The Ugly Priest

By Richard Stickann

When a young priest makes some bad choices, it becomes a blight on his vocation that follows him all his life. Father Bernard made some bad choices. Jennifer was one. Helen, another, although Helen began as an innocent mistake that got out of hand. After twenty years as an assistant pastor at Immaculate Conception Church on the west side of Chicago, Father Bernards vocation has deteriorated, not only because of his moral lapses but also from its lack of substance and value. His duties have become tedious and distressing; the sin, dying, dishonesty, and infidelity drains him. Deepening his distress is his life at a rundown, disintegrating parish, with an outdated liturgy and a pastor, Father McElroy, who is a rude, spiteful, and offensive old man. His attempt to save himself from his cheerless, desolate life leads him down a dangerous path, one that puts him in direct conflict with his vocation. Can he salvage his failing vocation and repair his troubled soul? Can he find the strength to restore the spiritual meaning and substance that once guided him as a priest?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546240570

Richard Stickann

This is Richard Stickanns fourth book. His Catholic upbringing sparked the need to write novels that illustrate the impact religion has on people. His two previous novels - Glory Be To the Father, the Son... (2001), and Hobbledehoy Boy (2013) show how a strict religious upbringing can stunt the social growth of a person, particularly young boys. This book, Ugly Priest, looks at the other side of the religious spectrum , the priest, and the religious implications of a weak vocation and troubled soul. Stickann also published Ordinary People, Extraordinary Lives: The American Story, (2016) a historical account of a familys westward migration, coauthored with Catherine Reasor Stickann. Stickann lives with his wife in Missouri, where they raise alpacas and enjoy the tranquility of country life.

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© 2018 Richard Stickann. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/23/2018

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4058-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4056-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-4057-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018905296

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

To all priests who have struggled

Each priest is a man with a body of soft clay. To keep that treasure pure, he has to be stretched out on a cross of fire. Our fall can be greater than the fall of anyone else because of the height from which we tumble. Of all the bad men, bad religious men are the worst, because they were called to be closer to Christ. - Archbishop Fulton J. Sheen

CHAPTER

I

T HE POST-MEMORIAL DAY weather in St. Louis opened cool. Unseasonably chilly the newspapers called it. To him, nippy was a better word. So cool was it for the entire month of June that George Bernard was forced to wear a sweater whenever he ventured outside, particularly on those foggy predawn mornings when the chilled air compelled him to run to chapel. As usual, the chill didn’t last, and the city rapidly warmed up to its typical stifling character once Independence Day arrived.

His parents had called him on one of those cool days, misting and windy, the pasty clouds hurriedly rolling to the southeast. It was late afternoon and George sat in chapel, sharing it with a handful of other seminarians who, like him, needed the time to rid the mind of lapses in judgement that periodically dogged their souls. It was the feast of St. Norbert. He had just said a prayer to the good Saint as he did each afternoon to the saint celebrated on that day. As he finished the prayer he was reminded of his third-grade teacher at St. Michael’s - Sister Mary Norbert. He felt a small tremor in his gut when the good nun entered his thoughts. Then the tap on the shoulder and Father Burnside whispering against his cheek that his mother had called and wished a call back. George looked at the priest asking with his earnest gaze if the call was urgent. Father Burnside sensed the unspoken question, shrugged and walked toward the door. George hurriedly crossed himself, an act normally done with more reverence, exited the pew and genuflected. In quick time he headed to the lounge in the dormitory, picked up the receiver and dialed.

After the usual pleasantries and seminary related questions were offered and answered, his mother, Gena, announced with a vocal animation he had never associated with her, that she and his father were moving to Arizona near the end of the summer, just before Labor Day. It wasn’t a very timely call and certainly not favorable for him and his responsibilities at the seminary. Since when did his parents ever do anything in a timely manner?

