These Thy Gifts

By Vincent Panettiere

Be taken on a journey with Father Steven Trimboli in this powerful novel, These Thy Gifts. Follow him through 50 years of his life as a priest--from a storefront church in Brooklyn to the dangers in Vietnam and beyond. With Father Trimboli's refreshing mix of determination and spirituality, readers will be inspired by his tenacious fight for justice, faithfulness, and standing up for the oppressed.

Shed light on the complex struggles facing Catholics today in this timely story from Father Trimboli's unique perspective as an Army Chaplain and pastor. With gripping drama against a vivid backdrop of Brooklyn block parties and treacherous jungles of Vietnam, These Thy Gifts is sure to captivate your attention. On this remarkable journey, find out firsthand how one man comes to terms with seemingly insurmountable injustices during his courageous career as a peacemaker during turbulent times.

You won't want to miss this unforgettable experience with Father Steven Trimboli courageously revealing what it means to have faith even when confronted with the darkest secrets lurking behind closed doors, secrets that bring him face-to-face with the devastating truth of sexual abuse robbing the innocence of children by those whom they trust most—the church.

Join Father Trimboli and enter a world where faith can still be found among the pain and suffering caused by human atrocities with this dramatic novel These Thy Gifts—a powerful testament to resilience in love that goes beyond religion and glory days loyally living up to its own mission: To Serve The Lord!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667892047

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These Thy Gifts

© 2023 Vincent Panettiere

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Vincent Panettiere

1841 N. Fuller Ave.

Los Angeles, CA 90046

[e-mail]

323-876-5984

ISBN 978-1-66789-203-0

eBook ISBN 978-1-66789-204-7

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I am grateful to Joan Howlett, Walter Queren, and Lynn Smith for their encouragement and support as well as for reading every chapter as the story evolved. They believed when I floundered.

I was indeed very fortunate to have Susan Hughes edit These Thy Gifts with patience and precision. Her pursuit of excellence improved the text and helped the book grow.

Most especially I am grateful to my wife, Penny, for her love and support, enabling me to pursue my dreams—many of which have yet to be fulfilled or imagined.

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

CHAPTER ONE

2006

THE BEGINNING OF THE END

Years of celibacy had caused Monsignor Steven Trimboli, the new pastor of Queen of Peace, to get a grip on his physical impulses, allowing his intellect to flow freely. Perhaps that’s what they meant in the seminary about controlling the energy of the flesh in order to expand the mind. Approaching his seventieth year, he refused to accept that facile explanation as an epiphany. The unused energy of his flesh had become the fuel propelling his mind to create doubts and questions. These were more of a danger and distraction to the body of the church than an epidemic of onanism among priests and parishioners combined could ever be.

His dominant question was also his dominant doubt. That was not the best example of an Aristotelian or Thomistic thesis, but it was all he had and it pecked away at his thoughts.

In the era of child-abusing priests, he wondered, could a priest or parishioner consider himself both an intelligent and a practicing Catholic? The first time he was exposed to the concept he scoffed, because it emanated from one of the typical array of talking heads perched on some cable news show. One guest, a woman who was prearranged to be the obligatory defender of Catholicism—thereby making the debate both fair and balanced—averred that she was both intelligent and a practicing Catholic. At the time it meant little to him. It was just another example of rationalized babble which spread across the small screen like a plague of locusts devouring and obscuring more fertile discourse.

Later that evening he nursed a brandy and smoked a cigar. They were gifts he’d received from parishioners when he was promoted to monsignor and given his new assignment to Queen of Peace. Amidst the comforting blue haze, the woman’s words buzzed through his head again: I’m intelligent and a practicing Catholic.

"Holy shit! he said before the self-censor could react. What a pile of baloney!"

Were they compatible concepts, intelligence and piety? Were they mutually exclusive? What mattered to him was that distortions and aberrations could not be tolerated on an intellectual level. Nor could they be purified, absolved, or excused by the practice of any faith, whatever the faith or rationalization or mysteries couched as faith.

