from the bishop, but he did wish to have an end to the new name business. He thought of calling for a novena for the purpose of inspiration, but invoking a novena in the name of a particular saint would be like asking Dick Chaney to head a committee to select a vice presidential candidate. If only St. Christopher hadn’t turned out to be fictitious. He had betrayed, so to speak, people who had depended upon him. The non-saint was a sort of Judas.

 

               “Having nominated two candidates,” The Acts of the Apostles read, “Joseph, known as Barsabbas, whose surname was Justus, and Matthias, they prayed, ‘Lord, you can read everyone’s heart; show us therefore which of these two you have chosen to take over this  ministry and apostolate which Judas abandoned to go to his proper place.’  They then drew lots for them, and as the lot fell to Matthias, he was listed as one of the twelve apostles.”

 

               Father Utermollen asked General Peperdyne to prepare a drawing for the next council meeting. Somehow all the slips contained the same saint’s name.

 

Chapter Two

 

Plumbing the Depths

 

            Francis X. Malone often spent a few hours at McGillicuddy’s Bar and Billiards Parlor after a long day of scheduling his plumbers, keeping his inventory up and working on the books. In fact, Frank, as he was known to the patrons of Sean McGillicuddy, went on jobs now and then himself. He knew his way around Maplewood, from the Heights and its upper-class denizens to Pigsville, the indelicately named area down near the river, the old factory section of town that was slowly being gentrified. Frank’s hangout was not far from the railroad station, now a commuter-train stop on the way to the District.

            Frank ordered his usual draft beer. His first draught was always the best, as most of his friends would attest. Ben Schaefer, his CPA, came in and sat at the stool next to Frank. That was not unusual, even though they rarely did business together much before tax time. The two were regulars but, likely as not, they would join other friends should one of them not have stopped in for a drink that evening. Ben would usually keep Frank abreast of the events of the day. Ben’s business had pretty well settled in after the years he had been practicing accountancy, and his staff did the routine work. That gave him time for leisurely lunches at various restaurants and cafes, although his favorite was Collins’s Cozy Cafeteria, now run by a second generation after being established shortly before the War; also it was no longer a cafeteria. Needless to say, Frank’s business benefited from Ben’s referrals.

            Supper at home was, unfortunately, a lonely meal most nights for Frank. In the days after his divorce, when the children were in grade school, he had a housekeeper. Now the kids were old enough to take care of the house and the meals, and they got in a habit of not waiting for Frank. Lilly was 23, Frances 19 and Francis Jr. 17. They would make a plate and put it in the ice box, a term Frank still used for the refrigerator. As his eating habits evince, Frank was not a paragon of fatherhood. Fran and Franky were still young enough to have deserved more attention from dad. Lilly was old enough, of course, but as the oldest child, and being a daughter, she might be expected to be like a mother to her siblings. After all, that type of behavior was commonly observed by sociologists, was it not? Any way, Frank looked at his relationship with his children that way. Also, he couldn’t be that bad since the judge awarded him custody of the children, recognition that his bill of divorce against an errant wife was upheld by the legal system.

            Lilly had just received a degree in history from the local state university branch. She had discovered the business world was not too interested in such credentials and academe required more than a B.A. Fortunately, Lilly had her old room at home while she figured out how she might earn a living on her own, something she was eager to do. She was between boyfriends.

            Not so with Fran. She had one, and several exes. Life was pretty hectic for her, at home and at the university, where she had enough sense to be studying business rather than some pedagogical subject. She was bright enough to get by with little effort in school, leaving plenty of her time for Danny --- Daniel I. Rapaport. Fran and Danny shared several classes; they also shared time between classes. Danny was always around, on campus and at the Malone house.

            Franky was a senior at Maplewood High after attending parochial school. He was a lot like his old man. That fact had not escaped Frank, who was content not to attempt to change his only son, whom he hoped would join him in business, and inherit its assets and carry on. Plumbing had been good to him and it could continue to be for Franky. As for Franky, he was insightful enough to realize that – at least for the time being – plumbing was probably in his future. He already had spent a several summers with Al Simmons, a master plumber, as he made calls. The job was not all that bad, Franky reasoned; as boss, he would not be making calls forever.

 

            Ben sipped his beer. He seemed to be worried, or at least concerned, about something. Frank was not one to pry. Ben finally spoke up. “I usually don’t like to talk about my clients, but I have a problem.”

            “So?”

            “Sister Mary Clare over at the Dominican Day School has a couple of problems. You’re a Catholic, maybe you can help me.”

            “So?”

            “Well, her budget is a little short and the plumbing in the old building is giving her a lot of trouble.”

            After a little talk, Frank was persuaded to call the sister and see what he could do. What he did led to a long relationship and some cut-rate work, something Frank did not want to advertise, especially to his commercial customers.

 

            The third quarter at the university was nearly over when Frank learned that Franky had made Beverly Ann Henderson pregnant. He had met her in their English class. They dated. They enjoyed each other’s company. They thought they were in love. They were no different than most of the students. They found themselves in a Motel 10 room. They learned later what many young people have learned, and they decided to deal with it honorably. That’s how Frank learned that he was to be a grandfather, albeit of a bastard. Franky learned that he was going to become more involved in plumbing earlier than he had anticipated.

 

            Little Franklyn Malone liked kindergarten at St. Matthias School. Lilly, whom he treated much like he did his mother, saw to it that she took him to school on time, picked him up at noon when his daily stint at coloring and pasting and alphabet learning was completed. Lilly had yet to get a real job and was content, as was Frank, to stay at home and run things. She enjoyed having Franklyn around, deeming him as practice for when she could lovingly rear her own children, should that ever come to pass. Fran Rapaport would take over whenever Lilly had to tend to job hunting, shopping trips to the city or the local mall, or whatever. Fran was one of the lucky young women --- a starting career in the cyberspace industry and her marriage to her high school sweetheart turned entrepreneur brought financial success in a matter of only a few years.

