Shades of Truth

By Douglas J. Freeman, Ph.D.

Father Ernesto, a quirky, not-quite celibate priest, loses his way.  His rebirth is packed with surprise as he uncovers the complicated secrets he has created. 

 

On its face, Shades of Truth is a love story in which transformative kindness trumps all else, a tale of love, loss and redemption with an unexpected and fulfilling ending.  From a more penetrating perspective, the book reflects the universal struggle with the issues of truth, reality and meaning.

 

Set in Charleston, South Carolina and the Isle of Capri, Shades of Truth is crafted as a thought-provoking story, ideal for book club presentations.

 

The author is a retired career clinical psychologist living in Charleston.  This is his debut novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Live Oak Press
• Release date: Jun 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223974994

Douglas J. Freeman, Ph.D.

Writing this book has been an adventure, attempting to find a home for it within the publishing world a challenge.  After much reflection, I decided to self-publish.  Hopefully, the reader will find enjoyment and meaning.  In our time, the issues related to truth have been brought into question and confusion.  This is so in several critical spheres of influence, including social, empirical and religious.  Who "owns" Truth?  Who "owns" truth?  Truth (or truth) is formed by multiple forces.  Deeper Truths are shaped over the millenia by individuals who populate the fields of literature, philosophy and religion.  Empirical truth is discovered through the rigors of scientific method.  In our time, we are perpetually blasted by media proclaiming truth, leaving us confused and conflicted. I acknowledge voices from the past who have influenced my present.  My earnest mother Margaret who pressed my finest clothes every Saturday night so I would look my best in Sunday school.  My capable brother Dennis whose path I followed until I found my own.   I acknowledge voices for the future on whom my experiments with parenting and grandparenting are ongoing and imperfect: Emily, Michael, and Gordon, followed by Graham, Lucy, Lily and Grace.   I am a debut author.  Thanks for the support and countless suggestions of my Daniel Island (South Carolina) Writer's Group.  Thanks for the critical feedback of Beta Readers: Emily Guerrero, John and Kate Worm, Lynn Carlton and Rebo Reeves, Robert Renly Morris and Greg Sherry. Questions for Reading Groups 1. What is the definition of a Universal Truth?  What is the definition of truth? 2. How has religion obscured the meaning of Truth (truth) in the past 150 years?  Conversely, how has religion informed the meaning of Truth (truth) in the past 150 years?  How has science defined truth in the past 150 years?  How might the meaning of Truth (or truth) be altered by the forces of religion, science and politics in the next century? 3. How many ways are truth (or Truth) represented in this story? 4.  How do each of the characters express their particular understanding of Truth (truth)?

Book preview

Prologue

When the swirling currents of intolerable pain finally overwhelmed me, I was unable to distinguish reality from fantasy.  Consumed by the darkness of my confusion, I was alone.  I was broken.

Upon awakening, I discovered myself in the charming and unique city of Charleston, South Carolina.  Charlestonians of character and substance recognized my brokenness and administered their various forms of amelioration, all with gentle kindness, an essential antidote for my condition.  My doctor, my therapist, my mentor, my son and his girlfriend, and my best friend, you will understand my gratefulness to each of them as you digest my story.

The irony of location is not lost upon me.  Here I was, a priest in crisis, stumbling through the cobble stone streets of the Holy City, in which it is difficult to find a view without a soaring steeple topped off with a prominent cross.  This pre-eminent symbol, the intersection of the horizontal with the vertical, of the earthly with the heavenly, announces humankind’s archival search for connection. 

Images of new life abound within this remarkable and unique American city, with sweet fragrance emanating from the vining blossoms on the walls and gates of homes near the Battery as well as the rich aroma of plough mud in the lowcountry nurseries of ocean life.  And, of course, there are the peals of the venerable steeples, calling the faithful to estimate the inestimable.

The grand luck of my transformation was co-birthed on the magnificent Isle of Capri, perhaps the most stunning outcropping of seacoast anywhere on our third rock from the sun.  The glory of this Italian getaway is other worldly.  It is the home of some very remarkable people, as my story will attest.

