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For the DWC prompts |
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This starts my WDC 2026 journey |
| “Buenos noches, pequenito.” I was embarrassed to have witnessed this intimate ritual between mother and son. I couldn’t turn away, though. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t experienced a mother’s love. My mother read me stories and tucked me in at night; kissed my scrapes and cuddled me close. So why this feeling of longing? Felicia got up, turned and walked toward the door. I stepped back to let her pass and we went downstairs. Suddenly the silence that engulfed us was no longer comfortable. The air felt charged to me. I broke the stillness by asking about the ceiling in Nate’s room. “Isn’t it spectacular? Dwayne did it. The actual painting. I have a deep interest in astronomy.” She stopped speaking for a moment and shook her head. I ran my fingers through my hair, nervous. “I wouldn’t call it deep,” she continued. “I like to watch the sky change during the seasons. I researched the internet and was able to find where some of my favorite constellations and the planets were on the day Nate was born. Dwayne did the rest.” “Felicia, I...” the words I wanted to say wouldn’t come. I wanted to tell her about my confusion; was it because I wasn’t wearing my religious collar? “I think it’s time for me to get going. See you tomorrow.” I finished lamely, giving away nothing. She looked quizzically at me, though, as if she were trying to read my face if not my thoughts. I hoped I had my cleric’s look on once again, but I wasn’t sure. She put her palms together, laced her fingers and dropped her hands in front of her. She opened her mouth, to speak, but thinking better of it, closed her lips and they turned into a smile. “Certainly, Father Jason. Bright and early. I’ll have everything ready for you as usual.” She walked over to the front door, and it seemed to me she was especially careful to avoid any physical contact with me. She opened it and held it for me, waiting for me to pass through it. As I reached the threshold, she said, “Oh Father?” Before I turned, I resisted the urge to run my fingers in my hair again. “Yes?” “Thank you, for walking me home and carrying Nate. It was awful kind of you to go out of your way like that for us.” “Felicia, don’t mention it. It was no trouble at all.” As I walked through the door and turned, I saw her stand there for a moment, then wave and the door closed with a soft click. I walked back to the rectory carrying more than I had when I arrived. After I left Felicia’s home, I didn’t go back to the rectory. I kept walking, past the last row of houses and into the colder stretch of street where the lamps were spaced farther apart. My breath came out white in the air. I shoved my hands into my coat pockets and picked up my pace, as if speed alone might shake loose the weight I’d carried out of her doorway. At the corner, I turned without thinking. The park lights were glowing dully through the trees, and my feet took me there before I’d decided to go. Ahead, under the park lamp, two teenagers moved in and out of the light like they couldn’t decide whether to be seen or hidden. Their fingers were laced, then unlaced. She shoved him with her shoulder; he caught her hand and pulled her back, laughing. “Elliot—stop,” she whispered, but she didn’t let go. “It’s late,” he said. “I’m walking you home.” “I know.” She tilted her head, teasing. “I’ve got—what—six minutes?” “Five,” he corrected. “And you’re going to make me the villain when your mom looks at the clock.” She smiled at that, the kind of smile that was meant for one person only. Then she stepped closer and lowered her voice. “You’re acting weird.” “I’m not.” He was, though. He glanced down, then back up at her face like he was bracing for impact. “I just—Claire, I don’t want to do that thing anymore.” “What thing?” “The thing where we pretend we don’t care.” He swallowed. His free hand rose, hovered, then landed lightly at her elbow as if he wasn’t sure he had the right. “I don’t want to be one of your options.” For a second she didn’t answer. The breeze pushed a strand of hair across her cheek, and she didn’t bother to fix it. She just watched him, smiling in a way that made my chest tighten for reasons I didn’t want to name. “You’re not,” she said softly. “You’re just—Elliot.” He let out a breath like he’d been holding it all evening. “So…?” “So,” she said, and her fingers tightened around his. “Walk me home.” They stood there for another beat, too close, too quiet. I shifted my weight. The bench was cold beneath me, and I became suddenly aware of my own stillness—of how long I’d been watching. Elliot turned his head and saw me. His face changed instantly, embarrassment flashing hot across it. “Oh—Father Jason.” He tried to sound casual and failed. “Didn’t see you there.” Claire’s cheeks went pink. She took a half-step back, caught herself and stood her ground. “It’s cold to be sittin’ out here,” Elliot added, too loud now. “You okay?” “I’m fine,” I said, and the words came out sharper than I meant them to. I forced my voice into something lighter. “Claire, isn’t near your curfew ?” She glanced toward the path like she’d been pulled by a string. “Yeah.” Then, to Elliot, quieter: “Run.” He grinned, returning as quickly as it had vanished. “You’re gonna lose.” They took off together, feet thudding on the path, laughter breaking behind them as they disappeared. I stayed seated a moment longer than I needed to. The air felt thinner now, as if the park had become too small. When I stood, my legs felt stiff, and I didn’t look back toward the path. Sitting again, I reached into my pocket for my phone before I’d fully decided to. “Hello.” “Hello, Cynthia, it’s Jason. “ ” Hi, Jase,” her voice brightened immediately. “It’s good to hear your voice. How have you been?” “Couldn’t be better. Are the kids ok?” “You know, teenage stuff. Andy says he can’t find a girl I would approve; all the guys are falling over Kyra. But other than that, they’re doing fine.” “That’s great. Listen, is Paulie around?” “Sure, he’s outside tinkering with the car, as usual. Hold on, and I’ll go get him for you.” I stood there with the phone pressed to my ear, the silence combined with the sound of the wind rustling through the trees. The metal casing of the phone was cold against my palm. |
| Where hers were black like coal, his were amber brown. Watching the two of them now, unaware of my scrutiny. I felt sad that this little boy would grow up with just a memory of his father. I wondered how he would know what being a man was about without seeing one in action firsthand. I imagined him growing up, questioning his own life, wondering what kind of man his father had been, and why he had to die. I knew, too, my longing was not just about how this child would grow up, but how I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to BE his father. I couldn't understand this feeling. I am around children all day; I have a niece and a nephew. I am actively participating in their coming of age. Why did I feel drawn to this child? Suddenly it came to me, as the first half was drawing to a close--I was drawn to his mother and naturally I gravitated toward him. I tried to shake the thought, but it stayed with me. Was it simply coincidence that my thoughts involved my decision to enter the priesthood? Was my mother right after all? Could she have foreseen this situation unfolding? One of the boys was tugging at my shirt. “Father Jason, they’re beating us badly! You’ve got to give us some better plays!” Here was something I could control. I decided to put all those other thoughts out of mind for the time being. “Boys, gather around! We’re not down for the count. We can still win this game. Pay attention–here’s what you’ve got to do.” The final buzzer rang and the ball sailed through the air, completely missing the basket. Our team lost, but not by very much. “We’ll get ‘em next time, Father Jason,” I heard, excitement in the boy’s voice. “Sure Terry. Now boys, everyone got rides, right? No one leaves until an adult comes to get them.” Twenty minutes later, all the boys were paired with corresponding adults. I looked across the gym and saw Felicia at the door, carrying Nate’s small, limp body. Apparently, he had fallen asleep and she was waiting until the crowd thinned before leaving. I walked quickly across the gym floor to catch up with her before she left. Simultaneously reaching the door, I opened it for her. “Hi Felicia. Looks like Nate couldn’t hold out tonight.” Felicia looked at me with a smile. “He tried very hard to stay awake. Not even all the cheering could do it. School tires him out. He likes learning so much, his little brain never shuts off.” She shifted him from her left shoulder to her right and Nate made a small whimper of protest for the change in position. “You look beat yourself. Is it a far walk to your car?” Oh, we didn’t drive. We don’t live far from here; we walked.” “You can’t possibly carry that sleeping child all the way home by yourself. Here, I’ll take him.” I reached for Nate and scooped him easily from his mother’s arms. Touching momentarily, I felt the same electric spark I sensed when I touched her on that first day. My instinct to avoid her company was right; however it didn’t stop the thoughts I had of wanting to be closer to this tiny family. I should have called her a taxi or found someone to drive her. But I didn’t. Instead I took the child from her arms. I saw her relieved look when she handed the child to me and she smiled again. “Father Logan, I really appreciate the offer. But after running around all evening, you must be tired. Nate and I can get home just fine.” “Felicia, it’s no problem.” I should have handed her back the child. I didn’t. “Just show me the way,” I said instead. The evening was cool and we walked side by side in silence. I sensed she wanted to talk with me but was afraid to break the silence between us. After about a block and a half, she spoke. “Father, remember when I first came to your office and I told you I heard your lecture on Mary Magdalene?” “Sure, I remember.” “Well, just how much more could you tell me? About her life, or why the church is so conflicted about who she was and what she stands for?” I was taken aback; I didn’t speak. “Father?” “Oh, I’m sorry. Sure, is there anything specifically you want to know?” Before she could answer, we stopped in front of a two-storied brick building with a narrow walkway flanked by miniature rose bushes. There was a wide, white door with a brass knocker. Underneath the knocker was flowered wreath and on the floor in front of the door was a welcome mat. She put her key in the lock