The Replacement Priests

By Jim Ricca

Three itinerant Jesuit priests, normally assigned to alleviate the shortage of clergy in various parishes, uncover a deadly conspiracy within the hierarchy of the Philadelphia archdiocese. However, these are not your average, docile, parish priests. While Christ taught his followers to turn the other cheek, He did not say what they should do afterward. The actions of these priests far exceed anything envisioned by their superiors. They are joined by a group of nuns and a rogue CIA agent as they become violently embroiled in battles with the archdiocese, drug dealers, militias, and terrorists.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Ricca
• Release date: Apr 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310549175

Jim Ricca

Jim was born and raised in Philadelphia, and lived there until drafted into the Army in 1971. He served a total of 18 years between the active Army and reserves as a Military Policeman, Artillery forward observer and in the Mechanized Infantry. He attended college on the GI bill and earned a B.A. in Political Science, International Relations from LaSalle University. He held middle and senior level management positions in the transportation, printing/publishing industries and plastics manufacturing field. Jim also served several years as a Special Agent/Special Investigator for a Federal agency. Jim is the author of the four book, Circle of Wounded Souls series, in addition to, Legacies; an American Journey, Hunting and Hunted in Alaska, The four book Alien's Reward series with Journey to Another Earth. In addition to, Der Schatten Teufel, The Shadow Devil, and Running Down Terror has been released along with: The Replacement Priest, and Escape from the Asylum. Jim resides in Maryland's Eastern Shore where he divides his time between writing and fishing the Chesapeake Bay and surf fishing along the shore..

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THE REPLACEMENT PRIESTS

By

Jim Ricca

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 Jim Ricca

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This paperback and e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book and e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

This book is available in print at most online retailers

Discover other titles by Jim Ricca on smashwords.com and amazon.com

The Alien's Reward I,

The Alien's Reward II The Alliance

The Alien's Reward III, Insurrection

The Circle of Wounded Souls, Book One

The Circle of Wounded Souls, Book Two

The Circle of Wounded Souls, The Circle of Survivors, Book Three

The Circle of Wounded Souls, The Broken Circle Book Four

Legacies: an American Journey

Kathryn’s Summer

Running Down Terror

Alaskan Paybacks

Beyond Time and Emotion

CHAPTER ONE - THE REPLACEMENT PRIESTS

The great upheaval began for the parish when Father Ronald Long decided to take his first vacation in over ten years. He had no idea the two weeks he would spend visiting his family and friends would forever change his parishioners, his church and his basic strategy for fighting sin.

Nine o’clock mass; Mister and Missus Thompson were busy trying to quiet their squalling six month old son, Jacob. Little would come of their efforts since Jacob was determined to make his presence and discomfort known. In addition there were at least a dozen other infants screaming in harmony with Jacob, producing a joyous cacophony as Father Ron read the Gospel in his deep stentorian voice.

The crying infants didn’t bother the priest; they were actually music to the good Father's ears. Their cries told him babies were being made in his parish, which meant that his parishioners had hope for the future. Babies also indicated a future for his parish and the church. Babies were good, he thought; He just hoped a few of them would find their vocation with the Church. Long was constantly reminded by the bishop that there weren’t enough priests to service all the parishes, and their numbers were growing fewer each year. Although it was true, he was in need of a vacation, and there weren’t enough priests around to relieve him of his pastoral duties for the few weeks he needed to recharge his physical and spiritual batteries.

With Mass over and his parishioners bidden farewell, he returned to the rectory to attend to a few issues before the next Mass at ten-thirty. As he entered the kitchen, his answering machine was flashing its red message-waiting light, beckoning him to hear another sad call from some poor soul with nowhere else to turn.

With a sigh of resignation, he thumbed the replay button as he dropped his five foot-six inch, medium build frame onto the stool next to the phone stand. While he waited for his prerecorded message to run its monotonous litany, he ran a hand over his nearly bald head. It used to sport a briar patch of thick curly black hair, which matched his thick black moustache and eyebrows. In his younger days, many people mistook him for Hispanic or Italian, although there wasn’t a trace of either in his ancestry. It wasn’t many years after his ordination that the stress of the job thinned his hair down to almost nothing, and his upper lip turned to silver fur. He wasn’t in the least bit vain, so it really didn’t matter.

The answering machine began spewing its recorded messages; first, was an invitation to dinner for that night. It was from a family that bought antacids wholesale as antidotes for the disasters cooked by the wife. He’d made the mistake of eating there once, and he was not going to make that error again. The next message was from the local hospital; they had a patient scheduled for delicate surgery Tuesday morning, and the man wanted his confession heard beforehand. He would normally eat with the doctors and nurses that night while he was at the hospital, but he would be at his secluded camp by then. He'd have to alert his replacement.

The call he'd been praying for was next in line. It was the Bishop; his voice full of good cheer as he related news a new, itinerant replacement priest had just agreed to assist the diocese. He would be at the Rectory late this evening or tomorrow morning. Father Ron gave a great sigh of relief and whispered a prayer of thanksgiving to St. Jude as his spirits soared.

