“Now, Michael. Let’s go back to the very beginning. A question I asked you the first time we met at the Seminary. Tell me about Steven Belliard.”

Wow, talk about going from pleasure to pain. Paul seemed to be pushing harder each day, conducting me like an orchestra and demanding as hell. As for myself, I found myself falling into his patterns. They were masterful and so effective, even this seemed possible if extremely painful. The memories drenched me with sweat. I drew a deep breath, prepared to drown in what I was about to divulge.

“That begins earlier, mate. Way earlier. I was eight years old.”

*

“I think I should just go up and punch the bloody prick,” Petie was saying.

Frank shuffled his feet and then kicked at the dirt. “Then you’ll be the one gettin’ the cane from Father Roche, mate. I don’t really care about it, he can have it.”

I shook my head. “Frank, it’s not fair. Billy can’t just steal your homework. Maybe we should tell someone.”

“What’re you thinking mate? We snitch on Spenser?” Petie threw his hands in the air and rolled his eyes. “Oh, yeah, that should go over just bonzer.”

Frank groaned. “Honest, I don’t really care.”

They were my best friends in the whole world. Actually, they were my only friends, and we were as close as any three boys could be. It wasn’t the first time we’d come up against Billy Spenser. Not having your homework was a serious offence, but I couldn’t help but see the humor in the situation. No one, and I mean no one in their right mind would steal Frank’s homework. I smiled a wicked grin. “It really won’t matter much. The answers are probably all wrong and Spenser will get his in the end anyway.”

“Hey!”

We were in the play yard. Recess was the best time of the day, especially for Petie who found academic endeavors less that fulfilling. I stood back and watched them negotiate the most efficient way to solve the problem of Frank’s missing homework and completely ignore the fact that Petie was also lacking. “Hey, why don’t you both just sit down and do the assignment now?”

As they gawked at me in disbelief, the strangest thing happened. Out of the sky, like a falling stone, a small bird dropped right at our feet. We just looked at each other, eyes wide and mouths open then Petie finally knelt down and examined the phenomena. “Damn,” he whispered, clearly aware that Father Roche was well within hearing distance, sitting nearby supervising. “It’s dead!”

Frank and I squatted to get a closer look. “How do you think it happened?” Frank asked, terror in his eyes as they scanned the empty sky above.

“Probably hit something. Or maybe just had a heart attack.” Petie looked up at us. “It could happen.”

Frank tentatively reached a finger out but pulled away, unwilling to touch something dead. The tiny bird lay still as stone. Finally Petie got up the nerve, nudging the poor creature with a stick. It rocked then rolled slightly, its tiny head limp, dead eyes open like shiny black beads. Petie poked again and I carefully picked it up.

“Stop it,” I demanded.

“Don’t touch it!” Frank croaked. “It could be diseased; there could be maggots and stuff growing inside it!”

Petie huffed. “It’s only been dead for two seconds, stupid.” But he stood and watched me, carefully positioning himself to block the priest’s view.

Frank sighed and stood with a grunt. “What do you want to do, Michael? Bury it?”

I didn’t know what I wanted to do. I was on my knees, looking at the bird, touching its feathers with my finger, holding it as gently as I could. I was amazed, it had almost no weight. It wasn’t breathing or moving a muscle and I felt bad for the thing. It was so tiny my hands could completely cover it. A baby. It shouldn’t be dead. I closed my eyes and said a prayer for the poor creature. I didn’t realize that something was happening until it was almost over. I began to shake; my heart was shivering inside my chest. Then I felt hot and cold at the same time. I started to see colors and forms behind my eyelids. Nothing I could identify, but definitely strong shapes, moving, shifting, changing. I heard voices overlapping my own silent prayer. There came a tiny light, hot and bright that started like the flicker of a match then flared until it filled my whole head.

And it was over. I felt myself slump, took a deep breath and opened one eye, looking cautiously up at my mates. Apparently no one noticed, so I just pretended it didn’t happen, whatever it was.

Suddenly I jumped with a gasp. The bird moved! Slowly, I open my hands and the tiny thing shook its head several times, then rolled onto its feet and I swear it looked directly into my eyes. It flexed its wings then simply leapt into the sky. We just gawked at each other in astonishment.

“What’re you boys up to over here?”

We stared up into Father Roche’s stern face. “Ah,” Petie began. “We though it was dead.”

“Uh-huh,” Frank squeaked.

“Yeah, Father, but I guess it was just knocked out.”

“Peter James McMatthews, you sound disappointed.” The priest curled a reprimanding eyebrow down at Petie who just shrugged.

“Father, it’s cool to look at dead things.” That was Petie, always searching for a new and improved way to shock.

Frank turned, watching the tiny bird that had landed on the fence a few feet away. It preened itself delicately, lifting and testing each wing, wiggling its long tail feathers. I joined Frank and together we listened to it warble a gentle melody before flitting away.

The priest took Petie by the shoulder and led him a few steps away. “You can’t be planning to punish me for looking at a dead bird that wasn’t even dead, Father. We didn’t do anything to it. It just fell right out of the sky. Honest.”

*

I was shaking hard, my hands locked tight. With a gasp I closed my eyes tight to regroup, get control again. Paul slid a full glass of water toward me, but wasn’t interested in giving me a break.

I gulped.

“And Belliard?” He dug deeper. Something inside softened, bent then snapped. If he thought he was ready to hear this, I sure as well would be ready to say it.

*

My new job; handyman at a seminary, of all things. Like prison, it was a real surprise to me, only this time, a pleasant surprise. Saint Rocco’s was a massive old mansion built on a hundred acres of well-groomed lawn. There were several buildings, including a stable that I couldn’t wait to get into. The horses in the corral were elegant, huge animals with personalities I could easily identify from a distance. The brown was rambunctious like Petie. The chestnut little lady was tender and sweet and the black one was probably a real holy terror when provoked. I’d never seen horses up close before, but I felt an immediate kinship with them. After all, they too were there to serve some purpose other than to become priests.