and said, “Here’s where we live, Father.” I entered her apartment and felt the tranquility. Here was a home devoted to coziness and family. The foyer was small, and as I entered, I immediately saw the soft pastel colors of the living room. In one corner was an old-fashioned rocking chair. I noticed several paintings on the walls, although one wall was totally devoted to a bookcase and wall unit. I noticed the bookcase was filled with a selection of books and framed photographs. I wasn’t able to get a detailed look at the case or the photos, but the room was enchanting. “Follow me and I’ll put Nate to bed.” She took off her coat and dropped it carelessly on a chair close to the staircase separating the living room from the dining room. Apparently, she had forgotten her inquiry regarding Mary Magdalene. We went upstairs to Nate’s room, a typical little boy’s room furnished with Ninja Turtle posters, Harry Potter books, and stuffed animals. There were toy trucks and building blocks, all neatly put away. A globe was on a desk in the corner and on the wall was a world map with push pins in various places. I laid the still sleeping boy on his bed and stepped back into the doorway. As I walked back toward the door, my eyes were drawn upward. I gasped with wonder. The most amazing part of his room was the ceiling. It looked like a clear night sky. Lots of tiny stars dotted the dark blue background. I recognized several constellations—Orion, the Big Dipper—some planets, was that Mars? Who had done this, I marveled. It was exquisite! Felicia removed Nate’s coat, hat and shoes, slipped on an oversized t-shirt; tucked him in bed. She brushed his hair off of his brow, leaned over and kissed his forehead. |
| Felicia’s eyes darting around the room and the smile disappeared. “Where can I put these things? I brought muffins for the office.” Felicia asked, her dismissive tone matching Beatrice’s. Beatrice pointed to a table on the other side of the room which held a coffee maker and some mugs. Felicia walked over and put the muffins on the table. “Is there a vase here? The flowers need water. If not, I’ll bring one from home tomorrow.” Beatrice grunted and went to a cabinet near Felicia, opened it, took out a plastic vase, and handed it to her. “No need, we’ve had flowers here before. Your desk is over there.” She pointed to a desk next to the window, a stack of papers, a computer and a cup of pens and pencils near it and went back to her desk and continued to type. “Oh. Thank you.” Felicia took the vase and smiled uncomfortably again at the woman, confused by this exchange. After she arranged the flowers, she sat down on and looked at the pages. Father Logan was right–he did have the worst handwriting she’d ever seen! She chuckled out loud and Beatrice looked up. “Did you say something, dear?” she inquired. Looking at her and holding up a sheet of paper, Felicia said. “This looks like a chicken stepped in ink and walked across the page!” Beatrice’s face relaxed into a smile and she nodded. “True. He’s not the worst, but he is pretty bad.” Felicia rose from her seat. “I’m gonna need some coffee to get through this. Would you like a cup?” Beatrice nodded and Felicia prepared two cups of coffee and brought one to Beatrice with a muffin on a napkin. “Thank you, dear.” She took a bite of the muffin, her eyes widening and smiling said, “This is delicious! Where did you buy this?” “I made them at home. My son loves these,” Felicia answered. “Delicious,” Beatrice repeated. And this time the smile was deep, friendly. They worked in a comfortable silence for the rest of the morning, breaking when Felicia asked where the bathroom was, or where the mailboxes were for priests. When it was time for her to finish that afternoon, Felicia got her things and said, “See you tomorrow.” Beatrice, with a smile that reached her eyes this time said, “Certainly. Enjoy your day.” They fell into a routine. When she arrived in the morning, a stack of papers from Father Logan was waiting on her desk. She’d make a pot of coffee for the office staff; most mornings she’d bring in homemade muffins or cookies for the other people in the office. Beatrice’s initial resentment slowly disappeared, and Beatrice even allowed her to answer the phones. They made a good team, especially when it was hectic. By noon, Felicia was done with the typing. If there were any exams to grade, she’d take care of those, or any other errands, such as scheduling student meetings. Soon the other priests would ask Felicia if she wasn’t busy to type for them as well. Before she realized it, the day was gone and it was time to pick Nate up from school. The strange thing about the arrangement was that she hardly came in contact with Father Logan. At first, she thought he was avoiding her, but after a while she realized he just didn’t have the time. He was, by far, the most popular priest in the parish. He spent all day at the school–teaching in the morning, counseling in the afternoon and then more religious education in the evening. The two other priests, Father Petrocelli and Father Baxter, seemed to have an older generation following, but were well loved and respected in the neighborhood. Ms. Pratt, with Father Logan, ran the music ministry and the young people’s choir. He also coached the basketball team. Sometimes, Felicia would walk over to the church and sit and listen to the youth choir in the loft sing the familiar hymns for the mass. Their young, innocent voices transported her to places that calmed her troubled spirit. The singing reminded her of her own youth and days in the choir. Her parents sitting in the same pew, week after week, beaming with pride as she sang her solos. Or at Christmas when she sang “Ave Maria.” So many times Felicia wanted to call her parents and talk to them, remember with them, tell them all about their grandson and how bright, warm, and funny he was. She’d dial her parents’ phone number. Hearing her mother say “Hello,” Felicia said nothing; but simply enjoyed the sweet sound of the woman who once sang lullabies to her. “Hello, who is this?” Again Felicia said nothing and she waited for the dial tone, before replacing the receiver in its cradle. Her parents had never forgiven her for the premarital pregnancy and deciding to marry a man they did not approve. When Dwayne was alive, though it hurt, she had come to terms with their cruelty; now it was harder. Ever since that morning she had the vision in the church, Felicia avoided sacristy, except when the choir practiced. She felt isolated and alone. Alive in the flesh but deceased in spirit. I was sitting in the residential dining room going over some plays for the basketball game scheduled with a neighboring school for later this afternoon. Looking at the drawings in my notebook, I realized I needed to change a play which wasn’t going to work, since one of our players was benched this week. The door opened and Beatrice came into the room interrupting my thoughts. “Father, they’re waiting for you at the gym. The other school’s arrived.” “O.K. Beatrice. I’m just going upstairs to change, then I’m going over to the gym.” I closed the book, gathered my papers, pushed back from the table, rose and went to my quarters. I put on blue sweatpants and a T-shirt that said, "Born to serve God". This afternoon, I walked to the gym. It was unseasonably cold, a great day for an indoor game. When I arrived, I saw a large crowd in the stands. These intermural games are popular and many of the parishioners come to cheer the kids on. On the sidelines, high in the stands, I saw Felicia with her arms around her son, Nate. Last month she introduced me to him, and I told him next year, he'd probably be in my First Communion preparation class. He shyly smiled at me, his lashes framing eyes so like his mother's except in color. |
| Right before her eyes now, she saw them picking it out: Dwayne, telling her he wanted her to feel like the princess he knew she was. The scene shifted, like a scene in a stage play to their home. She, Dwayne, and Nate were in the hallway by the door. Dwayne, in his uniform, put his arms around her, kissed her, and said, “See ya tomorrow, Princess.” He turned, picked up Nate, and said, “Bye, little man. Take care of Mami, eh?” He put Nate down on the floor, picked up his bag from the table and walked out the door, waving goodbye as they watched. Another scene shift. The “Felicia” in the pew heard a phone ring and watched in horror as she saw herself in her kitchen even later that day. She followed with her eyes and saw her image dry her hands, reach for the receiver, and heard her voice as she spoke. She recognized the other voice on the line. It was Peter Campbell, Dwayne's partner, calling from his cell. “Something’s happened to Dwayne, Felicia. He’s not coming home.” “What’s happened? What’s going on?” she demanded, her voice trembling. “I’m coming right over,” Peter said, disconnecting the call. When he arrived, Felicia opened the door. “Dwayne’s dead,” she said, knowing what he was going to say before he said it. Ushering her inside to the sofa, he sat her down and told her something. All she heard was a bullet ended both Dwayne’s life and their life together. Closing her eyes, wishing for a miracle, she re-opened them. The images were gone; she was still in the church alone. Horror was replaced by outrage. For the first time, in her entire life, she cursed God. She felt He didn't deserve her faithfulness, love and obedience. He wasn't worthy of HER and never would she come here again- -at least not to pray. But then, what would keep her grounded? Without God, she’d be completely alone. I’m alone already though, she thought to herself; Dwayne wasn’t coming back, there’ d be no wedding, no marriage, no happily ever after. She stood up, her knees rebelling at the sudden movement after so long in one position. Leaving the pew, she practically ran toward the back of the church. She glanced back and saw the altar still there. She turned and as she reached the door, she ran into Father Logan “Felicia, I mean, Ms. Guzman, are you ok?” The last person I’d thought I’d run into this morning was the young woman I met yesterday. After that strange dream last night, I needed fresh air to clear my head. I’d just been out for my morning run and was sweating. But here, while the sweat continued to bead on my forehead, my heart beating wildly, now more from excitement than exertion, stood the reason for my distress. I looked at her—she seemed to be flustered, as if something had frightened her. I repeated my question, searching her face for an answer. “Oh, Father Logan. I didn’t see you standing there. No, everything’s fine. I just came in here...” The words trailed off for a moment. I watched her