 

            Franky tried to be a good plumber, or so he thought. His dedication to plugged toilets and dripping faucets and installations in new houses was lacking. His father’s hired overseers bemoaned their seeming fate of someday having to answer to Francis X. Malone Junior. Franky was shoved from foreman to foreman, Frank hoping that one of them would straighten him out.

            Straight living was something Franky steered away from. His inattention at work was only a little less attentive than that he paid to Beverly Ann. The couple lived in the extended Malone household, a situation that did little to bond the young couple. Love, as Father Utermollen was given to saying at weddings he witnessed as clergyman, is the giving of oneself to the spouse. The young Malones had not yet risen to that room of mysticism.

 

            As they lunched at the Cozy Cafeteria, Ben asked Frank how things were going at home. Frank allowed as how he tried not to be at home too much. Some minor poet once said “It takes a heap of livin’ to make a house a home,” a thought that was validated by Frank’s relating the current situation in his place of residence. Things had not much improved over the years, now that Franklyn was finishing the eighth grade at St. Matt’s. Franky was what had been called in the old days a “no account,” spending nights, sometimes days, away from home and the job – and paycheck -- his father was reluctant to take from him. Beverly Ann was a somewhat more attentive mother than Franky was a father; she would not get great grades from social workers, however, should they have been directed to the Malone manse.

            Franklyn, his grandfather’s greatest concern, was not a bad kid. But his backtalk and slovenly dress and sometimes unguarded speech around the house, bothered Frank considerably. He did not wish to see the boy grow up to emulate his dad. All in all, Frank though still owning and keeping an eye on his business, was semi-retired. Franky was not his successor as chief operating officer without using that title. Instead, Frank was paying Al Simmons to tend to day-to-day supervision of the company. That salary and the expense of keeping Lilly, Franky and Beverly Ann and their son were encroaching on his income.

            Frank ordered another round as Ben empathized with him. Ben wondered how Maplewood High would affect Franklyn. He opined that the school was not a particularly helpful place for its alumni that occupied the Malone homestead, as least from Frank’s recounting of what went on there. Frank was reluctant to bad mouth the high school for he, too, had got his diploma there. But he had to admit that perhaps his alma mater had let down the rest of his family, or so it seemed. Only Fran seemed to have turned out all right, and that was because of Dan. Yet, Dan also had graduated Maplewood High.

            Ben asked if he were still doing work for Sister Mary Clare at Dominican. Frank said he was. But Dominican was too expensive to consider for Franklyn, although the school’s kindly discipline might be exactly what the boy required if he were to make something out of his life.

 

            “Look, Sister, I have a proposition to make you.” Sister Mary Clare got a wry smile on her face, thinking that Frank might have chosen a different word, perhaps “deal” would have sufficed.

            “What do you have in mind?”

            Frank, not given to stumbling speech after nearly a lifetime of business dealings, was a bit inarticulate as he began explaining his current financial position and his wish to get Franklyn straightened out before it was too late. After a few minutes of trying to choose his words carefully, he blurted: “I’ll do all your plumbing for free from now on if you and your sisters teach Franklyn.”

            “Well, Mr. Malone, I believe that can be arranged.”

 

 

Chapter Three

 

Love Divine

 

            Father Christopher Utermollen was saddened when he learned Sister Mary Sebastian Schmidt was leaving the order. Mother Superior was reluctant to inform Father of Sister Sebastian’s decision. But she had to tell him because a replacement nun could not arrive from the motherhouse for at least a week. There were only five sisters teaching at St. Matthias; the rest were laypersons. But all five were necessary. Mother Superior served as principal, but she still taught third grade.

            Why did she wish to become a laywoman again? Mother Superior asked, but her sister in the Congregation of the Holy Spirit gave only a routine answer: she no longer felt she had a vocation to pray and to teach. That explanation seemed strangely inadequate. After all, Sister Sebastian had entered the order when she was 22, and that was nearly a half-century ago. A religious not far from her 70th birthday would have come to that kind of conclusion about a vocation long before reaching such an age. In any event, the nun left the religious life after following the required regimen.

 

            Emma Louise Schmidt grew up on the near north side of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Columbus, Ohio, the third daughter of a die maker and a housewife. She was the middle child of five. A product of her parish school and the closest diocesan high school, she did not seem a particularly appropriate prospect for the religious life. She may not have been the most popular girl in her high school class, but she dated more than one boy and was known to have an occasional smoke. She would have a forbidden beer now and then if that meant she could avoid being teased by her peers. Yet she was not known as being “fast,” as the term was used back then.

            Bud Abernathy was in Emma’s math class in both the junior and senior years. If anyone could be classed as a “steady” for her, perhaps he was. They saw quite a bit of each other. Bud, who never told outsiders his given name (Gilbert), entered Ohio State, but his matriculation really never prospered. Emma managed a partial scholarship as a “day-hop” to St. Mary of the Springs. The Dominicans that taught there impressed her, but not enough to consider joining their order.

            Emma and Bud continued dating for a time although the ardor between them cooled. Nonetheless, Bud and his innate sense of humor  were not lost to Emma’s memory; actually, they were enhanced as years advanced. Bud dropped out of college, became a cop and married. Emma graduated with a M.A. in sociology and wondered why she had turned more to thinking about a religious life.