Capri is where I encountered love which has no edge, no boundary.  A love of place, or person, of happenstance such as I am living, I would never have imagined as possible.  As the lotus bloom emerges from the creative mud surrounding it, mine is a story of love emerging from the unexpected.  I am grateful to have the opportunity to share it with you.

Oh yes, one other thing, I bow to the Egyptian Queen Cleopatra, the historic namesake of two women I have loved.  Both had brilliant blue eyes just as the Queen herself.  Both opened me to wholly new experiences, richness I could never have found alone.  Yet, just as a tossed coin is ordered with a heads and a tails, relations with my Cleo’s left me waiting and wondering, spinning with uncertainty until the dust finally settled.

And so, as my story begins, I am locked deep within myself.  It is a dark and dismal weekend in January.

Ernesto

Part One

Friday Night

I slowly turn my head and stare out the window. The dwindling afternoon daylight dazzles the neighboring building with orange-yellow radiance.  The bottlebrush bush bends to the breeze, tickling the window near my chair.  This day crawls toward extinction. 

Silence has cradled me for several days, engulfing me in its timeless ether.  The utter emptiness of my mind bulges with boring monotony.  Another weekend is here. Renfro, my nosy upstairs neighbor, will soon interrupt my time of seclusion.  He always does.  He will pick at me and probe me with his relentless questioning.

The well-worn chair presses against my back, my bottom, my legs. Darkening shadows creep across the room, obscuring detail and blurring time.  Loneliness swallows me. 

I turn on the TV.  An oval-shaped madam is cooking something, nattering as she stirs. Next, a weight loss commercial, then one for back pain medicine.  I arrive at an infomercial for undeserved happiness of some kind or another.  Finally, I land on CNN, home of those tireless peacocks, talking heads who rant about something they believe may have happened somehow, sometime, somewhere.

Max meows. I push out of the chair to feed him. He lunges for his food, looks up, crunches with concentration, ignores me as I stroke his back.  Max is my third black and white cat and closest friend.  We have lived in tandem for six years.

There was a cat when I was a child. Her name was Mrs. Smith. She was disinterested in cuddling.  She was alert to vermin.  Fierce, as quick as lightning, a huntress, she caught large mice.  They may have been rats.

Then there was Sam. Oh, how I loved Sam.  He was also salt and pepper suave.  A hit and run driver crushed him. Gone.  Quickly.  Traumatically.

I’m protective of Max.  He lives indoors.

I click off the TV. It is a relief to extinguish the sound of another Breaking News with Wolf Blitzer. I have nothing against Wolf.  He's probably a good guy who takes very good care of his cat.  But I bet his poor cat becomes annoyed by his voice, always having to endure endless descriptions of cat food or whatever. How can these TV people talk endlessly about what may have happened days ago?

I sink back into my chair and fall asleep.  A familiar dream comes. I am engulfed by a wave of gooey oil oozing from a dark hole in the ground. In panic, I look around to see the entire world is blanketed in black, erasing the buildings and the pastures and the garbage dumps.  I wake enough to stop the dream, but not enough to get up.  I fall asleep again, with Max purring in my lap.

The doorbell rings. It is dark in the room. I rouse, but I don’t move.  I wait in the chair, hoping whoever it is will go away.  There is knocking, too. I brush Max off my lap and slouch my way to see who is there. I turn on a light and open the door, squinting in the brightness as the bulb in the hallway fixture assaults me.  My eyes struggle to focus.

It is Renfro, my neighbor above. The Friday night routine begins.  I met him a few months ago when I was moving in.  He hasn’t left me alone since.  Perhaps he cannot leave me alone.

He bursts into a word salad about God-knows-what before I hear him say It’s the weekend.  I’m going to Bentley’s for a beer. Do you want to go?  Come on, let’s go.

I’ve learned to agree with him to avoid further hammering. Sure, I guess.  Give me a minute. I close the door and retreat to the bathroom. I look in the mirror and notice I am unchanged—no better, no worse, the same. I open the front door again and Renfro is still there. Let’s go, he says buoyantly.  He’s ready for a beer.

I follow him down the staircase, studying the top of his rounded head as we go. It looks like a slab of bologna, with a few red scabby spots in the meat. His hair, what remains of it, needs trimming.  Washing it would help.

