The Shooting at Our Merciful Lord

I don't think Mom ever recovered from this blow. She aged about 20 years as we discussed the situation sitting at the kitchen table and drinking coffee. She lived a long while yet, but she became an old lady that day. Her eyes and her movements changed. She sank into senility almost gratefully when it started ten years later, as if appreciative that the burdens of life would now rest elsewhere. She had things to be very happy about by then, including grandchildren, but love was love and it wasn't based on DNA tests. She saw the kids occasionally at a market or park, but after a few months, she was effectively a stranger. They had other paternal grandparents in New England, even if estranged.

Her last few years, descending into dementia, Mom would wander about the yard and talk to herself, talk to plants or animals, lost in the netherworld of her mind, imagining people from her life. We would laugh gently, talking about it among ourselves, seeing her good life exposed by her condition and wishing that time didn't pass for such people. I found her one day, standing beside a tree, talking. Drawing closer, she saw me and asked, "Do you think Dylan and Hanley can come by for lunch?"

Karen Ann eventually realized what she'd done and I think regretted it, but that didn't change it. She squandered the love of three generations.

Chapter 6: Two Priests and a Nonbeliever

I slept fitfully and for the last time in our house, on our couch. For all I knew Karen Ann and Shawn may have had sex on our couch as well, but I knew they had used the bed. It was a long night looking often at the clock on the tv box, waiting for morning, drifting in and out of sleep.

Friday came finally. Again, I awoke early, shaved, showered and dressed in a loose polo shirt. I decided to try to see Dr. Beatol a day early; the huge bandage was dirty, impossible, and awkward. I still had pain, but I rarely took a pain pill, and I had gone a night without drinking, so things were probably improving, at least for my hand.

Merciful Lord was cleaned up, windows were repaired, bullet holes were filled, painting was ongoing, and damaged counters, desks and tables were removed. There remained a few extra police in the building and on the grounds, but they were in regular uniforms and just keeping an eye on things. I went to my office and it was still there, still small, still as I had left it. I called to see if I could advance my appointment with Dr. Beatol, who was already operating this morning. I left a message and a half hour later, they called to confirm for nine. I straightened my desk, threw away some old papers with which I'd failed to deal and looked at my calendar, when there was a knock.

"Come in," I said, and Father Michales entered, closing the door behind him.

I stood. "Father, you do get around quickly," I said. He held out his left hand and we shook.

"I learned to manage sleep when in seminary I was sent to some cloistered nuns, getting up at midnight to pray, then working until three, then another hour or two of sleep." He shook his head. "Astounding, really. Remarkable women. Last night I caught a late flight and got in about one."

I thought he had another purpose, also. A morning flight would have been soon enough for business.

We sat and talked, starting with the reading of the will and then to other topics.

"It was as we discussed. Dunston has four known children now. They will divide the investments. Mrs. Buck was almost shunned by the family. They were quite rude to her, openly rude, but the lawyer executor kept things civil. The kids will get their disbursal, probably in some months. My business there was concluded quickly; our lawyer is still there to wrap up one loose end, but nothing to do with you."

He looked straight at me and said, "Tell me about what you intend to do."

Taking a deep breath, I said, "She detests me. She said she was with him because I was a loser. Their love was transcendent." I couldn't keep the cynicism from my voice, which I realized as soon as I spoke so I hesitated and waved my one hand to apologize. "She gloated about them having sex so often in our bed... She was so hateful. I was shocked."

He shook his head. "This whole thing... I saw it and didn't act," he said. "I knew he was seeing different women; I didn't know Karen Ann was one until the meeting before the funeral. I was taught in management classes that the discreet affair should be left to those involved. That's a mistake, especially for an institution rooted in the perception of morality and goodness. It can't be discreet if I know of it. I'll think about this and change how I deal with these things in the future."

I looked at my situation, trying for objectivity. I wasn't disgusted, I was bereft. "We're in our late twenties, Father. These should be the years for us: babies and sex and building a family, and here I am without one. My wife abhors me and I wonder if I've lost every decent dream... "

He looked at me. He was a Jesuit. He said, "I know you don't have faith, but I pray you find your way to God, John. I met Karen Ann only twice that I remember. I hope she finds her way to a more loving outlook. It appears that you will soon be ostracized from the children for whom you struggled all of your adult life. Don't sink. Overcome. You're that guy that wins out in the end. I've seen it in you. God... in you." His hand was on my shoulder.