The scandal of child abuse, he was convinced to the marrow of his bones, if not his soul, was the result of a continuous practice by the institution in which he’d devoted his entire life. It had been ignored yet tolerated, albeit with a wink and a nod. For a moment he wasn’t sure if he meant child abuse or his clerical career. To be sure, he could recall in that moment the many times he felt higher-ups had ignored and patronized him.

Morning brought a surge of adrenalin which he defused by rearranging his bookshelf for the fourth time in twenty minutes. He understood the jolt of energy was not from nerves or fear. It was the excitement a boxer might experience before entering the ring.

The doorbell rang. Let’s get it on, the internal electricity said.

Now he was in the thick of it almost one year after being rewarded with his own parish. He’d been an official, card-carrying priest for more than five decades, and now, as he neared retirement or death, the hierarchy of the diocese decided he was worthy of elevation to a higher rank—from private to corporal. Oh, but he must not commit the sin of pride. Questioning those who were raised up to superior positions before and over him must be accepted as God’s will. Of that he’d had years of training by word and example, particularly when an example was made of him in the early years of his priesthood.

Still, he now had a new parish in an old, but fiercely well-maintained Brooklyn neighborhood. He hoped for a few years of tranquility so that he might retire or die from the parish, one of many in which he’d served. That was before the scandal. The doorbell rang again, disrupting his musings.

Escorting the TV reporter and his two-person crew—camerawoman and soundman—down the corridor to his office, he paid scant attention to the pictures of previous pastors that lined the walls. Only one, that of the so-called pastor emeritus Monsignor Barillo, recently deceased, held his gaze for mere seconds.

He pointed out the framed photo of his longtime, corpulent nemesis. Our late-lamented Monsignor Barillo, he said to the young reporter who nodded without interest. Dead at long last, he wanted to add but felt it might convey the wrong impression.

Trimboli sat behind his desk to not hinder the crew setting up the camera tripod and fill lights. They checked light and sound levels while the reporter quickly leafed through his notebook.

In the last few days, he’d often asked himself if he had a choice. He was not trying to wriggle off the hook, but only reaffirming his actions, taking his moral temperature, consulting his moral compass, and all the other clichés which satisfied his conscience. At every turn he knew and was deeply convinced he’d made the only choice.

Excuse me, Father, the young TV reporter intruded.

Monsignor.

I’m sorry.

Trimboli was sorry too. He didn’t like to embarrass anyone. But he didn’t want this young kid to get his title wrong and be considered a sloppy, incompetent reporter.

Just for accuracy’s sake. I’m not into titles. Understand?

Sure, sure. My mistake. No problem.

The kid fell all over himself, and Trimboli knew he was probably a non-Catholic trying to show reverence and respect to the representative of a mysterious and unfathomable religion.

We’re ready for you now, the reporter said.

Trimboli looked into the glare of lights and blinked to adjust his vision.

Do you want me to look in any particular direction? he asked, hoping the answer would let him know which side of his profile was most photogenic. He suppressed the burp of a laugh and replaced it with an enigmatic smile. Admitting to such a small degree of vanity would never register on his personal sin-o-meter.

Straight ahead is fine.

We’ve got speed, the camerawoman told the reporter. Five, four, three, two, one. . ..

Trimboli watched as her countdown ended, and she wagged one finger in front of the camera to cue the reporter. A red light on the camera drew Trimboli’s focus before he heard the reporter.

Monsignor Trimboli, many demonstrators are protesting on the sidewalks in front of your church, Queen of Peace, and at your office here in the rectory as we speak. Can you tell me and our viewers why they are demonstrating?

From what I can conclude, they seem to be upset that a former priest in this parish has been removed from his pastoral duties, Trimboli replied without a hint of subtext.

You are referring to Father Dan Schaefer?

Trimboli nodded, not wanting the name to pass his lips. The reporter persisted. Exactly what does that mean?

It means he no longer has any duties in this parish and cannot function as a priest—saying Mass, giving the sacraments—until the charges brought against him, very serious charges, I might add, have been settled.

Is it correct that you brought those charges to officials in the diocese? the reporter asked.