His mother was excited about the move, and George permitted her the enthusiasm, even though much of what she had told him on the phone was jumbled. Her mental confusion always escalated when she was overwhelmed by excitement or sadness. After stammering and giggling for a couple minutes and making other sounds George connected with her enthusiasm, she handed the receiver to George’s father, Art. While just as excited, his enthusiasm was marginally more composed and he was able to explain some of the details of the move. Art was only three years from retirement when the company he worked for, a food manufacturing corporation, decided to move its corporate office from the cold winters and fickle summers of Chicago to the more accommodating climate of Phoenix. George was sure the move was more for financial reasons, but his father always simplified things. He didn’t think the company planned to take him along as old as he was – sixty-two – and there was a buyout involved, a hostile takeover George knew, and, as with any change of corporate ownership sometimes the employees of the company being bought don’t have much job security, especially the more expendable senior ones. When the buyout deal was announced, Art feared he would be discarded just three years from his pension. That would make a huge difference in income, he had complained at the time. It wouldn’t be the first time; he had seen others lose it all when on the brink of retirement. He was wrong. The company told him he was invaluable and he was going to Phoenix. He had repeated to his son several times how the company told him he was invaluable, as if the repetition cleared up any doubt he or his son may have had about his self worth. Since Art had planned to retire to Arizona anyway, the whole deal made him ecstatic. Now the company was paying for the move. Invaluable. Can you believe that? Art told his son as he ended the conversation. What a deal.

Somewhere within the chaotic call, George implied that time constraints at the seminary gave him little opportunity to come and see them before they left. The fervor of his parents diminished. Their enthusiasm abated, George promised his father he would find a way to see them before they moved. Being so close to ordination, he realized some persuasion was required and a few favors must be called in. In the end he was able to take a short leave from the seminary before the big move. In return, before he hung up the phone, he extracted a promise that they would not miss his ordination. Two years, he reminded them. No excuses. Not that they had missed important events when he was younger, but there had been some recent episodes when they had been remiss in remembering some significant events, like some birthdays and his graduation from college. They were late to the latter because his mother marked the wrong date on her calendar. He had said it all teasingly, but knew from experience they had developed that tendency to overlook or forget some things that others deemed important.

The seminary rector, Father McGreely, allowed only four days for the visit. So on July 10, the hottest day so far of the season, George went back to see his mother and father two months before their scheduled move date. He doubted there would be many times, if any at all, he would see them again before ordination.

It was dawn when he left the seminary to answer his mother’s call for a final visit before they left for Arizona. The sun never appeared, instead hiding behind compact gray clouds, as the bus left the depot, the sky darkening more as the bus moved north. The ride to Chicago from the seminary just outside St. Louis was about eight hours. The gloom allowed him to doze, thwarting the nausea he often experienced when confined in a rapidly moving vehicle. He had always had a problem with bus rides, his queasiness the result of misguidedly watching the landscape race past, forcing him to lean his head against the seat back concentrating on the deep in and rapid out of his breath, a method that staved off sickness. The deep breathing helped and he was able to relax for a short time, but the thunderstorm just north of Springfield, Illinois and traffic wedged in one lane from construction at Bloomington renewed the queasiness and restarted the deep breaths. Fortunately, the seat next to him was empty as was half the bus, giving him the opportunity to put his feet up, another tactic to settle his stomach. Once in Chicago he stopped at a café across from the bus station for a cup of coffee and a few moments to get his stomach back into shape before climbing into another vehicle. Once the relief he sought was achieved, he caught a cab to his parent’s house, grabbing a nap in the twenty minutes it took to get there.

He awoke when the taxi swerved abruptly toward the curb, the jarring motion causing him to bump his head lightly against the window. As he fished in his pocket for the fare, he surveyed the house in which he had grown up, the red brick and stone porch with the high walls he and his friends used as cover in the winter to assault city busses with snowballs; the attic windows facing the street where he sat for hours reading his comics, taking breaks to watch the cars pass, or the neighbors mowing or raking or performing a sundry of chores; his favorite was spying Mr. Leitner playing his accordion on his front porch, and Mrs. Leitner bringing him a cool lemonade or iced tea and placing a delicate kiss on the top of his bald head. He would sip his drink and return to his music, giving his wife a faint smile before she returned to the kitchen. For hours he played that instrument, lamenting his forced move to the United States from his native Austria before the outbreak of World War II. He turned and looked across the street at the Leitner home. They had died years ago, both in the same year and both in their nineties. He didn’t know who lived there now, but the building hadn’t changed.

