Pierced by a Sword (28 page)

10

Early Friday Morning
13 October
Chicago's Gold Coast, Illinois

Jennifer began to kiss Nathan more passionately when she realized he was kissing her back. He stopped tentatively when he tasted her tears.

"Jenny,
maybe this isn't what you need right now–"

She ignored Nathan's suggestion; she began to sob lightly again as she kissed him. Between sobs and kisses she told him that affection was what she needed.

"I need a friend. Friends can express their closeness, can't they? If only for one night?" Her whispers were so needy, so desperate.

She was so beautiful too, and warm, and Nathan had been very lonely
and his life had lacked all beauty since returning to Chicago.

Except for Tommy Gervin. You helped him, too. Jenny needs your help right now,
he rationalized.

He began to do things. Things his experience taught him women wanted. Things women like Jennifer Gower wanted.

Maybe she doesn't know any better? Who am I to judge this hurt little girl?

Nathan had experience with Jenny. He knew what she
liked. Unlike Father Chet, Nathan had not had years of struggle practicing the difficult virtue of chastity. Nathan's enemies knew his path of least resistance.

Like Lee Washington in the Motorman Motel, he was being seduced by more than the lovely creature named Jennifer Gower. Other creatures, far less appealing than Jennifer, were active in his room. He wasn't aware that he was in the midst
of a battle for his soul.

She needs me. Maybe I could forget my own troubles for a while.
He pushed the image of Joanie Wheat out of his mind for the fourth or fifth time.
Not you, Joanie! Jenny. Jenny needs me.
He couldn't admit it, but he was enjoying himself, both physically and in his mission as Jenny's pocket-sized savior.

PART TWO

The Warning

The crucible for silver and the furnace for gold, but the Lord tests the heart.
Proverbs 17: 3

And there appeared a great wonder in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, and the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars.
Revelations 12: 1

Hello it's me, I'm not at home–if you'd like to reach me, leave me alone.
Sheryl Crow

The Warning, like the chastisement,
is a fearful thing; it is a fearful thing for the good as well as the wicked. It will draw the good closer to God and warn the wicked that the end of times is coming.
Conchita Gonzalez of Garabandal, Spain

Chapter Twelve

1

Tuesday Morning
10 October
Verona, New Jersey

"Monsignor Whelan wants to see you!" Sister Margaret called to Chet as he walked into the rectory. Father Chet's slumping posture revealed how tired he was from his drive straight through from South Bend. Sister was the parish Religious Studies Coordinator.

"Monsignor Whelan didn't expect you until Friday–but the Monsignor was adamant.
He'll be back from his symposium on Thursday. He'll expect to see you first thing Friday morning."

Oh no, what is it this time?
the young priest thought, distressed. Whelan always wanted to see Chet. Usually to forbid Chet to do something most people would consider the normal part of a good priest's life.

"You look terrible, Father," Sister Margaret said with a touch of smugness. She didn't like
Father Chet. She had often locked horns with him over the content of the religion classes he taught at Notre Dame du Lac Grammar School. He reluctantly accepted the liberal books she assigned to the courses but never actually used them while teaching. And the children loved him–especially his fascinating Saint Stories.

Sister Margaret considered Father Chet a relic; an oppressor of women. He was
polluting the minds of the children with superstitious garbage. In her opinion,
she
would have made a much better priest than the old-fashioned Chet Sullivan. It was Chet's type in the Vatican who were stopping her from being ordained–unless Cardinal Casino became the new pope, as it was rumored.

"I just drove through the night to get here," Chet explained wearily, sorting through the many phone
messages in his box.

Sister Margaret rewarded Chet with a sarcastic smile as she shook her head slowly back and forth.
He's clueless. All that time in the confessional is driving him nutty.

"Okay, schedule me for nine o'clock after I say Mass on Friday. You can tell the Monsignor that for me, can't you?"

"I suppose so," she replied noncommittally as she looked at her desk calendar.

Chet looked
down the wood-paneled hallway to the closed door of Whelan's empty office. He turned in the opposite direction and climbed the stairs to his room.

Sister Margaret's mental reference to Chet spending so much time in the confessional was apt. It was a constant source of tension between Chet and Monsignor Whelan. He spent two hours every day except Sunday in the confessional waiting for penitents.
If no one showed up, he read spiritual books and prayed. For the first several months in Verona, very few people came to confession. Whelan had refused to let him print his confession times in the parish bulletin–so Chet, during his Sunday homilies, countered by telling his parishioners that he would be in the confessional every day. He still had many devotees from his first parish, Saint Agnes
Church in the Ironbound Section of Newark. Many Saint Agnes folks wanted to continue to have him as a confessor. Word of mouth spread about Chet's availability. On most days, faithful Catholics from all over the diocese came to have their sins absolved.