His tone continues to slide over to the deferential side of the scale, Trimboli thought.

I did.

The reporter struggled to frame his next question, mindful that the camera was running. Only Trimboli’s motionless face was being recorded on tape. Moisture started to form under the last follicle on the nape of the reporter’s neck. If he focused hard enough he could actually feel the formation of the first bead of sweat—flop sweat, the more experienced reporters called it—just before it began its journey along the ridges of his spine to the bottom of his coccyx where it would drop into his Fruit of the Looms. At last he found a direct but inoffensive approach.

What caused you to take that action?

Improprieties.

Which were. . .? The reporter snapped off the return question. He’d regained his composure and was now in command.

Now Trimboli felt moisture on the nape of his neck. A fifty-year-old memory returned as he recalled the nervous perspiration he’d felt when Rosalie picked him up at the train station. Best not to linger on that memory and all it would regurgitate. His forefinger circling under his white clerical collar caused his focus to change. This was not a delicate age, he thought. No reason to equivocate.

Last Sunday, that priest celebrated the last Mass of the day. It started at twelve fifteen, and whoever says that Mass usually returns for Sunday dinner by two. When he had not returned by two thirty, I could no longer resist the stares of Bridie. . . her name is Bridget, but we call her Bridie with affection. She’s our cook and housekeeper. Bridie was convinced he was either dead or had vanished in a UFO. Worst of all, she was concerned the delay had turned her pot roast into a coagulated glob of—

Yes, but—

The reporter was aware of the time and needed to get a sound bite back to the station for their Live-At-Noon news broadcast. Trimboli put up his hand to stop the reporter; it was only a few frames and could be edited out.

You want me to tell you? Don’t interrupt, Trimboli commanded. That too would be excised.

I went over to the church, Trimboli continued, "entering by the side door nearest the rectory. There’s a room called the vestry where we put on our vestments before Mass. I found the door closed but heard muffled sounds from within and then what seemed like a groan of pain. I thought perhaps he’d had a heart attack or had fallen. Was he dazed? All manner of distress entered my mind instantaneously. But I could not know for certain what to think. I quickly opened the door to find him standing over one of our altar boys. I will not give his name. The boy was on his knees. Naked. Semen dripped from the boy’s lips and chin. The older man’s penis was exposed and semirigid. The boy started to shake when he saw me. He started to cry and then urinated uncontrollably before kneeling in his urine.

"I brought him up on charges because I saw him conclude an act of fellatio or sodomy on a minor in the sanctity of our church. To be absolutely sure that I am making my point clear, and at the risk of being indelicate, I saw an underage boy had been forced to have oral sex with an older man—suck the penis of an older man. He saw the reporter grimace at the description but didn’t care. I could not abide it. He, and I call him he throughout the interview because his name will never cross my lips, he does not deserve to be a priest. He has committed a crime and a sin in God’s house. Those were the improprieties. Such a delicate word for such a vile act. That is why I took action."

When the camera lights were shut off, he saw the reporter’s ashen face. Get what you wanted? Trimboli asked without a trace of sarcasm or malice.

You bet, the reporter answered. Trimboli thought he detected a slight quaver in the voice of the younger man.

Trimboli was surprised that answering a few questions could have sapped his strength. By the time the reporter and his crew had packed their equipment and left, more than half his day, which began at four thirty in the morning, was gone. Moments after he was finally alone in his office, Bridie entered carrying a tray bearing his lunch—a tuna sandwich and mug of tea.

Trimboli rubbed his eyes and stretched his back trying to restore some vigor. Thank you, Bridie, he said as she situated the tray on his desk. Usually she entered bringing both the tray and a murmur of the latest tune she recalled from the big band radio station that continuously played in the kitchen. Today she was silent but remained fixed a few steps beyond his desk.

Bless us, O Lord, and these thy gifts which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord, Amen, he prayed. Lifting a half sandwich to his mouth, he became aware that Bridie had not moved or spoken. With his mouth open and poised to nip off one end of the tuna-on-whole-wheat, he put the sandwich back onto the plate.