straighten her shoulders and the cloud I first noticed seemed to lift a bit. “I won’t keep you, Father. I’m leaving now. Go take care of yourself before you catch a cold. I’m still starting to work with you next week, right?” The swift change in subject confused me for a minute and in my dazed state, I almost forgot where I was and who I was talking to. “Oh, sure, Ms. Guzman. Next week...right. See you then.” I opened the door and she passed through it. I walked down the center aisle and up to the altar. Bowing before the crucifix, I looked at the solemn figure of Jesus. “Father,” I began. “I need your guidance. My mind and heart are troubled...troubled in a way I’ve never experienced. My soul is tormented by thoughts, carnal in nature, but innocent.” I needed to talk to someone about Felicia. If she was going to spend time here, I’d have to find her something to do which would keep her out of my general proximity. But how? She was supposed to help me–personally–with my notes and class prep. Why am I getting so bent out of shape? Perhaps this is something that simply would pass with time. She wasn’t the first attractive woman I’d come across in the parish. The church was full of pretty women, the high school, too. A test, I thought. This is God’s way of testing my steadfastness. I should be able to minister to all my flock. Before I bring unnecessary scrutiny, I decided to see how the situation progressed. Ms. Guzman (to begin with, I’ll think of her formally) needs my assistance and it’s my job to help her. The wild heartbeats stopped and I felt calmer and more controlled. I left the church and went upstairs to my rooms to take a shower and change for my morning religious class. ** “Ms. Guzman, I need Father Jason to get this book. Can you give it to him?” Felicia looked up and saw Jessica Felder, a smart nine-year old in Father Logan’s class. “Jessica, sure, I’ll see that he gets it. Can I tell him it helped you?” “It sure did. Now I understand the difference between the Immaculate Conception and the Virgin Birth. I’m sure to get a great grade now!” Felicia watched the youngster as she left the office. Putting the book in Father Logan’s inbox, she sat at the computer, and it had taken her almost two weeks to figure out his individual shorthand. Now, a month later, she was proficient and could get his notes typed in plenty of time for his classes the next day. Felicia arrived at nine in the morning on that first day, carrying flowers and corn muffins. Standing in the doorway, she met the parish secretary, Beatrice Cooke, a woman in her late fifties, with glasses on a chain around her neck. “Can I help you, miss?” she said as she stopped typing. “I’m the new office volunteer, Felicia Guzman.,” she said softly, with a slight smile. Beatrice looked at her over her glasses. “Hmm. Oh right. Father Logan mentioned that you would be starting here. I didn’t know you were starting today.” The words were abrupt, clipped, uninviting. |
| Ms. Guzman stood there, on the other side, carrying white roses and, on her back, papoose-style, was a baby. She walked toward me, and I toward her. As we got closer, the floral aroma was pungent, and it mingled with the subtle scent of vanilla. We came face to face; I smiled at her. She offered me a white rose which I unhesitatingly attempted to take from her outstretched hand. However before I could take it, the alarm woke me. I didn’t know what it meant, but I knew I was in trouble. Big trouble. When Felicia dropped her son Nate Fielding at the door of his kindergarten class this morning, he gripped her hand tightly, afraid to let her out of his sight. He continued to press his slender form against her knees, but he didn’t cry, not even a whimper. She was thankful her little boy. What a treasure! He was only five years old, but he acted older. Those eyes of his, big and unusually amber colored, spoke of experiences beyond his years. The young teacher saw them at the door and quickly met them. She knelt to meet his eyes. “Hey, pretty eyes! My name’s Candide, but the children call me Candy.” She smiled at the boy and Nate eased the grip on his mother. “I like candy,” he whispered. He looked up at his mother and Felicia winked at him. “Gonna be O.K., nino? she asked softly. “Looks like it, Mami.” He turned his gaze back on the teacher. Her flaming red hair caught his attention, and he tentatively reached out toward her. He took her hand and she asked, “What’s your name sweetheart?” “Nathaniel Fielding. I’m five years old. This is my Mami, Felicia.” He pointed at her. “My daddy’s dead, though.” He said that last sentence simply, unemotionally. Candide stood up, still holding onto Nate’s hand and turned toward Felicia. A look of sympathy passed between the two women. Candide spoke first. “He’ll be fine, Ms. Fielding. You go on and we’ll get him settled in.” Felicia blew a kiss at her son. He put his palm to his lips and smacked one back to her. She turned and walked out the classroom, hearing small childish voices in unison saying, “Hi Nate!” Outside the air was cool and sunny with a crisp wind blowing. It was a typical autumn day. She pulled her jacket collar up a little higher on her neck. Suddenly unfettered by childcare responsibilities, she was at a loss as to what to do with her free time. Next week, she’d start her volunteer job with Father Logan, but until then, her time was her own. Felicia turned at the corner and continued walking until she came to a park not far from home. She walked across the grass, now covered with fallen dry leaves. Every now and then she’d see a pile made by the wind and she dragged her feet through it, strewing the leaves in the wind. The blue sky had puffy clouds, and she stopped along her walk to look up and imagine what the shapes formed. She kept walking and finally came upon a playground. At the swings, she sat down on one. Looking up, she noticed a cloud shaped like a chariot. Absently pushing her toe in the sand, she gently started the back-and-forth motion. The swing, squeaking as it rocked, sent Felicia higher and higher. Each time she soared to the sky, she reached out toward the coach shaped cloud. The sun dipped behind another cloud. Felicia shivered, not from the chill, but because she sensed her old friend, Sorrow, was nearby. Her face was contorted with inner heartbreak. Adversity followed Felicia like a shadow-always lurking about, showing up when the sun shines. Joy was elusive; but pain, however, hovered just below her life’s surface. She felt as suspended in life as if she was on the swing. Time always takes its time when you want it to speed up. That chariot cloud slowly drifted across the sky. As she watched it, her face relaxed a little and her lips curled into a smile. From a distance, she looked no older than her son. The swing slowed enough for her to jump off. She took one more look at the slow-moving cloud and walked out of the playground. With no destination in mind. Why hadn’t she corrected the teacher this morning when she called her ‘Ms. Fielding’? Perhaps the reason was because it sounded so wonderful and natural. More likely, she was still reeling from the talk with the priest and how evasive she had been with him. The mere mention of Dwayne’s murder two years ago still brought tears. Truthfully, tears constantly hovered. Her hanky came in handy. Just about everything brought back a picture, a slice of life with Dwayne always there–laughing, smiling, making goofy faces, being tender, loving. From the day they met until the day he died; Dwayne had given her a sense of security and wonder. In the distance, Felicia saw the church. She walked faster, now that she had a place to go, she wanted to get there quickly. Churches always gave her a sense of peace, but she avoided them when she felt undeserving of God’s love and protection. She opened the door, dipped her finger in the vessel holding the holy water and crossed herself. Walking down a side aisle, she stopped at a row near the center. She looked around–only a few people were here, taking solace in the peacefulness. Genuflecting before entering the pew, she put the kneeling bench down and prayed. On her knees, she felt Dwayne's presence. She could smell his cologne, feel the bristle from his mustache as his lips brushed against her ear. She could feel his warm breath as he spoke and the words were clear and, in his voice, "Fee, it's OK. Don't do this. I can't rest if you're not at peace in your soul. Nate needs your whole heart; don't bury it with me.” Opening her eyes, she looked around in amazement. Gone were the pews. the altar, all the trappings of the church. As part of their aborted wedding plans, Dwayne arranged for an open carriage to take her to the church. |
| I started bouncing the ball absentmindedly; my father repeated the question. “Dad, I'm sorry, but a parishioner came into my office with a particularly difficult dilemma, and I had to immediately address it," I said to him, as I took a shot and missed. "Jase, I know you can't talk about what goes on between you and the people you counsel, but you have the weirdest look on your face. What's going on?" "Dad", I said trying to hit the hoop again, but missing so wide I realized I wasn't seeing a basket. Instead I saw a pair of dark eyes, brimming with tears. My breath caught in my throat for a minute. The basket returned. I was myself again. "I really can't talk about it. Let’s say the person had an extraordinary problem and I'm still thinking about it. I started dribbling again. Hey, can I ask you a question?" "Sure but stop trying to hit that basket and give me the ball," my father said, and I tossed the orange orb in his direction. "When was the last time you saw someone using a cloth handkerchief?" “O.K. Jase, spill it. What’s the matter?” “Nothing, Dad, just answer the question.” Paul thought for a moment, then taking a shot at the basket, the ball flew and dropped in, barely touching the net. “See, son. THAT’S how you make a shot!” I was becoming impatient with my father and suddenly, I didn’t want to talk anymore about Felicia or her hanky. Not with him, anyway. Maybe Mama would be a better choice. “Never mind, Dad. Since you’re on such a hot streak, let’s play a game of HORSE. You can start.” As my father tossed the ball into the net, I was determined not to think about Ms. Guzman and concentrate on the matter at hand–beating my father into the ground in HORSE. “Aw, what an easy shot you missed there, Dad!” and I bounced the ball now with steely determination. This time, when I looked up at the basket, it was plainly a hoop and the ball sailed through the air and sank in with a WHOOSH. Four more times, and I spelled HORSE. We played a few more games. “No more baskets, Jase,” said my father. As we