Pierced by a Sword (7 page)

Say something, she's waiting!

"Well?" she asked impatiently.

"Uh, Joanie," he repeated desperately, "what's with the chef?" He gestured
directly at the statue of Father Sorin above them. Sorin wore a boxed cap common to priests of the early 1800s. It was not unlike a chef's hat. Father Sorin had a long beard, too, which oddly added to the effect.

"What?" she asked as she looked up at the statue of Father Sorin. "Oh, that."

For a moment she forgot how angry she was.

"That's Father Sorin. He's the French priest who founded this
place. Sorin came with some Indians when this was all wilderness and looked out and said, 'Someday, a great university will be here,' or something like that. That's his hat. There's a Latin word for it, but I don't know it. Hey!"

Her anger came back like a boomerang. He had humiliated her last night. Joanie Wheat was not
that
kind of girl.

"Listen, Mister. I already told you I don't want anything
to do with you." Now her voice was cold.

"Joanie," he pleaded, still lost for words.
God! You idiot!
he chastened himself.

She remained silent, almost enjoying watching him squirm.
How can you look directly into my eyes like that?
she thought.
Aren't you ashamed?

"What if I said there's been a mistake?" he suggested desperately. Nathan hesitated. Then he heard himself saying, "I'm so ashamed of
myself." He noticed her expression soften just a bit.
Such beautiful eyes,
he thought distractedly. He continued to feel for the right words.

"I am..." he stuttered, then more firmly, "...so terribly sorry. You don't even know me and I've hurt you. I'm sorry."

The anger was draining from her eyes now. Then she squinted, appraising him.

Oh really?
she thought.
Sure you're sorry. Sound pretty sincere,
too. You must practice that line. Off you go, Mister!

She prepared to drop the hammer on him, but she was stunned to hear her own voice mutter, almost compassionately, "I forgive you."

I can't believe I just said that,
she told herself. Then she knew.
You said it because you meant it. You forgive him.

They looked at each other, silently, for a long moment.

Nathan smiled. Now it was her turn to
feel her stomach flutter.

Oh no,
she thought.

Behind her, Nathan saw a man walk up. He was pretty rugged-looking. Then Nathan heard the older man clear his throat.

Joanie turned to see her father standing there.

"My daughter, I presume?" Professor Wheat winked at Joanie. Tom Wheat gave Nathan an appraising look before continuing, "And who is this fine young gentleman? A student?"

Professor Wheat
was surprised to see his blue-eyed daughter's porcelain cheeks flush red.
Red, white, and blue,
Joanie's father thought absently.

Joanie tried to regain her composure.

"Oh, no Daddy! I mean, hi Daddy!"

She's flustered,
Wheat thought as Joanie gave him a hug.

After the embrace, she continued nervously, looking back to Nathan as she spoke, "This is a friend of Chet's. I met him in Chicago last night.
His name is Nathan..."

Joanie wracked her memory for Nathan's last name.
I get drunk, I spend the night with this guy.
Then
I forgive him.
And now
I'm pretty sure I just fell in love with him–and I can't even remember his name!

"Nathan Payne, sir," Nathan said as he offered his hand to Tom Wheat. "Do you really know Chet Sullivan?"

Wheat noticed Nathan's unusually strong grip and liked it.

"Not
very well, I regret to say. He was a student here a while back. He was an acquaintance of my son Greg. How do you know him? And isn't it
Father
Chet now?"

"It sure is, sir. I mean, it sure is Father Chet, and we grew up in New Jersey."
Why do I keep calling him sir?
"I guess you could say we're best friends."

This news seemed to please Joanie's dad.

Probably thinks I'm okay if I'm friends with
a priest. If only he knew the hell Chet and I used to raise back before Chet got religion. If he only knew what I did with his daughter last night!

Nathan felt the blush coming to his cheeks. He looked at Wheat and suddenly realized that perhaps this old guy was well aware of Chet's not-so-priestly habits during Chet's undergraduate days. It was hard for Nathan to decipher Tom Wheat's gaze. He
suddenly felt ashamed.