Yes, Bridie?

I’m giving you my notice.

Notice of what? He was confused. With all the activity that morning, what in God’s name had he failed to notice?

I’m leaving you. Quitting.

Here? The parish? Why?

Yes, here. What did you expect? Leaving today. You can get your own supper. Bridie took off her apron and tossed it to the floor like a quarterback spiking the ball in the last seconds of a victory.

Bridie wheeled around with the taste of victory on her lips, leaving a stunned Trimboli in her wake. The sandwich could wait. He followed Bridie into the kitchen.

Bridie, this is unlike you, he said, his words and tone

nonconfrontational.

Bridie ignored Trimboli, picked up her apron, and put it and her pocketbook into her tote. Now she was ready to leave.

Let’s discuss what’s troubling you. She gave no sign that his request would be heeded. I know I’ve only been here a month, and you were close to the previous pastor, God rest his soul, but surely. . ..

Bridie turned to leave the kitchen. There was only one egress, and Trimboli blocked the kitchen’s exit door.

The phrase no pasarán, another remembrance of time past, filled his head. That would not be his stance this day. Bridie was at least three inches taller and outweighed him by thirty or forty pounds. She could brush him aside like a gnat, if that was her choice, and she was ready to accept eternal damnation for assaulting a priest.

With the physical alternative a nonstarter, Trimboli tried another approach: supplication.

Can’t we reason together? he asked, extending his arms palms-up toward her.

Bridie’s reply was to firmly clasp her tote to her midriff. She was not about to bull her way through the door. Knocking down a priest, even one as narrow-minded as this one, would surely be considered a sin. She eschewed the physical option as well. She’d have to speak.

You never gave that poor boy a chance, she said with all the strength of conviction and outrage she could muster. She was the soul of fairness, the universal mother protecting the fruit of another woman’s loins. Where would humanity be if the mothers of the world didn’t stand by each other?

And who would that be, Bridie?

Trimboli was not being coy or obtuse. Ever since those early years as a priest in the wilderness of upstate New York, he believed the only way to avoid disagreement that produced hard feelings and obstinate positions was to be as specific as possible. He looked about the room as if the answer might be found in one of the cabinets or in the refrigerator.

Bridie tightened her grip on her tote. Now, don’t you be acting like a slyboots. You know perfectly well I mean what you done to Father Dan…uh, Father Schaefer.

No doubt, Bridie had been charmed by Schaefer—the name he could not speak which would haunt his mind forever—as had the women picketing in front of the church. Almost as soon as Schaefer arrived in the parish, Trimboli noticed the women hanging on Schaefer’s every word, whether it was a sermon during Mass or choosing up sides for dodgeball in the schoolyard during recess.

Thirty years older, heavier and shorter, Trimboli knew he could not compare physically with Schaefer, who looked like the personification of a Nordic small-g god, but acted like a surfer dude. He explained it away as another manifestation of the difference between generations. Younger folks, clergy or lay, were obsessed with working out, defining their pecs, lats, and abs all in the name of health and living to a ripe old age.

As if longevity is guaranteed.

And the younger generation takes a more relaxed view of the world and their responsibilities. The whatever school of philosophy—whatever that meant.

Trimboli came from the teddy bear school of stocky Italians. His body mass index would always be beyond the acceptable limit for his height and age. Not to mention his personality, naturally fluctuating between grouchy and cynical on the Mr. Perfection scale in Cosmo.

Schaefer was an engaging, attractive young man. Trimboli did not feel a shred of jealousy. Over the years, he’d observed it was a fact of human nature that attractive people have a magnetic quality which soon brings fame, money, sex, and adulation. All superficial adjuncts, he knew. What eluded him was the reason why the less physically gifted were ignored. Even by those who knew better.

The elderly women who had looks of serenity on their faces during Schaefer’s sermon would then preen for his attention after Mass. Surely they had husbands, living or dead, and had experienced life with other men in romantic situations. Along came Schaefer—with his glistening blue eyes and dirty-blond surfer hair, broad shoulders, and well-proportioned torso that could not be hidden by the voluminous folds of his cassock—and these mature, even elderly, women became entranced.