The porch of George’s childhood home was lost in the glare of the sun, but he knew every red brick, which ones were loose, those he had pulled out and stuffed childhood treasures behind to retrieve later. He wondered if he had gotten them all and from the back seat he began to examine each brick to perhaps find one he missed. The driver’s reminder of the fare jolted him out of his daydream. As he handed over the money, he realized that the house would be sold and the thought distressed him.

Grabbing his valise, he opened the door and stepped out of the taxi. The front lawn slanted downward to the curb forcing him to firmly grab the arm rest and push for leverage to rise from the back seat. He closed the door and jumped away from the curb as the taxi sharply pulled away, showering his shoes with debris from the gutter. A giggle arose from the direction of the house. Looking up he noticed someone sitting on the top step of the porch, but the glare of midday sun prevented identification. As he neared he recognized the shape of the face, the tilt of the head, the long brown hair that always carried red highlights, and finally the scent, an unforgettable bouquet, etched in his mind, a haunting scent. Jennifer Roland. He was unable to tell if she was smiling or squinting, or both, so he squinted and smiled too. Moving closer he saw it was a smile.

Hi, Georgie, she said, followed by another giggle, this one more adolescent in tone. He started when he heard it; a familiar sound, one returning him to another time, an adolescent time, a singular time; like when she released that same titter under the viaduct so many years ago. He moved up the stairs and again became absorbed by the scent of her sweet cologne. Not too strong, but noticeable. Another memorable recollection. Hyacinths. It made him shut his eyes briefly and savor the scent. His first impression was of someone he recognized from years earlier, but different; the recollections that he savored over the years, but, my God, how she had changed since they were thirteen years old and the best of friends. It overwhelmed him.

When his foot hit the first step, his face conveyed a worried frown, an uneasiness brought on by where his thoughts were taking him. Like many times before, he found it effortless to recall the first time he really noticed her cologne. He and Jennifer were thirteen years old, and he was only a month away from leaving for the seminary. They ran into each other in the produce section at the A & P. Next to the tomatoes a smile filled her lips, a sensuous offering she had never made before, one that had him looking at the floor instead of where he wanted to look. They had been friends since kindergarten, and except for the one time they were forced to dance close at her cousin’s wedding, their relationship had always been affably conducted as friends; but the look she gave him in the A & P produce section, along with the smile, was more than he ever expected from her; it was attention-grabbing and it made him uncomfortable. With his index finger he unconsciously tapped a cucumber as he stammered to make conversation. After uttering a few absurdities, as a thirteen-year-old boy might do when accosted by a girl, even one of Jennifer’s status, he then made what would become a mistake of agreeing to walk with her on their way home. He never before gave it a second thought walking with her, but this time there was a feeling of trepidation that made him consider it an unwise move. He didn’t know why, at least while standing in produce he didn’t. His hand had moved to the zucchini, again tapping the vegetable in time to his tremors. When she asked him and he reluctantly muttered ‘yes,’ it was the only thing coming out of his mouth that sounded intelligent. He pushed the zucchini aside and followed her out of the store neglecting the small list his mother sent him to the store to fill.

Jennifer and he had gone through grade school together and were always good, and, in times of need, close friends. It never had been inferred by either that it was more than friendship directing their relationship, and George was comfortable with that. Halfway through their walk home, in the viaduct under the railroad tracks, his estimation of the bond they shared shattered. It was an instant transformation of Jennifer’s status from friend to vixen, almost as if she had an urgent need to wreak havoc on the mind and body of the budding priest.