walked to the showers, towels draped across our shoulders, my father broke the silence. “Jase, the last time I saw a woman with a cloth handkerchief, I had to be in my twenties. In fact, it was your mom. Now, unless you’re planning to get her some for future use, and I seriously doubt it, why did you ask that question?” I stopped in my tracks, shoulders hunched over. I had successfully deflected all thoughts of that afternoon interview and now here it was staring me in the face. Realizing it was my own fault for asking him in the first place and more irritated at myself than him, I tried to switch the subject again. “Dad, I told you I couldn’t discuss it with you, and I wish you’d honor my situation. Really, every time we talk lately, you assume there’s some dire, urgent problem at hand. I happened to see a cloth hanky today and since I don’t see those anymore, I wanted to ask you. Don’t make me sorry I did.” He looked at his me, with the instinct born of many years dealing with my temperamental moods. He shrugged his shoulders and appeared to drop the matter. But something in the way I stood that made him realize there was more to it than a simple question. “O.K. Jase, sit...we’re going to talk now. I know there’s something bothering you. And I am sure a woman is involved.” I had to stop him right then. The earlier encounter was too close for comfort. Besides, I was not in the mood for another lecture about my vows, especially after the one given by the dueling priests. “Dad, it’s not about a woman, and I’m not thirteen anymore. I’m an ordained priest, have been one for years. You don’t have to worry that I’ve knocked up some girl and must get married. Gosh, every time we’re together, you’re talking about temptation and women, and I really would appreciate it if you’d drop this subject!” My father got to his feet and without a word walked past me to the locker room. While we changed, neither one of us spoke. Silence is supposed to be golden, but now it was positively tarnished My reaction to Dad’s query was troublesome. I should be used to his “woman worry” as I liked to call it. He’s been that way ever since I entered puberty. This evening, as I studied my reflection, I had a moment of self-discovery. This afternoon had changed me–imperceptibly, yet irreversibly. That woman touched a chord, long buried, never uncovered. No one else could see the change, either. There was no outward difference at all. It was more subtle. Only I was aware of the change. I knew then I wasn’t bothered by my father’s concern. It was that for the first time, I felt the temptation he was so worried about. And believe me, I was afraid. When I fall asleep, I’m like a coma victim. After all the excitement this afternoon, I thought I'd fall immediately into slumber. Dead to the world. Sitting on the edge of my bed, I set the alarm clock for my first morning class. I laid down on my firm mattress, but sleep eluded me. I tossed and turned and finally drifted off into an uneasy sleep. Normally, I don't even remember my dreams. The dreams the doctors say we all have. But when I woke the next morning, I could not help but remember the images. I dreamt I was walking in a field full of yellow, lavender, and red flowers. Odd, but all the other colors, while vibrant, were less bright than the yellow daffodils that surrounded them, I could smell the scent and it brought back childhood memories of my mother, my youth and of being carefree. Suddenly, the flowers parted. |
| She said in her frank manner, “Jason, I love you, but personally I don’t believe you have the temperament it takes to take the final vows.” As I began to interrupt her with protestations, she held her hand up. “Wait now, let me finish. I know you’re smart, dedicated and very studious. You’ll do the work. But Jase, you know you’re vain, dear. If you become a priest, how will you feel about being forced to wear the same style and color suit all the time?” I was appalled. I opened my mouth to speak, thought better of it, then closed it again. Part of me resented her description. To imagine that such a ridiculous reason would prevent me from giving my life to God. However, there was another part of me that knew what she said about my vanity was accurate. “My wardrobe will hold me back? Mom, it’s like you didn’t even hear me! I had a vision! God spoke to me. I don’t know what he has in store for me, but I think the least of my obstacles will be what clothes I’ll be allowed to wear.” I turned away from her in frustration, snatched a chair from under the table and sat down. “Besides,” I continued, “the purpose of going to the seminary is to learn what’s expected of me and to prepare me to meet those expectations.” She sat down next to me and said, "Jase, listen. Remember when you were starting confirmation preparation and you had to do a service project. We were sitting at this very table. Do you recall what you told me you wanted to do?” Sheepishly, I bowed my head. "Yeah, I wanted to go out in the park to play my saxophone and bring decent jazz to the uninitiated of the neighborhood." She grinned. "And what did Father Petrocelli tell you?" "He said that wasn't a proper service project but was simply my way of becoming famous. He believed my actions were more self-service than charitable because I was urging people not only to listen, but also to donate money if they enjoyed my performance. But Mom, you knew I was going to give the money I made for the homeless shelter! Father Pete was just too short-sighted!" She took a breath. "That's just my point, Jase. You have a problem with authority. Sometimes you’re so busy seeing the trees, you miss the forest. Father Pete wanted you to engage in an activity which would help others see the glory of God, not man’s glory in man. Sure you would have given the money to the shelter, but that wasn’t the issue; he wanted you to give of yourself. Otherwise, you could have just written a check and be done with it." My indignation reached the boiling point and anger took over. I found myself practically screaming at her. "So basically, what you're saying, Mom, is that Paulie was more giving and selfless than I! What a cosmic joke! Look at what's happened---all of Dad's hopes and dreams of having his older son exceed the family tradition of mere priesthood by becoming Pope was flushed down the toilet when Paulie met Cynthia." My mother's lips trembled at my statement, but I was too far gone emotionally to care about her feelings. "And where did he meet her--in church? No! He met her at the gas station. What lofty service was he performing? He charitably offered to fill her tank!! You think I can't change, but Paulie did. Why is it so impossible for you to believe I could become worthy of serving when Paulie, who was, as you guys liked to tell me all my life, 'born to priestly life' dropped out of the seminary and decided not to serve? At least in the way you had planned." Neither of my parents liked to discuss Paulie’s decision. They still loved him, but whenever I wanted to get them off my back, I just had to mention this sore spot. She never answered my question. She simply sighed, got up from the table and as she walked away, she muttered, “Man plans, God laughs." My relationship with my family changed forever that afternoon. Gone were the days when I could take my future goals lightly. I was under the microscope. I vowed to prove to my mother she was wrong in her assessment of my intention. Eventually she was convinced, but not without expressing serious reservations. My father, still stringing from the disappointment of Paulie’s defection three years earlier, was just as doubtful. But when he saw how determined and devoted, I was, he too, was won over. He still made his comments about all the female members of the parish coming to mass simply to look at me (both of my parents thought I was too handsome for the priestly vocation). While it irritated me, I enjoyed the new relationship between us. Soon I started having “wish conversations” with him, but instead of in the kitchen, we talked at the gym. It was thinking about the gym reference which forced me to stop playing and glance at my watch. Today was one of the days of our weekly workout sessions. And I was now going to be late for the first time. I put the instrument back in its place in the corner and quickly put on my warm-up suit. Grabbing my keys, I left my rooms, went down the stairs and out the front door to the street. Something in the way Jason crossed the floor made Paul stop pacing. I could feel my father’s eyes on me before he said a word. I knew that look. It was the one he got when he thought something had gone wrong and was bracing himself to hear what it was. "Why didn't you call and let me know what was going on, Jase?", asking as I approached with the basketball under my arm. I didn’t answer. |
| And offering her services without any expectation of monetary compensation, was to her credit. But there were definitely two sides to this woman. The rectory already had a secretary, a genuinely nice woman in her late fifties named Beatrice Cooke. She ran the rectory office like a general in an efficient army, and she wouldn’t look kindly on a sudden invasion. But I could always use an assistant. Being the most popular priest did have its rewards, but that meant many obligations. Oh no, was that Pride rearing its ugly face? I could feel Father Pete on my shoulder, wagging his finger at me, disappointed. What was happening to me? Suddenly I was becoming someone I no longer recognized. Quickly, weighing the options, I thought for a moment and came to a decision. “Felicia, give me a few days. I think I may have a place for you. I teach at the parish school here, and while we have a very competent secretary at the rectory, she says she can’t read my handwriting. Most of my class prep I manage on my own. I need someone who can type out my class notes for me; it takes quite a lot of time for my hunt and pecking style of typing to get it done. Would that interest you? “ She tilted her head a little to the side, taking my suggestion and turning it over in her mind. Smiling, she stood, signaling the discussion was at an end. The smile was even more intoxicating than the voice. It was the first time she looked happy since she walked in the office, and I thought, I could get to like seeing that. What an unusual encounter! On its face there was nothing bizarre about it. Anyone viewing the scene would describe it like this–a parishioner came into the office with a problem and left feeling better and with a plan. It happened every day, with different people, so why was this such an exceptional experience? I didn’t understand. My legs suddenly were as weak as wet noodles, and I sat down heavily