He could understand the thirty-something mothers of the children who attended the parish’s grammar school. There was a generational and age affinity. Schaefer probably looked better than their husbands and most likely was the subject, which Trimboli would not condone if it ever came up in confessional, of many sexual fantasies as well. But the blue-haired dames? Why hadn’t they moved along to hormonal stasis?

You’re leaving me and the parish because you believe I treated a former parish priest, whose name I will not mention, unfairly? Is that it?

Bridie nodded, her eyes narrowing either in confusion or to show she would not be moved from her position.

Bridie, Trimboli said slowly and thoughtfully. I thought people would have heard by now. Surely the word has…the gossip…?

When she didn’t respond, he knew she had no idea why her favorite young priest was no longer in residence at Queen of Peace.

Trimboli breathed deeply. It was a signal to his body that the inevitable was at hand. If you don’t know, and if word has not spread by now, it will right after the midday news.

Bridie raised her head and opened her eyes. She waited for Trimboli to say his piece, and then she would excuse herself and hurry to the bus stop and home.

Last Sunday I found him sexually abusing one of our altar boys in the vestry. He looked deeply into Bridie’s eyes as the words launched from his mouth with a force he hoped would impact enough to dissolve her resistance.

Bridie’s brow furrowed, but she did not speak.

The boy was—I won’t tell you his name—naked and on his knees. When he saw me, he started to cry.

Bridie pressed her lips together as if forcing the words to remain inside.

Then he peed all over himself and the floor. Trimboli raised his voice for emphasis and hoped for a response.

He’d been scheduled to take the last Mass that day, but Schaefer had a cold and they’d switched so the younger priest could get more rest. If not for that change, Eddie…all because of Trimboli’s charitable act. If only…And now, the image of the slightly built Eddie, with the café au lait skin and smile of his mother, Stephanie, intruded as he faced Bridie.

He watched her eyes darted back and forth as though the manifestation of left-brain-right-brain activity. An internal calculator at work, measuring and weighing what she’d just heard against the young man she knew, thought she knew, or imagined with or without the salacious assessments of female parishioners.

I‘m sure there was a reason.

She coughed to cover the absurdity of her statement and then lifted her head.

What was it they said about Kennedy? Rush to…rush to . . .?

Judgment? Trimboli filled in the blank.

Judgment. That’s it. Rush to judgment. You did that to him and it wasn’t fair. Remember . . . Bridie freed one hand from her tote and pointed her index finger at Trimboli. Judge not so you won’t be judged.

Judgment of the flaws and mistakes in his life would come in time. For now, throughout the country and the world, he wanted—no, demanded; no, insisted on—justice, not judgment, for Eddie Renard and all the others in this age of clerical sexual predators.

You imply I have rushed to judge? His anger started to creep like rising mercury until he willed himself calm and took another approach.

Trimboli stepped away from the kitchen doorway. Look, Bridie, he said, knowing it was not the best way but his patience was rapidly slipping away. His temper, which he’d fought to control for decades, was on high simmer. He could feel heat shimmering along the back of his neck as if it was a newly tarred strip of highway. Once it reached his head, anything was liable to boil over. For now, he hoped one final salvo would win the battle.

These are the words I used when describing the reasons for my action against that former priest of this parish. The last words were meant to goad Bridie into consciousness like an Aqua Velva slap. I said sexual abuse. Naked. On his knees. Urinated. Do you remember those words?

Bridie nodded and Trimboli took it as at least the first step toward understanding.

The word I did not use was semen. He said the word slowly and watched Bridie’s eyes for reaction. For a moment he didn’t think she knew the word. Ejaculation? And finally, because he did not know the extent of Bridie’s sexual sophistication, he said, Cum?

I know what you’re talkin’ about. No need to get dirty.

Excuse me. I’m sorry. I was trying hard to make my point.

And what is that? Bridie asked in a stern tone.

Holy mother of God! Trimboli thought. What will it take? Do I have to act it out like a game of charades? Enough.