Near the end of the viaduct, where the daylight drifted in and the dense layers of dampness floated out, Jennifer stopped. George didn’t notice until he was a dozen or so steps ahead of her and almost out of the viaduct. She called his name. He didn’t give much thought to her odd behavior, although she had been fidgety, quiet when usually talkative and avoiding eye contact with him since they left the A & P. Suddenly recalling the look she gave him at the store, the look that dangerously pleased and, at the same time, disturbed him, he hesitated, examining the graffiti packed walls instead of looking at the girl who was causing him so much trepidation. With an anxiety usually reserved for being sent to the principal’s office, he walked toward her. Before he was able to ask why she stopped, she grabbed his shoulders and kissed him, not gently, but with a frightening force that startled him and, most unnervingly, aroused him. Not like the principal’s office at all. Worse, much worse.

When she pulled away he remained frozen, arms pressed snugly against his body, knees slightly buckled, unable to dislodge the trauma preventing any movement. Eyes closed, cheeks clenched, his mind assessed the cause for this assault from this girl he thought he knew. An alarm buzzed in his head, waking him to the recognition of what just happened, an unexpected impulsive action, but even more bewildering the resulting physical excitement following her grasp, her kiss, her body next to his. It frightened him. He trembled. His head turned upward away from her face; he rigidly turned on his heels and walked away from her, toward the light, toward some place where he could find solace. He quickened his step as he exited the viaduct. He heard her hurried footsteps behind him and Jennifer caught up as they both entered the sunshine. She put her hand in his and again he trembled, quickly pulling away. Demurely, with smile subdued and eyes repentant, she told him she wanted to say goodbye before he left for the seminary. That was more than just a simple goodbye, he argued, but stopped when he could not think of how to proceed with an irritated line of reasoning. Instead, he stared straight ahead and walked steadily forward. Her action was one he couldn’t grasp. He didn’t understand, but said nothing more to her. They parted at the corner, her saying she hoped that they would always be friends but never apologizing, which he thought was required. He began to mouth a good bye and decided to just wave. After he was out of sight, he shook, all the way home, unable to stem the quaking.

For the next month up to the day he left for the seminary, their friendship remained fragile. George gave Jennifer an arm’s length, realizing how instantly she had ambushed him in the viaduct and how easy it would be for her to do it again. The incident was never repeated, and never broached, but whenever they were together the conversation was stilted.

In letters they exchanged as he progressed through the seminary, the incident had become implicitly banned from written communication. For him it was a matter of defense, actually survival, protecting his vocation from any misdirection that the episode in the viaduct might trigger; for her, she was too busy in high school and then college, and all the boyfriends he was sure she had, to give the incident’s recall any attention. Eventually, about a year ago, when she finished college and moved on, the letters stopped.

Hello, Jennifer, he said, and immediately followed with, You’ve changed. He examined her face and then added. Quite a bit. Then he frowned. She continued to smile. And by the way, don’t call me Georgie.

Don’t want me to say ‘Georgie Porgie, Puddin’ and Pie….’ He pursed his lips and shook his head. She stopped. Okay. I guess we’re a lot older now. Need to be mature. They both laughed. You look good, she told him.

Thanks. I added a little weight, he said, looking down and lightly patting his midsection. He felt a little awkward by her compliment but added, You too. He moved around her to go inside, but she didn’t follow. He turned. You’re not coming in?

She shook her head and offered him a funny look, like she wasn’t sure it was a good idea to be there at all. He cocked his head, signaling he didn’t understand. Your parents, she began and motioned toward the house with her head. They didn’t seem too keen on my being here.

He gave her a perplexed look. That couldn’t be true. They know we’ve been friends for a long time. Since we were kids, he added. He looked at the house, musing as to why Jennifer felt unwelcome. You probably just read them wrong. Come on. He motioned to her to follow him.

She rose, smoothing the front of her slacks and stealthily wiping her rear end of anything it might have collected from the concrete. Maybe you’re right. After all, it was your mother who told me you were coming home when I saw her at the grocery store last Tuesday. She thought maybe she had misspoken since he hadn’t lived here for a long time. Coming to visit, she corrected. Still, she added. You becoming a priest and all. Maybe they don’t think you should be seen with a woman, especially one as attractive as me. She laughed as much out of good-humor as out of embarrassment for what she had said. She nervously checked her pants for wrinkles.