I was treated kindly by the dean, given a small room in the dormitory and my own itinerary of classes and scheduled lectures. I was also presented a long list of responsibilities that included everything from mopping the hallways to minor plumbing and repairs and simple maintenance in the chapel. Then I was told that there was no concern about when I did the work, only that I got it done, that I should give as much priority to my academic responsibilities as to the work I was charged with.

The students were similarly kind to me, at least until they discovered my true station. Some simply stopped talking to me, others avoided my eyes, and a few, probably those coming from homes as poor as my own, kept a safe distance. I realized that Seminary was an exclusive, unique environment and definitely a special career choice, so I held no malice for any of those blokes, figuring that they were just doing their best to get on with their lives. After all, what the hell did I have to offer, even in friendship, if I wasn’t sharing the commitment they all had. They were special. They had the calling. Besides, I’d become pretty comfortable with being alone.

For the first few months I concentrated on doing the work at hand and meeting with Father Freeman every evening to make up my high school studies and get that diploma. No matter how interested I was in sitting in on the university courses, I didn’t feel justified in taking up a seat without first earning the academic right. I worked hard, studied hard and kept to myself. When I was awarded my high school diploma, it was without fanfare and really just a formality, but I was pleased, especially when Father Benedict visited me one Saturday afternoon to congratulate me.

Father Benedict and I had a comfortable relationship, sort of like he was my uncle or dad or something, and I always looked forward to spending some time with him. We talked, strolling to the stables. He caught me up on the events at the rectory, gave me a progress report on Father Phil’s continued unsuccessful diet, and informed me that Theo was leaving for retirement later that year. Then he asked how I was doing and I told him I was pretty happy there.

“But you’re pretty lonely too, my boy,” he said, watching the black stallion rear his neck and stomp at us from across the corral.

“I’m fine, Father. You were right, this is a good place for me to work, get myself together.” I avoided his eyes and picked up a pitchfork to gather hay. He was silent, so I squared a convincing glare at him. “I’m fine.”

“Come with me,” he took the pitch fork from my hands, then fixed a tight grip on my shoulder and led me back to the rugby field where a game was forming. “Do you play?” He demanded more than asked.

“’Course I play.” Didn’t every bloke play rugby?

He looked at me, his face blank, but his eyes alive with determination. “Then play.”

I huffed. “Father, I can’t just jump in and –”

“Play.”

“But.”

“Michael, I didn’t bring you here so that you could simply work and hide in your room. I brought you here so that you could live. Make friends. Get a little education. Believe it or not, life’s a team sport, not something you can do all alone. Play.”

I looked at the young men gathering on the field and felt a pulse of excitement. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try to get on with them better. Maybe I could be a friend to a few of them. But most of all, I was thinking, maybe it would be fun. I looked back at the old man who just repeated. “Play.”

And I played. Well. And often. Father Benedict was right. Living was a team sport, and I was trying to be a spectator from a safe distance.

Everything changed. The students became my mates. Shared their class notes and ideas with me, and I looked foreword to studying with them. Sometimes, I’d even find that someone had mopped the hallways while I sat buried in my books. Often I was called upon to help one of them with a problem that had nothing to do with the noisy radiator, or dripping sink. 

One evening Steven Belliard asked me to meet him at the stables. Stevie was the youngest son of a wealthy man who’d built a multi-million dollar pizza empire. He was taller than me, had hair the color of summer wheat and one of those chiseled faces you’d see in a magazine ad. Stevie was like a mentor to several of the students. They’d listen when he talked, follow when he led, even scramble to dig his old study notes out of the trash. It was actually kind of funny. I could see the draw. He had a kind of charisma and sometimes I’d find myself looking for his face in a crowd. It was more than charisma. Stevie had a great sense of humor about himself and even though most undergraduates didn’t see that, I had the unique advantage of standing apart and watching, chuckling. But that day, Stevie didn’t want me standing on the other side of the room. He wanted to talk to me. We brushed the horses and fed them apples from the kitchen then he leaned back against the wall and watched me. “Michael,” he finally said. “I think you need a little focus.”

“Do I?” I ran a hand down the chestnut mare’s flank to check her for burrs.

“I don’t mean to say that you don’t have focus in your life, but you need more focus in your studies. You seem to be just randomly picking classes, helter-skelter, like you don’t have a plan.”

Stevie was a senior and heading for his postgraduate theology studies next semester, after that, his Ordination.

“Can I ask you something?”

He nodded casually.

“Why the priesthood? I mean, I think I understand about the calling, but there are other things in life. You could be anything. Why a priest?”

“Why not a priest? I don’t really want to make pizza the rest of my life. Hate the stuff.” He chuckled. “I want to be a teacher, Michael. Maybe, eventually one of the professors here.” He turned and leaned his elbows on the railing. The mare nudged his hands, looking for another apple. “I got a confession to make, Michael. I don’t know nothing about a calling to this way of life. I’m not sure many of the students here really have a clue about that. All I know is that the study of Christ fascinates me. Always has. The history and development of the Catholic faith is among the most intriguing subjects known to contemporary man. Where else can I become an expert at it?” He raised a brow and I nodded agreement. “But, you’re taking me off the subject. I want to talk about your focus. Your education. It’s a gift, Michael. You need to plan well to take full advantage it.”

I blinked.

“What do you want to study? I mean, what really pushes your buttons?”

I shrugged, a little embarrassed that I really didn’t know what buttons he was talking about.

“Accounting? You have a real skill with numbers. How about languages? Another thing you beat the hell out of all of us with. Or maybe government? Law?”

I thumped down on a bail of hay. “Stevie, I can’t choose. I want them all, but I couldn’t possibly expect to get everything.”

“Why not?” Then he gave a long, thoughtful sigh. “How about theology?” He raised his eyes to me and I felt a little nervous.

