Pierced by a Sword (18 page)

He had no possessions, not even a wallet. He left the room in the Motorman Motel in Santa Paula without looking back. He had nothing and he had everything.

He walked out of the motel into the receding darkness. He breathed the crisp, cool California air as if for the first time. Lee
looked toward the mountain in the east and the rising sun.

2

Monday Morning
9 October
Notre Dame, Indiana

Becky Macadam had been warned by Father Chet that Joe Jackson was big, but she was stunned when she saw the six-foot-six, two hundred and forty-five pound man leaning against the Father Sorin statue. He had a football under his arm. He was wearing cotton Dockers and a plain gray sweat-shirt
over a polo shirt.

Joe turned when Chet called his name. Recognition brought a huge smile to the somber expression that normally rested on Joe's face.

"Chet Sullivan, I thought you might have had trouble on the highway or something." Joe beamed. He dropped the football and embraced the young priest, literally lifting him off the ground. Becky noticed that Father Chet's weight was not straining
the dark-haired giant in the least. Joe's accent was thick with southern Louisiana twang.

Joe lowered Chet gently to the ground and turned to greet Rebecca Macadam. The smile was only a faint outline now. The somber look, that many mistook for sadness, was back.

"And you must be Becky. You sure are pretty," Joe blurted spontaneously. There was no fawning in his voice–he was merely stating a fact.
Becky blushed.

"How do you do?" she inquired formally, but did not extend her hand.
He's beautiful! Beautiful? I've been talking to Father Chet too much!

In fact, Joe was not a particularly handsome man. His features were too large, too plain except for his prominent Roman nose. His eyes were deeply set.

Joe's physique, however, was worthy of Michelangelo's David, and could be objectively appraised
as beautiful. To a lesser degree Jackson was like Nathan Payne: women had been strongly attracted to Joe because of his status as an athlete and because of his tremendous manliness.

"I am doing quite well, Miss Macadam," he replied somewhat stiffly, imitating her formality, looking directly into her eyes.

True to his nature, Joe did not feel an instantaneous attraction to Becky, despite her balanced
and breathtaking beauty. He was wary of beautiful women. In fact, having been chased by both plain and pretty women since high school, he had come to distrust their motives, and appreciated the danger they posed to his spiritual equilibrium. It unnerved him to be the object of attraction by a woman who did not know him well.

Becky, however, true to
her
nature, fell completely in love. The symptoms
were clear–fire in the belly, dizziness, a blacking out of visual periphery. She quickly wrote off the emotion, having "felt" instant attraction before. She had been burned by similar feelings for the likes of Sam, for whom she had fallen at first sight. She noticed that Joe looked at her in the same disciplined, chaste manner which Father Chet practiced so well. She folded her arms and tried
to look at anything but the giant in front of her.

"Well," Father Chet said, "I know I'm being a bad host, but I have to pray the Office."

The Divine Office is a set of prayers, contained in a book called "the Breviary." It consists of scriptures, prayers, and commentaries which are required daily reading by priests. Many liberal priests skipped praying it. Chet had not missed a day in his priestly
life, not even as a seminarian, when he prayed the Breviary voluntarily.

Joe gave the Irishman a skeptical look.

"You've got to be kidding, Chet."

"I kid you not, Shoeless." Since college, Chet had been calling Jackson by the nickname given to the tragic baseball player. "We've got a big day planned. Nathan should be getting here any minute, and we're meeting Joanie Wheat around half past two.
Then, at five, we're going to Professor Wheat's talk..." the priest turned to Becky, "...and
then,
we're going to get the best pizza this side of New Jersey, at Bruno's out on Prairie! I don't want to put my Breviary off. Sorry, I've got to go.

"Don't let this big lug scare ya, Beck–Joe's really just a harmless fuzzball, like that guy on the radio. I'll be done in a bit. Meet you in front of the
dome."

With that, Father Chet walked away. He allowed himself a stealthy smile–which Becky and Joe could not see. His litany of the schedule for the day had been a ruse. He had observed the look in Becky's eyes. His instincts had been right–Becky and Shoeless were perfect for each other.