She was right on both counts. His parents were protective of his vocation, and she was very attractive. Maybe you are a little scared to be seen with an attractive upcoming priest, he countered. She made a wry face. He aped her look and they laughed.

She stayed for thirty minutes, laughing uncomfortably, enough that she felt it was noticeable, speaking uneasily with the few words she uttered, listening awkwardly to the conversation between parents and son, ruing that she even came. When George’s mother served cake, Jennifer declined, vaguely explaining she had an appointment. George walked her to the sidewalk where they continued their reminiscences about the old days. Not so old in time really, but in physical and emotional changes both of them had undergone.

She got in her car and he shut the door for her. He was here for four days, he told her. And as much as he loved his parents, he knew somewhere during that time period he’d have to get away from their smothering, especially his mother. They could meet, have coffee, maybe dinner. She looked unsure of his suggestion. He saw her hesitation and told her, You know, I don’t have priest engraved in my forehead. People aren’t going to stare. She gave him her phone number. He promised to call her as soon as he felt the need. And that might be, he laughed, sooner rather than later I suspect.

It was sooner, that evening in fact. He covertly called Jennifer while his mother was at the store and his father napped in his recliner, and asked if she wanted to have a drink somewhere, a coffee shop down near the A and P, or a bar if she was so inclined. She chose the coffee shop and he was glad she did. Over three cups of coffee each and a cherry Danish they shared, they talked about the neighborhood and the special friendship they had as children. Neither remembered how they met. Their respective families moved into the neighborhood bordering the far south side of the city when the two of them were three years old. Since their mothers had become friends almost immediately and their homes were less than a block apart, they surmised their friendship began the same time. The earliest memory for both was when she broke her leg soon after starting kindergarten at the public school over on Clyde Avenue. He attended the Catholic school a mile from his home. In the afternoons after school let out and on weekends he came by and they played with her toys in her living room while she recuperated. He even played Barbie dolls with her because… well he didn’t know why. Probably because I was such a nice kid and you looked so miserable with that huge cast on your leg.

They recalled friends they shared and remembered two who had since died, both from car accidents. They were quiet for a moment while each memorialized their departed friends. George said a silent prayer. Several of their childhood friends were married, two because of surprise pregnancies. The rest were single and most were healthy, the best they knew. None of the others were in the seminary, she declared. That’s a good thing? he asked her mockingly.

She gave a retiring smile. Sorry, she said. Didn’t mean anything by it. Just an observation. He easily dismissed her unease.

Silence took over and they stared at their coffee cups. She stared out the window at the traffic and he stared at her. He again thought about the afternoon under the viaduct thirteen years earlier. He figured she did too. But nothing was said. Although for both of them, when they saw each other for the first time after so many years, he exiting the taxi and she sitting retiringly on the top step, it easily reappeared in their thoughts because it had been there, stowed away since it happened.

He wanted to keep it that way, but contrary to what he wanted, all the time they sipped coffee and he talked about the past and she responded and back and forth, she was eager to bring up the subject. She suspected he did not want to relive it. For the time being she let it alone.

They met for coffee the next two nights and on the third night she no longer was able to keep it to herself. They had exhausted the past and he gave her a rundown of his up to now unexciting history at the seminary. Likewise, she shared her meager relationship history, then they sat for a few moments contemplating what had been said in the previous hour and what was left to be said before he returned to the seminary the next day. Then she said, Remember the viaduct? His face reddened, the heat of embarrassment building in his cheeks. She smiled at his reaction. June 12. It was a Saturday. Kind of muggy for early spring. It had rained the night before and the air, particularly in the viaduct, was thick and musty

You remember the date? he asked skeptically. And the weather?

She nodded. Yes, she was pretty sure about the date. And the weather, although she admitted it may have rained the morning before and not the night. You, know, it has been twelve years. But I am pretty sure.

Pretty sure is not for sure. He said. Pretty sure means you…

She interrupted. Do you remember it?

He turned his head to the side, looking at the coffee bar instead of at her. Yes, he said meekly. But the viaducts are always thick and musty.

She giggled and then her look turned earnest. I remember it like it was yesterday. she