            She had been a good enough Catholic, enough to avoid the pitfalls many of her classmates tumbled into. She had stopped dating after Bud dropped out of school. Subconsciously, perhaps, she desired stability. They had talked of “going steady,” but not of marriage. Co-habitation was considered by very few couples at a time that was frowned on by society and pretty difficult to arrange due to contemporary mores. They had never considered such an arrangement; their families would have been adamant against it.

            Emma found her degree was useless without graduate work. She could only find a joy at a local insurance firm doing secretarial work. That was not interesting. She began to spend more time in church, especially at the Cathedral, not too far from her office. On a whim she applied to the Congregation of the Holy Spirit, the order of a sister she met at church.

            Normally novices aspiring to the religious life on a whim would be found out swiftly and encouraged to leave the convent. The longer she was in the convent the more the regularity of the life appealed to her. She did not find the mandated obedience equated to regimentation, but rather a rhythmic way of living. Soon she became caught up in the pattern of life offered, indeed required, by the order and enjoyed the peacefulness. She was trained in rudimentary pedagogy while she was readied for her final vows. Soon after that, she was dispatched to teach second grade at a parochial school in Pennsylvania.

 

            Many schools and many grades in many locations became part of Sister Sebastian’s resume. Most of the moves were caused by the order’s reduced numbers as vocations to the religious life declined and parishes were forced to close their schools or convert to lay teachers, something only the more wealthy parishes could afford. It was not out of the question she should wind up in Maplewood at St. Matthias School. That parish had a long history of supporting a grade school, and the bishop was persuasive in having the order assign as many sisters as it could to that diocesan school.

            Despite her age, Sister Sebastian was still teaching. Her health was good, the need for teachers great. After so many years, she still found a challenge. She had disciplinary skills honed at schools serving a range of income classes. Teaching sisters were somehow expected – especially by parishioners -- to be pious and holy. Comparisons with nuns – a term properly used only for religious women living meditative lives in monasteries – of teaching sisters was something Catholics were discouraged to make. Catholics in the pews also were taught to avoid comparing their religious fervor with others in church for the interior life is a very personal thing, a territory generally explored only by spiritual directors. The state of Sister Sebastian’s soul was known to her alone; only those in the convent would know if she had a spiritual director.

           

            Among the teaching tools Sister had acquired was how to use computers and the Internet. She could not program computers and she did not know everything about software, yet she was pretty good. She certainly was good enough to instruct her pupils, now that she was teaching eighth grade. The school’s computers were decent enough to use for research and other classroom uses. Sister Sebastian had her own e-mail address, a handy tool for acquiring information and material for the classroom.

 

            Bud Abernathy had time on his hands after his divorce. He had advanced to lieutenant on the force and usually had regular hours. He and Bernice had four kids that, in time, married, settled down and had children of their own. Bud was proud of his six grandchildren, whose own parents managed to beat the trend of the times and stay wed. They sawthat divorce didn’t make their father and mother happier. Bud retired as soon as he could. He was young enough to continue hunting, fishing and golfing. He and Bernice remained in touch, but little more than that. Their breakup centered on Bud’s drinking. He really had not been a drunk, but he was close to it. Her nagging did nothing to reduce his consumption of, mostly, beer. He resented what he believed was unjust condemnation. It is true, the condemnation was nearly ceaseless. After the divorce, Bud seemed to cut back on the number of beers he drank each day, getting down to a regular intake of one or two, period. Previously it had been at least a six-pack after work. Whether Bernice knew of his cutback in drinking is unknown. Just after Bud retired, Bernice’s chronic pain was diagnosed as stomach cancer. She died within five months of the diagnosis.

 

            His retirement income was enough to keep Bud and his hobbies going without financial pain. That included occasional hunting and fishing forays into Western states, and some winter golf outings in the South. The bachelor life was fine with him, When he wasn’t traveling he watched TV. Then one of his kids got him interested in computers, actually e-mail and Web surfing. Those became even more important to him as he aged and his arthritis flared up.

 

            It was purely by chance that when he ran into an old classmate from the old parish school. They got around to talking about the Internet and Peggy O’Hanlon mentioned that she had received an e-mail from Sister Sebastian, “You know, Emma Schmidt.” Bud recognized her name immediately and with some fondness. He asked for her e-mail address.

 

 

HI, SISTER.THOUGHT I’D DROP YOU A LINE TO SAY HELLO. MAYBE YOU REMEMBER ME, BUD ABERNATHY. WE WERE IN SCHOOL TOGETHER. I’VE THOUGHT OF YOU FROM TIME TO TIME. HEARD YOU HAD ENTERED THE CONVENT, BUT NOTHING ELSE. HOPE ALL IS WELL WITH YOU. YOU MIGHT SAY A PRAYER FOR MY LATE WIFE, BERNICE. ME TOO.  BEST WISHES.

 

[CONTINUED BELOW] 

Sister Sebastian was surprised to hear from Bud. Yes, she did remember him, quite warmly. She wondered what would have happened had she not become a religious. It wouldn’t hurt to e-mail back, she thought.

 

Bud, how good to hear from you. I offer my prayers for Bernice. I don’t believe I knew her. I’m still teaching. With the shortage of sisters there is little hope that I will return to the motherhouse until I can no longer go to the classroom. That may not be too much longer. I do hope you are in good health. Thank you for Writing.

Sister Sebastian (Emma Schmidt) CSS

 

            Bud was somewhat astonished that Emma bothered to answer. He thought maybe her vows would have required some other action or reaction. He acknowledged her reply but did nothing more at the time. Nonetheless, once in awhile when he was surfing for news and opinion, scanning a few blogs, he would wonder about the old classmate-turned-nun.