"The God Solution, huh?" I said. He'd talked about an approach to solving problems, and to other things over the years, and it always involved introspection, calm, and seeking over time. He didn't believe in quick solutions to social problems. We called it his "God Solution" behind his back.

"Always," he said, smiling. "Now, you said you have to leave your home? Tonight?"

"Yes, everything's in my car. I could go to my parents, but they're so upset seeing me might upset them more. About Karen Ann and the grandkids."

"I have a solution. I know a guy who needs help paying his utilities, but he wouldn't charge you any rent. Might want you to help with chores. Share grocery bills. I can probably get it set up today; give me until the afternoon. Or I'll come find you."

"Thanks so much, Father," I said. I had never thought of Landon Michales as my friend, but it appeared he was interested. Or grateful or loyal.

"When do you get the hand looked at?" he asked.

"Nine today."

"Well. Tara's the best. We'll talk about your job after that sometime. Today, tomorrow, soon. There is a lot happening for you and fast, so I'll just give you the gist. Most of the larger hospitals have a department that monitors professional development. Doctors, nurses, much what you are assisting now but on a more formal basis. I would like to create that department and enlarge your duties and responsibilities. Right now, the departments handle it in house, but that won't work as we grow. We'll talk. Think about it. I don't know when it would start. Early next year, once we obtained approval and remodeled some. I'll get back to you."

"Father, I don't know what to say. It sounds like a career."

He was nodding and looking directly at me. "Yeah, it does to me, too."

*

Dr. Beatol liked the look of my hand and reduced the size of my next bandage by two thirds. I could now wear regular shirts, although buttons would be very hard with the off-hand doing all the work. She told me to come back in another week. Alone with her in the examining room, the door shut, she said, "I know there is some reason to keep your name out of the press, but I just wanted to say... I think it was terribly brave. I had assumed you were shot by the terrorists. I didn't realize you were the one who ended the attack. How'd you get shot then?" She had a look of genuine sincerity and... respect. I had not seen much of that.

"The one guy had a pistol pointed right at the lady's head. I was afraid if I shot him in the head, he'd squeeze the trigger. So I knocked the pistol up as I shot him. The bullet went through him and hit my hand."

She shook her head. "And you still shot the other guy then? You're a hero, John, you know. You saved a lot of us, and someday it'll be okay to let people know. I hope."

"Kind words," I replied, smiling, "If I were just a little more graceful I might have escaped shooting myself. Thanks for everything, Tara. I'll be back in a week."

*

The cell rang as I returned to my office. It was becoming a busy Friday, and I'd done none of my usual work.

"Hello?"

"John?" It was Karen Ann.

I said nothing then.

"John?"

"I heard you. Say what you have to say."

"I should not have said what I said, John."

Silence. Finally I spoke.

"I was your biggest fan, Karen Ann. I told people I had married the best person I'd ever met. I lionized you."

She said, "I was wrong about some things, I know now. We can save it, if we..."

"Just stop, Karen Ann! No man of any character could stay in a marriage with a woman who felt as you did about me. There's no argument. What could you possibly want of me? What is there to build on?" I asked. "I can't be married to you. You threatened to claim ..." but my voice quit and my mouth kept moving. I tried to make my voice hard. I had no voice.

She said, "John, you are being so unreasonable. Don't you love the kids?"

I found my voice at the idea that coercion could be negotiated out of our relationship. "Unreasonable? The issue is character. You have made children into property and I don't have any claim. You abandoned me and took them. You threatened to fabricate the most evil acts in my relationship with them. Unreason is not the issue.

"A father is more than a guy. He's that one who does what's best for the family even when it hurts. It's hard for me, but I must. I'll sign your papers in a few minutes."

She said, "You're... cruel."

My voice was hard now, as I finally understood my feelings and my situation. "I don't suffer the destruction of my family gladly. You destroyed us. How could you even THINK of alleging abuse? NO ONE loved those children more than I. Not even you." I paused. Then I said, "Did Dunston even know them? Hold them? Play with Dylan?"

There was silence. Silence can be loud or full. This silence was both. I realized he knew neither child with any feeling, and didn't care to know. His loss, I thought.

"Where do we go, John?" she asked, and I thought for the first time she realized she had completely demolished us.