I cleared my throat. “Stevie, I didn’t come here to become a priest.”

“Does that mean you can’t? Or that you shouldn’t? That you shouldn’t even consider it?”

I stared at my feet, afraid to look at him, afraid he’d think I might really be considering such a thing. I hadn’t been, you know.

“Well, mate. Get yourself some focus.” He grunted and left me alone in the darkening stable.

I walked up to the mare and tenderly fingered her ears. “What do you think, Maybell? Should I entertain the idea of giving up everything I don’t have in the first place to be a priest? I can certainly deal with the poverty and obedience isn’t so tough. But baby, I simply don’t think I want to give up sex.” She whinnied, nodded her big head and I laughed aloud.

I left the stable and walked back alone in the crisp April evening. I had some studying to do, some focus to find, a floor or two to mop and I wanted to get to sleep early. Saturday was rugby day and I for one wanted to be well rested.

I awoke irritated, frustrated and completely confused, wondering what powder keg Stevie had lit inside my brain. I had tossed and rolled all night, looking for a focus, one that took me far from the possibilities of priesthood. When I’d finally decided on law, I was rebounded into questioning my reasoning and searching for a different focus. Accounting. Too sedentary. Languages. Fun, but to what purpose? Theology. Fascinating, but too close to Ordination for my liking. Maybe I was nuts, staying at Seminary. But maybe Stevie was right. It was a gift, and I should take full advantage of it. I owed it to Father Benedict.

I trotted onto the rugby field in the pouring rain and tried to get into the fun of it all but simply couldn’t. Hell, I decided, if it was focus they wanted, it was focus they’d get and I became a rugby animal. And we were winning bigger than ever. Then it happened.

I might’ve snapped, or maybe I was just so deep into the game that I didn’t realize what was driving me. I was running on something more like blood lust than good sportsmanship. I don’t know what I was trying to prove. That I could win without an academic focus or that I could be as un-priestlike as possible. I remember wanting a beer, a woman and to break someone into pieces all at once.

I broke someone alright. Poor Stevie was carried off the field on a stretcher. I paced outside the infirmary and tried not to think about being fired, turned out of classes or beaten to a pulp for doing what I did. Father Benedict and the dean joined me in the waiting room and I was too embarrassed to even look them in the eye.

They sat quietly and waited, paying no attention to me. When finally the doctor came out, he shot me a glare then explained to the others that Stevie had three broken ribs, but no damage to his lungs. His knee was twisted badly, but it would heal fine. Then he turned to me and simply slapped my arm. “Nice game, son,” he said then left me blinking.

The dean went in to see Stevie and I was left alone with Father Benedict. He smiled and grunted out of his chair. “I said play rugby, boy, not – ”

“I’m so sorry, Father. I never intended for Stevie to get so hurt. I just ...”

He laughed. “Michael, people get hurt playing rugby. You’re not the first to eliminate an opponent by force.”

“You don’t understand.” I tried to speak calmly.

“Don’t do this, Michael,” he said with a frustrated groan. “Don’t make this your fault. It’s a game.”

“No, no. That’s not it. I was angry, Father. Really angry.”

He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Well now, that’s different, isn’t it? What were you so angry about?”

I dropped into a chair. “I’d rather not tell you.” I rubbed my eyes.

He sat beside me and picked up a magazine, flipping through it like he intended to read something. Then he finally closed it and stood. “Well, will I see you in class Monday?”

I nodded, looking up at him and wondering why he was putting up with me. “I am really sorry, Father.”

“I’m not the one you ground into the rugby field. Go apologize to your mate,” he said, turning to leave. “And go to the chapel, Michael. Perhaps a little prayer wouldn’t hurt.”

I was turned away from Stevie’s sick bed, informed that the patient needed rest. I went to the chapel and sat silently, trying to remember how to pray. Wondering if I ever really knew how. I was in Seminary. Why wasn’t there a simple instruction booklet, a basic Prayer 101 course I could sit in on?

I pulled every memory I could from my past, hoping to find one that could set the groundwork for the voice I needed. The words I was seeking. I shifted in my seat, knelt down, rubbed my eyes, returned to my seat, but never left, determined to follow Father’s advice. It was so frustrating. I remembered praying as a little kid, completely believing that God would take care of me. Take care of mum and grandmum. Now, I knew a bit better. Some of that taking care of falls on our own shoulders and God probably just stands by and watches like a spotter at a gymnastics match. What ever possessed the Creator to give totally inadequate and malicious humans, free will? Free will to do what? To follow our animal instincts? To fornicate at will? To kill? That’s all we were, after all. Animals. I shifted and sighed, looking up at the plaster savior on the cross that I knew for a fact probably didn’t even weigh all that much, and hoped for a miracle. An Epiphany.

The dean, Father Jardine, was a tall, bald, quiet man; an efficient man who was always more than willing to give you the list of classes, but never offered advice on which ones to take. His office was impeccably clean and neat as were the thoughts inside his own head I’m sure. He was kind enough, but I sometimes felt like I was talking to a robot, not a man. Not a priest. He walked into the chapel and knelt a few pews ahead of me. I sat back and watched him; his calmness, his pure silence of body, the control of natural energy, and I blinked. What did he know that I didn’t? I tried to sit as still as he did, to be as quiet and peaceful as he appeared. But several times a deep sigh would escape my tight chest and I’d cover my eyes, terrified that I’d disturbed him.

Finally, he got up to leave and I felt an unbelievable release of tension. Now I could get on with it alone again. He walked silently past me. Then I heard him slip into the pew behind.

“Michael,” he said softly. “I find that it’s always easier if you make friends first.”

I blinked, not turning back.

“Talk to Him, son. Introduce yourself. Tell Him what’s on your mind. Don’t just assume he knows what’s in your heart. Only assume his love and forgiveness.”

I swallowed hard then turned to thank him for the advice, but he was gone. I looked up at the crucifix, and I knew for the first time in my life that I wasn’t alone and I introduced myself to God.