 

            Hearing from Bud Abernathy awakened memories for Sister Sebastian. She started thinking more andmore of herself as Emma after these – what was it, five decades? – years. Those double dates, running around in Sam Fleming’s convertible with Bud and what’s-her-name, were a lot of fun. A lot more fun than dealing with these eighth graders! Maybe Bud remembers those days better than I do, she thought.

 

Bud, I began thinking recently of Sam Fleming’s convertible and the times we had back then. Do you recall those occasions? Maybe you could refresh my memory?

Best wishes,

Sister Sebastian

 

      Bud was more than happy to fill in her memory. Now that he was spending more time in the house it gave him something to do. He recounted in detail the dances and the old hangouts, leaving out things, innocent though they may be, he thought the nun might find embarrassing. His memories brought on her own recollections, which she would e-mail back. Soon she was spending more time in the classroom after the final afternoon bell rang in front of one of the computers. E-mails between the former classmates became quite frequent.

 

            Their e-mails seemed quite innocent. They were old friends. But the back and forth on the Internet became more frequent. Soon it became a necessity for Bud. Obviously, Sister – Emma – was finding it comforting. Perhaps more comforting than prayer and her other religious duties. She wondered what was happening in her elder years. She found it more natural to think of herself using her given name; until recently it had only been Sister Sebastian. She had solemnly promised in her youth to be the spouse of Christ. Had she forgot?

 

I’M GOING TO BE IN WASHINGTON FOR THE FOURTH. ANY CHANCE I CAN COME AND VISIT YOU?

 

                She hesitated before answering. A visit couldn’t do any harm, she reasoned. She finally e-mailed that she would be happy to see him after all these years.

 

            Bud phoned before he drove his rented car to the convent. The sister assigned to be porter – a term used as in the days at the motherhouse – answered the door and summoned Sister Sebastian. He, of course, had aged and showed it with gray, thinning hair and some facial wrinkles. He was not exactly slim. Her face looked remarkably young under her veil and wimple, a characteristic shared by most nuns that still wore the habit. They sat in the parlor and chatted. Small talk. Both were a little uncomfortable. When he left, he took both her hands and thanked her for her seeing him.

 

            She found the visit hard to forget. She had learned something of his life since they last saw each other, and she filled in her transfers by the order for him. She had more to think about than he, as she imagined. He had spoken of his work, a few cases, something about the success of the children, only a bit about Bernice; hardly anything about their differences and breakup. She remembered with a little emotional shiver the manly texture of his hands as he bid farewell. That memory seemed to return often in a way that became temptation-like. She tried to shake that feeling, knowing that one is not responsible for what jumped into the mind, responsibility arriving only with the willful acceptance of temptation.

 

            Bud, upon returning home, accepted that his old girlfriend was a nun. He had enjoyed seeing her again, but her life and his were indeed separate, by distance and vocation. He found her, however, still a pleasant person. They continued to exchange e-mails, but one did take him aback.

 

Bud, I’ve been thinking much about our visit. I felt most comfortable to be with you. Sometimes my obligations here can be stifling. I don’t admit that to many people, if any. Please keep writing.

 

      What was she trying to say? Bud didn’t know what to make of it, but he decided he would send fewer e-mails to the good nun. He would continue to report on the doings of their acquaintances of the past, but that was about it.

            Sister Sebastian continued to get caught up in flights of nostalgia. Those youthful days became more than real to her. She dwelt upon them as she should have been dwelling on the life to come, the purpose of all Christians, but the especial meditation of vowed religious. She was treading on dangerous ground when she longed for the past, now a fantasy.

            Her spiritual director was not of much help. The past was all encompassing to Sister Sebastian, the future based on the past. The director counseled living –and praying – in the present. Such sensible advice was ignored.

 

            After the prescribed time, ecclesiastic authorities granted Emma Schmidt lay status.

 

            Emma homeless and penniless found herself back in Ohio, thanks to the generosity of one of her birth sisters. That sister and her husband were empty-nesters and had a room for her. Now it was time for a seventy-something ex-nun to find work, not exactly an easy task. Her computer skills were only rudimentary. Thanks to laws banning age discrimination she was able to find clerical work in the state government. That led to her renting her own apartment. For some reason, probably a stirring of conscience, she was slow to tell Bud about her change in life styles, although she had informed him – by e-mail, of course – that she was no longer a nun. The reality of being on her own did modify the fantasies that led to her departure from the convent. Yet Bud was still on her mind.

 

Bud, now that I’m back in town, perhaps I could see you again, catch you up on what has been happening. Emma

 

      Bud was not thrilled at that prospect, but he was curious. They arranged a meeting at a downtown restaurant. Their meeting went well. They enjoyed the meal and their shared reminisces. Other restaurant meals and movies followed.

<FONTFACE=ARIAL>            Emma had grown up in a household of homemade meals. Cooking came naturally to a girl in such a family. The meal, then, was no hurdle when she invited Bud to her apartment for dinner ---- beef stew, Waldorf salad, biscuits from scratch, and apple pie. That went over pretty well for the ex-cop. Their conversation went from thinking back to their mothers’ cooking to mutual friends, to past dates. More such meetings followed over the next few months. Their relationship became closer, their feelings more intertwined. Marriage came up in discussions. A proposal was finally made, almost in a business-like manner for people in their seventies.

 

            Emma was to meet Bud at the clerk’s office in city hall at 2. They had found a priest that would marry them in a quiet way at a scheduled morning Mass. The cleric had waved the usual period of marriage preparation, a requirement of the diocese. Emma felt some trepidation. This was late in life for a step most women took in their late teens to mid-twenties, women who had not been wed spiritually to their Savior. As she thought things over she became more lost in thought and was not as concerned about the passage of time as she might have been. The wall clock showed 3:25 and Bud had not yet appeared. She was still pondering what might have happened when a city employee urged her to leave. “I must lock the office now,” she heard.