He unzipped the leather book cover around his Breviary and began to pray the prayers shared by the "other Christs"
of the world.

It'll probably take the big lug three years to figure it out though–unless he gets a little prodding.

Prodding was Father Chet's specialty.

Joe watched the priest walk away.

"Well," Joe said, "let's wait here until the famous Nathan Payne arrives. I hear he's quite a character."

"Chet tells me
you're
quite a character," Becky rejoined.

Joe looked uncomfortable. Becky noticed that
he was no longer meeting her eyes.

He's shy. It's hard to believe he played in a Super Bowl.

"Tell me about the Kolbe Foundation," she said cheerfully. Chet had described Joe's work to her briefly during the walk from the Grotto.

"There's not much to say. It's hard work, but it's fun. Before coming over this morning, I read a letter from a man who came back to the sacraments after being away from
them for over two decades. All because he listened to a free Kolbe Foundation CD his wife gave him."

He speaks so softly, I can barely hear him.

Joe continued, "I just kind of fell into it, I guess. Now that I'm in it, I'm going to press the gas pedal to the ground and drive 'til I crash or the race ends."

Despite his soft-spoken voice, Becky couldn't miss the unbending determination in it. She
was an intelligent girl and her job required interviewing high-level executives to help formulate advertising campaigns. Most looked at her legs or stared when they thought she wasn't looking. Many tried to pick her up–even the married ones. She took pride in cutting them down like saplings. They were the hard chargers of corporate America. Joe struck her as a paradox: a meek, shy man with the same
determination of the executives with whom she had worked. She concentrated on asking questions to draw him out. His chaste gaze was refreshing. Even Sam had been a bit of a lecher, with roving eyes and a stash of porno magazines she once found hidden in his closet.

An awkward silence ensued. Joe looked up at the statue of Father Sorin.

"He's one of my heroes, Father Sorin. He came here with nothing
and affected the lives of thousands, hundreds of thousands–probably millions when you count the wives, children, friends, and associates of the men who graduated from here. I think about him a lot. Nobody knows anything about him. If it weren't for his statue here and a dorm named after him, most students wouldn't even know his name. It's like he never existed. Yet no student would be here without
him.

"I want to be like him. And I wouldn't mind if everyone forgot my name." Joe finished one of the most personal revelations he had ever made to a stranger. It was also one of his longest.

I must sound like a moron,
he thought.

She looked at him for a long moment, until his gaze found hers.
Who are you, Joe Jackson?

She was about to ask him just that out loud when the sound of screeching tires
broke their reverie. Joe felt a tinge of disappointment when Becky looked away from him.

Nathan pulled his Mustang up to the curb, parked it illegally, and walked purposefully towards them. He had stayed overnight at the Signature Inn near the highway. He recognized Becky as the knockout from his party on Saturday night.

When he spotted the football at Joe's feet, Nathan pantomimed for Joe to
throw it. Nathan held up his hands, smiling openly. Joe threw the ball twenty yards to Nathan, who caught it nonchalantly, but with sure hands–a skill that comes from either practice or natural ability. For Nathan it was the latter.

"Go out!" Nathan called to the big man.

Joe looked at Becky, shrugged, and ran a post pattern. Nathan motioned for Joe to run farther and farther.

Becky had never
watched a college or pro football game in her life. As she watched Joe Jackson run, she had an emotional reaction not unlike those felt by the scouts and coaches who had studied him over the years.

Reflecting the impressive genes of his gymnast mother and his football-playing father, Joe was a study in speed, grace, and power. Most large men are too bulky to be graceful. Graceful sprinters are
often permanent klutzes when it comes to catching footballs. Powerful men are often slow and are most often short and stout. Joe was a rare creature who had the best of all worlds: grace, power, speed. Jackson could have been an Olympic decathlete or played any number of professional sports had he dedicated his life to those kinds of achievements.

Becky's mind, trained in advertising, searched
for a metaphor to describe him and supplied her with a mixture.
He's a combination of cheetah and locomotive,
she thought with fascination.

