Clerical Error Read online

  The maitre d’ seated them “At your usual table, Father?” and then handed them enormous, multi-page menus.

  James listened politely while his host declaimed on the virtues of Italian foods for five minutes and, after James ordered Spanish Fra Diavolo, did another five minutes detailing the assorted condiments which would be eating into James’s stomach lining.

  As they dug into the melon and prosciutto antipasto, James finally asked the questions which were uppermost in his mind. “How are we to work out the arrangements? Just what are my duties?”

  “Everything but saying Mass and hearing confessions,” Gus answered.

  James arched a brow. “Meaning?”

  Gus gave a deep, heavy sigh that could have doubled for an asthma attack. “A rectory is the branch office of a multiple-county service corporation, the diocese. At its noblest, administration, like ad ministrare, is ministering to the needs of our people within the clearly defined boundaries of the parish.”

  James nodded slowly, trying to follow along. “Meaning there are certain things we don’t do?”

  “Yes, that too. But what I meant was that a parish—or parochia—designates a specific land boundary. Jackson Street to Richards Avenue, and Pilsudski Street to Troy Place. It’s roughly five blocks in any direction…”

  Before Gus could begin another protracted monologue, James jumped in with his next question. “There is still no way that we can get back-up clergy?”

  Gus sighed. “I’m working on it. We’ve got a Mass each evening, which I am just unable to say.”

  “Oh?”

  “My mind is with the Second Vatican Council, but my nervous system is still in Trent,” Gus explained. “Any service after two in the afternoon, and both my voice and hands start to shake. I know that it is all psychosomatic, but even a Valium or a double Chivas only give me minimal control. So I’m working on getting supply priests for the evening Mass on weekdays. Pat Clancy over at the tribunal is coming tomorrow and is working on recruiting some of the fellows over there.”

  James was starting to feel like a comedian’s straight man—or, better, a ventriloquist’s dummy—but he still had to ask, “Tribunal?”

  The only benefit from this lopsidedness, he figured, was that if Gus and he kept talking at a one hundred to one word-ratio, then at least James could avoid interrupting his own eating by trying to talk.

  “The tribunal is the diocesan marriage court. Ours is one of the most active in the country; Brooklyn leads the world in annulments. I’ve been told that we can crank out valid annulments in under six weeks. They have such a model operation over there that Brooklyn has lectured on the system even in Rome. Anyway, Pat has a large collection of brother priests to draw on. I’m sure he’ll come through. That means that Tim is the only other problem.”

  James’ eyebrows arched up. “Tim? What’s a Tim?”

  ”Your room is on my floor. There is an off-chance that you might hear noises overhead. I thought I’d better mention that.”

  The conversation immediately shifted into Latin and James wondered what the hell was going on. James then needed his total concentration to continue the conversation.

  With much backtracking and exasperation, Ciceronian, Erasmian, and the ecclesiastical pronunciations of the lingua latina were sorted out. (Is it Sisero, Kikero, or Kickero, or will an Anglicized Cicero be acceptable?)

  He abstracted himself from his unseemly interest in dinner (he had forgotten breakfast and lunch) to notice that there were now two women seated at an adjacent table.

  James followed enough of the conversation to learn that there was, on the odd occasion, a priest in the bedroom over James’ and that he should not phone the police for that kind of noise in the night.

  “You know,” said James, reverting to English, “I used to think I was only good with dead languages but you’ve just convinced me that I must be an aural-oral defective. I can read the blasted Greek or Latin at a good speed but you make my speech sound like that a three year old’s.” he glanced around. “Volo cognoscere via te hic manducam locum findare?”

  Where in the world did you find this place?

  Gus chuckled and pulled out a large, cheap cigar. “I don’t think findo, findare is exactly the verb you have in mind,” the priest answered, responding in between efforts to get his cigar lit.

  James sagged, exhausted from the mental game of ping pong he’d been playing since Gus first opened his mouth. “Will you stop busting chops and give me a straight answer?”

  “No big mystery.” The cigar caught fire, and Gus puffed at it a few times to keep it lit. Once he was satisfied, he leaned back. “I just like the cuisine. Eating out is my major form of recreation. I’ve tried most of the Italian restaurants within five miles and this is one of my favorites. I understand it has five stars in the Mafia guide to Dining Out.”

  James watched his classmate demolish the sole muniere almondine – cheesecake doused in anisette – topped by three double espressos with generous dollops of sambuca and completed with B&B and another cigar. The bulk of the conversation was handed over to recollected professors, trivia from the news, and neighborhood misdemeanors until they reached the car.

  “As I think on your question about finding this place, I seem to recall Charlie Almagro giving me directions here the first time I came.”

  James cocked his head. After Gus’ previous conversation about the local warlords, he dreaded the story that would accompany yet another Italian last name. “A classmate, I hope?”

  Gus shook his head through the cloud of smoke. “No, one of my parishioners. I usually just refer to him as Fastwalker.” His voice capitalized the noun into a title. He smiled. “He considers it undignified for the district’s head numbers runner to actually have to… run. But since his pockets are usually stuffed, he doesn’t exactly dawdle, either. He is the closest I ever want to get to the Godfather, thank you. But even he has the ‘you do one for me, I’ll do one for you’ mentality.”