"You are Ugolino... You introduced Ruggieri into our family." I stopped because my anger was taking me too far. "May God forgive you for him in our lives," I said.

I shook my head, and there was silence on the phone. I wondered why she was still listening: Remorse? Loss? Hopelessness? Single motherhood?

"The kids still have potential. Perhaps you can salvage a decent life for them," I said quietly, angrily, "but do me two favors: First, stop using my name. The kids can keep it if you wish. You made fun of it enough."

I waited. I imagined her nodding on the other end of the line.

She said, "You said two favors."

"Yeah. Take responsibility for this clusterfuck you called a marriage. And fuck you."

She said nothing. There was a long period of silence. I never used such language, even as a Marine. I heard her breathing. I decided I wanted her to know I was silently there, so I held the line open. Eventually I heard her hang up.

*

I immediately called my lawyer and said I had decided to sign the papers. I drove to his office and he welcomed me with another left-handed shake. "Reduced the bandages, huh?" he said.

"Yeah. My wife called, wanted to drop the whole thing, I think, but it's past that point." We were sitting by now, and I paused as more emotion passed through, "I mean, low expectations shouldn't be the criteria to maintain a marriage."

He nodded and pulled out the papers, marked with arrows for me to sign. He said, "It wouldn't work. Men can't get past a sincere declaration that someone else is the pig's eye, or soulmate, or however they put it. Only when it's the only way to care for kids."

I nodded and said, "She has some money now."

I signed with my left hand, making unrecognizable squiggles, squelching the teary feeling, knowing my eyes must have been shining.

He said, "Might be for the best, then."

I nodded, unable to talk. I pulled off my wedding ring and put it on the table.

"I'll take care of everything. In a month or so, it should be over. I'll let you know when the court says."

I stood and held out my left hand. We shook. I shook my head because I didn't trust myself to speak. Something died when I signed those papers. My love had been sincere. You never get over the end of a family, even one as bad as mine had been.

*

I returned to the hospital about one and found Father Michales escorting some people toward my office. I walked in and he saw me.

"Mr. Buck, some people wanted to speak with you." That was when I recognized Tony Spagnol, his mother Marilyn, and a man I'd not met.

Tony actually threw himself into my arms. His mom waited and hugged me next.

"Hello, hello!" I said, laughing and hugging them back.

Mrs. Spagnol said, "We wanted to thank you for saving us. This is my husband Cal." Cal was standing with a little difficulty.

I held out my left hand. "John Buck," I said.

"Cal Spagnol," he replied, pronouncing it "spaniel" like a dog and clearing up a minor mystery, and we shook left-handed. He was holding onto a crutch with his right hand.

"We were here to take Cal home that morning when the terrorists came in. Knee surgery," she said.

"I hope everyone is doing well, then," I said. Fr. Michales was smiling at all concerned. It was a nice meeting of the anonymous: the Spagnols were not releasing their names as hostages, just in case. We talked a few minutes. Cal asked about my hand and I explained how it happened. He shook his head, realizing my crippling was to protect his wife. Marilyn and Tony turned to leave then.

Cal leaned into me and said, "Thank God for what you did, Buck. I do. I thank Him. And you. I can never repay..." He shook his hs head and then my hand with his left and right, trapping the crutch under his arm.

I shook my head. "I'd do it again. So would you, if you'd been there."

Cal nodded. Marilyn, Cal, and Tony were gone then.

Father Michales was smiling at them as they left. He was openly helping me fight depression.

"Thanks, Mike," I said. No one could hear, and he smiled at my use of it. "I might get through this after all."

"We can get you counselling, you know. No charge. Hospital can..."

I shook my head. "No, you're doing enough. I spoke to Karen Ann a few hours ago. She was trying to make amends but it's beyond that. I signed the papers."

He nodded. "I hate to see marriages break up. I hate the idea of divorce. Two loving people can always resolve things in time, with God's assistance. I really believe it." He sighed and looked at me sympathetically. "Not all marriages have two loving people. Some have one loving enough for two, and those marriages end long before the couples realize it."

"It's hard to..." I stopped, unsure what I was going to say, and finally just shook my head. I chastised myself in my mind. Now come on, not with my boss. Emotionally motivated speechlessness?

"Let's take a ride," he said, ignoring my emotion. "I'll drive."