It was very late when I went back to the infirmary, slipping in the door as quietly as possible and trying to locate Stevie in the dark.

“That you, Michael?”

“Yeah, mate. You alright?”

“Hell no.”

I followed the voice and finally felt his out-reached hand touch my arm. “Hey, Stevie, I’m so sorry.”

“I certainly hope not! Don’t ever be sorry for winning.” I could hear the pain in his voice as he slowly shuffled a leg under the sheet. I carefully dragged a chair beside him, my eyes taking in the limited light, translating it into shape and form. “Where you been? I thought I’d see you earlier, seeing as how you thrive on guilt.”

I was silent.

“It was a joke, Michael.”

“It was the truth. Why do I do that?”

“Don’t know, but it’s not a good look for you.”

I could finally see his face in the dimness. It was bruised and swollen. I though about my father and almost jumped out of the chair. Did I do all that damage? “Fuck, Stevie, you look awful.”

He laughed then groaned. “Have you looked in the mirror, mate?” He reached out but grunted in pain. “Turn on that lamp.”

I switched the stem and soft yellow light flowed down on him. He pointed to the drawer, and I followed instructions, pulling it open and retrieving a small mirror. He nodded at me and I took a glance at the dirty, bloody, bruised brute looking back at me and laughed.

“It was some game, the best I can ever remember. Were you studying?”

“No. I was at the chapel. Ah ... praying.”

He was quiet, but a smile played at the corner of his mouth. “Good.” Was all he said, then he fell silent and his eyes drooped. “Hey, they got me on some pain killers, so I apologize if I nod off on you.”

I shook my head. “That’s fine. I’ll show myself out.”

He chuckled then groaned again.

I wanted to do something for him. I don’t know why, but I reached out and gently lay my palms on his broken ribs. He didn’t jump in pain or even complain, simply watched my face. He seemed to actually relax under my touch. I closed my eyes, thinking about how his ribs must look, cracked, the muscles around them swollen, red, bruised. My hands felt like they had risen an inch from his body, but when I looked, they were still set solidly on the bandages.

Then it was happening. I felt a vibration that started in my heart and without choosing to do so I slid off the chair onto my knees, my hands still attached to Stevie’s wounds, feeling like they were floating in thin air. I closed my eyes, squeezing them hard, hoping for some control over what was coming. Hoping to understand what was happening.

It was like a wave of hot water slamming me in the back, a gush of ice slapping me at the same time. I was shaking; afraid my knees would give way, afraid I’d release Stevie, afraid I wouldn’t relinquish him quick enough to save him or to keep him from seeing what was going on … whatever it was. Everything went dark inside my head, but it wasn’t quiet or empty there. A hundred voices prayed, a thousand hands rubbed my back, encouraged me, pushed and prodded me to do something. But what?

I wasn’t breathing. But I definitely was doing something. I’d found a level deeper than any I’d ever imagined. A place of the soul. Of prayer. A place where words were not needed; thought was superfluous. Action, impossible. A place so astounding it moved worlds in a single moment. And then I saw light, blue and throbbing with the pulse beneath my fingers, and I felt lightening shoot through me and into Stevie. I was blinded for a split second; loosened from my grip on the bandages, doubled over on the floor.

Suddenly it was quiet. I was once again on earth and I gasped with fear and relief. I quietly climbed up and switched off the lamp.

“Thanks, mate.” Stevie whispered in the darkness, weak from his part in the strange experience.

“I didn’t do anything.” I sat hard on the chair, washed with exhaustion. Stevie fell into a deep sleep. Just after dawn, I left to mop the floors I’d neglected.

The next morning after mass, at breakfast in the cafeteria, I got the shock of my life. Stevie walked in, strong and straight as can be and sat down right next to me. The entire room fell silent. He glanced around.

“G’day, mates?” He said with a big smile, digging into his plate. No one responded, all mouths agape with surprise. We’d all assumed that Stevie would be in infirmary for at least a few more days, physically limited for a week.

“Stevie?” I was astonished to say the least.

“Hey, the doctor mis-read the x-rays.” He looked up at the others at our table. “Looks like Michael’s not as tough as we all thought he was, right mates?”

The group laughed and resumed conversations, but all I could do was stare at him. After breakfast, he led me outside and we stood alone under a huge tree.

“Stevie.” I guess that was all I could think of to say. His name. I shook my head in amazement.

He leaned casually against the sturdy trunk and looked directly into my eyes. “What did you do to me, Michael?”

I almost choked. “Me? Nothin’.”

“Uh-huh. Nothin’. Right.” He looked off in the distance and huffed. “It was definitely something. Something real. Something powerful.”

“It was nothing, mate. Like you said, the stupid doctor mis-read the x-rays. That’s all.”

He watched me, his face intense, afraid, shocked. “You and I both know that’s bullshit.”

“This is bullshit!” I hissed. “It was nothing.” I turned to leave, then turned back and leaned in close to him, my nose nearly touching his. “I didn’t do anything Stevie. Nothing,” I said softly. “And we’ll never talk about it again. Right?”

He blinked. “What’re you so afraid of, Michael? This is amazing. We should talk to Father Jardine about this.”

“We will talk to no one about it, Stevie. Do ya hear me? No one. Ever.” I was hissing the words through my teeth, terrified he wouldn’t get my meaning; wouldn’t honor my request. Thinking I had to make it a threat.

He reached out and put his hands on my shoulders. “Alright, Michael. Alright.”

“Alright,” that done I pulled away and left to study, determined to forget the whole thing, if that was possible.

The return to the normal weekly schedule was a relief. I loved Monday mornings. It was a perfect time for me. The students all attended daily mass at six-thirty, then stayed outside in the nice weather to mill about in the gardens before breakfast and classes. With the dorms empty, I could get a plethora of work done in peace. I’d just reviewed my notes for a Political Science test later that afternoon, but toted the book along on my rounds. Having repaired one sticky window and replaced the loose panel in a door, I was heading down the hall for my next project when I heard a shuffling sound in Stevie’s room. I leaned into the open door and tapped on the wooden frame. He looked up.