 

            Bud finally telephoned her that evening. No excuses. He blurted out” “I’m sorry, I really am, but I just couldn’t do go through with it. I didn’t have the guts to show up and say no. I got used to being a bachelor.” He also did not have the courage to tell Emma that marrying an ex-nun was just more than he could imagine or handle. For someone schooled by teaching sisters it just did not seem right.

            Emma wasn’t stunned. She had pretty much guessed his real feelings. She said little. Wished him well, but offered him no solace, just as he offered her none. She really had no tears as she knelt to say her prayers.

 

            It was days later she remembered seeing Mother Angelica on EWTN, at a time after the television nun had suffered a stroke. She spoke to the camera out of one side of her mouth, he cheek under the patch over her left eye seemed paralyzed. Emma remembered Mother Angelica saying something like, “Yes I am miserable, but my soul feels closer to God.” She advised a caller to the live show to “give your troubles to the Lord and go in peace.”

            That was worth a try, Emma thought.

 

Chapter Four

 

Bataan Bingo

 

Casey Gilliam had been down and out before, but this time it was even harder. His wife had kicked him out of the house and he hated going to the shelter. He found it really humiliating, really worse than being thrown into the drunk tank. About the only work he could get was yard work and general labor, jobs he got by standing with the legal and illegal Hispanics by the 7-Eleven on Route 1. Fortunately, the regulars who waited for potential employers to come along in the mornings were accepting of strangers, so there was no discrimination against Casey.

Kenneth Clarence Gilliam was the first in his family to graduate college. He went through Notre Dame on a scholarship given by one of the major accounting firms then called the Seven Sisters, a group of “siblings” long reduced in number through mergers and major accounting scandals, including inflation of earnings. He managed to graduate with honors after hour upon hour of work on accounting problems, broken only by an endless game of cribbage with his roommate. Casey, after four years with the same roomy, was “owed” $640,539 in card “winnings.” He wrote off the whimsical debt as a graduation present to his roommate, but was left with an ingrained desire to win big by taking chances, and of course, gambling. He thought he could win for real.

Good grades and an excellent resume with fine recommendations from his professors landed Casey a wonderful job. He quickly moved from a satellite office in Indianapolis to a district office in Chicago and headquarters in New York. No too long after that move he was promoted to a place among several hundred partners. His salary was really good. The next step was managing director of the firm’s Washington office, which included overseeing lobbying activities.

Casey would bet on anything. He was able to find a bookie for major sporting events. There were trips to Atlantic City. Regular meetings at Pimlico saw him at the track. Before the advent of state-run gambling, he had used a numbers runner. Needless to say, like a pyramid scheme, the whole thing collapsed on him --- his debts became overwhelming, his job was gone, his wife was furious. Somehow, he had in periods of good luck paid for his family’s house and had put it in his wife’s name He had also set aside money for his children’s education. Now he wondered how he could have been so prudent in his depravity, and he pondered as how he might cash in on that.  

 

Casey was cleaning a yard in North Arlington one day when he found a hundred dollar bill under some leaves, just like it had blown out of someone’s hand, and ….well, he didn’t know how it got there, but he wasn’t about to ask anyone either, especially the lady of the house. He slipped the big bill into his pocket.

 

 

Bingo revenues at St. Matthias were down a bit. Beneficiaries of the game were the hundreds of poor along the Route 1 corridor who were received food, drugs and help with housing. Frank Malone, who headed the game, knew that one of the problems was that the inspector from the commonwealth’s gaming commission had ordered that government regulations required players to see numbers called during occasional quick-paced games to be displayed on TV monitors. Such a display was required even though the pace of call did not really permit players time to look up from their cards and confirm one number before the next was called. Fix it, or close the game; in essence, that was the choice.

The parish’s game, held Tuesday and Thursday nights, was in competition with several in the area, Bingo sponsored by the Elks, the local volunteer fire battalion and, of course, the Knights of Columbus Council. Fortunately for the unfortunate, enough potential players were available. An average of $150,000 a year in charitable contributions was distributed to various individuals and groups from the St. Matthias games. Bingo accounted for overhead and a small margin of funds to be given away. Most of the funds given away were derived from the sale of pull-tabs on game nights. Players would pay a dollar apiece, generally buying ten at a time, for the pasteboard tickets with tear-away tabs that would reveal possible winning numbers. After all the pull-tabs in one box were sold, an enclosed card containing the winning numbers and the amount of the prizes would be announced on the public address system by the Bingo caller. When a player returned from the cashier with a smile on his or her face, the others would know a pull-tab paid off. Prizes vary in number and amount for each box: perhaps a half dozen ranging from $25 to $100 and perhaps one as high as $250 or $500. That was a good payout when most Bingos paid $100 and one game a night was worth $1,000.

Casey heard about the St. Matthias game after asking someone about the sign advertising the KofC games outside the Knights’ local Council hall. He also learned about other Bingo in the area, but decided to go to the church basement because it was scheduled that evening. He hoped to multiply his century note and go on from there.