He is the first human contact I have had in four days.  It takes me a while to get adjusted to hearing and speaking again, especially with Renfro.  He talks endlessly.

He turns to face me on the stairs and starts with a question.  What have you been doing this week, Ernie?  His typical approach is to pry for every detail.  I see him as an information junkie.  He says he’s just a person who likes to know what’s going on. 

Nothing much is my attempt to quiet him.  It fails. 

What do you mean, nothing much? 

What’s not clear about nothing much? I retort. Another flight of stairs passes and we reach the landing, I risk I haven’t been out all week.

Jesus, why not?

Irritation boils within me.  I don’t want to hear that name. I don’t want other people mentioning it. I’m so tired of everything about that name.  

I didn’t have a reason to, I guess, I snort back at him.

Well, I’m worried about you, Ernie.  You never seem to do anything, except sit in your apartment all day.  I couldn’t stand to live like that.

Don’t bother worrying about me, I respond.

As we exit the apartment building, I pause to scan for any potential trouble. I listen for the bells of St. Michael’s, or St. Alban’s. Thankfully, no bells are ringing tonight. Charleston is quiet.  We walk on to Bentley’s Pub.

The darkness of the night unnerves me.  I’d rather stay home and cocoon with Max.  I don’t go out unless I have an important errand, like when I need to grocery shop or pay my rent.  Or if there is something critical, like to go to the hospital.  But I don’t know anyone in the hospital, so I won’t go out for that, either.

Street lights glare at us.  As we cross King Street, cars speed by.  Chattering people hurry to dinner. Every element of the ruckus invades and abuses me. It’s too much.  My nerves are jangled.

A beer will be good.  Very good.  Thankfully, it’s a short walk to Bentley’s. I would prefer we get a quiet table in a corner, but no, Renfro will want to sit at the bar. He always wants to be in the heart of the action, visible to all.  Oh well.

We round the corner, where the sidewalk has been lifted by the slow, but steady root growth of a tall oak. I step carefully, fearful I may trip on the protrusions. Renfro is two steps ahead of me, walking speedily.  He bursts through the door to Bentley’s.  I limp along behind into the dank darkness. My eyes blink several times, adjusting to the change.

Renfro slices through the stale air, parading to his place of prominence at the bar, avoiding misplaced stools and random chairs clogging the path.  He perches on his stool, his throne. I follow to the stool on his left. I brush my hands over the shiny, laminated surface of the bar.  He shouts, Two beers here. The barkeep hollers back, Comin’ up, Ren.  I rivet my eyes to the rows of mirrored liquor bottles behind the bar, focusing my attention straight ahead, away from the noise, from the people.

Renfro talks to the man on his right. He chatters to the bartender. He shouts to a couple at the far end of the bar. I sit still. I drink my first beer, then my second, in silence. When I come back from the bathroom, he has my third brown bottle in place, the final triumvirate soldier. He’s watching for me, ready to pounce. Here comes the inquisition.

So, Father, are you ready to go back to work yet?  It’s been a couple months, right? He is so direct, too direct.  In truth, he is annoying.

Don’t call me Father. I actually like him to call me Father, but I’m not certain what it means to me anymore. Nothing about being a Father makes much sense.  Call me by my name, Ernesto. Ernie, if you want.

Ok, Ernie. Are you feeling ready to go back?

I doubt I will ever return.  I'm trying to go forward, but I'm not sure which direction that is.  So, to answer your question, no, I don’t see myself as ready to go back. I have too much uncertainty about the certainties.  Lately, I’ve been quietly pondering the phrase ‘uncertainty about the certainties,’ and now I’ve said it out loud. I don’t like it as much when I hear it.

It’s a job, Ernie. It’s only a job.  Don’t take it so seriously. 

Oh, to be more like Renfro.  I wish a few more beers would get me there, but they won't.

You’ll never understand, Renfro. It’s all such a mess.

Come on, Ernie. You smart guys always make it too hard.

I laugh, a little, then pull back. You’re right, but there’s a lot of time on the meter. There’s been a lot of smart guys and a lot of years. 

What meter? Like what do you mean? 

There are centuries of history before me. I’m a meaningless blip in a very long story. Who am I to question things? I raise my bottle and take a long pull on my third soldier, wipe my mouth on my sleeve, set him down.

