Pierced by a Sword (8 page)

Becky (who would have confidently bet several million dollars before Father Chet's morning phone call that praying a Rosary would not be one of her activities on this day) found herself thinking of her dad and of her first Holy Communion. On that day, Becky's father had done the same thing as Chet
was doing now. Walt Macadam had taken her to church in River Forest early in the morning before breakfast, and had knelt with her before the tabernacle. Becky even remembered the same smell of burning beeswax.

Before that Rosary so many years earlier, her father had said, "If you pray this one Rosary well, Rebecca, Mary will always take care of you and make sure you have what you need when you
need it."

"Daddy? Won't you take care of me? Why does Mary have to take care of me?"

Her father laughed his gentle laugh and cradled the side of her face with a rough, warm hand.

"Sweetheart, of course I'll take care of you. Mary just helps me take care of you a little bit better than I could by myself, that's all."

And then Walt Macadam said something that seemed strange, "But if I'm ever not
around, Rebecca, I'll be with Mary. And I'll make
certain
she takes care of you in my stead."

The seven-year-old adored her father. She was horrified by the mere thought of her dad not being around, and it showed on her face. "Are you going away now?" little Becky's lower lip trembled as she spoke.

"No. Oh no! I'm right here, Becky. Wild horses couldn't drag me away!"

He pulled her off her feet
and hugged her tightly. In Saint Peter's Church, almost twenty years later, Becky remembered the smell of 'Lectric Shave on his cheeks.

Her father had leaned back slightly. Her nose was an inch away from his. He added with mock gravity, "Wild
mice
couldn't drag me away!"

Rebecca giggled at the thought of tiny mice trying to drag her big strong daddy toward a little mouse hole. Then her father
had pulled his well-worn rosary beads out of his pocket...

+  +  +

After the Rosary, Father Chet asked Rebecca if she wished to go to confession. He mentioned that other priests were available for confession along the sides of the church.

"What the hell," she said with a smile, "I've gone this far. I might as well go all the way. But only with you. Do they still cut off your fingers if you tell
anyone my sins?"

She raised her chin and looked down at his hands as if searching for a missing finger or two.

Father Chet stifled a laugh. "Believe me, Beck, I doubt you'll confess anything I'll remember ten minutes from now. Most confessions are pretty much the same. You're not talking to me, you know. You're whispering into the ear of Christ. He's also got a bad memory when it comes to sins,
or I wouldn't be wearing this collar."

She could tell he meant it.

"Afterwards, I'll buy you lunch," he added, unconsciously sweetening the pot. "I'm starved. Then I'll tell you about my own less-than-saintly past if you want. Just don't tell the cops. I'm a wanted man on Rush Street, even today."

She laughed to herself as she pictured Father Chet in his Roman collar in one of the wild nightclubs
on Rush Street.

"Shush," he said with a glint in his eye and a mischievous smile. "No laughing in church."

"But you made me!" she whispered back in feigned anger, holding in her laughter this time.

"No excuse," he added with mock solemnity.

His smile is infectious. I can tell why Nathan likes him so much. I can just see those two together. He's so natural. Father Chet is one of the good guys.

Then his demeanor changed. Chet became the Reverend Sullivan. He was serious, yet relaxed at the same time. He gestured for her to wait, then made his way toward the sacristy to borrow a stole and to get a key to a confessional.

Becky waited. The feeling of peace, which had been with her since the beach, grew stronger.

I feel like I've lost twenty pounds in twenty minutes.

She suddenly thought
of her baby.

I'll worry about you when you get here, little Cub. Mommy's going to "whisper into the ear of Christ," so let me concentrate on the matter at hand.

4

Sunday Afternoon
8 October
Mishawaka, Indiana

Wheat walked into his den and immediately recognized the name written in his wife's handwriting on the message pad. It was from Karl Slinger of SLG Industries.

Karl Slinger. I just saw him
on the cover of Forbes.

Wheat owned stock in SLG. He had read the article with great interest. Wheat dialed the number.

