THE OLD PRIEST

THE OLD PRIEST

After morning prayers Sister told me to keep an eye out for Father McCabe. She said to keep looking up the hill and when the old priest started down the path to run down the stairs and open the locked door.

The walkway that connected the rectory to the school was made of flagstones and cracked concrete. To the right of the path was Holy Apostles, the granite church that loomed over the neighborhood like a castle. The school was crunched behind the church with its back door directly at the end of the path.

The old priest wore a cassock, black oxfords, and a watchmen’s cap pulled low on his brow. His cassock skirt had faded to a chalky gray, and he pulled it to the side with one hand the way the Italian lady – the only other person I ever saw on the path - did. The Italian lady also wore black oxfords, but instead of a cap she wore a black scarf tied under her chin. On school days she huddled in the church between the candle stands and the confessionals, but once I found her sprawled out face-down in front of the altar. Splayed out like that, she reminded me of the dead crow Dad and I saw last summer when we stopped at a farm stand to buy corn. The bird had been hammered onto a barn door which Dad said was a warning other crows to stay away.

Old Father McCabe had arrived at Holy Apostles after being released from Saint Martin’s Manor - the dry-out place for alcoholic priests. We’d heard he’d fallen down drunk in the pulpit at his last parish, and that he’d crashed a car while visiting a parishioner in the hospital. I didn’t think about Father McCabe much because I was caught up with big brawny Father Sullivan who visited the school at unpredictable times. When he came to our classroom the floorboards shook and the windows rattled. And during recess in the lot across from the church he’d toss cellophane-wrapped candies into the air the way you’d toss popcorn to pigeons. After throwing the candy, he’d twist into a big wind-up and pitch the ball against the retaining wall while we tried to dodge.

Old Father McCabe didn’t look strong enough to toss a feather pillow, but he could stare down any kid who rolled his eyes or shrugged his shoulders. On Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings he came to religion class to help prepare us for Confirmation. After he read out the catechism questions, we rattled back the answers, practicing for the bishop’s visit when we had to show we were ready to be Soldiers of Christ. After answering the bishop’s questions, we’d be called to the communion rail and give the name of our confirmation saint. The bishop would make a cross with holy oil on our foreheads then slap our cheek to show we were strong enough to defend our faith.

The slap was an outward sign. All the sacraments had outward signs, but they had invisible signs too. “There’s visible matter and form for every sacrament,” Sister Joseph said. The visible matter could be holy water, oil, bread and wine while certain words – said in Latin – were the form.  There were movements too. Genuflections, slaps and anointings had to be done correctly if the sacrament was to shower its graces. Sister made us learn the matter and form for all the sacraments.

“Te absolvo”…I forgive… were the words the priest said when he sat behind the screen in the confessional. He said other words during Mass when he turned bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Christ. More words were said when you were dying and the priest anointed you.

“Just remember that outward signs show inward change,” Sister said as she handed out the three page test. Every time she mentioned the inward change, I pictured a stream of light blasting out of a cloud and traveling down to a person’s chest.

I kept worrying about the bishop’s slap, but Sister said it was more like a tap and I wouldn’t even feel it. People always said I wouldn’t feel things. It was even worse when they said I wouldn’t remember. Just thinking about memories leaking out of my head made my mouth dry with fear. What I hated most was thinking that my memories might not be real but had been   planted in my brain by something someone said.    

My mom died of cancer when I was four, and ever since then my father has told me how I’d climb into bed with her and pretended to read. I think I remember doing that. I believe I remember, but the truth is, I’m not absolutely sure.

 It took old Father McCabe ten minutes to get down the hill so after a week of waiting for him at the door, I began to wander. I’d go to the girls’ room and stare at my eyebrows; I’d creep into the dark chapel. I’d listen to the clicking sounds that came from the alcove where the Infant of Prague statue stood on a table, wrapped in an ermine-trimmed cloak. Sometimes I’d go to the front of the school and look through the wired glass doors. From there I could see down the street to the Eire Lackawanna traintracks, and farther down to graveyard where Mom was buried. That’s where Patricia and I had gone to smoke cigarettes.

I hadn’t smoked since Patricia moved to Providence, but that hadn’t stopped me from breathing in cigarette fumes. When my sisters were home for vacation they locked themselves in the bathroom and puffed away like stove pipes. Ordinarily, the house smelled like cabbage and bacon, but when Lizzie and Clare were home it smelled like a fireplace.

Probably because they’d damaged their nostrils, my sisters always complained of odors. They said the house had a cooped-up smell, or that a mildew odor was coming from the basement. They said the stove had a gas leak and the towels smelled like dirty feet.