As he walked in, he was struck by the people there. They didn’t seem to match the automobiles parked outside. Few running wrecks were in the parking lot; most were no more than three years old and most were in the SUV category. Many players were fat and, for the most part, more than skinny. Their clothing ranged from slacks, jeans and tee shirts emblazoned with sports references and Bingo “blackout” legends. To those who were in the hall week to week, notice could be taken of the woman who always wore the same tee shirt that featured “Dale Jr. 88” – either an obvious NASCAR fan or one who considered the shirt lucky – and another woman of questionable wealth that made numerous trips to the restroom who always wore the same pink, patterned dress, sometimes with a sweater (the same gray sweater) draped over her shoulders. Those same observers would note the player population changed but little from game night to game night, some showing up twice a week. A few new faces could be seen each night; a few would not appear, only to show up in subsequent weeks. Nearly half the players seemed to be acquainted, exchanging friendly jabs, bits of news or gossip, complaints or joyful reports of winnings at the church or elsewhere. Bingo had its aficionados, and they seemed to enjoy each other’s company.

Meanwhile there was lovable disdain for the volunteers that ran the games. Particularly targeted were the callers as they enunciated … B10, O71, N43….

“No Ns!” shouted a player here and there, soon joined by others adding far from sotto voce that the caller ought to be replaced with a competent one. In a few games, such as when the winner had to have a large letter X on his or her card, there are no Ns. “Wild card!” is shouted when a numbered ball pops up before the TV camera. The caller is supposed to silently remove such balls because their numbers have already been illuminated on the display boards hanging on the walls. Such jeering, seemingly serious, actually appeared to be part of the camaraderie of the regulars.

Casey had put on his best tee shirt and his cleanest jeans. He had long adjusted to the company he had to keep. Any snobbery he might have sheltered in the past was gone by now. Besides, there were players there – although that was difficult to know – who really were middle class. One woman worked for a “beltway bandit” and another owned a filling station. Casey went to the counter where the Bingo cards were sold. Well, they were not individual cards on heavy cardboard covered with kernels of corn, as was done in church basements when he was a kid; now they were sheets of printed games, several to a sheet, each “card” having a serial number that was inputted into the computer. When someone, or several players,called “Bingo,” a volunteer floor worker would call out the serial number and the computer would check whether it was a winner, and display the winning pattern on the monitors. Casey plunked down the minimum $65 to cover 30 of the 45 games to be played that evening. The other 15 – 10 games before the regularsession, and five afterward – were sold separately. One could spend nearly $100 if extra games and special drawings based on called Bingo numbers were bought.

He sat at a long table with about 20 chairs altogether on both sides. Only about five seats were taken. Casey sat a few places away from George Custer, a veteran of the Bataan Death March who had but one arm and used a cane, a delightful man with a sense of humor. Casey learned about Custer later, eager to ask if his name had any connection to the general at the Battle of the Little Big Horn (which it did not).

Casey watched as the early games came to a close. He had to buy an ink dauber, the only way to mark that a number had been called. He watched as other players laid out their sheets of cards and ran their eyes up and down the rows looking for matching numbers. He had never played Bingo before in Atlantic City or anywhere else. But he knew he had the drill down, nevertheless. This was easy compared to analyzing a spreadsheet. The first regular game got underway, and as with beginner’s luck, Casey split the $100 three ways --- he won $33, as did the other two winners; the house kept the extra dollar. He was glad he decided to gamble again.

 

Casey went back to the shelter with $85. He got back his $65 and $25 more; he spent $5 for a hamburger and soft drink at the food counter in the church basement. Back in the shelter he said nothing of his luck – or skill, as a gambler would think of it – and carefully tucked the stash into his underwear. He went back for the next Bingo night.

 

George Custer beckoned to Casey as he arrived. “How many cards did ya get tonight?”

Casey said he would be staying for all thegames. He had panhandled enough money to buy 45 games. As the night wore on, Casey became quite frustrated. George counseled that winning came in streaks for most folks. Casey allowed as how he knew that. At least there was some skill involved in card games, particularly poker. The regular games ended so there but five games left. One by one they went, quickly because there were no multiple winners. The last game arrived. George, always cheerful despite of, or maybe because of the horror he had experienced in the early days of World War II, suggested to Casey that he might as well hand over his remaining blank Bingo forms to him. Casey saw no joke there.

As he trudged back to the shelter, nearly penniless, Casey realized that he had to change his life. He had no idea of how to start. His outlook was dreary. However, somehow his attitude was not. He was broke. His situation had not changed, yet something was different. George didn’t talk about his ordeals as a Japanese prisoner, not of his release or of his ensuring years. Still, he in some way inspired Casey.

Casey as he walked began assessing his weaknesses, and his strengths. His step was slightly livelier as he approached his bunk.

 

 

Chapter Five

 

Counting House

            Being a broke, recovering gambler is not easy. Such a state is especially difficult when living in a shelter, a shelter that is time-limited. Casey Gilliam had but days to find other living accommodations. Those circumstances produced much anxiety.

            Finding a job as a CPA, even as an accountant, is not too big a deal when you already have a job and want to move up. Being unemployed and wearing a hand-me-down suit with a dingy shirt and a nondescript tie while job hunting adds up to a definite turn-off to would-be employers. Kenneth Clarence Gilliam was not too far down the social scale to be most aware of his negatives. Being a Catholic --- well, one in not too good standing – and a graduate of Notre Dame ought to be worth something. It wasn’t hard to find the nearest Catholic church.

 

            Father Christopher Utermollen answered the door himself. He is never astonished by whom he finds on his doorstep. Part of the priesthood; some of the clergy handle it well, others find disreputable people repulsive. Casey Gilliam’s appearance fell somewhere between well-turned-out and someone to be tuned-out. Luckily, Chris Utermollen was not the kind to turn away anyone, regardless of appearance.