At that very moment, one hundred and seventy five miles southeast of Father Ron’s parish, a huge, muscle-bound beast of a man, was thundering westbound through Pennsylvania on I-80, intent on reaching Father Ron before the sun went down. The man wore a rusted WWII, German steel helmet he’d liberated from a biker in Fresno, California. The old helmet barely contained his wild mane of black and gray hair that more closely resembled overgrown steel wool. A pair of surplus goggles protected his steel blues eyes from flying debris. His face was ruddy; sun weathered from long days outdoors. His nose had obviously been broken more than once; his cheeks and forehead bore deep, ragged scars. His attire consisted of a pair of greasy jeans, patched in numerous places with a variety of poorly sewn, mismatched materials. His extremely large, muscular torso was covered with the remnants of a European style leather motorcycle jacket; the sleeves only a distant memory. Well worn U.S. Army issue combat boots that hadn’t seen a spit-shine in twenty years, were tightly laced to his size fourteen feet.

At six-foot six, three hundred pounds, the man had thickly muscled shoulders, with biceps and forearms larger than most men’s thighs. He dwarfed the custom 1950 Harley Panhead he rode, even when equipped with extra-large saddle bags, extended front end and oversized tires. His size and enormous strength, along with amazing agility for a man with his bulk, provided him with the ability to handle the big hog as if it was a lightweight dirt bike.

The machine ran well as it flew across the interstate at approximately double the speed limit. Unsure of his exact speed, since the speedometer and odometer had been torn off several years ago during a violent confrontation with some truckers at a rest stop in West Virginia. He really didn’t care about getting a ticket, because he no longer had a driver’s license, and most police officers hesitated to stop and confront him anyway. When they pulled alongside and saw this human nightmare on wheels, they swiftly conducted a brief cost-benefit analysis and concluded that discretion was the better part of valor, and enforcement of traffic laws. On the few occasions a foolhardy young rookie did develop the false courage to stop him, they quickly acquired a deep love of life and merely shouted for him to observe the speed limit before they quickly jumped back into their cruiser and drove off in a cloud of burning rubber.

His immense size, wild hair, facial scars, muscular build, and piercing blue eyes were truly intimidating to most people, terrifying to many, and caused bed-wetting nightmares for young children and women. When he entered banks and convenience stores, the clerks tripped the hold-up alarms without waiting for him to approach their counters. They instinctively knew he was a criminal and weren’t waiting for him to actually do anything before they called the police. He appeared frightening, if not truly evil. The man was serious trouble looking for a place to happen. Ask anyone who’d ever seen him, and they would all agree; this was one mean, bad-ass dude.

His goal was to get to Corry, Pennsylvania and meet up with a certain priest. He was going to get there today, and nothing on this earth was going to stop him.

Father Ron, upon hearing the good news from his bishop, ran to his bedroom and began throwing things into his mismatched collection of travel bags. He was so excited at the prospect of his forthcoming vacation; he didn’t notice he was packing his dirty laundry, along with some cleaning rags his house keeper had left on top of his dresser.

He suddenly remembered 10:30 Mass, ran down the stairs, and through the breezeway to the back entrance to the church. Two altar boys were sneaking a smoke as he flew past without noticing the infraction of his rules. He was going someplace with no phones, no parishioners, no responsibilities and no worries. Father Ron would have two solid weeks of peace, quiet and fishing. It would be the closest to heaven a human could get while still breathing and he couldn’t wait. The excitement welled up inside him like a tsunami.

An hour and a half later, with Mass finished and the collections counted and deposited at the bank’s night drop. He ate a light lunch with a young couple whose newborn baby, along with another of its contemporaries, would be baptized that afternoon. He’d briefly attend the joint baptismal parties at the fire hall, finish packing his clothes, service his car, ready his fishing gear and wait for his replacement.

Oh dear Lord, he silently prayed, please let my replacement get here a little early so I can get on the road first thing in the morning.

Rocketing northward on Pennsylvania route 322; now only an hour from Corry and his target; what appeared to be the first biker of the apocalypse thundered through numerous small towns; piloting his cycle like a man possessed. Swerving around sluggish big rigs at more than ninety miles per hour, he didn’t hear their air horns blaring at him as he shot by on either the right or left side, kicking up a hail of gravel as he spun his rear tire on the shoulder of the road.

When the nightmarish beast stopped for a red light at a small unnamed village, a mini-van filled with a family returning from church pulled alongside in the left turn lane. He turned his head to observe its occupants, and a young child about two years old, occupying a car seat next to the right rear door, stared at the biker.

They made eye contact.

The child looked at the human monster for the briefest moment before he burst out in screams of terror. The kid’s startled parents spun to see what caused this sudden eruption and caught sight of the biker; grinning wildly, thumbs in his ears, waving his fingers at the baby. The grotesque sight scared the living daylights out of the child’s mother, who immediately added her own screams to her son’s. The boy’s father was so startled by what he saw through the side window, he reflexively stomped down hard on the accelerator and was almost broadsided by an SUV as he burned across the intersection.