in the chair Felicia had occupied. An inspired thought–a cigarette, I needed a cigarette badly! Easy now, I said to myself. No backsliding. I took large, gulping deep breaths. After several minutes, my legs were feeling steadier. Rising, I found I could stand and walk unassisted. I put the page with Felicia’s number on it on the desk blotter. I crossed the room, opened the door, and walked into the reception area. The aroma of vanilla wasn’t as pungent in the adjacent room, and my brain didn’t seem so foggy. I went through the room to the stairs and went upstairs to the residence quarters. My rooms were my sanctuary–that is, beside the church. There was a sitting room; its focal point was an old-fashioned wing back chair, purposefully placed in front of a bookcase filled with works by some of my favorite authors: Dickens, Faulkner, Cummings, and Byron. Among these were also the expected volumes on religious theory. A simple round wall clock ticked away the hours. There was a doorway, which opened into a slightly smaller bedroom. It was simply furnished: a twin bed with a wooden headboard was along one wall, directly above on the same wall was a large wooden crucifix given to me by my parents. On the opposite side of the room was a full-length mirror, a bureau next to it. Photos graced the top of the dresser, pictures of my parents, Paul and Danielle Logan, my older brother Paulie, with his wife and kids. The perfect family, one boy and one girl. I removed my clothes–collar, black shirt, slacks, socks and stood in the middle of the room. The only true reminder of my dream long past sat in a corner. My sax. I walked over to it, picked it up and raised the mouthpiece to my lips. Inhaling, then exhaling in measured breaths, I began to play a slow, haunting piece of my own creation entitled, “The Calling.” While the melody reverberated in the room, the very act of playing it dropped years from time. When I was in school, I used to come home and eat lunch with my mother at the kitchen table. Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, she gave me toasted tuna fish sandwiches, an apple, and a tall glass of milk. I would tell her my hopes and dreams, and she would suggest ways of reaching them. We referred to them as our “wish conversations.” What was most important to me, of course, was trying to be as good as my saintly, older brother Paulie. All the eldest sons in my father's family entered the priesthood. It was some strange family tradition. And it was never questioned or disputed. So that made Paulie the designated priest in my family. My father, who was a younger son himself, was a schoolteacher. He seemed more interested in getting the most recent catalogs of seminary schools for Paulie to examine. He rarely had time for me. Since I was the younger son, I was encouraged in my less lofty endeavors--sports and music. Therefore, this time with my mother was very precious to me. As I got older, these “wish conversations” with my mother became fewer, but nonetheless important. A critical one occurred one morning a month before my high school graduation. My mother was standing at the sink, washing dishes and I rushed into the room, panting, breathless. She turned around quickly, her eyes questioning. I said, “Mom, guess.” Not giving her an opportunity to speak, I hurried on. “I was playing my sax and suddenly a vision appeared before me, beckoning to me. I’ve decided–I’m going to become a priest.” She wiped her hands on her flowered print apron. |
| I thought it was because I so desperately wanted a cigarette, and yet there was something more. A feeling I could not quite put my finger on, indiscernible, and unsettling. "Father, five years ago I had my son Nate. His father was killed two years ago. He was a police officer. We were supposed to get married two weeks before...” Her words stopped suddenly, as if she were afraid to complete the thought. “...he was murdered.” Another pause. She paused again, looked at the handkerchief, then raised her eyes and met mine. God, I thought irreverently. Those must be the biggest, darkest eyes I have ever seen. And so much sadness and pain behind them. What she must have gone through. My detachment was starting to fade, something that has never, EVER happened before. I readjusted my glasses and managed weakly to say to her, “How horrible for you. Are you sure you I can’t get you some water?” “Yes, please. I think I will have some after all.” I got up and went to a small refrigerator at the opposite end of the room. My hands were shaking and I was glad my back was to her. Get a grip, I told myself. She has come to you for assistance, and here you are, struck dumb like a foolish teenager. I filled the cup, leaving some space at the top in case my trembling hand failed to cooperate. Again, raking the fingers of my unoccupied hand through my hair, I took a deep breath, turned around, and handed the full cup to her. To my surprise and relief, I didn’t spill it on her. “Gracias, I mean, thank you, Father Logan,” Felicia took the cup, brought it to her full lips, and took a sip. She swallowed the water and I could see the movement of her throat as the cool liquid slid down. I waited for her to finish her drink so she could continue speaking. “My problem, padre, is since my fiancé’s death, I have a lot of time on my hands. I’m fortunate enough that I don’t need a full-time job, but I need something to occupy my time, something flexible. You know, because of my son. I believe that I could be of some use to the parish. I type and speak fluent Spanish. “The young woman paused, another flash of emotional angst. Again, the shade fell against showing it. What was she afraid of revealing? I said nothing. “I need to keep busy, do something interesting, now that my son's in kindergarten and my days are so empty. Otherwise, I’ll have nothing to do but think and relive that horrible day. And all the horrible days since. Even if it’s only for an hour, I could think about something else, be around other people. Perhaps that in some way, will help me move on." "Felicia. You don't mind if I use your Christian name?", I began. She nodded her head in agreement, so I continued. "Felicia, I need to know some more things about you, basic information. How long have you been in the parish?" This was standard procedure, and I needed the ritual to regain my grasp on the reality of the situation and to keep my mind from taking serious flights of fancy. I reached across my desk for a pad and took the pen out of its holder. "Three years. I didn't come to church before this because..." she hesitated. In that moment, different expressions flicked one by one across her face, and I sensed the meanings behind them–uncertainty, guilt, embarrassment. I was sure she was debating whether to tell me all the reasons for not attending services. Believe it or not, people are often reticent when talking with priests. They’re not always sure about the whole priest-penitent confidentiality part of the job. Especially if the priest didn’t take a vow of silence. "I wasn't sure where God fit in my life at the time, so I didn't feel right joining the church. Though now I'm ready." There it was-- the safe answer. I’ve heard the type before, close enough to the truth to be technically accurate, but just a little off the mark. I believed that was one reason, yet there definitely was more to it. “And your family, are they nearby?” I saw her hand tighten around the handkerchief and her jaw clenched. Her face suddenly flushed a bit, like she was in a hot room. There was slight hesitation, then she spoke. “There’s nobody but Nate, Father Logan. Dwayne’s parents keep in touch by phone, but they live about two hours away.” Her mouth became a thin straight line and her black eyes flashed briefly. Another puzzlement. While she was talking, I appeared to be writing down what she was saying. In fact, I was simply doodling cris-cross lines on the page. The image of St. Joan reappeared and with it that disturbing feeling of unease I couldn't seem to shake. The objectivity I prided myself on maintaining in circumstances involving women, was suddenly eluding me. This diminutive, young woman came to me with a story full of despair, and I wanted to help ease her pain. I wanted to be the one to protect her, to keep further unpleasantness from touching her life She had been through so much already, and I didn’t want to see her go through anymore. She needed comfort, and after all, that’s what I was trained to do. Yet with her frail demeanor, I sensed strength in her, a steely determination to not only persevere but also to survive for herself and her son. She was looking for something to do. |
| My brother was the chosen one, not me. It wasn’t my destiny to become a priest, but it was my choice. My “path “was to take me to smoky, dark bars where I would be a great jazz musician, playing my sax. But when I received the Call, I answered. Now I play my sax just for myself, in my rooms in the rectory. After ten years ministering in this small parish, I don’t even remember the old life I had envisioned and given up. I enjoyed teaching the elementary students’ religious education, coaching the basketball team and being supportive. My life never seemed pointless. The sacrifices were all worth the satisfaction I experienced in my purpose. I was, however, a thorn in the side of the two older priests here at St. Ann’s Church. My views about women participation in the church was nothing short of revolutionary. Father Petrocelli, the pastor, who had been here thirty years and incidentally had presided over my own initiation sacraments, believed in the tradition–women as nuns and teachers, Eucharistic ministers, able to come to the altar to pray, but not to preach. Father Baxter, associate pastor, who has been here fifteen years, at least accepted the trend in female altar servers, although they rarely served at his masses. It fell to me to try and bring the parish, kicking and screaming, if necessary, into the twenty-first century. It was usually at my masses that at least one of the altar servers was female. I spoke openly and often about the modern trends changing the role of women in the Church. I was forever comparing the Roman Catholic religion to the other, more tolerant sects in my Sunday homilies, only to have disagreeing letters sent to Father Petrocelli, who would then call me into his office and lecture me, complete with waving gestures and disapproving looks. My latest faux pas was discussing the discovery of the ancient papyrus of Mary Magdalene’s gospel. That did not go over too well, so this afternoon I was summoned to Father Pete’s office. I had both pastors admonishing me, like a team, this time suggesting I take a retreat. I