Wheat looked at his watch, then at Joanie. "Look, sweetheart, I'm headed over to Mass at the Crypt." The Crypt was a chapel in the basement of Sacred Heart Basilica, the main church on the campus. "Would you like to join me, Nathan? You're both welcome to have lunch with me afterward. That is, of course, if you're free."

Nathaniel Payne, who hadn't set foot in a Catholic
church since seventh grade, looked at Joanie Wheat and quickly decided she still had some of
him
in her possession. He could even endure a Catholic Mass to be next to her for a little while longer. Deciding quickly, Nathan flashed his most winning smile at Professor Wheat.

"I'd love to go! That is, if you don't mind, sir. I'm free all day."

Wheat looked at his daughter, silently asking,
"Do you
mind?"

Men,
Joanie thought,
they always dominate conversation.

Then she looked at Nathan.
I'll give you one Mass and one lunch, Mister.

"Then let's go," she said somewhat unenthusiastically.

Nathan and the Wheats left the watchful eye of Father Sorin and walked across the South Quad toward Sacred Heart Basilica.

3

Sunday Morning
8 October
Chicago, Illinois

A thin, bushy-haired Irishman wearing
a Roman collar and a black cotton London Fog windbreaker walked into the coffee-house next to Leona's Pizza on Sheridan.

Father Chet found an empty table next to the window. It was another cloudy, windy day in Chicago, but not as cold as it looked. Nevertheless, it was good to get out of the wind. He remembered how beautiful Becky was and how she brushed off his attempts at small talk. Chet was
a good priest–and he was a chaste man after long, hard years of practicing the virtue of chastity upon entering the seminary at Seton Hall University. But he was still human. Chet said a quick prayer asking Mary to help him remain chaste in mind and action during his meeting with Rebecca Macadam.

Praying about her reminded him of Nathan, who had been more than a little drunk while hanging all
over Professor Wheat's daughter, Joanie. Chet hadn't seen Joanie Wheat in years, and hadn't known her well during his undergraduate days at Notre Dame. He had been surprised to see her at Nathan's party. She had not struck him as the wild kind of girl when he was at Notre Dame. He had partied pretty hard with her older brother, Greg Wheat, who was now a happily married lawyer in North Caldwell, New
Jersey, not far from Chet's current parish.

Out of long habit, Father Chet added a short prayer for Nathan, too. Chet didn't know it, but at this very moment, Nathan was sitting in his Mustang at Notre Dame, deciding whether or not to go after Joanie Wheat.

During his college years, and before he rediscovered his faith, Chet had not been an angel with the ladies by any stretch of the imagination,
although he had never been as wild as Nathan. Chet was somewhat uncomfortable meeting alone with a woman as pretty as Becky.

Pretty is not the right word for her. Her beauty transcends mere prettiness.
In fact, at the party her beauty had reminded him of her Maker.
If she's made in the image and likeness of God, then I can hardly wait to meet God.

The priest reminded himself how forlorn she had
seemed at the party last night and on the phone this morning.

He was only thirty-one but he had been a priest for over four years and had come to trust his instincts about people. He could intuit when a person needed a word of encouragement or a shoulder to cry on. At the party Chet knew in his bones that Becky was hurting. Chet believed in the gifts of the Holy Spirit, one of which was called
the gift of counsel–the ability to give the right advice to those in need. He was prepared to exercise that gift now.

He spotted Becky walking down the sidewalk toward the door. Her unique beauty and stark sadness reminded him of a song, and then, the Pieta. He said another quick prayer, this time to Saint Anthony of Padua.

Help me find the patience to listen. Help me find the right words to say.

Father Chet stood up as she approached his table. She had a strong, athletic gait. He pulled a chair out for her.

Becky smiled wanly. "My, my, aren't you a gentleman!"

He laughed good-naturedly. "Sorry. It's the way my parents raised me and my three older brothers. My mom was afraid that four Irish boys growing up together would turn out to be oafs, so she emphasized common courtesy."

"Don't get
me wrong. I like it," Becky protested.

There was a long pause. A waiter came and took their orders. Both preferred regular coffee, black.

"So how do you know Nathan Payne?" Father Chet asked.