  James vaguely caught the reference to the two movies by Francis Ford Coppolla that came out a couple of years ago. He had been down the rabbit hole called Doctoral studies at the time.

  The priest laughed, a loud, booming sound that would make Santa Claus flinch. “I made the mistake of saying to him ‘I owe you one’ after he ‘found’ some materials stolen from the bingo hall. Six months later, he wanted favor for favor… after Thursday night bingo. So, at 11:30 p.m., I officiated at his wedding. Him, her, two witnesses, and me— without a doubt, it was the screwiest wedding I ever performed. The marriage is ten years old already.”

  “Of course it’ll last,” concurred James, “would you divorce somebody who was connected to the Outfit?”

  The priest gave him a sly, cynical smile. “First of all, they insist that the ‘Outfit’ is Chicago. And second, no, I wouldn’t. I’m not that stupid.”

  “Then let’s hope that she never gets that stupid.”

  CHAPTER THREE:

  SETTLING IN

  The drive back was placid, reflecting the improved mood of the driver. The relative slowness of the return trip better oriented James to the geographical interrelation of the parish to the neighborhood, and this area to the rest of the city. They pulled into the schoolyard as the ten o’clock news ended on the radio.

  As the engine switched off, Father Sadowski’s sigh of relief was the loudest thing in the night.

  “We succeeded. Your car is intact, which means so is the rectory.” He stomped on the parking brake pedal and bolted out of the car. By the time James exited the car and locked the door, the priest had already opened the cylinder deadbolt lock on the back basement door and was impatiently awaiting him.

  “It is usually desirable to move quickly around here after dark,” he said after James was in and he slammed the manual deadbolt home.

  The vestibule was entirely concrete. With the outer door at one’s back, there were two metal doors in front, a cinder block wall on the left, and what appeared to be
a passageway on the right; however, the passageway was wooden in its outer wall and ceiling.

  James couldn’t figure out the purpose for this structure.

  “Let me show you our ‘extension,’ ” said his host, picking up on James’ observation. “It’s almost suburban in its pretensions.”

  As they swung into the right hand corridor, the eccentricities were glaring. There was a pile of large green plastic garbage bags, which had apparently been filled, and then thrown at the far wall. While the outer wall was solid planking, the inner wall was of red brick with the original window still transmitting light from whatever room was in the building proper.

  “I wouldn’t call it suburban,” remarked James mildly.

  “No, no, not this part. Come.”

  The priest then started off at a dog trot through one of the metal doors which James had noticed first. He felt that they were racing past a 1930’s kitchen, an aged little laundry room, up a nineteen step flight of gleaming hardwood stairs from the basement to the first floor and back to the common room. James looked puzzled.

  Father Sadowski opened one of the doors at the back of the common room to show a darkened store room illuminated by the light of a dusty 25 watt bulb. Once upon a time the room had been carpeted and paneling affixed to the walls and had been intended for other than a storage area. He then returned to the common room and opened the other door which revealed a bathroom with an enclosed full tub and one of the older shower arrangements from an earlier generation.

  James shrugged. “Point being?”

  Father Gus waved him into a chair and lit up what smelled like a ten-cent cigar. After getting a roaring coal going at its tip and undoubtedly fumigating the last cockroach from the room, he began.

  “When this rectory was constructed in the 1840’s, they used a European model. The basement is less than half-submerged. The first floor we’re on is thus the American second story or the European first floor. You noticed the old furniture in the basement dining room?”

  James nodded but could only recall the glimpse of some heavy wooden pieces and white lace doilies which reminded him of nothing so much as the ghosts of Bing Crosby and Barry Fitzgerald.

  “The front room in the basement? The one on the right at the foot of the stairs?”

  “Well, that dining suite used to be right in the middle of this room. The first floor parlors and dining room were ‘common areas,’ as contrasted with upstairs, where the Pastor got the second floor all to himself and the four curates—forgive me, I’m dating myself. They were the ‘Assistant’ or ‘Associate’ pastors. I never did master the academese – which is higher, an assistant professor or an associate professor?”

  “Associate.”

  “Good. Then the next time I get an associate—if I get an associate—he can start off as an assistant and, if he works out, I’ll promote him myself.” Gus chuckled. “Where was I? Oh, yes. The curates got the third and fourth floors while the live-in help got the top floor.”

  “Live-in help?” James drawled. “I never thought of the 19th century Church as having the staff of an English country house.”

  Gus looked searchingly at James’ face for traces of habitual anti-clericalism in the remark. Not seeing any, he continued. “They never had butlers or footmen, if that’s what you mean. Just a cook, a housekeeper, and occasionally an assistant housekeeper. Can you imagine the work involved in toting wood and starting fires and removing cinders?”

  Another thought crossed Gus’ mind. “Let’s take your gear upstairs. I’d rather continue the conversation in your room.”