"SLG, may I help you?" The person who answered the phone was obviously a secretary. It surprised Wheat to have a business line answered on Sunday.

These CEO types work brutal hours, apparently even on Sundays,
Wheat thought.

"Professor Tom Wheat, returning Karl Slinger's call."

"Professor Wheat?" He could hear the skepticism in the secretary's voice. "Please hold."

Wheat held.

"Wheat? Karl Slinger here." Slinger was famous for skipping social amenities.

"Yes, sir. I gather you're not calling this SLG stockholder for business advice?"

"Call me Karl, or Slinger, Tom. May I call you Tom?"

"Sure. What can I do for you..." Tom hesitated, "...Karl."

"I just finished listening
to your talk on Mary for the fourth time. We need to talk."

"Well, I've got time right now. What do you want to know?" Wheat replied.
It's amazing how far and wide these CDs get disseminated. Wonder how Slinger got one?

"You don't understand. I want to meet you in person. I can be on a plane to South Bend in fifteen minutes. Can I take you to dinner?"

This isn't happening.
Wheat made a decision,
then spoke, "Not necessary, Karl. I'll let my wife know we're having a guest for dinner. It's about a three hour flight from Salt Lake, isn't it?"

"Less than three hours in my private jet," Slinger replied.

"What kind of bourbon do you drink?"

"How do you know I drink bourbon?"

"I read Forbes. And don't all Marines drink bourbon?"

Slinger laughed heartily.

"So we're both Marines, are we?" Slinger
responded. "Semper Fi, Tom."

"Semper Fi," Tom shot back, using the Marine Corps motto, which means Always Faithful.

"I drink Maker's Mark when I can get it," Slinger went on. "Look, we can get acquainted when I arrive at the airport. Can you pick me up?"

Wheat smiled to himself, adding up hours and subtracting for time zones in his head. "Sure. See you at seven, I suppose. You can stay overnight
with us, too, if you want. It just so happens I have a case of Maker's Mark in the basement."

"See you at seven, then. Good-bye." Slinger hung up abruptly.

Wheat thought of Joanie. He was still unsettled by the way his daughter had looked at Nathan Payne at lunch when Payne wasn't looking at her.

Something's going on here.

Wheat had mixed emotions about Nathan Payne. At Mass, Wheat was disturbed
to notice that neither Payne nor Joanie left the pew to receive Communion. Payne seemed pleasant enough during lunch at the Oak Room, but Joanie had been curiously silent. Wheat had been surprised when Joanie invited Nathan to dinner.

I better tell Anne to put out two extra plates. I wonder what Joanie and Nathan are doing right now?

Tom Wheat had seven children. One girl and six boys. The oldest
five were married, scattered around the country with families of their own. Joanie was his second youngest, the apple of his eye, and the one who took most after himself.
Joanie looks like Anne and thinks like me.
She still lived at home along with her brother Denny, who was also single. Tom, who tried his best to let his children make their own way in life, was nevertheless very protective of
his strong-willed daughter.

I guess I'll find out more about Payne tonight when Slinger comes to visit. Should be a lively dinner conversation.

Chapter Four

1

Sunday Afternoon
8 October
Chicago, Illinois

After hearing Becky's confession, Father Chet concelebrated the next scheduled Mass at Saint Peter's Church. Then he and Becky took the El back to her neighborhood and went to Leona's Pizza for a late lunch of Chicago-style deep dish pizza. Chet, who was used to thin crust New Jersey pizza, thought Chicago deep dish was nothing more than
a giant lump of hot cheese and crackers. Becky was amused when he ordered
pizza pie,
and figured it was a New Jersey colloquialism.

During the meal, he related stories of growing up in New Jersey with three older brothers in a close knit Irish family. Using properly circumspect language, he told her of his reckless days with Nathan. It was clear that Chet had not been nearly as wild as his friend.
Becky listened quietly and showed little sign of shock.

After his second slice he leaned back and lit a cigarette. He was working on his third beer.