She had no way of knowing that Joe's teammates had nicknamed him "the Thoroughbred" years earlier at Notre Dame.

Nathan, who seemed half Joe's size, threw the ball forty-five yards in a perfect spiral which Joe caught with a tenderness and grace that could
only be described as
motherly.

When Joe turned to face Nathan, Becky saw Joe's huge smile for the second time and heard his deep laughter for the first time as it cascaded down the quad. Something stirred in her which was beyond physical sensation.

Watch it. Last thing you need right now is to start thinking about men.
She then asked herself dangerously,
Why not?

Nathan would have been surprised
by the thoughts of Joe Jackson. Joe had played football with a few of the most talented quarterbacks of his generation.

I wonder where this guy played,
Joe thought.
Must have got lost at some small college. I know several pro coaches who would be glad to give this guy a tryout–if he were a few inches taller. Throws as nice a pass as I've ever caught.

Joe jogged–
glided
is a better word–back to
Nathan and Becky. Introductions were made. Both men were impressed with the other's casual strength when they shook hands.

Neither was aware that a partnership planned by heaven from all eternity had just begun.

"Father Chet abandoned us to pray in his office," Becky observed presently.

"Chetmeister has an office on campus?" Nathan asked Joe.

"Not an office–the Divine Office-priest prayers. He's
probably finishing soon. We'll catch him at the dome. Nice spiral, Nathan," Joe said. "Did you play in college?"

"Me? No. Chess club was more my style, Hoss," Nathan said in a friendly way. Joe never particularly liked being called big guy nicknames, but somehow Nathan could get away with it.

Men,
Becky thought,
all they think about is sports. Then again, Mr. Super Bowl didn't bring up his former
profession when we met. Most jocks would have.

The blonde walked between the two men, like a modern Dorothy on her way to Oz.

+  +  +

Chet was sitting on the front steps of the Administration Building when the threesome arrived. He closed his Breviary.

"Hey Nathan, how you guys doin'?"

"Just fine," Nathan replied, giving Chet a look.

Then he sidled up and started whispering into the priest's ear.

Whispering into the ear of Christ,
Becky thought as she watched the two longtime friends.

"Chetmeister, Joanie says I need to go to confession," Nathan began. "Don't laugh, I'm serious. I want to. Something's happening to me. I need to do it now. You know most of my sins already. Whadda-ya-say, Chet?"

Chet nodded, then addressed Becky and Joe, "Sorry to abandon you two again, but you're going to
have to excuse Nathan and me for a little while." His tone cut off any inquiry.

Chet and Nathan turned and walked toward Sacred Heart Basilica. The confessional was to the left of the door they entered. Over the next twenty-five minutes, Chet heard Nathan's frank and unemotional confession.

+  +  +

"Well, what do we do next,
Hoss?"
she teased lightly.

"Please, call me Joe or Joseph. I'm not offended
when you call me Hoss, Becky. I just like how it sounds when you say my real name," he told her almost apologetically, as if he were the one who had done the teasing.

"Okay," she said.
Did I hurt his feelings?

"Let's pray, Becky. Let's pray a Rosary. If my instincts are right, Nathan is making his first confession since he was a kid. He needs our help."

"Sure. I'd be glad to. I just did the same
thing myself–go to confession for the first time since childhood, I mean–yesterday. That Chet is quite a priest, isn't he?"

Joe nodded, conveying agreement with his eyes.

"Chet showed me the Grotto this morning. Let's go there–it's right around the corner, isn't it? If anyone told me last week that I would be saying two Rosaries in one day, it would have given me quite a laugh. Don't get me wrong,
Joe. I want to pray for Nathan. I really do."

The thought of her unborn child struck Becky.

"Joe?" she asked tentatively.

He looked down into Becky's brown eyes. That feeling was in her belly again. He told her with his gentle look that he was more than willing to hear what she had to say next.

"Can we pray for me, too?" she asked less timidly.

"Sure thing," he said softly. "For anything in particular?"

"I can't say right now."

"Even better. A special intention–my favorite. I can't tell you why, but Mary always answers my prayers. She's always surprising me, too," he explained, trying to reassure her.