dissuaded them from that idea and was coming out of Father Pete’s office, adjusting my eyeglasses, when I saw her. “Excuse me Father, I know I don't have an appointment and I'm sure you must be terribly busy, but I really need to talk to you.” A whisper of a Spanish accent in the few words spoken. At first, I thought she was one of the children in my class, she was so tiny in stature. On closer inspection, though, I could see the youthful maturity in her face. She was holding a cloth handkerchief, something I hadn't seen in years. Everyone these days carried tissues, and I was amazed to see a young woman with an embroidered hanky. Hiding my surprise (and my consternation–I desperately wanted a cigarette even though I had given them up five years ago), I put on my “cleric look.” You know that look: it says you can trust me with your secrets. From your mouth to God's ears. It is not a feigned look or something I cultivated, it's just that I needed to change from chastised younger priest to God’s trusted servant. “Certainly, please come into my office and I’ll give you as much time as you need.” I turned, walked across the room, and opened a large brown door with a nameplate on it that read “Father Jason Logan.” “Please, sit,” I said and pointed to a comfortable leather chair across from my mahogany desk. She walked the short distance to the chair, sat down and it immediately engulfed her small frame. Her short, close-cropped hair reminded me of the portraits of Joan of Arc I had seen in Paris during my student days. Her skin was the color of caramel, and her large dark eyes held a look of sadness. The unshed tears were waiting to fall from them at any minute. Instead of sitting behind my desk and having it act as a barrier, I took the seat next to her, turning it so we could converse face to face. She brought the handkerchief to her face, gently dabbing at her skin. I noticed the yellow daffodils surrounding the initials “DNF.” "Are you alright? Do you want something, a glass of water perhaps?" I asked her. "No thank you, Father". I saw her take a deep breath, as if to compose her thoughts. The look of vulnerability suddenly disappeared as if a curtain was drawn across her face and, in its place, sat a calm, collected person. That breath seemed to give her courage. I leaned forward, silently giving her room to speak safely in this space. "My name’s Felicia, Felicia Guzman. I've been in the neighborhood for a while now. I heard your sermon, the one about the papyrus and I think you would be the one to understand and help me." I almost wanted to close my eyes and simply listen to the woman's voice. She had such a lilting cadence to her speech, though the words were brusque and business-like. The musical tone of her voice was mesmerizing. Instead, I watched her hold the handkerchief like it was a lifeline. She stared at me, and I realized she was waiting for a response. "I'd be most happy to help you. What do you need?" I raked my fingers through my curly, unruly hair, the gesture familiar and uninvited. |
| My brother was the chosen one, not me. It wasn’t my destiny to become a priest, but it was my choice. My “path “was to take me to smoky, dark bars where I would be a great jazz musician, playing my sax. But when I received the Call, I answered. Now I play my sax just for myself, in my rooms in the rectory. After ten years ministering in this small parish, I don’t even remember the old life I had envisioned and given up. I enjoyed teaching the elementary students’ religious education, coaching the basketball team and being supportive. My life never seemed pointless. The sacrifices were all worth the satisfaction I experienced in my purpose. I was, however, a thorn in the side of the two older priests here at St. Ann’s Church. My views about women participation in the church was nothing short of revolutionary. Father Petrocelli, the pastor, who had been here thirty years and incidentally had presided over my own initiation sacraments, believed in the tradition–women as nuns and teachers, Eucharistic ministers, able to come to the altar to pray, but not to preach. Father Baxter, associate pastor, who has been here fifteen years, at least accepted the trend in female altar servers, although they rarely served at his masses. It fell to me to try and bring the parish, kicking and screaming, if necessary, into the twenty-first century. It was usually at my masses that at least one of the altar servers was female. I spoke openly and often about the modern trends changing the role of women in the Church. I was forever comparing the Roman Catholic religion to the other, more tolerant sects in my Sunday homilies, only to have disagreeing letters sent to Father Petrocelli, who would then call me into his office and lecture me, complete with waving gestures and disapproving looks. My latest faux pas was discussing the discovery of the ancient papyrus of Mary Magdalene’s gospel. That did not go over too well, so this afternoon I was summoned to Father Pete’s office. I had both pastors admonishing me, like a team, this time suggesting I take a retreat. I dissuaded them from that idea and was coming out of Father Pete’s office, adjusting my eyeglasses, when I saw her. “Excuse me Father, I know I don't have an appointment and I'm sure you must be terribly busy, but I really need to talk to you.” A whisper of a Spanish accent in the few words spoken. At first, I thought she was one of the children in my class, she was so tiny in stature. On closer inspection, though, I could see the youthful maturity in her face. She was holding a cloth handkerchief, something I hadn't seen in years. Everyone these days carried tissues, and I was amazed to see a young woman with an embroidered hanky. Hiding my surprise (and my consternation–I desperately wanted a cigarette even though I had given them up five years ago), I put on my “cleric look.” You know that look: it says you can trust me with your secrets. From your mouth to God's ears. It is not a feigned look or something I cultivated, it's just that I needed to change from chastised younger priest to God’s trusted servant. “Certainly, please come into my office and I’ll give you as much time as you need.” I turned, walked across the room, and opened a large brown door with a nameplate on it that read “Father Jason Logan.” “Please, sit,” I said and pointed to a comfortable leather chair across from my mahogany desk. She walked the short distance to the chair, sat down and it immediately engulfed her small frame. Her short, close-cropped hair reminded me of the portraits of Joan of Arc I had seen in Paris during my student days. Her skin was the color of caramel, and her large dark eyes held a look of sadness. The unshed tears were waiting to fall from them at any minute. Instead of sitting behind my desk and having it act as a barrier, I took the seat next to her, turning it so we could converse face to face. She brought the handkerchief to her face, gently dabbing at her skin. I noticed the yellow daffodils surrounding the initials “DNF.” "Are you alright? Do you want something, a glass of water perhaps?" I asked her. "No thank you, Father". I saw her take a deep breath, as if to compose her thoughts. The look of vulnerability suddenly disappeared as if a curtain was drawn across her face and, in its place, sat a calm, collected person. That breath seemed to give her courage. I leaned forward, silently giving her room to speak safely in this space. "My name’s Felicia, Felicia Guzman. I've been in the neighborhood for a while now. I heard your sermon, the one about the papyrus and I think you would be the one to understand and help me." I almost wanted to close my eyes and simply listen to the woman's voice. She had such a lilting cadence to her speech, though the words were brusque and business-like. The musical tone of her voice was mesmerizing. Instead, I watched her hold the handkerchief like it was a lifeline. She stared at me, and I realized she was waiting for a response. |
| My brother was the chosen one, not me. It wasn’t my destiny to become a priest, but it was my choice. My “path “was to take me to smoky, dark bars where I would be a great jazz musician, playing my sax. But when I received the Call, I answered. Now I play my sax just for myself, in my rooms in the rectory. After ten years ministering in this small parish, I don’t even remember the old life I had envisioned and given up. I enjoyed teaching the elementary students’ religious education, coaching the basketball team and being supportive. My life never seemed pointless. The sacrifices were all worth the satisfaction I experienced in my purpose. I was, however, a thorn in the side of the two older priests here at St. Ann’s Church. My views about women participation in the church was nothing short of revolutionary. Father Petrocelli, the pastor, who had been here thirty years and incidentally had presided over my own initiation sacraments, believed in the tradition–women as nuns and teachers, Eucharistic ministers, able to come to the altar to pray, but not to preach. Father Baxter, associate pastor, who has been here fifteen years, at least accepted the trend in female altar servers, although they rarely served at his masses. It fell to me to try and bring the parish, kicking and screaming, if necessary, into the twenty-first century. It was usually at my masses that at least one of the altar servers was female. I spoke openly and often about the modern trends changing the role of women in the Church. I was forever comparing the Roman Catholic religion to the other, more tolerant sects in my Sunday homilies, only to have disagreeing letters sent to Father Petrocelli, who would then call me into his office and lecture me, complete with waving gestures and disapproving looks. My latest faux pas was discussing the discovery of the ancient papyrus of Mary Magdalene’s gospel. That did not go over too well, so this afternoon I was summoned to Father Pete’s office. I had both pastors admonishing me, like a team, this time suggesting I take a retreat. I dissuaded them from that idea and was coming out of Father Pete’s office, adjusting my eyeglasses, when I saw her. “Excuse me Father, I know I don't have an appointment and I'm sure you must be terribly busy, but I really need to talk to you.” A whisper of a Spanish accent in the few words spoken. At first, I thought she was one of the children in my class, she was so tiny in stature. On closer inspection, though, I could see the youthful maturity in her face. She was holding a cloth handkerchief, something I hadn't seen in years. Everyone these days carried tissues, and I was amazed to see a young woman with an embroidered hanky. Hiding my surprise (and my consternation–I