The biker just shook his head, laughed out loud and as the light turned green, he gunned the bike through the intersection.

A State Trooper observed the incident from two cars back and decided he’d better have a talk with this animal. He waited until they were out of town before he flipped on his lights and siren, No sense getting the locals upset if things get violent, he thought aloud.

It took a few seconds before the biker pulled over to the side of the road. The Trooper noticed just how big the son of a bitch was when he got off the bike and stood to get his hand into his back pocket for his wallet.

He flipped his mike to broadcast and told the huge dirt-bag biker, "Just stand where you are, and keep your hands where I can see them. While his quarry was taking off his helmet, the Trooper attempted to read the plate on the bike so he could call it in, but it was too dirty, so he called for back-up with his location and situation. As soon as he received confirmation, he grabbed his riot baton from the back seat and exited his cruiser.

Walking slowly towards the Biker, he mentally sized up his position; This guy is a good six inches taller than I am and has at least one hundred pounds on me, too. In addition, he’s built like a damn gorilla and probably twice as strong. His face looks like he’s a professional bar room brawler and probably won’t hesitate to get violent.

He unsnapped his holster and unclipped his container of mace just to be safe.

The Harley driver stood facing the slowly approaching trooper with his hands on his hips, feet spread about shoulder width apart.

What can I do for you Officer? His voice, a deep gravely bass, easily carried above the sound of passing traffic. He wasn’t shouting; he just normally spoke with considerable volume and force in his voice, and most people immediately sensed this guy was used to being obeyed instantly.

The cop halted about eight feet from his target.

What the hell was that back at the intersection? Do you realize that your antics almost caused an accident?

The Biker raised both hands palms-up and boomed, I didn’t break any laws back there, Officer.

Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately? the trooper responded loudly and sarcastically, You’ve got a face that would blister concrete, and your actions back there are going to give that kid nightmares for a month, at least! Is that your way of having fun; scaring the hell out of babies?

The Biker took a step closer to the Trooper, who immediately rested his hand on the butt of his Smith and Wesson and took a half step back.

I’m sorry if my visage doesn’t meet with your esthetic values officer, but to answer your question, I did not intend to traumatize the child, I was merely attempting to evoke some laughter from the infant.

The big man took another step towards the Trooper. Now, I would enjoy remaining here with you to discuss the finer points of the Pennsylvania traffic and penal codes, but I have a schedule to maintain, and unless you intend to issue a citation for an infraction of the law, of which I am unfamiliar, I would like to continue my journey.

The trooper was taken aback, not only by the approach of this guy, but also by his well spoken vocabulary. This is no ordinary scumbag, he thought, and he is right; he didn’t break any laws.

OK, buddy, the trooper answered, you can go, but next time, think twice before you try to do anything with young kids."

The big Biker balled one of his massive hands into a fist, then extended his index finger back at his face and said, I know I’ll never be mistaken for Brad Pitt, but you have to admit that few people, if any, will ever forget they saw me.

The trooper laughed a little in agreement, You got that right! Now have a safe trip. He backed toward his cruiser as he watched the biker spin on his heel and remount his bike.

Geez, he whistled through his teeth, that sucker is HUGE! He almost laughed when he watched him kick start his bike. The monster put so much force into the down-stroke, the engine had no choice but to start. The bike was probably afraid to be kicked like that again, he thought. He remained standing alongside his cruiser long enough to watch the cyclist roar back onto Rte 322 in a cloud of dust.

The monster biker was smiling to himself over the thought of avoiding another traffic citation as he regained warp speed. Ten minutes up the road, a State Police cruiser flew by in the opposite direction; the trooper intent on providing backup to the call made just a few minutes earlier by the rookie trooper. He wouldn’t receive the call that his assistance was no longer required until he reached his destination and the very embarrassed young trooper.

When the rookie explained the situation to his fellow officer, the older, more experienced trooper recalled observing the huge biker flying low in the opposite direction while on his way to their current location. They quickly decided to apprehend the speeding cyclist, and despite a 30-minute high-speed run with lights and sirens, they were unable to catch their quarry. The troopers would have had better luck if they’d used an aircraft since the subject of their search had not only gained an easy 50 mile lead on them, but at 100+ mph, he was steadily increasing his distance from them as the minutes ticked by.

Possessing an uncanny sense of direction along with finely honed survival skills, the biker swung right, off Rt. 322, as soon as he could. He took a road that followed the curve of the mountains, which ran northeast, then turned west on a two-lane that cut across a gap between the mountains. This road connected with Rt. 8, where he swung north, then onto Rt. 6 west, and was in downtown Corry less than an hour after leaving the scene of his meeting with the Pennsylvania State Trooper.