That man made a young boy have oral sex with him.

And how do you know that?

I saw. . .. Trimboli realized he didn’t see the coercion, only the end result.

You saw…? You said naked boy. Semen. Urination. Oh, and on his knees. Did you see Father Schaefer force the boy? So how can it be abuse? Before he could respond, she took another road. "You know how these young people are today. First they have a baby and then they get married, if that."

He was ten years old!

For all you know, the boy raped Father Dan.

Don’t be absurd. The boy was outweighed by more than a hundred pounds.

I see. Maybe he was the devil himself come to seduce Father Dan.

Stop! Trimboli’s voice was at its loudest. I know what I saw. That’s why I took action. You don’t agree and want to leave? Fine. Go.

Trimboli moved away from the kitchen door and gave Bridie a clear path to leave.

After he locked the screen door leading from the kitchen to the driveway and street beyond, he felt his arms pulled down by an unseen force that also caused his body to hunch forward. I must look like a Hopi doing a rain dance to the gods or a living Kachina doll.

He smiled at the image. Humor was a potent medicine, his New Age doctor advised. He stumbled into the office and pulled a vial of tablets from a desk drawer. The nitro helped. Now he was weary. The sandwich could wait for later. He needed a nap and all would be right again.

1956

THE BEGINNING

The situation called for a fastball. He let it rip. A straight, taut line. Its target was scant seconds away. Any baseball player in the batter’s box who was served a ball with no movement on it, whether on a sandlot or in the major leagues, would salivate like a hungry wolf discovering a plate of lamb chops.

A plate glass window awaited the speeding ball. The window was not a baseball player standing at home plate. It was fixed in place and could not duck. The ball struck between the o and f, which immediately disintegrated into a shower of shards. The words on either side of those letters, Our Lady and Siena, quivered for brief seconds before realizing their center would not hold.

The entire front window of Our Lady of Siena, a storefront church, disappeared. Now about twenty worshipers could be seen scrambling over upturned folding chairs. Humble of dress and manner, they were the tired and poor beckoned by Lady Liberty, now huddled together for safety. Some brushed grains of glass from their hair and clothes. A few children hid behind their mothers and cried. Almost as a unit, they huddled deeper into the store’s space for refuge. A young priest gestured for them to gather behind him as he maintained the stance of bulwark against the attackers. He used a wobbly card table, their makeshift altar, for his only protection. Conflicting emotions played across his face as he defensively cradled the chalice, filled with communion wafers, against his chest. Once surprise subsided, anger etched his face.

The worshipers were greeted by a chorus of Commie! Dirty Commies! Red Rat Bastids! and variations thereof, indicating a severe dearth of creativity. Send those spicks back where they belong was the final salvo.

Hearing that, the priest ordered, Abierto! While his pronunciation was not perfect, his parishioners understood. He quickly dispensed the wafers into their open, waiting mouths, placing the body of Christ on each exposed tongue as he murmured the requisite Latin words. They trusted this young man, their shepherd, to bring them to safety, though fear made the saliva in their mouths disappear. Should the wafer stick to their palates, they dared not touch it with their fingers and hoped it would melt once the crisis was resolved.

The priest popped a wafer into his mouth, handed the chalice to Oscar, his middle-aged server, and threw off his chasuble, the colorfully ornamented vestment. He pulled up the sleeves of his white alb, the linen knee-length garment he wore underneath, grabbed a folding chair, and leaped through the open window.

You wanna play ball? I’m batter up. Come on, throw at me. He brandished the chair as if holding a baseball bat.

Disembodied but familiar faces appeared, illuminated by a splash of streetlight. They were teenagers, four or five years his junior.

Hey, Lynch. I know you. Your father’s a fireman on Fourth Avenue. And you, Limpert, son of the teller at Lincoln Savings. Hey, Podesta. Your father fixes shoes. You got a problem, talk to me.

These were boys from his own neighborhood, now on the wrong side of Brooklyn, the down-by-the-docks area where the newly arrived Puerto Ricans clustered.