"A girl who works at my advertising agency who used to work at Nathan's brokerage firm introduced us. I don't know him very well, really. I gather he's quite a lady killer. Tell me, Father," she emphasized
the last word, arching an eyebrow, "how do
you
come to know the infamous Nathan Payne?"

This brought a smile to Father Chet's face.

"We go back to first grade, first day of school. He moved to Chicago in seventh grade. We were best friends in New Jersey. Nathan was like an extra brother in my family." Chet thought of Nathan's dad, Harrison "Harry" Payne, and the elder Payne's criminal conviction
and subsequent death.

"We raised hell together in college. I went to Notre Dame and he went to Illinois. I spend a vacation week with him every year. I don't seem to have much effect on his, shall we say, bad habits."

I'm talking too much. Ask a question, Sigmund.

But no question came to him.

They both sipped coffee during a long silence. Becky was obviously uncomfortable now that their only common
thread, Nathan Payne, was out of the way. Chet believed in quick prayers and prayed one. Two words.
Saint Anthony!

"Look," he said, "sometimes it helps to just start."

Rebecca Macadam's pleasant smile died. Tears welled up in her eyes. She dropped her gaze, hugged herself with her arms, and let out a small, low sob. Her shoulders shook. Chet was now being guided by the Holy Spirit but he was too
concerned for Becky to notice. He quickly made up his mind.

"This isn't the place," he whispered. "Let's get out of here. Get some fresh air."

He threw a five dollar bill on the table and helped her out of her seat, gently but firmly holding her shoulders as he led her out the door.

They walked toward the beach on the lake, a block away, and then right up to the water's edge. He stood back from
her and turned toward the majestic Chicago skyline to the south, trying not to hear her gulping sobs over the brisk wind. True to his nature, he kept praying.

+  +  +

Though it seemed much longer to both of them, it was only a few minutes before Becky stopped crying. She turned to him with the look of a child. Chet knew she was ready to unload her cross.

On whom is it better to unload a cross
than a priest, another Christ?
he thought.
The cry was good for her.

Again, following his instincts, he took a gamble.

"You're pregnant," he said evenly. There was no condemnation in his voice. It was a statement of fact.

Their eyes met. She nodded.

I'm all ears. I'm all ears,
Chet repeated to himself.

Father Chet Sullivan, who had come to Chicago to relax on vacation with an old friend, was poised
to fulfill his priestly vocation as best he could.

"He...Sam...my former boyfriend...wanted to kill it," she began.

And then it all came out. They walked on the beach as she poured out her troubles. She surprised herself with her candor. Somehow it was easier to be frank with this stranger, this
priest,
than with herself.

Father Chet said little. A nod here and there. Gently asking an incisive
question at just the right moment. He avoided physical contact, knowing that it was not what she needed. He was good at his job, although he did not consider his work a job. It was his calling, his vocation, his life.

When she was done, Chet gently invited Becky to follow him, "Come with me. I want to show you something."

+  +  +

They got off the elevated train (called the "El" locally) and ascended
the steps to State Street. The wind had died down and it was a short walk south to Madison, then west to Saint Peter's Church. Saint Peter's is run by Franciscans and has confessions and Masses on the hour. It stands between skyscrapers. The three-story Romanesque structure has an enormous crucifix above its bronze front doors.

Becky had not said much on the train or during the walk to the church.
When she looked up at the large crucifix above the doors, she thought of her dad. A small smile–the first since she left for coffee with Father Chet–came to her face. Father Chet noticed.

She looks like Grace Kelly with brown eyes. Grace! What a wonderful word!

They entered the church. It was relatively empty. Saint Peter's is most crowded during weekdays, when well-dressed lawyers and unkempt
homeless men share its pews. Father Chet led Becky to the tabernacle. He knelt and she knelt next to him. He pulled a well-worn rosary out of his pocket.

"Do you know how to pray this?" he asked.

"I know the Hail Mary and the Our Father," she offered meekly. "It's been so long I've forgotten the rest. I was a child the last time I prayed a Rosary."

"That's okay. Just follow along with me. There's
no one grading us."

So as not to disturb the other worshippers, they began to whisper the Rosary.