Renfro looks at me deliberately, and says, God is God. Love is love. Shit is shit. Keep it simple, Ernie.  You think too much.  Besides, man, I’m worried about you.

I should let it go. He’s right. But, of course, I can never let it go. Renfro shifts attention to his right again. I turn down my thoughts, extinguish my pain and hope for escape. I focus on the third soldier.

After finishing my beer, I leave Bentley’s and head home alone. It is four blocks to my apartment. I cross King Street and look past the crowds streaming out of restaurants.  There is a jumble of conversation among them.  I pay them no attention.  They reciprocate.

The street lanterns on King shine with muted light.  The beers have reduced their glare.  As I round a corner, it becomes darker.  There is a trio of homeless persons sitting against the wall of the building. One of them holds a hat toward me, asking for money.  I walk on by, acting as if they are Kitty Genovese. They are victims of a murderous society.  I notice them, though I do not acknowledge them.

As I walk on, my thoughts turn on the homeless persons.  There are winners and losers in life, until everyone turns up as a loser. Winners celebrate their temporary delusion. Losers are the realists.

I make it to my apartment without hearing the dreaded Charleston church bells. Max meets me at the door and rubs against my leg, his tail erect. I turn on the light and he meows. I stare at the room. It is bare, even austere, reminiscent of all my former living spaces, brimming with emptiness. 

Once inside, I breathe more deeply.  I’m relieved, protected, the door latched tightly.  Going out with Renfro is always burdensome, but the beers are good.  I sit for a while, then I get up and pace the room.  I stare in the refrigerator. Nothing looks good.  I’m not hungry. I don’t know the time, but it’s getting late.  I sit down again.

I fancy the phone ringing. It must be Cleo. I answer with the deep voice I know she likes. Hallo, I say.

Oh, my darling, she trills in her mezzo soprano, with the Italian accent. I have missed you. The children are in bed and I want to talk. Have you had a good day? 

I lean back and we have a long conversation. Cleo is an absolute comfort to me. She is my ever-present joy. Whenever we talk, I am renewed, suffused with satisfaction and peace. I revel in every detail of her life and the stories of our children.

When she yawns and says she must sleep now, I bid her a good night and put down the phone. I lean back, put my feet up and join my thoughts.

**********

Cleo is my love.  She lives with our children on the Isle of Capri, thriving within an idyllic casa.  They reside behind a shiny, white door, in a small, two-story apartment, on a winding passageway, three hundred meters or so from San Emilia Catholic Church.  We first met when I was a young theology student, visiting San Emilia.  The church will forever be a place of deep meaning for us. 

My dear bride works as a housekeeper while the children are in school.  The remainder of time she is a loving mother. There are four in our brood, ranging in age from 6-12. They are beautiful like their mother and perpetually inquisitive. We both adore them.

We were enchanted young lovers, sensing passion from the earliest moment. I was a visitor to the Isle of Capri, she was a tour guide. When our eyes locked, we instantly felt the attraction, the immediate essence of freedom and joy. Since that initial encounter so many years ago, our relationship has been in continuous blossom.  Our life together stretches the boundaries of imagination. It is communion at its fullest.

Sometimes, we meet for pizza at our favorite trattoria.  I secure the table and wait for her. She comes dressed in a tight skirt and loose sweater. She has beautiful long legs and no stockings. Everyone in the restaurant notices her as she strolls in.  She sits by me and pushes her leg next to mine. She always orders a whole pizza and she always eats the entire pie. I don’t understand how she keeps her trim figure, but she does. 

At dinner, I say, Tell me about the children, mia cara, and she responds, with immense pride.

The oldest is doing well and he loves you so much. His teachers are proud of him and they say he will go far. The youngest is learning to read now and can sit and concentrate for a half hour or more. She will usually entertain herself and she falls asleep on her own. She always asks when you will be there to kiss her good night. I tell her soon and she raises her eyebrows and nods a salute to you. And the two noodles in the middle, they are like glue with each other.  They love the outdoors, riding their bikes and kicking the football down the streets.  They are expert at maddening the neighbors and the old ladies who are trying to find their way to the shops.