Not too bad, he thought to himself as he completed some mental calculations and estimated he’d averaged about 85 miles per hour on his trip to Corry from downtown Philly. Now all he needed to do was find that church. Low on fuel, he wheeled into a gas station just inside the city limits. After filling his tanks with hi-test, he strode into the building, grabbed a bottle of Pepsi from a cooler and walked over to the counter to pay for his gas and soda.

Behind the counter was an obviously frightened, tiny little teenage girl staring in wide-eyed terror at the huge nightmare of a man standing before her. She was only capable of squeaking out some unintelligible gibberish as the biker placed his bottle of cola on the counter, then leaned over it to ask, Young Lady; where may I find St. Ann’s Roman Catholic Church?

Her lower lip was trembling so badly she was unable to produce more than a series of stuttering syllables as she used her petite little hand to point in the general direction of the church, three blocks southeast.

And how much do I owe you for the gas and Pepsi, Miss? He inquired in the softest voice he could manage so as not to frighten her any further. Just calm down and take a deep breath, young lady, I’m not going hurt you.

The teen slowly turned and with trembling hands hit a few keys on the register, then pointed to the LED display, which indicated $22.50.

She managed to calm herself enough to say th-th-thank you sssssssir, after he dropped the exact change on the counter.

And thank you, young lady; have a nice day!

The biker was halfway out the door when he spun on his heel and asked, You said the church is that way?

The girl had almost regained her composure by this time and responded, Yes sir, about three blocks down this road on your right. She managed a weak smile as the behemoth smiled and waved his thanks.

Remounting his Harley, he sat for a few minutes to finish his Pepsi. He expertly tossed the empty bottle into the trash can next to the gas pumps, kicked the bike’s engine over and rumbled out onto Main St. in search of his destination and Father Long; the goal of his mission.

Father Long was busy running up and down the stairs of the rectory, rushing from room to room, gathering things he thought he might need on his vacation. He was so lost in thought that he failed to hear the ringing doorbell as he searched a chest of drawers for some clean socks. His suitcases were spread across his bed, opened with both sides piled high with various articles of clothing, thrown helter-skelter from closets, drawers and shelves.

Hold on a second, he said to himself aloud, this isn’t right; I have to sort through this a little more carefully and just take the things I need. He noticed that he’d tossed a pair of heavily insulated socks onto the pile, and was in the midst of scratching his head when the persistent sound of the doorbell finally broke through his frantic efforts. As he hurried down the stairs to answer the door, he hoped he wasn’t going to be drawn into something unpleasant and have to start his vacation in a depressed mood.

At the bottom of the stairs, he glanced at the front door to the rectory and through the glass lights at the top, but he could only see a dark shadow. Something big was blocking the little windows. He slowly walked across the foyer and noticed the time on the wall clock; almost time for the Christenings, I hope this won’t take too long, I only have 30 minutes before we begin.

As he reached for the doorknob, he saw that the object blocking the door lights was human, and a very large human at that, since the lights were at least six feet high. He opened the door and immediately backed up, shocked at the sight that confronted him. His immediate reaction was to turn and run as far and as fast as he could. If this creature at his door wasn’t the devil himself, it was probably a close personal friend, and he had no desire to discover which.

Just as Father Long’s legs were tightening up in preparation for an attempt at the world’s land speed record, the giant apparition at his doorway stuck his massive right hand out and exclaimed in a booming deep bass, You must be Father Long; I’m Father Richard Garibaldi. I’ll be your replacement while you’re on vacation.

Father Long was in shock. He couldn’t believe his eyes and ears; he also couldn’t do more than stammer out a weak hello.

Father Garibaldi reached over and took Father Long’s hand in his own and gave it a good squeeze while shaking it. Long was amazed to see his wrist disappear into the man’s fist; it looked like the huge beast was holding a flesh colored pencil in his hand. He felt his knuckles crack, but didn’t become aware of the pain for a few seconds as he tried to comprehend all that he was seeing and hearing. He tried to withdraw his hand but it was futile, the man had superhuman strength.

My friends call me Rich, so don’t be formal Father Ron, there’s no need for formalities between us priests; after all; we’re all doing Christ’s work. Garibaldi wore a huge, generous grin with sparkling white teeth, as he looked around the room for a moment. He then excused himself, turned and walked outside to retrieve his bags from the bike.

While Garibaldi was collecting his bags, Long’s mind began racing through all sorts of possible scenarios; was this guy a real priest? No, it was impossible; there couldn’t possibly be a priest in his church with a face and body like that. This guy had to be an impostor, or worse, he was part of a cruel joke by the bishop or someone in the parish. No, they wouldn’t do that, what else could it be? The devil himself sent to destroy his parish?

Just as he was about to dial the bishop's phone number, the replacement priest returned with two large, worn and dirty leather saddlebags slung over his shoulder.

Can you point me in the direction of the men’s room, Father? I need to get cleaned up after that long, hard ride up here from Philly.

Long told him where he needed to go, but before Garibaldi turned in the direction of the bathroom, he pulled out the remnants of his wallet and handed Long his personal identification and credentials from the Archdiocese of Philadelphia.