            Casey explained that he was not asking for a handout but for a job. He briefly explained his qualifications, noting that he had fallen from grace, both in his occupation and in his relations with the Almighty. He skipped the details but hung enough on the skeleton of his story to get across to the priest that he wantedto right his life and start by earning enough money to at least rent a room at a sleazy motel on Route 1.

            As luck might have it (who says the Irish are not lucky) Father Utermollen did have need to straighten out the parish’s books. A dip in Bingo revenues only complicated the bookkeeping. Fortunately the church was tax exempt. Yet money had to be found for roof repairs, upkeep of the school building that included air-conditioning upgrades, and perhaps new pews for the church. Better bookkeeping alone would not solve those problems, but knowing how to better manage the parish income streams would be a start.

            Casey strained to restrain his glee when the priest offered him a chance to return to his profession, if only in a rather minor way with minor compensation. He who had been used to overseeing audits of multibillion dollar corporations could use a hundred dollars a week for part-time work. It was afternoon, but Casey was shown the books so that he might get an idea of how they were organized. Father excused himself and behind his office door quickly checked the references Casey mentioned: company names, university grad school, for starters.

            The next morning Casey showed up at the rectory office, wearing the same clothes, but with a shiny face. (It would have matched his pants had blue serge not gone the way of polyester decades before.) Somehow gambling had not dimmed his accounting wits, maybe even enhanced them. Also, he had not become a victim of alcohol, though he was far from being a teetotaler. He was able to get into meaningful work quite quickly. He saw the need for some reorganization along lines dictated by accounting rules for non-profits that would help the situation at St. Matthias. A few changes in the computer programs and some instructions would fix the pastor’s financial tools in a few weeks. A good job, Casey thought, would bring him a useful reference as he tried to improve his future.

           

            While he was assessing the situation and recommending changes, the CPA and the priest had a few chats, shared a beer or two, and began to learn more about each other.

Chris grew up in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Maplewood, the only son of Robert and Melinda Utermollen. Robert drove a tanker truck for an oil company; his wife clerked at a department store in the District. Their son went to parochial school, caddied at a country club, and went to Catholic high school on a scholarship, worked for a shipping company to save enough money for college. While at the local state university branch campus he became involved in the Newman Club, serving Mass and joining in religious seminars. Before long he decided he had a vocation and applied to the diocesan bishop for a spot in the seminary. He was told to finish his degree and spend time in retreat after that to discern his calling. He graduated with a B.A. in English, still interested in serving the Church. After his retreat, the bishop consented to his entering an established seminary in Maryland.

Casey wondered whether Chris had ever been interested in girls. Well, yes, but only enough for a few dates with fellow students. He found that those girls were of two types: ones that pursued him, which he found uncomfortable to be with, and those who seemed to be on the rebound. Who knows what would have happened had he found a woman whose friendship would have led to mutual attraction. All that struck Casey as logical.

As for himself, Casey thought back to his days pursuing girls from St. Mary’s, a rather short walk from the campus, next to the lakes and across the highway. Many a graduation was capped with matrimony, and so it was with Casey and Margaret (Molly) Gallagher, one of six children of a mortgage banker from Joliet, Illinois. Molly’s life with her siblings undoubtedly prepared her for her trials with Casey’s behavior and ultimate failure as husband and father.

 

Finding a bookkeeper Casey thought would do a good job was not as easy as the priest and the disgraced CPA had thought. So Casey stayed on the job. Soon Casey detected some discrepancies between collection revenues of ten years before and the current collections, which seemed too low. The parish’s congregation had grown and so had the weekly envelop contributions, but not enough. There was some sort of discrepancy between former and current cash numbers. Perhaps someone was pocketing currency or coins or both. Volunteers counted returns from the collection baskets each Monday morning and then kept running totals of each contributor in accounting books. The results were reported to those individual contributors every January for tax-filing purposes. Perhaps one of those volunteers was enriching himself. That seemed unlikely, for all the volunteers doing the weekly chore worked together in the same room. How to prove, or disprove, that possibility? Or perhaps, there was another explanation. Casey believed he should find out to be true to his profession. CPAs are not detectives; they read between the figures on a spreadsheet. Do clever thieves leave clues? Casey hoped so.

 

Casey spent long periods poring over the books. Two quirks of St. Matthias’s books were the key: they were not computerized, and many entries were made by the individual volunteers who did the counting. Envelop contents were attributed to their various donors; those were pretty much immune from manipulation because the donors had to be notified of totals each year, totals they could check against their check stubs or computer-based budgeting programs. Cash put in collection baskets could not be traced. At least in theory.

Examination of cash totals entered by volunteers could be identified by differences on the handwritten figures. After an inquiry, Casey learned the volunteers randomly emptied the bags containing collections from each weekend Mass. How much in contributions from each Mass could be tracked over time. Theoretically, and in practice, each Mass produced every week a similar amount, except for Christmas and Easter --- the traditional days on which lukewarm Catholics showed up for services. Even though the handwritten figures varied in style, over the course of time, the totals for the cash donations displayed patterns. Careful examination showed a slight variation from averages for one hand. Each time a total in one handwritten figure was compared with totals for a Mass written in different hands there was a minor drop from the average cash contribution for that Mass time. Over time, such a difference – a matter of less than ten dollars – could add up. Going back as far as he could in examination of the books, he concluded with as much certainty as he could defend a discrepancy of nearly 45 thousand dollars. Because the pilfered amounts apparently were small such a large sum over time meant either the thief was an old-timer or that several counters were involved. How to connect the handwriting with a particular person? To ask for handwriting samples would raise suspicion. To appoint someone to stand around and look over shoulders wouldn’t seem to work either. The priest might be able to do so without his motivations being questioned, yet that would be a real ethical burden for him. Casey concluded that he would have to find a plausible explanation for observing the counting of collection proceeds.