“What’re you doing?” I asked, looking over the stacks of clothing and books on his bed.

“Packing.”

I blinked. “What? Why?”

“I’m leaving, Michael. It’s time for me to leave.” He carefully folded a shirt and tucked it into an open suitcase.

“Stevie, you can’t leave. You’re six weeks from graduate school. Less than a year from your Ordination.”

He looked up at me, his head tilted, mouth twisted with an expression that said I’d just stupidly stated the obvious.

“You can’t quit.”

“Why not?” he grunted and reached for another shirt.

God, I hated to see him leave. I had to do something to stop it. I walked into the room and leaned against the desk near his window, my arms folded like I was his father or something.

He walked over to me and leaned on the windowsill. “Look out there, Michael. What do you see?”

I turned and glanced outside. Then I shrugged. “Just the students, doing what they do every morning.”

“Look closer.”

I watched the small pockets of young would-be priests talking and studying, but still didn’t know what he was getting at.

Finally, he explained, watching them like I was. “There are at least eighty blokes out there. Seventy-five percent of them won’t graduate, won’t make the academic cut. Of the twenty-five percent remaining, half will probably just burn out or wake up to the reality of their career choice and run like scared rabbits. Look over there.” He pointed and I observed the four new students, heads together over a book. “Those blokes don’t have a fucking clue what they’re in for. None of us really do.” He turned to me, then back to the window and chuckled.

“Look, there. Raymond, see him? Do you know he goes home every weekend and has sex with his girlfriend? Tell me, Michael, what kind of priest is he going to make? And there.” He pointed to the huge tree where three young men stood silently, eyes closed in prayer.

“The Holy Rollers,” I said with a grin.

“Yeah, the Holy Rollers. Out there, under the tree, praying themselves into a golden chain.”

“A what?”

He leaned back on the windowsill and sighed. “It’s from Eastern Spiritual philosophy. It states that those who bury themselves in the purity of prayer forge a golden chain that locks them from their real work. They haven’t figured out that prayer is a tool for the job at hand. They think a priest should simply pray a problem away. They should be joining some cloistered monk society, not a life of service. Think they’ve been called to an indulgent life of daily private prayer, those three. The calling.

“The calling. What the hell is that?” He looked deep into my eyes. “A calling?” He gave a grunt, shook his head and turned to the window again. “Every single one of them are here for themselves. Everyone’s got an agenda. See Russ over there. All he wants to do is work in the Vatican; has all kinds of plans and connections to help him get invited to the Ecclesiastical Academy. Our Russ, he’s a politician. And Allen, he’s into travel. That’s why all his focus is on languages. Everybody’s got a fucking agenda. Hell, Michael, I got an agenda. I want to teach. But, really, I don’t want to be a priest. See, I can teach at any university. It’s the introduction of theological information I’m really interested in. Not the practice and most certainly not the preservation of it.”

“What are you saying, Stevie? That no one here, should be here?” I wasn’t sure I liked where he was going with all his talk.

He smiled sadly then leaned against the wall. “Michael, tell me something. Why do we study government here?”

I blinked. “’Cause a priest needs to know the politics of his congregation, to understand where their loyalties lie.”

“And why do we study law?”

I huffed. “Is this a test?”

“Why law, Michael?”

“How can you work with people if you don’t comprehend the laws of their country?”

“Right. And languages?”

I rolled my eyes. “Virtually everywhere in the world is multi-lingual. In any given American city you can find at least five different languages.”

“Bookkeeping? Economics?”

“A church is a business. You got to pay the bills. What the hell are you getting at, Stevie?”

“Theology. Why do we study theology, mate?”

I blinked then cleared my throat to begin but he stopped me with a shaking head.

“Don’t recite from the books Michael. I don’t want to hear the obvious. Just tell me why you think a Seminarian studies theology.”

My throat went dry, but my mind was spinning. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

He blinked. “Is it?”

I looked up at the ceiling, forming words to describe ideas that had been floating around inside me for months. “To teach. To answer. To guide.” None of them words from the formal text; all simple, clear words from my heart.

Stevie sighed. “And dogma?”

“It’s the rules. You can’t have an organized religion without rules. Hell, Stevie you know all this.”

“No, mate. I don’t know all this. But you do.” He looked over his shoulder out the window. “And William, he knows it too.”

My heart started to skip beats and I think I wanted to run out of there. He sighed down at William. Gentle, peaceful, happy William. “There you are, mate. Two out of eighty. You know what you and William have in common, Michael?”

“Besides the obvious?” I said sarcastically. William also came from an impoverished neighborhood.

“Besides the obvious.” Stevie returned to his packing. “See, you and Willy both know something that never even occurred to the rest of us. Something we never even imagined.” He looked into my eyes. “You know that the work is the prayer, Michael.”

I swallowed hard and started to pace. “I’m not going to be a priest, Stevie.”

He closed his suitcase and heaved it upright. “Mate,” he walked to the door and turned.
“You’re already a priest.” I was stuck in mid-pace, afraid to move or even breathe. Stevie took a last looked around the tiny room. “It’s been an honor to know you, Michael Becker. You’ve taught me more than anyone here. I was pretty smart to take a good look at you, ‘cause it’s the way you walk your life that teaches.” He reached out his hand and I reluctantly shook it.

“Stevie. What can I do to make you change your mind?”

“Nothing. For the first time in my life, I know what I’m supposed to do.”

“And, what the hell am I supposed to do?” I mumbled.

Stevie grinned and rolled his eyes. “The obvious.”

I ran a hand through my hair.

“Enroll.” He tugged at his suitcase then walked out, shouting from the hall, his voice reverberating through the empty rooms. “See you round, Michael Becker.”