desperately wanted a cigarette even though I had given them up five years ago), I put on my “cleric look.” You know that look: it says you can trust me with your secrets. From your mouth to God's ears. It is not a feigned look or something I cultivated, it's just that I needed to change from chastised younger priest to God’s trusted servant. “Certainly, please come into my office and I’ll give you as much time as you need.” I turned, walked across the room, and opened a large brown door with a nameplate on it that read “Father Jason Logan.” “Please, sit,” I said and pointed to a comfortable leather chair across from my mahogany desk. She walked the short distance to the chair, sat down and it immediately engulfed her small frame. Her short, close-cropped hair reminded me of the portraits of Joan of Arc I had seen in Paris during my student days. Her skin was the color of caramel, and her large dark eyes held a look of sadness. The unshed tears were waiting to fall from them at any minute. Instead of sitting behind my desk and having it act as a barrier, I took the seat next to her, turning it so we could converse face to face. She brought the handkerchief to her face, gently dabbing at her skin. I noticed the yellow daffodils surrounding the initials “DNF.” "Are you alright? Do you want something, a glass of water perhaps?" I asked her. "No thank you, Father". I saw her take a deep breath, as if to compose her thoughts. The look of vulnerability suddenly disappeared as if a curtain was drawn across her face and, in its place, sat a calm, collected person. That breath seemed to give her courage. I leaned forward, silently giving her room to speak safely in this space. "My name’s Felicia, Felicia Guzman. I've been in the neighborhood for a while now. I heard your sermon, the one about the papyrus and I think you would be the one to understand and help me." I almost wanted to close my eyes and simply listen to the woman's voice. She had such a lilting cadence to her speech, though the words were brusque and business-like. The musical tone of her voice was mesmerizing. |
| My brother was the chosen one, not me. It wasn’t my destiny to become a priest, but it was my choice. My “path “was to take me to smoky, dark bars where I would be a great jazz musician, playing my sax. But when I received the Call, I answered. Now I play my sax just for myself, in my rooms in the rectory. After ten years ministering in this small parish, I don’t even remember the old life I had envisioned and given up. I enjoyed teaching the elementary students’ religious education, coaching the basketball team and being supportive. My life never seemed pointless. The sacrifices were all worth the satisfaction I experienced in my purpose. I was, however, a thorn in the side of the two older priests here at St. Ann’s Church. My views about women participation in the church was nothing short of revolutionary. Father Petrocelli, the pastor, who had been here thirty years and incidentally had presided over my own initiation sacraments, believed in the tradition–women as nuns and teachers, Eucharistic ministers, able to come to the altar to pray, but not to preach. Father Baxter, associate pastor, who has been here fifteen years, at least accepted the trend in female altar servers, although they rarely served at his masses. It fell to me to try and bring the parish, kicking and screaming, if necessary, into the twenty-first century. It was at my masses that at least one of the altar servers was female. I spoke openly and often about the modern trends changing the role of women in the Church. I was forever comparing the Roman Catholic religion to the other, more tolerant sects in my Sunday homilies, only to have disagreeing letters sent to Father Petrocelli, who would then call me into his office and lecture me, complete with waving gestures and disapproving looks. My latest faux pas was discussing the discovery of the ancient papyrus of Mary Magdalene’s gospel. That did not go over too well, so this afternoon I was summoned to Father Pete’s office. I had both pastors admonishing me, like a team, this time suggesting I take a retreat. I was able to dissuade them from that idea and was coming out of Father Pete’s office, adjusting my eyeglasses, when I saw her. “Excuse me Father, I know I don't have an appointment and I'm sure you must be terribly busy, but I really need to talk to you.” A whisper of a Spanish accent in the few words spoken. At first, I thought she was one of the children in my class, she was so tiny in stature. On closer inspection, though, I could see the youthful maturity in her face. She was holding a cloth handkerchief, something I hadn't seen in years. Everyone these days carried tissues, and I was amazed to see a young woman with an embroidered hanky. Hiding my surprise (and my consternation–I desperately wanted a cigarette even though I had given them up five years ago), I put on my “cleric look.” You know that look: it says you can trust me with your secrets. From your mouth to God's ears. It's not a feigned look or something I cultivated, it's just that I needed to change from chastised younger priest to God’s trusted servant. “Certainly, please come into my office and I’ll give you as much time as you need.” I turned, walked across the room, and opened a large brown door with a nameplate on it that read “Father Jason Logan.” “Please, have a seat,” I said and pointed to a comfortable leather chair across from my mahogany desk. She walked the short distance to the chair, sat down and it immediately engulfed her small frame. Her short, close-cropped hair reminded me of the portraits of Joan of Arc I had seen in Paris during my student days. Her skin was the color of caramel, and her large dark eyes held a look of sadness. The unshed tears were waiting to fall from them at any minute. Instead of sitting behind my desk and having it act as a barrier, I took the seat next to her, turning it so we could converse face to face. She brought the handkerchief to her face, gently dabbing at her skin. I noticed the yellow daffodils surrounding the initials “DNF.” "Are you alright? Do you want something, a glass of water perhaps?" I asked her. "No thank you, Father". I saw her take a deep breath, as if to compose her thoughts. The look of vulnerability suddenly disappeared as if a curtain was drawn across her face and, in its place, sat a calm, collected person. "My name’s Felicia, Felicia Guzman. I've been in the neighborhood for a while now. I heard your sermon, the one about the papyrus and I think you would be the one to understand and help me." I almost wanted to close my eyes and simply listen to the woman's voice. She had such a lilting cadence to her speech, that while the words were brusque and business-like. |
| Anger was a language only my father was fluent in, and I wasn’t allowed to practice. He was the one who, when he was mad, would yell, call anyone in sight any awful name in the book, slam doors and finally, when spent, go silent for days. The silence was worse than the storm, as I never knew what would start him all over again. The rest of the family would cower, tiptoe around the room and speak in whispers. No one laughed, because even mirth might send him into paroxysms. I watched this play often; once I used the last of the milk for my cereal. As I sat at the table, he came into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. Right then I felt the familiar queasiness in my stomach telling me that today was going to be one of those days I wanted to forget. He slammed the door shut; my initial thought was confirmed. His voice started softly which was a sign that it was going to be tsunami of emotion. “There’s no more milk?” I stopped chewing the Cheerios and immediately knew I’d made a mistake. “Uh, there was only a little left in the carton.” “You know, I worked all night,” he started to raise his voice slightly. “All I ask is that you ungrateful children leave me something to have with my coffee.” Gulping silently, I stared at him, appetite lost as he walked toward me. I lowered my gaze, hoping that my penitent posture would protect me. I was so wrong. A torrent of loud expletives echoed in the room, and it brought my mother out of her bedroom to see what was going on. She was often the target of my father’s aggression, and I learned the way to withdraw safely from watching her example. She slipped from observer to actor without pause. Her arrival meant she, as the real adult in the room, matched my father’s wrath with peace. My mom was the true safety valve; allowing him to let off steam, while maintaining the calmness needed. Seeing my father’s combative stance, she knew this was going to be the start of a bad week. “What happened?” she asked quietly; I shook my head imperceptibly, the silent language of people with a shared experience have between them. “There’s no more milk, Mommy.” Quickly taking charge of the situation, walking with purpose to the cupboard, took out a can of milk, and put it on the table. “Here you go, Tragedy averted.” He whirled around and his anger centered on her now. “I was talking to Helen. She selfishly finished the last of the milk, knowing that I would be home after working hard to take care of her. And I can’t even have a cup of coffee to settle my nerves!” “Geez, how was I to know you’d want coffee? Mommy found milk for your coffee! What’s the big deal? I was hungry, for Christ’s sake!” Forgetting who I was talking to, the words just came out. I honestly do not remember exactly what happened after that; I must have blacked it out. The next thing I recall was my mother’s comforting arms about my quivering shoulders and my father, who apparently had gotten his coffee and left the room—silent treatment beginning for the next three days. Was he still in the house? My eyelids fluttered. Hearing “tick, tick,” I looked around for the clock—the only sound in the quiet room. By the time I started high school, scenes like this had become part of the ritual that was my home life. It wasn't always about cereal. While the pattern was often repeated, we never knew just what or exactly when we’d experience my dad’s angry response. As a result of incidents like this, I find it difficult to set boundaries and to express myself when I’m irritated. Many years later, scenes like this play on repeat in my mind whenever I am confronted by someone I love’s angry outbursts. On the outside, I appear serene, smiling. Inside I shrink into a tight ball and swallow the white-hot rage until it feels like a rock in my stomach. Even in my relationship with my boyfriend, I find myself becoming small whenever he shows disapproval. The louder he speaks, the more insignificant I feel. And I’m that little girl at the table, choking on Cheerios, wishing my dad would just talk to me like he loved me, not like a nuisance. Because I know he cares, taking care of me the best he could. We’re now adults, I hope I remember that love without anger. |