 

Casey introduced himself that Monday morning he appeared in the rectory office. He noted that he was the new bookkeeper and that he wished to see how the counting was done as a way of acquainting himself with the parish’s operations. As luck would have it, all the regular counters were present. Irene and Al Rhodes, Sylvia and Oscar Reyes, Joanne Scanlon and Jim Schlosser gave their names as Casey went around the room. All seemed pleasant enough. It was common for married couples to work together. Joanne was what used to be called a spinster and Jim was a widower. After a little conversation, Casey learned that Jim had volunteered the longest, some 27 years. All the others had been doing the task for ten to fifteen years. Doing a little arithmetic in his head, Casey calculated that if Jim took ten dollars a week for 50 weeks a year over a 27 year period he could only get away with $13,500. That was a about a third --- actually, a calculator would make it an exact third. In reality, Casey could only estimate the missing amount. Yet, he knew his estimate was close. Did that mean there was a conspiracy? Realistically, Casey had to face the facts that he had not gone back a quarter century in examining the books, and he really was unable to get a good look at the various handwriting samples. He decided to ask the pastor to have the counters do something that they should have been doing all along --- sign their names to their tallies.

 

Joanne seemed agitated when she met Jim for dinner that Monday evening at Mike’s Ristorante. Why, she wondered, did that bookkeeper from the rectory show up at the weekly collection counting. Jim told her that he had heard from the pastor’s secretary that the rectory staff had learned that Mr. Gilliam had told Father Utermollen that cash was missing from the Sunday collections, and that the problem had been going on for a long time, which was news to the priest. They dallied over the antipasto. They could not finish their ravioli and fettuccini. They hesitated to talk about the missing cash. They backed away for sharing what they both knew about the situation, for neither knew that the other was aware that Irene and Al had been skimming for years.

“Someone is going to start asking questions pretty soon,” Jim finally said, “and I won’t know how to defend myself. I know who is doing it, but I just didn’t want to get involved. I’m not the kind to raise a fuss.”

“Oh no,” Joanne said. “I feel the same way. Who do you suspect?”

“What do you know?”

A few minutes later they admitted their mutual suspicion.

Their shared belief placed them in a quandary. Now they knew something had to be done --- they, together or each alone – had to tell someone in authority that they had more than suspicions. More alarming, they realized they shared some guilt with the guilty because they had known collection money was being filched and they, as individuals, had done nothing to stop it. They were in a lose/lose situation. True, their guilt was less than that of those who actually misappropriated funds, yet there was guilt before God if not under the law.

 

Jim Schlosser rang the door of the rectory the next morning. He had spent a restless night. Sleep came fitfully near dawn after much conscience inflicted restlessness. As he started to make coffee he stopped, hurried and dressed, and went off to Mass. On the way he phoned and left a message that he would be late for work. His attention at Mass was diverted by his problem, the parish’s problem, the problem of Alfred and Irene Rhodes, the puzzle that must be facing Gilliam. Father Utermollen gathered almost immediately why Jim was there, just as Jim said, “I don’t know how to tell you what I must.”

After an encouraging word, without hint of his supposition, Father urged his guest to tell him. Jim started with a description of how the counters handled the envelopes and cash each Monday and then added that he had long believed something was wrong. Then about a year ago he overheard Al say something to Irene as he, Jim, entered the room that just seemed strange. He couldn’t remember the exact words, but they were something like “where did you hide it this week?” After that, Jim told the priest that he was vigilant. He told his pastor that he had shared his suspicions with another counter, but did not mention a name. That other person, after watching the Rhodes couple, came to share his feelings. The priest did not ask Jim to identify his corroborator.  As Jim left, the pastor urged him to keep going on Mondays as though nothing had happened and wait for an appropriatetime to help in any solution or prosecution.

 

Casey Gilliam now had a tool to pry open the accounting mystery. He went back and re-examined the evidence he had gathered. Much of it now fell into place with his new-found knowledge that Al and Irene Rhodes had been fingered, if only tentatively. After a few days further work he was able to build a case that would stand up to scrutiny. He had not forgotten what he learned in making partner at a prestigious accounting firm. He took his case to the pastor.

 

Chris Utermollen went to the chapel behind the main altar of St. Matthias to pray over his problem. He was in that chapel daily for an hour or so. On this occasion the time wore on. His mind danced between talking to God and wondering how the Rhodes would react, what their family and friends would think, whether to bring in the police, just what to do. At last he decided that in charity he should confront the couple.

 

The priest phoned and asked whether he might drop in. Al said of course. Irene was there, as requested, when Chris used the knocker on the door of a rather lovely Tudor house. After some niceties, he came to the point.

“It has come to my attention that cash has been missing from the Sunday collections for quite some time. Coincidentally, a person has made an accusation and the parish’s accountant has confirmed that those responsible are you.”

That was a rather cold and businesslike statement and could not be ignored.

Irene and Al looked at each other. They seemed truly unsurprised. Their attitude was as if they had wondered when they would be found out.

“Certainly that’s an insult . . .” Al started to say, but then his voice trailed off. Irene began to appear stunned.

Al’s eyes were lowered, his head titled. Guilt spread over his visage. He didn’t turn to his wife. He stood there in a slump. He ran his fingers through his hair. He rubbed his eyes, which had begun to glisten with tears. After long moments as the priest stood there contemplating what he might say, Al spoke slowly, haltingly, almost inaudibly.

“We’ll      pay it       back.     We’ll pay all of it      back. Can you       forgive us?”

 

                              TO BE CONTINUED