I knew I was going to miss Stevie. I kinda went into a tailspin after he left, falling back into old habits and keeping myself separate from the rest, contemplating my never ending question about fitting in anywhere. Being different. Hating that.

I really didn’t want to think about all that, avoided it like the plague, until the day I was repairing a few stained glass panels in the chapel. The beautiful windows were damaged during a bad hailstorm, and as I worked on them, I had that Epiphany I was looking for so long ago. And I realized that I wasn’t different at all. At least, not different in the ways I feared most. I was more similar to a few priests and students than I cared to admit.

I was smoothing the putty carefully, trying hard not to smear it on the beautiful colored glass when I heard someone walk into the chapel behind me. I was high on the ladder and not in the most stable position, so didn’t turn to see who it was. I tenderly polished the small piece of glass I’d placed in the ornate frame and picked up the next small chunk, examining the edges of it, wondering how the storm had managed to dash wind and ice at the window and not shatter the antique glass to tiny shards. I turned it carefully, making sure of the match and took glass and putty in hand to continue my repairs. “If only my life would fit so well, you know. Be so obvious,” I said silently. “Then I could just step back, squint at it, and see I was putting everything in the right place. There. What do you think?” I leaned back from my silent prayer at the neatly replaced glowing blue glass and smiled.

“You’re doing a fine job, Michael,” a voice said from far below.

I recognized that voice, but couldn’t place it. Was it a student? A priest? I was too precariously anchored to the ladder rung to look down, so I just kept working. “Thanks.” I said, and picked up another piece of glass, this one yellow, warm and sunny and unfortunately the last piece to replace. I actually hated to see the project end. It had a satisfying quality about it.

I stepped down the ladder, then looked way up there and saw clearly that it was good, and I sighed. I just wished that the new putty was a better match with the old, and was already devising a way to help it blend in better.

“You know, Michael, life’s just like that. If you step back and take a good look, you can see it much better. See what’s behind, what’s ahead, how to improve things, like that.”

I turned to see that the man was a priest, but standing up near the altar with his back to me. He stood straight and elegant in his black suit, his dark hair neatly trimmed, his hands peacefully clasped behind his back. I thought hard, but didn’t recognize him.

“Do I know you, Father?” I asked.

“Don’t you?” he said without turning.

“It’s just that you called me by name. I’m sorry; I don’t think I know you.”

“I know you, Michael,” he said then slowly turned and my mouth dropped to the floor. I blinked and gulped for air then actually fell back onto the ladder, blessedly caught in a sitting position on one of the rungs. I blinked and blinked but it was still there! The priest … was me!  Of course I recognized the voice. My voice. I looked at him and he looked at me, he with a face of complete confidence, peace, compassion. Me, most likely looking like I’d lost my mind, which I surely believed I had. I tried to talk, but had no voice at all. He took a step toward me and I leapt to my feet.

What the hell was I supposed to do about this? God, help me! I prayed.

The priest smiled. “He is helping you.”

“What do you want?” Finally, a voice, but not the threatening sound I was hoping for.

He slid his hands into his pockets and tilted his head, his eyes never leaving mine. “I want you to make a choice, Michael. It’s time to make a choice.”

I turned away from him. “If I could do that, don’t you think I would have done it already?” I hissed.

Silence.

Slowly, with more terror than I could ever remember, I turned. And he was gone. I collapsed into a pew, gulping air and asking the creator not to play a trick like that on me again. And I think I heard God chuckle. I think.

*

Paul didn’t chuckle; he looked like a deer in the headlights. Not a word came out of his mouth.

“Cat got your tongue, mate? Oh, there’s more.” I was on a roll. Just like Paul said, I’d kind of taken over and now it was his turn to be stunned.

He nodded like a puppet.

“Right after my Ordination, Father Benedict had to have some tests done at the hospital. He asked me to cover one of his classes. The bloke always trusted me with far more than he should have if you ask me. But I was worried about his health, so I assured him it would be apples.”

*

It was a large group. Nearly fifty young men all considering a theology major and, as Stevie had pointed out long ago, not one of them with a clue what they were in for. I felt less apprehension than expected, standing in front of the room, watching them shuffle to their seats, heads together in small flurries of discussion, a few eyeing me curiously. That’s when I spotted Brian.

Brian Newman was a student when I was still the handyman. He was one of those who’d just disappeared without a word. No farewells, just a skulking slip out of our lives like he was never there at all. I shook my head with admiration. What would it take to try again? How much courage could a man actually have? He looked directly at me for a full moment before recognition brightened his eyes.

“My God!” He leapt to his feet and joined me in two long strides. “Good God! Michael … or, ah, sorry ... Father Becker, how are you?”

My breath caught in my chest and I blinked.

“First time someone’s called you Father?” he said softly.

“Yeah. Wow. I, ah, hey, how are you, Brian? It’s great to see you.”

He took my hand and shook madly. “Congratulations. I knew you’d do it. I knew it. Hey, everyone,” he turned to the class who quieted and stared at us. “This is Father Michael Becker.” Eyes blinked, a few smiled but most just waited for further explanation.

Brian stood straight and continued. “If we can’t have Father Benedict, I tell you we can’t do any better. Father Becker is a remarkable bloke, one hell of a rugby player and a man worth knowing. Theology flows in his veins.” He turned to me then backed toward his seat. “You go on, Father, it’s all yours.”

“Thanks.” I leaned back on the desk then simply heaved myself up, sitting rather un-professor-like on it. “Ah, well. Welcome. I’m not real sure how to follow that introduction.” I gave an exaggerated scowl in Brian’s direction and the room chuckled. “But, I will start with a simple explanation.