The priest strode forward as if advancing toward the pitcher’s mound, bat in hand, to dispense justice after getting a fastball high and tight. The boys were motionless. All their adrenaline dissolved as soon as he emerged from the store. Coming toward them was a near-peer, not some wine-soaked, doddering relic of a cleric.

The priest was slight of build but anger was his weapon. The teens didn’t fear a flimsy chair. None ever considered that priests could get angry. Surely the expression of such an unstable emotion was not allowed. A living contradiction of their belief stood before them.

The boys took refuge behind parked cars. When the priest halved the distance and stood in the middle of the street, older men—their fathers, the priest noticed—slid out of the darkness and with firm hand clenched on each shoulder, pulled their respective sons into the safety of the night. Brave men, he thought, letting their sons take the heat.

. . .

Waiting for the trolley to arrive as the sun rose that July morning, he sensed it would be another hot day. He knew the heat he felt would not be part of the weather report.Only hours before he believed all racial tension resided in the South. Alabama. How could such a wanton attack occur in Brooklyn? This was 1956, for Pete’s sake. Only nine months ago the Dodgers won their first World Series. With the beloved Jackie Robinson!

His struggle to make sense of it was interrupted by the sizzle of the trolley poles connected to the power system overhead. He looked up to find the lone cyclopic headlight set in the center of a green chassis. This, actually, was a trolley bus with an engine powered by electric current riding on rubber tires instead of on rails.

In one hand was a black satchel containing the ciborium, the vessel which contained the communion hosts Steve distributed at Mass. His vestments were draped over the other arm as he fumbled inside his pants pocket to find the fare. An elderly lady, either out of charity, pity, or impatience, tossed in some coins for him.

Thank you, madam.

Bless you, Father.

I’ll need it was his puzzling reply.

Taking a seat on a bench, he smiled across the aisle at other passengers who regarded his disheveled dress and unusual baggage with obvious disdain. They didn’t know he had spent the night in a folding chair, keeping watch until Oscar and another parishioner returned with enough plywood to board up the window. Where they got the wood so late at night he didn’t ask, but he was grateful for their resourcefulness. None could offer any more assistance, being late for their work. He was left the task of hauling, lifting, and nailing the thin wood into place.

Nothing in his life experience had prepared him for this labor. There was no course in the seminary to instruct on how to save a defiled church. However, once he created a system, each nail hammered in place gave him a sense of relief and accomplishment.

With a discreet sniff he detected a certain ripeness emanating from under one arm. Hopefully his odor had not wafted across the trolley’s center aisle. If so, what could he do? They should offer up their discomfort as a sacrifice to God. He would, too. Odor was the least of his concerns. So much to improve—from social injustice, to prejudice, unfair labor practices, substandard housing, and child labor. He felt the responsibility to heal the world’s ills and impotent to do more than this small effort at Our Lady of Siena. Two stops later he got off the trolley.

. . .

Gloria Trimboli pushed her glasses up to the top of her nose so she could see better through the glass window of her shop. Is that Stefano, her son now known to family and friends as Father Steve, crossing Cropsey Avenue against the light?

Stupid boy! she yelled through the window without getting his attention. God forgive me, she countered, hoping to be cleansed of her irreverence, even though she’d told him a million times to wait for the light to change. Holding what? Why now at eight thirty in the morning? Where had he been all night? Unkempt. God knows what he was doing. She made the sign of the cross. Sancta Maria, she said to the silent figures in her dress shop. Headless mannequins did not offer prayers in response.

Steve happily waved his vestment-filled arm at his mother through the window which bore the hand-painted signage announcing to passersby GLORIA’S FROCKS – dressmaking and alterations. His mother dropped the dress she was hemming and came to the door. She put the Closed sign on the doorknob and followed Steve up the stairs.

What happened to you? Where’ve you been?

Ma, I’m exhausted. I need coffee and a shower. I’ve got a meeting.

No sleep? What’s going on? The third time this week…. You’re a priest, for Christ’s sake! She crossed herself. This is no way to act.