  With that, he took the suitcase and was out the door. James saw nothing but the shiny seat on Gus’s fraying pants as he attempted to overcome the priest’s ten step lead on the stairs. Near the top, James began to notice carved woodwork, antique plaster, and all sorts of other ornate decorations which would probably be available for exploration under more peaceful circumstances—“peaceful” defined as Gus’s absence.

  James was surprised when they stopped on the second floor. Gus stopped at a door at the front of the building. The door was next to a flight of stairs leading up to the third floor.

  Once the room was unlocked, he found it a large, square affair with wall to wall utility carpeting with the color and feel of astroturf. The fireplace on the same wall as the door he expected, but windows at right angles to the fireplace on both contingent walls?

  “The windows there,” said Father Sadowski, catching his glance, and pointing to the western windows, “face the schoolyard. The other ones overlook the street. Keep all of them closed and locked when you’re not inside the room. The rightmost of the three is within climbing distance of the rectory stoop, as our visiting missionary discovered last summer. He lost his multi-band portable shortwave—the only expensive thing he owned—to one of the neighborhood climbing monkeys. At the moment, there’s enough ice on the front of the building to break the neck of the first little thief who tries.”

  James refused to be sucked into a discussion of the native wildlife while he had other things on his mind.

  Settling into an overstuffed club chair whose antimacassars were of masking tape, James asked, “So, why did we move the conversation up here?”

  “Because I don’t know how else to avoid being spied upon,” replied Sadowski with a simplicity which disturbed James.

  Psychiatric observation was the first phrase which crossed James’s mind. “But the house is empty,” he protested.

  “There is no way of knowing that without a daily check, from basement to attic. Except for Tim’s occasional use of the third floor room over yours, the third, fourth, and fifth floors are deserted and I normally have no reason to go up there.”

  That seemed to trigger another idea in Gus’ brain. “Tomorrow the subsidy check is due from the Bishop and you’ll see what the damned fuel bills are doing to my budget. I tried to get the DBO to let—”

  “DBO?” James asked.

  “The Diocesan Building office – to approve a metal sheet across the stairwell, close off the top floors and save money, but their engineers said it would only rot the upper floors and structurally threaten the whole house.

  “Anyway, take the games they played on old man Cready at Our Lady of Lepanto last year.”

  James bit his tongue, refusing to ask any more questions. If I can’t figure it out from the context, I will assume that it is probably irrelevant to my functioning here.

  “It was just him and a first year man, newly ordained with all that that implies. The curate performed the wedding of this young Hispanic couple who had no place to stay, couldn’t afford a honeymoon, were moving into an overcrowded apartment with in-laws, and so on.”

  “So he put them into the rectory attic for a honeymoon?” said James, jumping to the point.

  “Yup… and poor old Cready never knew he had the lovebirds over his head until his retirement party last June. Somebody thought he was in on it and let the cat out of the bag. Here he was, retiring at seventy, not in the best of health, and all of a sudden he gets this bewildered look on his face, like they’re all speaking Japanese or something. The man literally felt alien in his own parish.”

  Gus sighed and leaned back in his seat, dwelling reflecting on the havoc. “Imagine. First, Cready grew up on a parish system where God was more accessible than the pastor, but the pastor could at least rely on his curates. Seniority meant that he had put in his time, paid his dues, and it was hoped that patience would generate a sense of eternity, eternal truths… all the rest.

  “But the sneaking around meant that the curate was afraid to trust his own pastor. Doctors, lawyers, contractors and other thieves enjoy some measure of solidarity. But nowadays you get some kid conspiring to pull a joke on the pastor and have two of the most active families in the parish laughing up their sleeves at him. When Cready realized how much the story had spread at his expense, he was heartbroken. He refused to stay in residence as pastor emeritus. He refused to stay i
n the diocese. Jack Cready retired to the Sunbelt, took light duties in a parish in exchange for room and board. That was last June. The Diocesan Priest Memorial Association sent out the ‘remember him in your Masses’ last week.” Gus snorted. “Some retirement. Seven, eight months. Then dead of a broken heart.

  “The thing that gets me is that I was newly ordained when Jack was only fifteen years in. That Jack would have gone along with the honeymoon and even found some amusement in conjungtis matrimoniis taking place under the rectory roof.” Gus smiled wistfully. “I can see him enjoying how such a thing would shock some of the neurotically super-pious if they ever found out … not that he’d ever tell them. He’d just sort of laugh at himself. Most of us change so little over the years that I’m certain Jack would have gone along with it even two or three years before.”

  After listening the – What was the inverse of nostalgia? – tales of Father Cready, James wanted to drift back to the original point. He prodded, “You said that you were concerned about someone listening in on our conversation?”

  “It all goes back to last June, remember?”

  James thought back, trying to remember what was going on at the time. He vaguely recalled an “urgent” request to visit the rectory, followed by a long walk, during which James impersonated a brick wall to his friend’s solo game of verbal handball, so…

  “Something about one of your associates wanting to keep business hours?” James groped in the dark corner of the memory closet. “But he was planning to work here but live elsewhere,” the question-tone disappeared as his trick memory started performing.