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?”
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?”
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