Chet had a gentle way and a gift for explaining things. He had been inspired to start the practice of hearing daily confessions after reading
about Saint John Vianney, who spent up to eight hours a day hearing confessions. Vianney was the patron saint of parish priests. Chet also fasted frequently, following Vianney's example.

Whelan had gambled that the young priest would tire of sitting in an empty confessional for two hours a day during dinner hour. The pastor was enraged at Sullivan's popularity. Even a few of the more liberal parishioners
had given Chet "a shot" after hearing how kind and effective he was in the confessional. A few women had raved to Whelan that Chet had saved their marriages! Whelan regarded those reports as highly suspect. He knew one of the couples personally and had quietly recommended that they seek a civil divorce–even if it was against the outdated teachings of "the bishop of Rome."

Chet had also embarrassed
Whelan by preaching about the evils of abortion and contraception. The worst part about Chet's preaching was that he didn't rant and rave: Father Sullivan
explained
–gently, clearly, and compassionately. He was fooling many of the more ignorant parishioners, Whelan believed. Some of the well-heeled, upset with Chet's implicit condemnation of their behavior, warned Whelan that financial contributions
to Notre Dame du Lac would diminish.

That was not all. Chet had embarrassed the entire diocese by being arrested not once, but three times, while picketing abortion clinics. Chet never blocked the entrances, but tough new federal laws made the right to
assemble for prayer
outside of abortion clinics illegal. Chet's activities made all the papers. Even hostile liberal reporters had taken a liking
to the humorous young priest. Chet was a pithy, if not eloquent, spokesman for the sanctity of human life. Reporters often called him for witty quotes to balance their mostly liberal articles on abortion issues. Chet made good copy. He was also known to tip a beer with a few of the reporters. A highly placed editor of the Newark
Star Ledger
was so disturbed by Father Chet's relationships with
the
Ledger's
reporters that the editor had been forced to rotate assignments to stop the "contamination." The same editor once called Whelan to complain about the young priest.

Perhaps the thing that bothered Monsignor Whelan most was his utter failure to break the boy. Auxiliary Bishop Brookings himself had given Whelan the assignment. Everyone inside the diocesan bureaucracy knew that Whelan
was in line for higher office. Bishop Brookings had been clear that "breaking" Sullivan was a test that would be watched by those in a position to help foster Whelan's career.

Chet had made the most of his first assignment. Saint Agnes was dilapidated and poor, but had a faithful old pastor, Father Montini, who had been thrilled to have Father Chet. Notre Dame du Lac was on the opposite end of
the spectrum–liberal and affluent–considered a plush assignment by most priests in the diocese.

At first Chet was inwardly upset when Whelan advised him to tone down the sermons on contraception and the like. Whelan became more strident when Chet's sermons remained the same. During Chet's third call into the office, the Monsignor had forbidden Chet to mention Pope Patrick or any papal teachings
on marriage or sexuality. Chet stood silently before him like a prisoner brought before the warden. Whelan didn't look like a warden, however. He was tall and thin, and as always, dressed perfectly. Whelan always had a plastic smile on his face–like a politician.

"And absolutely not one more word about the Blessed Virgin!" Whelan had shouted at Chet. "Your mind is in the Dark Ages on that subject,
Sullivan!"

Fire had flashed in Chet's eyes; then the younger priest had laughed. Laughed!

"What are you going to do?" Chet rejoined cheerfully. "Run up to the pulpit and wash my mouth out with soap? You can't forbid me to teach the Truth and you know it. You can ruin my career and maybe I don't get to be a bishop someday, but so what? I signed up to preach the gospel and to administer the sacraments."

Whelan seethed. Father Chet lowered his voice, leaned his hands on Whelan's large desk, and said with more than a little compassion, "Monsignor, I know you don't understand why I like to hear confessions and preach about the teachings of the pope. I wish you did understand, I really do.

"But you've got to try to understand my point of view, Monsignor. You see, your way of doing things–all the so-called
modern stuff you've been teaching since the sixties–is doomed for the ash heap of history. My kind of priesthood was around before the so-called Dark Ages, after the Dark Ages, and it'll be around long after we're both gone.

"And there are more priests like me coming down the pike. Most of my liberal classmates dropped out of the program in Seton Hall, and despite the persecution of normal Catholics
that goes on there, usually it's only the true believers who can stick it out. While you fret about the lack of vocations, real congregations like the Legionaries of Christ are busting at the seams. I know, I have friends there–"

"Hold it right there–" Whelan interrupted.

But Chet was just warming up. "Your kind of religion–if you can call it a religion–had its chance and failed. You and your
cronies might have control of the diocesan bureaucracies, the newspapers, the committees, and the colleges, but you're a dying breed. You emptied the churches! Nobody understands, much less buys, your liberal mumbo jumbo. I know I don't. It's boring, banal, and dull, filled with lies.