Thank you, mia cara, I say.  She smiles with delight.  I am content to gaze into her deep blue eyes.  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice other customers in the restaurant watching us, watching her. I brim with pride at the recognition she loves me and only me.

After dinner, we amble up the narrow pathways to our abode. It is a small, compact space, two thin levels.  We carefully open the door and whisper our thanks to the neighbor who has stayed with our children.

The children are asleep. Cleo takes my hand and leads me into our intimate chamber.  Her perfumed fragrance mixes with island breezes spiriting their way through the open windows. She awakens my body with kisses and caresses. Our lovemaking is perfect.  After, we are both spent and fall into a deep sleep wrapped in each other’s arms.  

In the morning, we savor our coffee on the terrazzo as the children awake.  The warmth of the morning sun is calming and the air freshening.  It is Saturday.  There is no school today. It is the day of our chores. We shop and clean and do laundry. We laugh and smile and tease.   The children frolic around us, reveling in our obvious delight with each other.

In the afternoon, I lie down to nap with the youngest. The sea breeze through the curtained window is light and gentle, issuing scents of freshly invigorated life. Small trucks lumber up the hills on the narrow passageway outside the window.

The sweet girl falls asleep on my arm.  Her mouth wets my skin, her cheek is warm, and her hair falls over the side of her ear. She clutches her doll near her chest.  She is so dear to me. I gently lay her head on her pillow and allow sleep to capture me.

Darling, Cleo whispers in my ear. She wants to lie next to me. I roll over and make room for her and she nuzzles in. Her hair smells like lemons made sweet by the sun. Her hand falls limp on my chest.  Soon, she is drowsing.

In no time, we hear the other children playing.  We stir from our reverie, wiping the sleep from our eyes.  It is time to move on with our chores. I fix a window, she cleans a bathroom. I make some pasta, she mends a shirt. I straighten the bedrooms, she takes some figs to a neighbor. I feed the pets, she prepares a tomato sauce. A closely-metered rhythm between us and tempus fugit, as they say.

The children speed through their dinner. Cleo and I linger over our Chianti. Tomorrow, we will go to mass in the early hour and then we will take the boat out, she says. I nod agreement, thinking about the fish we will catch for dinner.

It has been a day replete with simple wonders, as they all are with Cleo. Our synchronicity trumps all life’s complex troubles and ordinary concerns. The gathering evening delivers our children to their baths and their beds. Cleo and I welcome slumber, together.

**********

Renfro slams the door above me.  He is home from Bentley’s.  The floor creaks with his clomping footsteps.  He is noisy, always, and annoying, usually

It is late. I stir in my chair.  Max jumps to the floor, stretching his back. 

I met Renfro on the first day I moved to Charleston, three months ago. He was at my door before I slept a single night in my apartment. When I opened it, I found myself staring at an unusually odd and peculiar-looking man. He saw my collar before I stopped wearing it.

His voice foretold insistence, urgency. Renfro here.  Are you a priest? He was direct, too direct. My legs went weak. I grabbed the door frame for support.

I was, not sure about now. I’m Ernesto, how do you do? I tried to initiate a correct introduction, but I was too stiff, too formal.

Need some help? Looks like you have a bit of a mess here, Ernesto.  Just moving in, are you? 

I have it under control. I wanted him to disappear. I tried to squeeze the door shut, but his hand was in the way. He was oblivious to my cues.

He pushed the door open and looked past my shoulder. He saw some of the furniture arranged by the window. Mind if I come in? Of course, he didn’t wait for an answer. Stunned, I watched him speed across the room.  He plopped himself into one of the chairs in two seconds flat.

I closed the door and reattached the chain.  Before I turned toward him, he was already talking.

I’m your neighbor above. I thought we should get to know each other in case we need to borrow something or other. Renfro was in his fifties, I would guess fifty-five. He was a bit overweight, dressed in blue jeans and a ratty sweatshirt.  He had a ruddy complexion and he was balding.  There was neither hesitation nor sensitivity in his unfiltered speech.  I immediately assessed him to be incapable of dishonesty. I fell into trusting his truthfulness from then on.

I sat near the window and he turned in his chair to face me. Where did you move from, Ernesto?

I didn’t think it would hurt if I told him, though I didn’t