I understand that I don’t appear to be anyone’s idea of what a priest should look like, but you can check these out. Call your bishop, and the Philly Archdiocese to verify who I am. Now, if you don’t mind I’ll get cleaned up, change into something more appropriate, then you can fill me in on procedures you’ve established here so there will be no delay in starting your much deserved vacation. With that said, Garibaldi left Long alone in his living room to contemplate the situation while he saw to his personal hygiene.

Curious, Father Ron looked out the window and saw his replacement, if that’s what he was, had driven up on a large and badly battered motorcycle.

Oh, dear Lord, what am I going to do, he silently prayed. He hesitated only a second then reached for the phone. Within a few minutes he received assurances from the bishop the giant, beast of a man presenting himself as a priest, was in fact a very highly educated Jesuit, with PhDs in theology and philosophy, along with many years of successful experience in overseas missions.

Not convinced they were discussing the same man, Long also phoned the Philadelphia Archdiocese and verified not only Garibaldi’s appearance, but also his mode of transportation. The priest at the other end of the line went on to inform Long that Garibaldi had been a highly decorated Army Special Forces soldier who served several tours in Vietnam before having an epiphany and turned to the priesthood. The priest advised Long, that while Garibaldi may appear to be someone from the opposition, and may have a few unconventional methods of dealing with people, he was without a doubt one of the most dedicated soldiers of Christ he had ever seen.

Relieved at the news that Garibaldi was a real priest, Father Ron began pulling his thoughts to the Christenings at hand. Just as he was getting up from his chair, Garibaldi re-entered the room. His replacement presented himself in a clean but worn, traditional black hooded cassock with a white rope waist-tie, sandals and large silver rosary hung from his neck.

Garibaldi now looked the part of a priest, except for the face and hair. His wild mane was now combed and tied back, but it still appeared thick, wild and ready to burst the short length of leather used to contain it. The briar patch of a beard he sported earlier was now combed out and neatly spread across his upper chest. His face, now cleaned of the road grime, which had accentuated the numerous facial scars he bore.

Long had a name suddenly spring to mind that he could attach to the face: Rasputin the mad monk! He reflected on this a moment but thought that was very unfair, especially after all this man had done to provide him the opportunity for a two week vacation. Father Long was impressed with the change in his fellow priest’s appearance, but couldn’t get over the shear size of the man. He suddenly remembered the christening and glanced at his watch.

Father Garibaldi, I hate to run, but I have a double christening in about ten minutes. You must be hungry after your trip. There’s plenty of food in the fridge along with soda and beer. I think there may be some wine in the…

Father Long, Garibaldi interrupted, I can handle the christenings. Why don’t you get packed and we’ll get caught up on what I need to know after I have welcomed the babies into the Church.

I’m already packed Father Garibaldi. I don’t…

If you insist on performing the christenings, then why don’t I use this opportunity to meet some of your parishioners while I assist with the ceremony?

Sure, that sounds like a good idea; give me a few minutes to put on my vestments and I’ll meet you in the sacristy. He pointed to a hallway off to his right, its right down the hall and to your left at the end.

Garibaldi strode off in the direction of the church while Father Ron stood there marveling at the big man’s obvious agility and speed as he quickly disappeared from view.

He followed Long's directions and entered the church as the families of the two infants were gathering in the narthex of the church. The giant priest loved babies, and he made a beeline to the first one he saw. It was being held by his mother; the infant decked out in its baptismal white lace and frills.

The families didn’t see him approaching until it was almost too late. Sharp intakes of breath, a few gasps and one whispered, Holy Mother of God, could be heard in the far reaches of the church.

Hello brethren, Garibaldi’s deep basso-profundo boomed out, echoing throughout the church, I’m Father Garibaldi and I’ll be Father Long’s replacement while he is away on his well deserved sabbatical for the next two weeks. He was kind enough to allow me to assist him during this most joyous of events in the life of the church. His brilliant smile and open arms briefly set aside the shock of the families, but they weren’t ready for what happened next.

He ignored the wide-eyed, frightened stares of the adults and children in the group as he reached for the first of the young infants with one of his huge hands. The child’s mother was too stunned to say anything, and Garibaldi was far too quick in lifting the bundled infant from her arms for her to protest. He then pirouetted and lifted the second infant from its mother. Holding an infant in each of his massive arms, he turned toward the altar, and began softly crooning a soothing Gregorian chant as he walked slowly toward the altar. Before the families could react, he ceased his singing just long enough to ask the families to follow him to their pews before resuming his chant and procession with two very amazed infants.

Just as Garibaldi reached the first pew, Father Long entered the sacristy and was shocked to see his huge replacement carrying the two infants while leading a procession of stunned family members.

Garibaldi approached Father Long and stopped about three feet in front of him. Holding an infant in each hand, he presented them to Father Long with outstretched arms. With carefully controlled volume, so as not to frighten the babies, exclaimed, Father I present to you two beautiful innocents who have been brought to this House of God by their parents, so that they may be cleansed of their original sins and made one with our Savior, Jesus Christ.

