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

Comment on Washington Post Book Review Pieces

A lesson taught by the March 16 Book World is that although we must learn from history we should avoid accepting instantaneous interpretations made by too many news accounts of today’s events.

The teaser on the cover of that issue of Book World about Iraq, a review of a 1964 book on the American Revolution inside, and the piece by Jonathan Yardley on the theory of history held by Gordon S. Wood tie together nicely.

Wood is precisely right about “presentism” when he writes, as quoted by Yardley. “Insofar as it teaches any lessons, [history] teaches only one big one: that nothing ever works out quite the way its managers intended or expected.”

The cover blurb states, “IRAQ. Six books on the lives lost, the money spent and the opportunities squandered. Pages 4-9” Certainly, that’s a summation of “present-mindedness” of recent military history.

Thomas E. Ricks in his review on page 8 of “The War for America, 1775-1783” notes that leadership in London failed to sustain its support of colonists loyal to the crown although those loyalists were vital to the plan for victory. Ricks compares British 18th century strategy in the American colonies with 21st century U.S. strategy in Iraq. An editor underscores the review using images of George III and George W. Bush along with a cutline that doesn’t appear in the piece, “These two wartime leaders might end up having more in common than just their first names.”

Yardley reviewed Wood’s “The Purpose of the Past, Reflections on the Uses of History.” His review of the book -- which is a compilation of Wood’s essays about histories by fellow academic historians -- concludes that “…deeply informed and resolutely fair-minded, it is essential reading for anyone who cares about history and the uses and abuses to which we subject it.”

Thesix inside pages, which we are encouraged by the cover’s squib to read, surely are examples of “instantism,” even though the history covered is contemporary. Wood is quoted as opining that historians should know “about the past and to be able to relate it without anachronistic distortion to our present” which to him means “having a historical sense.”

News writing is not history despite its later help to historians --- historians deserving the title.

IS THE FAIRNESS DOCTRINE FAIR?

Before “1984” became a real year, Big-Brother-like politicians were using euphemisms to name legislative bills and administrative law. One such example: the Fairness Doctrine.

 

Nothing was much fair about undermining – perhaps suborning -- the speech and press freedoms among the five freedoms in the First Amendment..

 

Thankfully, the Federal Communications Commission undid the Fairness Doctrine in 1987. Now, because of the perceived influence on public opinion by talk radio, moves are being made in Congress to reinstate the doctrine.

 

Old arguments about the so-called scarcity of space on the electromagnetic spectrum – the airwaves – the government has a right to regulate the content, particularly the political content, that is broadcast. More about that later.

 

Citizens have a right to criticize their government because “We the People …do ordain and establish this Constitution for the <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />United States of America.” If the government could decide what could be said in criticism, there could be no freedoms, such as those guaranteed by the First Amendment.

 

Because those speaking about government and those writing and publishing opinions about it were protected from governmental interference when the Bill of Rights was ratified 1791 it is only rational to assume that words and images about government would have been protected had broadcasting  been invented by then.

 

Is that not logical? Why then the argument?

 

Broadcasting is inherently no different than the print media in transferring facts, ideas, entertainment, indeed, lies and deceits for that matter. In fact, neither are cable, the internet, broadband, sideband and whatever else might come along. Even proponents of the Fairness Doctrine must admit it does not apply to the content of cable because cable is not part of the electromagnetic spectrum and thus cannot be parceled out to licensees.

 

Blank verse

Autumn 2007

 

The leaves of brown

Come tumbling down,

The song says, but

The reds, the golds, the

Oranges, the yellows

Join them in drifting

To earth to compost in

The forest, to be raked

In the cities and towns

To be burned or collected

Or piled on trash heaps,

Or arranged in vases

To celebrate the season;

Were all the dying leaves

Brown the dreariness

Would overcome the spirit

Yet the variations on the theme

Of the shades of death

Only remind that beauty

Beyond human imagination

Lives beyond the grave.

 

Hilliam or Billary?

Is it too early to ask that if Hillary Clinton were elected the 44th president would the 42nd actually run the White House and the country?

 

Why has not that question received more attention? Surely it has been asked by some savvy pols, especially Republicans.

 

Back in 1992 the cry of William Jefferson Clinton was that voters would get two for one by electing him, meaning he had a smart wife. Senator Clinton isn’t using that line, although she hints her hubby might very well be more than a First Spouse looking after state dinners and flower arrangements in the executive mansion.

 

Let’s stipulate that there are many Democratic voters who would be most pleased if the Hon. Bill Clinton were more than just the husband of a sitting president. Might not his vast knowledge of statecraft be a boon to the good ol’ US of A? Would not his advice add an extra edge to someone called “the smartest woman in the world”? Perhaps there is some validity in that position. He could, perhaps, stop her from making some move that his experience would find unwise. Are two minds not better than one?

 

Yet, he would have to keep his influence from public view in order to prevent her authority from dilution. Should he be seen as the real power behind the Oval Office it would do her and the country no good. Could he sublimate his influence so that she, not he, would benefit from the synergy of their collective thinking? Would it be collective thinking? How would their occupancy of the White House be perceived by the news media, the pundits and the citizenry at large? How would foreign governments react, having once dealt with another President Clinton?

 

Perhaps any answer – certainly at this stage of the campaign – after she were inaugurated on Jan. 20, 2009, would be purely conjectural. Oh, the presidential press secretary would be peppered continually with related questions, but would any answer satisfy the press?

 

Mrs. Clinton’s rivals for the Democratic nomination have not pushed speculation about what role Bill Clinton would play as the president’s husband. The very mention of such an idea would increase her front-running position.

 

Any of the Republicans seeking the nomination might want to save such a stratagem until after the nominating convention. Broaching it too early might backfire.

 

Nonetheless, it seems that the electorate in the caucus and primary states needs to consider whether voting for Hillary Clinton is a vote for one person or two. Is a vote at that stage a vote for Hilliam or, even, Billlary?

 

Should Senator Clinton become President Clinton it might be difficult to know whether there were one chief executive or two. Would the commander-in-chief be commanders in chief? Even if Bill Clinton truly remain in the background and offered no more pertinent advice than an appointed aide would the White House be able to convince the news media and the public of that benign arrangement?

 

Surely these are legitimate questions although the election is 14 months out. Good arguments can be made either way They should be debated.