“First off, call me Michael. I’ve only been ‘Father Becker’ for going on forty-eight hours and I’m not sure I’ll answer to it just yet.” Another round of laughter and I began to wonder if stand-up comic could have been my true calling. I cleared my throat and ran a hand through my newly trimmed hair, missing the few extra inches my fingers were accustomed to dragging at. “Father Benedict, as you know, can not be here today. He’s asked me to sit in and help guide you through this exploration of theology. As I understand it, you are all considering various majors for your course of study here at Seminary. My job today is to simply let you examine and share your beliefs and ideas about theology.” They were silent and I rubbed my chin. “Let me tell you, this is an amazing subject. It moves like a living entity, changing, vacillating from one moment to the next and it demands your full attention or surely you’ll be lost in the abyss of ideology surrounding it. That doesn’t necessarily mean that you won’t get out of that pit with an even more committed theory or idea. It just means that you don’t want to be lost for too long. The curriculum is challenging, even brutal at times. But if you want to go this way with your studies, you can’t find a more exhilarating path. Well, anyway, that’s my opinion.”

I cleared my throat again and began to wonder what Father Benedict was thinking putting me in front of those people. The men shuffled in their chairs. “Let’s start with introductions. Start here.” I was trying to be as casual and as un-intimidating as possible, nodding with my chin to my right and it started. Each man stated his name, some adding where they were from or why they wanted to sit in on the discussion, what attracted them to theology in the first place. I nodded and did my best to retain the names. I stood and strolled down the isles as they talked, my hands behind my back, and I listened, especially to those willing to put themselves out there for the rest of us to view.

As I made my way slowly back to the desk, something caught the corner of my vision and I turned. I could’ve sworn I saw a flash, like small sparkles. I think I even heard a crackle and smelled something burn. But there was nothing there; just Nick, a twenty-three year old dock worker with dark hair and fairly unremarkable features. Behind him sat sixty year old Richard, solemn as you please (the newest Holy-Roller I wondered?), and mild-mannered Henry sat in front, his head twisted around to view every face as they spoke.

By the time I returned to my seat on the desk, every man had spoken and I thought it would be an interesting afternoon, so few of them had a problem speaking up. So I asked the first, and if I did it right, the only question I’d need to ask according to Alex. “So, gentlemen. What is theology?” And it began.

I was thrilled to hear their comments and the intriguing rebuttals. I watched minds open and minds close. I witnessed blooming and implosions all in the same man at the same moment.

And, my attention continued to be pulled to the corner. The crackling sound intensified, the flashes became brighter and brighter. Having decided that it had to be my imagination, since no one else was looking that way, I tried hard to ignore it but my eye was repeatedly called there. I didn’t want to stare at Nick or make him uncomfortable, but I had noticed that he seldom joined in on the discussion. The class was deep in an exploration of forgiveness, its virtues, difficulties, and dichotomies when I raised my hand for the first time and the men fell silent.

“Nick, what’s your opinion?” I asked calmly.

He drew in a deep sigh and chewed his lip thoughtfully. “Father,” he said softly, the entire class seemed to lean in to hear. “I’m not sure I can contribute to this particular subject. See, I don’t really know what forgiveness is. I mean, is it really a virtue? Or is it maybe a weakness? The kind that blinds a man to something that really deserves his attention?"

I watched in amazement. Not because his words were compelling, they were in fact thoughts I’d explored myself. But it was something else, something I couldn’t really believe I was seeing.

Nick shifted in his seat. “Maybe forgiveness is something we manufacture. Something we make happen because it’s the socially appropriate way to behave in situations we don’t have the time or inclination to solve in a more hard core fashion.”

He shuffled again and I blinked. My heart was pounding. I was watching Nick split. I saw the Nick who was speaking, and another Nick, like a translucent projection, also moving, separate from himself. At one point the solid figure melted into the ethereal one and then moved away again. His explanation had triggered responses and the class interacted in a lively discussion.

“I’m just saying that, priest or not, pope or not, there are simply some things that are unforgivable.” Nick the solid said and I watched a saddened expression grow on the silent face of the slowly disappearing Nick.

“Like what?” Demanded the elderly Richard and Brian joined in.

“Yeah, mate, what are you thinking? It’s our job to not only find forgiveness in ourselves, but to teach it by example, right?” Brian looked to me for agreement but I couldn’t pull my attention from the growing desperation on the dissolving face of the Nick that was no longer in control.

The solid Nick stood up with great agitation and I actually watched the other form remain seated in its chair. I blinked. “Father Becker,” he said rather forcefully.
           
I nodded as calmly as I could, trying to watch the ethereal form beside the standing one. “Calm down. We’re all willing to listen to your ideas, please, sit.”

To my surprise, he did as I asked, sitting, obliterating the silent ghost for a moment. “Father?” he asked, and I swear I heard another voice scream out in terror behind it all. “Isn’t it possible there are things that shouldn’t be forgiven?”

“Like what?” Spouted the old man behind him.

Henry turned around. “Whatever it is, we all, as human beings must learn to forgive.”

There was a sudden shuffle. A flash of light gleamed from the blade as Nick pressed it firmly against Henry’s throat. “Say I press this a little harder. Can you forgive me?”

Brian stood then looked around the room, desperation in his face. “Nick! Hey, come on, what the hell are you doing?”

“Hell?” Nick said through gritted teeth. “Maybe that can be the next subject. Right now, I want to know if young Henry here plans to forgive me if I cut his throat. What do you say, my boy, got any forgiveness in that heart for me?”

I was on my feet, but frozen in place. Henry was shaking, his hands grasping at Nick’s wrist, his eyes wild and on me.

I took a look at the other Nick and listened intensely to a silent sound far from the desperate reality playing out before me. Within that split second, I understood what to do. I calmly walked up to the spectacle and sat in an empty chair, turning it so that I could lean my chin on the backrest. I cleared my throat and placidly looked into the captive’s face.

“Calm down, mate,” I said with a detached coolness that surprised even me. “Nick’s just trying to get his point across, that’s all.” I looked up. “So,” I continued. “Are you saying that there are things that cannot be forgiven, or that there are things that should not be forgiven?” Nick blinked and I felt more than saw movement behind him.