Never having infants presented this way before, Long was at a loss for words, but he appreciated the ceremony of his replacement. He hesitated a second then announced in his well carried tenor, Thank you Father Garibaldi. Shall we proceed with the sacrament of baptism for these children of God?

Let the sacred rite begin, Father Long, intoned the huge Jesuit, who carefully genuflected with the infants still in his hands, before he gracefully handed each infant back to its grateful mother and strode to the sacristy to stand slightly to the rear of Father Long’s right side.

The baptismal rite was performed by Father Long as always, except for Father Garibaldi softly signing a Latin chant in the background. His voice must have been soothing to the two young infants since neither cried nor fussed as they were baptized, which was atypical for most babies receiving the sacrament. Upon completion of the baptisms, Father Long introduced his replacement to the families. Hands were shaken all around with the exchange of names and salutations. Garibaldi being careful with the hands of the women and children; the fathers were not so lucky, and both were soon flexing their fingers, attempting to shake off the pain.

An offer made by both families for the two priests to join them at the local fire hall for the post-christening party. The hungry priests gratefully accepted their offer. On their way back to the rectory, Father Long thanked Garibaldi for his assistance and remarked that his chant during the ceremony added a beautiful touch to the sacrament.

Garibaldi advised, I spent ten years studying theology and philosophy at a monastery in northern Italy, and learned the church has a Gregorian chant for all the sacraments, and singing Gregorian Chants evoke a direct connection to over two thousand years of church history.

Upon reaching his office, they spent the next hour reviewing the times for daily masses, confessions, meetings with various organizations and visits to the two schools he supervised.

Garibaldi made written notes of all details and asked numerous questions concerning issues not mentioned by the diocesan priest. Sure he had all the information he required, the Jesuit helped Father Long carry his luggage into his SUV. After receiving the keys to the rectory, church and parish hall, the two priests walked the two blocks to the fire hall, with the understanding Long would attend the party only long enough to grab some lunch. Long would then walk back to his vehicle and after hearing a confession at the hospital, begin his much needed vacation.

Father Long was somewhat, but not particularly popular or well liked by his parishioners, and was politely greeted by everyone as he entered the fire hall. His replacement was welcomed by several of the baptismal celebrants, while most people kept their distance, smiled at him politely and quickly began whispering to each other. The children in the party, dressed in their Sunday best, simply stood in awe at the size of the man, his battered face and strange cassock.

Garibaldi wasn’t concerned about his reception; he was used to it. He was more concerned about filling the big void in his stomach. He hadn’t eaten anything solid since noon the previous day and when he spotted the buffet table, made a bee-line for it, scooping up a toddler staggering across his path as he approached his next meal.

The toddler had only recently begun walking unassisted and was about to fall over just as the big priest walked by, so he was thankful to whoever it was that saved him from a boo-boo. Garibaldi cradled the baby in the crook of one arm as he grabbed a plate and began transferring food from the serving trays onto his dish. He loaded up on heaps of hot roast beef, several slices of dark brown bread, half a chicken, four deviled eggs, with one for his new friend, a pile of egg salad, some potato salad, a big dollop of horseradish and half-dozen meatballs with gravy. Checking his little buddy’s progress with the deviled egg, he poured two glasses of milk and handed his young friend another egg.

Garibaldi scanned the table settings, located one with only two children, and quickly occupied a seat at the end, carefully placing the baby in the chair next to his. Noticing he forgot to pick up silverware, he asked an awestruck child who appeared to be around ten years old, if he would be kind enough to get him another plate, two forks, knives and spoons. The kid couldn’t get away from the table fast enough, but he returned within sixty seconds with the requested items.

Garibaldi set the extra plate in front of the toddler and placed several of the deviled eggs out for him, and then held the glass so he could drink some milk. Glancing around the room, he noticed most of the people were just sitting down at their tables, so he stood, and with a voice heard out in the parking lot, announced it was time to say grace. The room went silent, not in reverence, but in shock; even Father Long abruptly ceased his conversation in surprise.

Garibaldi led the prayer of thanksgiving in a slow, measured cadence, his booming voice drowning out the crowd. After he finished making the sign of the cross, he reached down and held up the toddler he’d befriended over his head. The kid’s face was smeared with egg yolk from his deviled eggs, but he had a grin from ear to ear.

I don’t know who this young man is, but in case his mother and father are wondering where he is, he’s safe right here, sharing a meal with me!

A woman’s voice called from the other end of the hall, That’s my son, Tony! Thanks for letting us know where is, I was wondering where he wandered off to!

She walked quickly across the hall to retrieve her son, apologizing to the priest as she approached, I’m sorry if he was bothering you Father, but he’s just learned how to walk and...

Garibaldi smiled down at the embarrassed woman as she went to pick up her son. He’s no trouble Mrs.?

Johnson, Emily Johnson, she replied, holding out her hand. I saw you at the baptism this morning, and I’ve got to say that you gave us all quite a scare. I mean, we weren’t expecting… she was stammering, suddenly realizing that she was about to insult the huge priest.