Saving souls always works up my thirst.
Chet held his liquor well, befitting an Irishman, and was just starting to feel the effects of his beer.

"I didn't figure you for a smoker–are priests allowed to smoke?" she asked quite seriously.

"Look, we're
human like everyone else. Pinch me and I feel pain. Cut me and I bleed. Stress me out and I grab a smoke. It's one of the few vices I allow myself. Another legacy of hanging out with Nathan Payne, Hedonist Extraordinaire." He laughed. Then he added in a deep voice, "Chet Sullivan, Patron Saint of Marlboro Lights."

They both laughed.

Then Becky asked the question she had wanted to ask since the
party on the night before, which seemed like a year ago.

"How did a guy like you ever end up becoming a priest, for godsakes?"

"For
Christ's
sake." He arched his eyebrows. "I owe it to a guy named Joe Jackson and to my brother, Jimbo–that's what everyone calls him. He's the oldest."

"Okay. I'll bite. Tell me more, O Great Storyteller!"

Ignoring her friendly barb, he continued, "My mother and father
were great parents, and very devout. They gave everything they had for me and my brothers, and sacrificed to send us to Catholic schools. Dad was a teacher and my mom worked extra jobs in convenience stores to help put us through college. They were so proud when I got into Notre Dame.

"But I don't think my folks realized how very little of the Catholic faith was taught in the Catholic schools
we went to. I mean, did you really learn anything substantial about the faith in your grammar school, Beck?"

"Not that I can think of," she replied. "I remember drawing pictures of Jesus in religion class but not much else. I left for public school in fifth grade. CCD classes were pretty boring and I stopped going. My mother didn't care, and by then Daddy had died. He would have made sure I went.
Did I tell you he loved to pray the Rosary? I just drifted away and stopped going to Sunday Mass when I went to the University of Chicago."

"Same with me," Chet concurred. "My faith was never, how do you say it, a
priority
for me, even when I was a kid. I didn't take it seriously and just went to Mass because my folks said I had to. I was at Notre Dame for three months before I realized that I
wasn't even saying grace before meals anymore. I didn't miss it, and none of the other students seemed to miss it either."

Becky nodded. "I know what you mean."

"And the theology courses I had to take at ND were pretty dull. They mocked Catholicism, and, as I learned later, distorted the true teachings of the faith. Maybe I never had the faith.

"Anyway, to make a long story short, I was more interested
in getting drunk with my friends. When I finally got a Smick Chick to sleep with me, well, that was it, I was hooked. I felt a little guilty at first, but the guilt gradually went away with repeated usage, as they say. Besides, even the priests at Notre Dame were all saying that guilt was bad. Just what I needed to hear. I never slept around indiscriminately, but I thought it was okay if
I was, quote unquote, 'in love' with the girl. I was a fool." Chet held two fingers up in each hand as he said the words "in love."

"Smick Chick?" Becky looked puzzled.

"Oh, I'm sorry. We called the girls at Saint Mary's College, which is right across the road from Notre Dame, after an acronym based on the initials S-M-C. S-M-C, 'Smick.' Get it?"

Becky nodded.

"Well anyway, Nathan seemed to attract
women like flies to honey when we'd 'go hunting' on Rush Street on weekends. I'm not proud of those days. I probably messed up a lot of Becky Macadams in my time. Sex was like a drug. Worse than drugs. Drugs don't get you pregnant." Chet, who had told this story before, paused for effect.

"Then Jimbo showed up and punched me."

Becky was obviously confused.

Chet explained, "My brother James was
always very devout, even as a little kid. He was the oldest, and the toughest out of all of us. We called him Jimbo, did I mention that? He used to stick up for me, Mike, Tommy, and even Nathan on the playground. Tough as nails. Joined the Marines after high school. Said Rosaries every day, too. Still does." He paused to take a sip of beer.

Chet went on, "Anyway, you're an only child–"

Suddenly,
Becky cut him off. "My mother had herself
spayed!"
she blurted.