“Both,” he finally said; his voice raspy and weakening.

I watched the blade slice a tiny cut into Henry’s tender skin as he struggled against his assailant. I raised my eyes to see the old man and Brian slowly move behind Nick. “If you were in Henry’s position, would you be unable or unwilling to forgive?” I asked, doing my best to keep his full attention. All eyes were focused on the three of us, or four, if you count the ghost that was slowly gaining strength and beginning to strangely move in unison with its counterpart.

In a heartbeat, the blade dropped into Henry’s lap. No one had made a move on Nick,
nothing had forced the outcome. Henry shuffled wildly and slipped away, gasping for air. My eyes were locked in Nick’s. He was in so much inner pain that I could feel it in my own chest. Terror flowed from him like a bright red light and once again the sparkles crackled and popped all around his head. I had no clue what was going on all around us. Only that the man was in need.         

“Nick,” I asked softly. “Do you want to be forgiven?”

Tears rolled down his face and he collapsed into his seat. I slowly stood and examined Henry’s neck. It was a minor scratch. “Brian, go for the dean. Everyone else can go.”

The class stood but didn’t leave. I glanced around. “You can a;; leave,” I assured them.

“No, Father, we’re not leaving you alone with him.”

I blinked, looked down at the sobbing Nick, then at the men intending to protect me.

“Gentlemen,” I said quietly. “Tests come in all forms. You got to be ready for everything, for anything. For an opportunity to forgive.”

Finally they turned to one another. Richard was the first to move toward Nick. He knelt on one knee and patted the younger man on the shoulder encouragingly before leaving the room. Every man followed his lead until I sat alone with the tormented man cowering in his chair. “It’ll be alright,” I spoke softly, once again leaning my chin down, meeting his eye level. He blinked and ran a sleeve over his sweat-covered face then finally looked into my eyes. “It’ll be alright, Nick. We’ll get you some help.”

He blinked again. “I ... ah … I don’t know what to … I’m sorry Father. My God, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s alright, Nick. Now you got some work to do. You’ve got to forgive yourself, understand what happened and get better. It’ll be fine. But it won’t be easy. Pray.”

He sobbed in his hands.

Father Jardine led Nick out and I never felt the weakness in my knees until I leaned against the wall just outside the classroom. Brian lit a cigarette and handed it to me. I took a long drag then slid down the wall, thumping on the floor. Brian joined me and struck a match to his own cigarette. “You did good, Michael. It could’ve gone really bad in there, but you held it together. You did good.”

I looked up at him and just laughed, the release of tension draining from my chest. I shook my head. “I had no clue what I was doing. Not a single clue.” We laughed and smoked until the dean walked up the stairs and stood eyeing us like we were a couple of hoodlums who’d broken into his seminary.

“Want a smoke, Father?” I teased.

He shook his head and pulled a chair close. “Good work, Michael. And you too Brian.”

“What did I do?” Brian laughed.

“You didn’t try anything stupid.” He looked down into Brian’s grinning face. “That’s a good sign. Maybe you’ll make something of yourself here after all. Now off with you.”

Brian smiled and grunted to his feet. I watched him walk off then I turned to Father Jardine and dropped my face on my knee.

“You okay?” he asked after a long moment.

“Yeah, yeah. Just bonzer.”

*

Paul shook his head. “Man. And all this time, I thought I was the shrink. That’s the schizophrenic case I heard about. Michael, that’s amazing! What you saw is a visual of what he was experiencing.”

“No big thing, mate. I see that kinds of crap all the time, on the street, in a congregation. Everywhere.” I leaned over the table closer to him. “Paul, it’s not what I see that bothers me, it’s what I know.”
           
“Like what?” Man, I had him shaken, he could hardly sip his coffee; his hands were trembling so hard.

“I don’t know. Just things I shouldn’t know. Like, before I even get off a plane for a case, I already know if it’s real or not, a fraud or a scam, or just someone who’s lost it. Hell,” I grunted. “Most times I even know where to look to prove it. Maybe I just decide on the outcome first. Another reason I shouldn’t be an investigator, huh?”

“No, no. There’s a pretty clear, scientific rationale behind what you’re describing. Not Vatican-recognized rationale mind you, but true all the same. It has to do with opening the subconscious mind. I know you Michael. You pray in a seriously deep way. Reach way down. That’s where it is. You might be seeing the answers because they actually are being revealed to you. You know what you’re looking for. My theory is that’s what prayer really is, where the answers actually are.” He tapped his temple. “Right here all the time.”

“So how come you’re not in my shoes?” I teased. “Believing shit the Church doesn’t is fair warning that you may be in the wrong place.”

“What don’t you agree with the Church about, Michael?”

“Got about a year, mate? So much I don’t know where to begin. It’s like … fuck it all. What does it matter anyway.”

“Avoidance,” he sang.

I was starting to hate that word. “Maybe. But what the hell? You become a priest, make all these sacrifices, willingly do whatever you’re told, then suddenly realize that the job they asked you to do isn’t the job they meant for you to do at all. The goddamn job description has been switched and you never got a chance to see it.”

“How so?”

“Well, take what I just described to you, the schizophrenic. You’re a shrink, so you go about looking at his case and making a diagnosis. You know it’s correct, everything indicates not only that you’re right, but the severity and what the treatment should be.”

He nodded.

“Now, just say you are sure of all this. Not a single doubt in your mind. But when you make the recommendation for treatment to the patient’s family, they tell you no. No way, even though you could be right, you can’t move ahead. What happens to your patient?”

“He deteriorates.”

“Exactly,” I spat and stood, dropped a few dollars on the table.

“Which patient of yours is deteriorating, Michael?”

“Let’s get back on the road.” I wasn’t answering. He could call avoidance all he pleased. He knew what I was talking about and I saw no reason to speak it. He grunted to his feet and stretched.

“Where are we going?”