No problem, Emily, I know I can scare the heck out of people if they aren’t expecting me, but little Tony is no problem. He’s a fine young man; so why don’t you just leave him right here with me. We were just discussing the fine points of eating deviled eggs.

Mrs. Johnson apologized again then sat down next to her son to clean his lunch from his new suit, all the while admonishing Tony for bothering the new priest.

Other children, now emboldened, sought to approach the gentle giant to get a closer look. Garibaldi indicated they should grab their plates and join him for lunch, which many did. Several adults, suspicious of a stranger of this size and with such an intimidating face, shooed their kids back to their own tables, but the priest had a magnetic draw for children that was hard to overcome and soon his table was jammed with children watching him eat.

Enjoying the company of such small innocent children, Garibaldi began asking them for their names, who they were related to, what grade they were in, etc.

One particularly shy child in the crowd, dressed in well worn clothes and bearing several bruises on his face and arms drew his attention. When he asked how he received the bruises, the other kids grew silent as he answered with a mumbled, I fell down.

Garibaldi made a mental note of it before he asked the child to sit next to him.

Mrs. Johnson gave the priest a knowing, but concerned look as the child hesitantly took his seat.

Garibaldi instantly knew what the look meant.

An hour after arriving at the party, Father Long made his way through the hall, stopping at each table to say goodbye and remind everyone that he would be gone for the next two weeks, but they could feel free to see Father Garibaldi should the need occur. When he stopped by his replacement’s table, Garibaldi was teaching the children to sing a religious nursery rhyme in Italian. The kids were obviously enjoying themselves, and they sounded pretty good, too!

Garibaldi stood and said goodbye to Father Tom, reassuring him that he’d hold things together until his return. He was not to worry or even think about the parish until he returned with his spiritual batteries fully recharged. Long left the hall for his appointment at the hospital and then his vacation, feeling somewhat apprehensive, but not quite able to pin down a nagging doubt he had about what the next two weeks would bring for his parish.

The giant priest had gained the trust of the children, who happily sang through the song again for their new friend. Satisfied with his choir’s efforts, he walked over to the disc jockey's table, hit the stop button on his CD player, and turned to the crowd.

Everyone, please give me your undivided attention!

His deep gravely voice gave the party-goers no choice.

"The children have a special gift for the newest members of our Holy Mother the Church. If you’ll be patient for just a moment, we can all enjoy their beautiful presentation. He motioned for the mothers of the babies to bring them to the center of the hall in front of the DJ's table. He had the children stand in a semi-circle around them. On the count of the three, the new child choir of the parish sang their song in Italian to the amazement and surprise of the adults in the hall.

Mrs. Tomasini, an eighty-year-old immigrant from Naples, tearfully joined the children in singing the very same song sung to her by her own grandmother while she was just a child. When the children were finished, they were given a tremendous round of applause; except the two infants, who were startled by the sudden noise and began crying.

Mrs. Tomasini went to Father Garibaldi, gave him a hug and began a long, animated conversation with him in Italian.

By the early evening, the replacement priest had made his own rounds to all the tables, introduced himself and memorized the names and faces of those he met.

There was one person in particular he wanted to meet; the father of the battered boy he’d met earlier. He’d made a special effort to observe the condition of the boy’s mother, a pretty blonde woman who was obviously going through some hard times. He saw she was wearing a very heavy layer of make-up, especially around her eyes, but the thick cosmetics only partially disguised her two black eyes and the dark bruises on her cheeks. But worse, no amount of make-up could hide a broken nose, the type one receives from being battered in a fight, and she did not strike Garibaldi as a bar room brawler. Her husband was showing obvious signs of drunkenness; with slurred speech, excessive friendliness, and difficulty holding his head up. He appeared to be fit and somewhat muscular; probably an ex-high school ball player of some sort. Garibaldi had met this type many times before and knew what must be done to correct his behavior. But he also knew it would be a waste of time to deal with this drunk now. He’d wait until he was sober, then inflict corrective, behavioral modification on this bully before he could ruin his family forever.

His introductions completed, Garibaldi returned to the rectory, searched through the parish records for needed information, committed it to memory, then said his evening prayers and went to sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

As the uppermost edge of the sun peeked over the Allegheny Mountains and began burning away the darkness of night, Garibaldi returned to the rectory after completing his daily five mile run. Unlike most people in his vocation, Garibaldi was in superb physical condition; not out of any simple desire to remain fit, but out of sheer necessity. His many years serving in the missions overseas and in the U.S. Army required it. Christ taught, a true Christian must turn the other cheek; however; He didn’t say what to do after that.

A hot shower, a change into his vestments and he was ready for the morning’s Mass. The Mass was as poorly attended as any American parish’s morning services; with one half-awake altar boy, and no more than a half-dozen elderly women, including a smiling Mrs. Tomasini among the attendees. The altar boy quickly woke up when he noticed his celebrant was not Father Ron, but a huge, scary looking monster of a priest.