He drove us only a mile or so down the street. "Found you a place. No rent. You pay utilities to $300 and he'll pay the rest. You have a third of an old gothic house. Your own bath, your own entrance or use the common one, use of the common rooms like the kitchen and living room. The fireplaces work. In good shape."

"Sounds excellent, Father." I was overwhelmed.

He pulled up behind the local Catholic Church: Our Merciful God Parish. (In Sky Grey, everything Catholic is Our Merciful Something: God, Saviour, Lord, Mother.)

"Out," he said, and I stepped out.

I realized what he was saying. I started to laugh. I couldn't help it; it tickled me and with all the tragedy of the shooting, the hurt hand, the divorce, and losing the kids, I needed to laugh.

"Yeah, what's so funny?"

"You got me an apartment in a priest's house? A rectory?"

"Yeah. What's the big deal? It'll save everybody money. Come on, Phil's inside. He's your housemate."

I was still laughing as we climbed the steps. "I guess I don't have to worry about him bringing girls home at all hours?"

"Probably not. But keep your eyes open."

We knocked.

*

I moved to my new digs. I had a separate bedroom in a spooky house built in the late 1800s: dark hardwood floors and trim, chair rails, thick plaster, chandeliers, two fireplaces (one in the living room, the other in my bedroom), overstuffed chairs, and the mild smell of old cigar smoke throughout. A big, cannonball-topped, four-post bed of darkest wood looked that it could withstand the Blitz. The building was built for three priests in the days when a large parish could afford and recruit them, back in the days when such an edifice could be built and bought. It was the nicest place I'd ever lived. Every appointment was the solid 19th century quality that lasted the 20th and into the 21st. It was dated, but I imagined Conan Doyle writing at the desk or Lincoln staring at the fireplace.

Paintings were on every vertical surface. Jesus looked down from some walls, Mary or Joseph from others. There were portraits of various saints about. There was St. Drogo, patron of the ugly. (I wondered if whoever hung that painting did it with humor.) I had never heard of the Infant of Prague or St. Margaret of Chichester. I began to understand the insinuation—the very extent—of Catholic guilt.

Father Philip was older and sharp-witted, the local parish priest, a transplant from the other side of the archdiocese. I had access to the whole house, use of my own bathroom, and a woman would come in to clean once a week. I had to cook for Father and myself when I could. After one meal, Father decided to cook for both of us. Father Philip said he was an alcoholic so I was not to have spirits on the premises; I told him there would be no problem. I was out of rye whiskey, anyway. With this simple agreement, I avoided alcoholism.

From that Friday, that very busy Friday, my life started to wind down to a reasonable pace. The crises of violence, confrontations, family disintegration, and difficult decisions were hopefully behind. Some of that credit should go to those two priests doing so much for a non-Catholic in distress. Part of it was allowing me time and space. The God Solution: think about it and how it affects you, pray, look at the options, discuss it with people who will help, and you will find a solution. Drop the God part and almost everyone would agree: calm down, think it through, learn what you can, talk it over and make a decision. Then watch how it progresses and react appropriately, doing all those things again. I shook my head at the thought. It was practically the scientific method.

Father Philip and I began to talk on those evenings he was free. He was 67, had served as a chaplain in the Gulf War, and had performed more baptisms, weddings, and last rites than he could count. He played poker, never lost, and liked a nip or 15 and that had been his undoing. He'd been assigned to Merciful God after drying out; it was a plum assignment and he had been in it for 13 years now. He did not have long left, one way or the other. His health was not great, and it was time for him to retire anyway.

He told me about the problems he'd handled over the years. He loved the relationship with the parish elementary school. He was humbly—and he claimed easily—celibate. We discussed our work, our lives, baseball, world peace, soccer, football, the Dead Sea Scrolls, and argued about the Gospel of Thomas from Nag Hammadi, anything. He got me to read parts of gospels, supposed gospels, novels; he had me crawl under the old wooden dining room table and shine a spotlight up, and there were the names of every priest to serve in the parish and live in the house, written in pencil. Over a hundred years of priests were listed there. We talked about it. We'd discuss a line or a book for hours on some nice evenings. My evenings closed my days in peace and quiet, reading, and friendly conversation (thank heaven we were both Reds fans). I came to love the evenings. Occasionally he'd smoke a cigar on the porch, but he said he never did inside.