He took no offense at his mother’s blasphemy. She’d always been like that. It was a part of her nature, much to his father’s displeasure. A miracle he became a priest. Maybe to make amends or to bless her. Even now, so early on, the source of his vocation remained a mystery. He reached the top of the stairs and opened the door, entering the family apartment above the shop.

I’ll make eggs, she called out to him as he started down the hall to his room.

Coffee only.

She heard but did not heed. You gotta eat. Even if it’s a crust of bread. Sinatra weighs more than you.

Within seconds, olive oil sizzled in a cast iron frying pan and two eggs started to simmer. She cut two slices from a day-old loaf of crusty bread and reminded herself to get a fresh one for dinner.

They’re ready, she yelled when she heard the shower stop and bathroom door open. Steve shoveled food into his mouth as so much sand into a concrete mixer.

When are you gonna learn to slow down? Chew and swallow. Not inhale.

Soon, Ma. Gotta run. I’ll be late.

And Monsignor Barillo? He’ll have a respectable parish for you, maybe?

He’ll tell me at my meeting.

Gloria lifted her eyes to the heavens as his lips buzzed her cheek.

There was a meeting with the monsignor. Steve wouldn’t lie to his mother, but the meeting was not until three that afternoon. Some of his parishioners were scheduled to be evicted that morning, and he was determined to reason with the marshal.

As he neared the three-story tenement, Steve smelled the briny reminder of the sea flowing inland from lower New York Harbor. The hum of traffic coming from the expressway that led into and out of lower Manhattan slipped into his head. Between the odor and the noise, the location was not ideal, but it was all they had.

Almost erasing the sound of traffic was the repeated chorus of "no pasarán." He remembered that phrase, they shall not pass, from Hemingway’s For Whom the Bell Tolls. Someday, he knew, the bells would toll for him, and he, most likely, would still be breathing.

Steve quickened his steps and found a crowd of his parishioners and their families lined two abreast, blocking the stoop leading up to the building’s front door. Steve knew the marshal was a surrogate for the landlord and customary in such proceedings. With one foot on the sidewalk and the other on the running board of a 1950 Ford, the court appointee pulled open the jacket of his three-piece suit to reveal the gold badge of his office pinned on his vest and waved a piece of paper in front of the crowd to indicate his privilege. The chanting did not stop.

Steve stepped in front of the group, waving his arms at the crowd to get their attention.

"Silencio! he shouted, drawing the marshal’s focus. Marshal, I’m Father Trimboli."

He stuck out his hand, but the marshal’s hands were full; one held the writ and the other a half-smoked, unlit cigar. The officer chose not to unburden himself and let Steve’s hand clasp empty space.

Maybe you can help me unclog these people so I can do my job.

These ‘people’ are my parishioners, who are being unfairly victimized by the owner of this building.

I have a court order—

Based on lies! Their rent has been paid on time every month. The owner records and banks those payments at the end of each month and then claims the rent overdue. He wants to level this building and sell the land to the city for the new off-ramp from the expressway.

Ain’t my business what he does.

Steve needed a counterattack and without thinking blurted, Our lawyers are in court this very minute. I suggest you go back to your office to await further instructions. In case the marshal desired grace, Steve added God will bless you for your charity. He hoped this would be the clincher, watching as the marshal decided discretion the better part of valor.

I’ll leave, but if you’re lyin’ to me, I’ll be back…and it won’t be pretty.

Marshal, why would I lie to you? I am their shepherd, and these are people who depend on me for spiritual sustenance. Do you think I would give them false hope? At that moment, if tortured by the Inquisition, Steve could not answer his own question.

The marshal got in his Ford and drove off. He saw the crowd cheering his departure through the rearview mirror and heard their jubilation recede.

The crowd rushed to congratulate Steve, believing they had won, and were crestfallen to learn this was only the first skirmish. Within days the marshal would be pressured by the landlord and learn there was no legal objection filed with the court. They would have to sit in like the Negroes were doing in the South and hold out until public opinion was formed in their favor.

All of them had risked this one day to achieve victory. They couldn’t afford to lose another day’s pay or forsake the care of their children. Steve thanked