For the first time all day, Chet was completely taken aback. It was her tone of voice–the bitterness as well as the crudeness.
Wow, her emotions turn on a dime. She's holding back tears.

And Becky held back her tears.
I'm not crying again today,
she thought as she gathered herself.

Then she began to explain the reason for her bitterness,
"After Mom divorced Daddy for Rich Guy Number One in California–she's on Rich Guy Number Three at the moment in Seattle–I asked her over the phone once why she never had any more kids. Big mistake!

"She told me that she knew Dad would never amount to anything the day she had me, so she asked the doctor to 'spay' her in her stirrups right there on the operating table!"

Strong feeling had crept
back into her voice. Chet watched the play of emotions on her face as she fought for and won control of herself.

"Mom said it so matter-of-factly, like she was talking about having her hair done or something. She didn't even know the word 'sterilized' or the phrase 'having your tubes tied.' She never told my dad, who was heartbroken he couldn't have more kids. Mom let him think it was his fault
all those years.

"Maybe that's why I had such a strong reaction when Sam suggested an abortion. I thought I was pro-choice until the moment he suggested we 'take care of the problem.' Spayed! Can you believe it?"

"What a cold bitch!" Chet blurted. "Oops! Sorry about the foul language. Too much beer. I didn't mean to judge your mom–it just kind of slipped out."

He looked at her and realized that
she had put the words "spay" and "bitch" together and was holding in a laugh. The twinkle in his eyes did them both in and they laughed. And laughed, almost to the point of tears.

"Parents," he said finally.

Of the kids I see back home, how many are messed up by their parents?
He pondered the question to himself for a moment.
Most. It's sad. I was lucky I had Mom and Dad.
Blessed
is a better word
for it.

"Anyway," she said, "you were talking about your brother Jimbo."

Father Chet collected his thoughts. "Oh, yeah. Well, you've got to understand that in most families with lots of boys the older brothers always beat on the younger ones. My friends in school used to brag about it. There was this sick notion going around that beating up your little brother was toughening him up or something.

"Well, both my parents would have none of that with me and my brothers. They simply wouldn't allow us to strike each other or there were serious consequences to pay. It sounds contradictory, but hitting my brothers was one of the few offenses that could bring out Dad's belt. I was the youngest, and don't even remember getting hit one time.

"Dad always told us to hit somebody else's brother if we
had to hit somebody. After a while, we all took a kind of pride in it. Sullivans Never Hit Sullivans would be the title of the movie if they ever make one about my family."

Becky smiled, and took another sip of wine.

"Like I said, Jimbo wasn't the biggest Sullivan, but he was the toughest. He was ferocious when he played sports. Even the toughest bullies at school were afraid to mess with him.
He had a quick temper and two seconds after he lost it, he was as friendly as could be. I think the word I'm looking for here is 'powder keg.' Am I talking too much? We Irishmen are known for running off at the mouth."

Becky vigorously shook her head. "Please, go on!"

"To make a long story short, during my senior year, Jimbo showed up at Notre Dame to visit me one day when he was on leave from
the Marines. Man, he looked like he was carved from marble! I remember kidding him about his haircut. Jimbo and I went out drinking on Saturday night with this huge guy named Joe Jackson. Jimbo met Joe while saying a Rosary at the Grotto."

"The Grotto?"

"Right. It's a holy place at Notre Dame. It's an exact reproduction of the cave in Lourdes, France, where Mary appeared to Saint Bernadette. It's
like a shrine, I guess. A few students and Holy Cross brothers say a Rosary there every night after dinner, and I guess that's where Jimbo met Joe."

"Lourdes? Saint Bernadette?" Becky was obviously lost.

"Look, one long-winded story at a time. I'll tell you about Lourdes some other time. I'm almost done with Jimbo's Right Hook. I guess I'm giving away the punch line." He laughed at his bad pun.

Becky squinted her eyes at the priest. Chet continued.