Young man, the priest spoke, I don’t want you to ring the bells during my Mass. Do you understand?

The boy was too stunned to answer him, but just stood there nodding his head.

Go out there and bring the bells in here and put them on the shelf. You can return them to the sacristy when Father Long comes back.

The boy nodded again and ran out to retrieve the hand bell.

Garibaldi gave the boy some final instructions on what his duties would be during his Mass. After the boy acknowledged his instructions, they strode out into the sacristy.

There were a few gasps from the congregants who were not at the baptism the previous day, but the priest ignored them and motioned for the people to move up to the first pew, which they did without hesitation. After they reseated, he asked if they would mind if he said the Mass in Latin. He knew this was severely frowned upon by the church, but he preferred Latin as it provided a two-thousand year line of language continuity, all the way back to the time of Christ and the Apostles. The women all agreed with vigorous nods of their gray heads, so Garibaldi commenced celebrating the rite as he knew it was meant to be.

The altar boy was completely lost, never having heard Latin spoken in all of his twelve years on this earth, but the women enthusiastically answered the priest’s prayers, with Mrs. Tomasini leading the group.

When the Mass was over, Father Garibaldi asked the women if they would like to join him in the rectory for a home cooked breakfast. All but one agreed; apologizing for having a commitment to care for her grandchildren. The big priest was hungry, and he'd noticed during his run earlier, hard times had settled on this town. He thought these women could probably use a good hot meal, especially one they didn’t have to cook. He grabbed the altar boy, handed him a twenty dollar bill and told him to head down the grocery store two blocks away, and buy two dozen eggs, a couple packages of breakfast sausage, a loaf of Italian bread, a few potatoes and onions, and if he wasn’t back in fifteen minutes with his change, he’d come looking for him.

The kid took off like a scalded cat on his mission without bothering to change out of his vestments first. Garibaldi led the grandmothers of the parish back to the rectory and had them sit at the big kitchen table while he made a pot of coffee and searched the kitchen for the required pots and pans.

Excuse me Father, but what are you looking for? asked one of the women.

I can’t cook you breakfast if I can’t find the pots and pans.

Oh my, she responded, Father Ron never cooked anything but coffee. We have a cook and housekeeper to take care of him, but I think she took vacation herself this week. I guess she never gave a thought to his replacement.

Garibaldi ceased his searching and stood up, facing the somewhat embarrassed women, he responded, I don’t need a cook or housekeeper; I can take care of myself; besides, the cost of a housekeeper and cook is just too high to take care of a single man.

Mrs. Tomasini piped up, I think she cooks for him in the church hall; that’s where all the pots and pans and kitchen things are.

OK, let’s take a walk down to the hall and we’ll eat there! It’s not as cozy as this nice kitchen, but it will do for today. He hesitated a second and continued, I’ll have to meet you there in a few minutes. I think the altar boy will be bringing our breakfast fixings here, so go on ahead and we’ll get started as soon as he shows up.

The ladies shuffled out of the kitchen twittering to each other about the nice breakfast they were going to have with the new priest.

Garibaldi walked to the front door of the rectory, opened it to wait for the altar boy and his breakfast, but as he swung the door wide, the winded youth bounded up the stairs, nearly tripping over his robe. Garibaldi grabbed the bag containing his breakfast in one meaty hand and the boy with the other.

Nice work son, Garibaldi told the panting boy, I hope you didn’t break any eggs on the way back.

Nnnnn-nnnoo Fffffather, he stammered, everything should be in one piece."

OK, I’ll take your word for it. You must be hungry after all that exercise, so why don’t you join us for breakfast and enjoy the fruits of your labor?

I’d love to Father, but I have class in thirty minutes and I don’t want to be late.

What class?

Religion! the boy said with a smile.

No problem then; you’ll eat with us. I’ll speak with your teacher to excuse you from this morning’s class.

OK, thanks, Father Garbonny!

In a flash, the big priest grabbed a handful of the kid’s shirt and lifted him up to his eye level.

The young boy went wide-eyed with fear until he saw the man’s grin.

My name is Father GariBALDI, son; GariBALDI. Now repeat after me…. The young man repeated the priest’s name perfectly, several times along with the priest as the giant walked through the rectory, carrying the boy and his breakfast toward the parish hall.

As they neared the kitchen area, the aroma of cooking bacon tickled the priest’s olfactory nerves. He dropped the boy and sprinted into the kitchen just in time to see Mrs. Tomasini smiling and stirring a hot skillet full of tomatoes and eggs.

We found everything you need for breakfast in the large refrigerator, Father, so I decided to make everyone a nice Italian breakfast to celebrate your coming to our church.

Garibaldi felt a little sheepish; he never thought to check the parish kitchen for supplies after discovering the rectory refrigerator almost empty.

My intent was to cook you ladies and this fine young man a nice breakfast, but you beat me to it.

A tiny little lady, with her pure white hair done in braids like an eastern European grandmother,