It was strange wandering around the school. I might see a little kid holding a key-shaped pass and slithering along the wall, or Shorty pushing a mop. Last year, whenever Shorty saw me and Patricia together, he’d say we looked like the Gold Dust Twins. But the janitor didn’t remember me when I was by myself, and I was always by myself.  

Aside from Joanie Moran and Marybeth Dulaney, I didn’t have any friends. Even my grandmother - who’d lived with us since Mom died - had left to live with Aunt Rita in Boston. Since Nana left, I’d taught myself to make meatloaf, spaghetti, hamburgers and pork chops. Marybeth Dulaney, whose mother had fallen down the stairs and had broken her neck when we were in fourth grade, also cooked. I sometimes talked to Marybeth about recipes like cooking pork chops in orange juice. In return, she told me to stuff a whole lemon inside a chicken when roasting it. She had a pan where she could roast two chickens at once.        

“Two?” I said before remembering Marybeth’s brother was seven years older, and when she sat between him and her father in church they took up the whole pew.

It’s weird how even with an ache in your chest you get used to being alone. Then, even though you don’t know when it happens, you don’t like being with people. I was sad and lonely after my sisters left, but after Christmas vacation it was a relief to have them gone.

                                                                 *  

One time when I got to the locked door, Father McCabe was already there but he wasn’t mad at me for having to wait. He put his cold face close to mine and said what he always said, “I keep your mother in my prayers.”

“Thank you, Father” I answered, though I didn’t know how he knew anything about my mother.

At the classroom door, he paused. “Martyrs to lions,” he’d whisper.

After I kept Father McCabe waiting that time, I stopped roaming and went directly to the door when I saw him starting down the path. If it was snowing, I’d hold the door open. In fact, I was leaning on the door handle, making kisses onto the cold glass when I saw him sink to the ground. Like a jack-in-the-box he folded himself into a dark heap and by the time I climbed to where he’d collapsed my fingers were icicles.

“Father.” I knelt on the cracked concrete. His cap was stuck under his head and a tiny trickle of blood ran from his left nostril. His right arm was twisted under him and his shoulder jutted out like a door knob.

 “Father?”

“Your brother committed a grave sin but with God’s help he’ll seek forgiveness,” Father said.

“Father, are you all right?”

“Great griefs are silent. My years in the confessional have taught me that. You were a child. Your brother alone is responsible for your mother’s death.”

“Father, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You had no obligation to come forward. No innocent party was held accountable, and you were not required to explain what you saw.”

“I’m Margaret Sheehan,” I said. I didn’t know if Father even knew my name.

“The secrets of the confessional are binding. No one will ever know what you have confessed.”

“Father, please get up.” When the old man closed his eyes I saw his lids were bruised. I pressed my hands against the concrete and pushed. My toes were numb and pins and needles were stabbing my legs. In the moment it took to find my balance, I knew it would be better to go up the hill to the rectory rather than down to the locked door. Icy needles stabbed me and the wind nearly knocked me over when I hobbled to the rectory door. I banged the knocker and rang the bell but Mrs. Connelly, the housekeeper with the hairy mole, didn’t come to the door. Father Sullivan didn’t either.

Father McCabe was where I’d left him only now a rusty puddle had formed on the icy patch next to his cap. I touched his chest. For the first time since seeing him collapse, I thought he might die.

“In danger of death,” I whispered. Sister had shown us a picture of a table covered with a white cloth holding the outward signs for the sacrament of Extreme Unction: a crucifix, candles, a bottle of holy water, a cotton ball, a palm stalk, and a lemon wedge. When I looked down at Father McCabe, I remembered that heretics couldn’t be given the last rites because they were out of the church and would – though no one could say for absolute certain – suffer in hell for all eternity. Little kids couldn’t be given the sacrament either because if you’re free of sin you didn’t need the sacrament. 

“A duly authorized priest.”  The words shot into my head like an arrow. Here was a duly authorized priest sprawled on the ice. Another duly authorized priest was not in the rectory waiting to shower a soul with God’s grace.

I couldn’t remember if you even needed a priest for Extreme Unction. You didn’t need one for Baptism. When I stood a swishing sound rushed through my head and washed away everything I’d ever known. When the swishing stopped, cold air came into my mouth like a wet towel. I was excited to think how I’d save a soul for all eternity.

I yanked open the heavy door and stepped into the dark vestibule. Marble holy water fonts stood on either side of the main aisle and each pedestal held a bowl filled with holy water. I lifted a bowl just as I heard loud clapping.

The Italian Lady stood in the side aisle. “No take.” She held her hands up so she looked as if a bank robber had told her to “Stick em up!”