"I'll take you there tomorrow. It's only a couple of hours away and I've got my car. Can you get the day off?"

"I'm off every Monday. I only work four days a week. The agency said it was either that for everyone or layoffs for a fifth of us."

"Great! Then we'll go. I have a feeling we'll run into our old pal Nathan. He didn't answer the phone
at his apartment or on his cell phone voicemail when I called before this lump of cheese was served."

Becky gave him a look. It was time to finish the story.
She's beautiful. Better take it easy on the beer, Father Stupid Idiot.

"Okay okay. So I guess
I got drunk
on a Saturday while Jimbo and Joe had a couple of beers. They stared at me like I was the biggest jerk in the world, which of course
I was. The next morning, when Jimbo tried to wake me up to go to Mass, I told him to, uh, 'go away,' but in less gentlemanly terms.

"He grabbed me by the collar, lifted me out of bed, and I swear on my sainted mother's grave–by the way, Mom is alive and well–he lifted me up in the air over his head–and I'm bigger than he is–with
one
hand, his left, and hit me with a tremendous right hook."

Becky
winced.

"Let me just say, this particular treatment by my dear brother James did
not
help my hangover. Knocked me out cold, as a matter of fact."

Becky interrupted, "Why do I get the feeling you've told this story before?"

"It's probably the rehearsed punch lines. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Priestly violence fascinates me," she quipped.

"He woke me up by lighting his Bic under my ear. He crouched
down and looked at me and said quite evenly, 'Idiot brother, I'm only gonna say this one time, so listen carefully. You're going to get your butt cleaned up and dressed up and you're going to Mass with Joe here. Joe is going to make sure you get your sorry butt to confession tomorrow after I leave. And you're never going to miss Mass again. I know you've been drinking and whoring for the last
three years like a friggin' moron and you don't realize it, but Mom knows too, and you're breaking her heart.'

"'I've got more important things to do than worry about whether or not you're going to hell. Yes, hell. No, repeat,
no
brother of mine will go to hell, and you can be sure as cotton each spring that you will not, repeat,
not
continue to break Mom's heart or I'll come back here and break
both your arms next time. This Catholic stuff is all true, and you know it. Grow up, little brother.' Then Jimbo got up and wiped his hands like he had just cleaned up a pile of dog crap.

"'Sorry I had to hit you, little brother, but you needed it. Joe, get this sorry excuse for a Sullivan ready for Mass. I've got to get out of this dump. I'm so disgusted I can't stand to even look at him.'

"With
that, Jimbo left. I looked up through bleary eyes at Joe Jackson, who is over six-foot-six. He simply looked at me and said in that soft voice of his, 'Let's go.'

"It was the first and last time any one of my brothers ever struck me. I didn't see my brother at Mass that morning. At Christmas break two months later, back in New Jersey, he treated me as pleasant as could be the whole time and never
said a word. By then, I was back to the sacraments, and good friends with Joe Jackson, who is as wild about Catholicism as Nathan is about partying. Sometimes I wonder if Jimbo made one of his little motivational visits on Tommy and Mike, because they're both pretty solid when it comes to the faith. I'm too embarrassed to ask them.

"After Mass the day Jimbo hit me, Joe asked if I had ever thought
about being a priest. I told him no, but that I would. Next thing you know, I'm in the seminarian program at Seton Hall. And now you know the rest of the story." Father Chet intoned the last sentence like Paul Harvey, the famous radio personality.

"And what's Jimbo up to these days?" Becky asked as she took another sip of her wine. Then she rested her elbows on the table and put her chin in her
hands.

"Still a Marine, an officer. Married. Lives in Virginia. He has three incredibly cute and incredibly aggressive boys. His wife Doris is a saint–and just as tough as Jimbo."

"Maybe you should have flown Jimbo in this morning to whack me. It would've saved us some time," she suggested in such a serious tone that Chet couldn't tell if she was kidding or not.
If she is kidding,
Chet thought
with admiration,
then she's real good at it.
He decided to play it straight–just to be safe.