"Worst of all, it's keeping people away from an exciting, challenging, and vibrant faith–the Catholicism of the
Apostle's Creed. The Catholicism of Pope Peter to Pope Patrick is a lion. We only need to let that lion out of its cage. People love it when it's presented clearly and in a way that respects their free will.

"You guys blew it. Real faith is coming back! Why do you think there's such a big crowd for confessions? Why are more and more people showing up for the Rosary before I say morning Mass? People
want Jesus! They love the sacraments when they realize that sacraments truly are the best way to find Jesus!"

Chet paused, breathing hard. He had built up a head of steam. Whelan was stunned.

"I got used to taking heat like you've given me from liberal professors at Notre Dame. Liberal Catholicism was a dead letter when it arrived. You guys just don't realize it yet. It's sad."

Whelan stood up
and pointed a thin finger at Chet.

"Don't you lecture me, Sullivan. I'm the one with degrees from Georgetown and Harvard!"

Chet closed his eyes, shook his head, and thought,
This is hopeless.
All his rage dissipated.

"Mark my words Sullivan, you haven't heard the last of this. Get out of my office."

That had been four months ago. Whelan began locking the doors of the church to prevent Chet from
hearing confessions. The penitents came to the rectory door instead, waking Whelan up at all hours. Chet had told them to go to the rectory if the doors were locked. As many as ten people would line up in the waiting room outside of Chet's small office during his off-duty hours. After two months of watching the line from the dining room while he ate dinner, Whelan reopened the church.

Chet had
not said a word to his pastor about that. Not even a snide remark. It bothered Whelan all the more that Chet took no pride in winning this battle.

Whelan often poured out his troubles to his mistress, who consoled him greatly. She had been taking care of Father Timothy's emotional and physical needs for more than fifteen years.

"The bishop will take care of that little snot, Timmy," she told him,
soothing his ego. "You did your best to bring that arrogant piece of Irish trash to heel–no one will blame you."

2

Early Friday Morning
13 October
Chicago's Gold Coast, Illinois

The passion play didn't turn out exactly as Jennifer Gower had expected. But it was close enough. Her plan was to bring Nathan to the point of no return, then stop abruptly and laugh at him, thereby humiliating him as
he had humiliated her last Christmas. It was something a strong feminist character like Jane would do. She would exercise her superior feminine power over him–as men had unjustly used brute force to subjugate women.

Before things really heated up, however, Jennifer stopped kissing Nathan to unbutton his shirt, and found his new Miraculous Medal. She looked at it. She was so surprised to find him
wearing a religious medal that she dropped her portrayal of Jane long enough to ask a simple question.

"What's this, Nathan?"

He opened his eyes and looked down at the Miraculous Medal given to him by Joe Jackson on Monday afternoon. Father Chet's words in the Log Cabin instantly echoed in his head:
You will never be the same.

"It's–it's a Miraculous Medal," he hesitated. "I gave my heart to the
Mother of God. A few days ago." He was surprised to hear the words come out of his mouth.

Jennifer was confused. "What? How can you give your heart to the Mother of God? You mean you got religion? You? Nathan Payne? From predator to preacher?" She looked at him as if he had come from outer space.

The passion of the moment was now completely broken. Nathan was very confused. Jennifer didn't seem
so needy and distraught anymore.

"What do you mean by predator?" he asked naïvely, removing his arm from around her slender shoulder.

Jennifer laughed hard.

"Well," she finally said, "I was going to wait a few more minutes before breaking it to you, pal, but now's as good a time as any."

The expression on his face was pitiful, confused.

Talk about being lost in space,
Jennifer thought.

"Nathan,
darling,"
her tone was sarcastic and treacly at the same time. "It's all been an act!"

"An act?" His eyes widened.

"An act! You don't get it, do you? I've been acting, practicing for a part I'm auditioning for in a theatrical play. I never lost my job, or had my therapist try to seduce me, or had mysterious, ominous problems in Oshkosh! As a matter of fact, my real therapist thought this role playing
with you would be good for me."

She was feeling gleeful, powerful. She watched playfully while the light of understanding slowly came into his eyes.

Then the light stopped. He looked away. Then he pierced her with
that look
only Nathan had.

"Get out," he whispered flatly.

She was suddenly afraid for her life, even though Nathan was not planning to hurt her. She had delivered an emotional blow
to him far greater than any he could physically rain upon her lovely frame. She had practically destroyed him on the inside. She had done what few men had ever done: won a battle of wills against Nathan Payne.

She had nothing to pick up before leaving. She closed the door behind her without making a sound.

Nathan stared at the wall, oblivious. He was absorbed within himself. In his mind's eye
he saw Joanie and despaired that she could
never
be his friend, much less his wife. Jenny Gower had proven to him that he was not worthy of anyone as wonderful and loving as Joanie Wheat.