I watched the water slip from side to side as I placed it in a pocket of icy grass. After dipping my fingers into the bowl I put my hand on Father’s chest. “Te absolvo,” I said, the moment before I realized I was mixing Confession with Extreme Unction. “I know you’d be sorry for your sins, Father.”

I dipped my fingers into the bowl and made a cross on the priest’s forehead and purple eyelids. I was dipping again when the Italian lady, wobbled down the path and knelt beside me. “Padre,” she whispered. When I put my fingertips back in the bowl the holy water was warmer than the air. I made the sign of the cross on the priest’s nose and lips.

“His hands,” I said. She turned the priest’s hand so his palm faced up and blessed it with her index finger. She made a tiny cross on his knobby right shoulder and somehow we understood the shoulder blessing was enough. I walked on my knees to Father McCabe’s feet. I blessed the laces of his shoes before passing the bowl to the Italian lady.

“Ambulance.” I pushed up and saw my knees were bleeding. The woman clasped her hands together as if she was at the communion rail.  My feet were numb and my legs tingled as I made my way down the steps. I didn’t try to open the locked back door but went to the wired front doors.

The secretary’s eyebrows shot up and crinkled her forehead. “What are you doing prancing through the front door when you should be in class?”

“Father McCabe fell. Maybe he’s dead.”

                                                           *

Father McCabe wasn’t dead. The ambulance took him to the hospital and we prayed for his recovery. Whenever we prayed for the old priest, I knew I was the reason he was alive. After all, I’d given him the healing power of the sacrament.

When Sister brought a get-well card to class I stood behind Marybeth Dulaney and watched her tighten her jumper belt before signing her name. It hadn’t taken me less than an hour after the ambulance left the icy path to understood that the old priest had gotten me and Marybeth confused. Marybeth was the only other girl whose mother was dead, so really, it made sense. I couldn’t picture Marybeth going to confession with old Father McCabe but she must have.

I began watching Marybeth and when I saw she was trying to give herself a dimple by pushing the eraser-end of a pencil into her cheek, I did it too. I began pulling my belt tighter and looping my hair behind my ears. I wanted her to talk to me. I wanted to know how often she replayed the scene of her brother pushing her mother down the stairs. I wanted to know if she was afraid her brother would push her.  

I tried to think up things to say. “Do you miss Patricia?” I asked during recess because just then I missed Patricia so much I almost cried.  

“Did she move to Vermont?”

“Rhode Island.”

My eyes filled with tears. Patricia and I used to talk about everything. And with Patricia everything was funny. One time, when we were diagramming a sentence about a farmer shooting rabbits, Patricia said shooting rabbits was another way to say “farting.” Patricia laughed so hard she fell on the floor and was trapped by her desk.

“I bet you wish your mother was here for your Confirmation,” I said to Marybeth when we  lined up in the vestibule waiting for the bishop. “You must be sad,” I whispered though I wasn’t sad. My sisters, reeling of cigarette smoke, had come for the weekend. Nana and Aunt Rita were sitting in the pew behind them.

“What’s your saint’s name?” Marybeth asked.

“Elizabeth.” I didn’t bother to tell her it was my mother’s name.

“Theresa,” Marybeth said. Five girls had picked “Theresa” for the Carmelite nun whose nickname was “The Little Flower.”  Sister said the little saint was always kneeling on her bare knees and scrubbing the floors in the freezing cold convent, which was probably worse than sweeping cinders out of the fireplace like Cinderella. What’s more, the Little Flower probably dipped her cracked fingers into hot water that had been mixed with lye. From what we’d been told, she was always cleaning up after the sick nuns who were coughing up blood and were probably vomiting too.

The bishop touched my cheek so gently I hardly noticed. For a second, I wondered if he’d done it right but when I felt the graces flowing into my chest, I knew he had.

Two weeks after Confirmation I got up the nerve to ask Marybeth if she wanted to go to church and say some prayers for our mothers. We were on the side of the church where there was a decent sidewalk and for an instant I thought Marybeth would tell me about her mother getting pushed.

“Say a prayer in church,” I repeated.

“Nah.”   

“Are you okay?” Maybe, I didn’t really want to hear about her mother, but I cared about what might happen if Marybeth’s brother was waiting for her at the top of the stairs.

“I gotta go,” she said, jogging away from me.

When summer came I didn’t see her anymore.

 I never told anyone what I knew. Even though I wasn’t a priest I felt bound by the secrets of the confessional. Knowing about Marybeth’s mother changed me. Knowing something important about another person made me realize how little I knew about anyone. I began to understand that things happened in people’s lives, and they had secrets. Mothers got pushed and broke their necks; they got lumps in their breasts and died. Other people drank too much or flopped onto church floors with their arms flung out so they so they looked like dead birds.