| Anger was a language only my father was fluent in, and I wasn’t allowed to practice. He was the one who, when he was mad, would yell, call anyone in sight any awful name in the book, slam doors and finally, when spent, go silent for days. The silence was worse than the storm, as I never knew what would start him all over again. The rest of the family would cower, tiptoe around the room and speak in whispers. No one laughed, because even mirth might send him into paroxysms. I watched this play often; once I used the last of the milk for my cereal. As I sat at the table, he came into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. Right then I felt the familiar queasiness in my stomach telling me that today was going to be one of those days I wanted to forget. He slammed the door shut; my initial thought was confirmed. His voice started softly which was a sign that it was going to be tsunami of emotion. “There’s no more milk?” I stopped chewing the Cheerios and immediately knew I’d made a mistake. “Uh, there was only a little left in the carton.” “You know, I worked all night,” he started to raise his voice slightly. “All I ask is that you ungrateful children leave me something to have with my coffee.” Gulping silently, I stared at him, appetite lost as he walked toward me. I lowered my gaze, hoping that my penitent posture would protect me. I was so wrong. A torrent of loud expletives echoed in the room, and it brought my mother out of her bedroom to see what was going on. She was often the target of my father’s aggression, and I learned the way to withdraw safely from watching her example. She slipped from observer to actor without pause. Her arrival meant she, as the real adult in the room, matched my father’s wrath with peace. My mom was the true safety valve; allowing him to let off steam, while maintaining the calmness needed. Seeing my father’s combative stance, she knew this was going to be the start of a bad week. “What happened?” she asked quietly; I shook my head imperceptibly, the silent language of people with a shared experience have between them. “There’s no more milk, Mommy.” Quickly taking charge of the situation, walking with purpose to the cupboard, took out a can of milk, and put it on the table. “Here you go, Tragedy averted.” He whirled around and his anger centered on her now. “I was talking to Helen. She selfishly finished the last of the milk, knowing that I would be home after working hard to take care of her. And I can’t even have a cup of coffee to settle my nerves!” “Geez, how was I to know you’d want coffee? Mommy found milk for your coffee! What’s the big deal? I was hungry, for Christ’s sake!” Forgetting who I was talking to, the words just came out. I honestly do not remember exactly what happened after that; I must have blacked it out. The next thing I recall was my mother’s comforting arms about my quivering shoulders and my father, who apparently had gotten his coffee and left the room—silent treatment beginning for the next three days. Was he still in the house? My eyelids fluttered. Hearing “tick, tick,” I looked around for the clock—the only sound in the quiet room. While the pattern was often repeated, we never knew just what or exactly when we’d experience my dad’s angry response. As a result of incidents like this, I find it difficult to set boundaries and to express myself when I’m irritated. Many years later, scenes like this play on repeat in my mind whenever I am confronted by someone I love’s angry outbursts. On the outside, I appear serene, smiling. Inside I shrink into a tight ball and swallow the white-hot rage until it feels like a rock in my stomach. Even in my relationship with my boyfriend, I find myself becoming small whenever he shows disapproval. The louder he speaks, the more insignificant I feel. And I’m that little girl at the table, choking on Cheerios, wishing my dad would just talk to me like he loved me, not like a nuisance. Because I know he cares, taking care of me the best he could. We’re now adults, I hope I remember that love without the anger. |
| Anger was a language only my father was fluent in, and I wasn’t allowed to practice. He was the one who, when he was mad, would yell, call anyone in sight any awful name in the book, slam doors and finally, when spent, go silent for days. The silence was worse than the storm, as I never knew what would start him all over again. The rest of the family would cower, tiptoe around the room and speak in whispers. No one laughed, because even mirth might send him into paroxysms. I watched this play often; once I used the last of the milk for my cereal. As I sat at the table, he came into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. Right then I felt the familiar queasiness in my stomach telling me that today was going to be one of those days I wanted to forget. He slammed the door shut; my initial thought was confirmed. His voice started softly which was a sign that it was going to be tsunami of emotion. “There’s no more milk?” I stopped chewing the Cheerios and immediately knew I’d made a mistake. “Uh, there was only a little left in the carton.” “You know, I worked all night,” he started to raise his voice slightly. “All I ask is that you ungrateful children leave me something to have with my coffee.” Gulping silently, I stared at him, appetite lost as he walked toward me. I lowered my gaze, hoping that my penitent posture would protect me. I was so wrong. A torrent of loud expletives echoed in the room, and it brought my mother out of her bedroom to see what was going on. She was often the target of my father’s aggression, and I learned the way to withdraw safely from watching her example. My mom was the true safety valve; allowing him to let off steam, while maintaining the calmness needed. Seeing my father’s combative stance, she knew this was going to be the start of a bad week. “What happened?” she asked quietly; I shook my head imperceptibly, the silent language of people with a shared experience have between them. “There’s no more milk, Mommy.” Quickly taking charge of the situation, walking with purpose to the cupboard, took out a can of milk, and put it on the table. “Here you go, Tragedy averted.” He whirled around and his anger centered on her now. “I was talking to Helen. She selfishly finished the last of the milk, knowing that I would be home after working hard to take care of her. And I can’t even have a cup of coffee to settle my nerves!” “Geez, how was I to know you’d want coffee? Mommy found milk for your coffee! What’s the big deal? I was hungry, for Christ’s sake!” Forgetting who I was talking to, the words just came out. I honestly do not remember exactly what happened after that; I must have blacked it out. The next thing I recall was my mother’s comforting arms about my quivering shoulders and my father, who apparently had gotten his coffee and left the room—silent treatment beginning for the next three days. Was he still in the house? My eyelids fluttered. Hearing “tick, tick,” I looked around for the clock—the only sound in the quiet room. While the pattern was often repeated, we never knew just what or exactly when we’d experience my dad’s angry response. As a result of incidents like this, I find it difficult to set boundaries and to express myself when I’m irritated. Many years later, scenes like this play on repeat in my mind whenever I am confronted by someone I love’s angry outbursts. On the outside, I appear serene, smiling. Inside I shrink into a tight ball and swallow the white-hot rage until it feels like a rock in my stomach. Even in my relationship with my boyfriend, I find myself becoming small whenever he shows disapproval. The louder he speaks, the more insignificant I feel. And I’m that little girl at the table, choking on Cheerios, wishing my dad would just talk to me like he loved me, not like a nuisance. Because I know he cares, taking care of me the best he could. We’re now adults, I hope I remember that love without the anger. |
| Anger was a language only my father was fluent in, and I wasn’t allowed to practice. He was the one who, when he was mad, would yell, call anyone in sight any awful name in the book, slam doors and finally, when spent, go silent for days. The silence was worse than the storm, as I never knew what would start him all over again. The rest of the family would cower, tiptoe around the room and speak in whispers. No one laughed, because even mirth might send him into paroxysms. I watched this play often; once I used the last of the milk for my cereal. As I sat at the table, he came into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. Right then I felt the familiar queasiness in my stomach telling me that today was going to be one of those days I wanted to forget. He slammed the door shut; my initial thought was confirmed. His voice started softly which was a sign that it was going to be tsunami of emotion. “There’s no more milk?” I stopped chewing the Cheerios and immediately knew I’d made a mistake. “Uh, there was only a little left in the carton.” “You know, I worked all night,” he started to raise his voice slightly. “All I ask is that you ungrateful children leave me something to have with my coffee.” Gulping silently, I stared at him, appetite lost as he walked toward me. I lowered my gaze, hoping that my penitent posture would protect me. I was so wrong. A torrent of loud expletives echoed in the room, and it brought my mother out of her bedroom to see what was going on. She was often the target of my father’s aggression, and I learned the way to withdraw safely from watching her example. My mom was the true safety valve; allowing him to let off steam, while maintaining the calmness needed. Seeing my father’s combative stance, she knew this was going to be the start of a bad week. “What happened?” she asked quietly; I shook my head imperceptibly, the silent language of people with a shared experience have between them. “There’s no more milk, Mommy.” Quickly taking charge of the situation, walking with purpose to the cupboard, took out a can of milk, and put it on the table. “Here you go, Tragedy averted.” He whirled around and his anger centered on her now. “I was talking to Helen. She selfishly finished the last of the milk, knowing that I would be home after working hard to take care of her. And I can’t even have a cup of coffee to settle my nerves!” "Geez, how was I to know you’d want coffee? Mommy found milk for your coffee! What’s the big deal? I was hungry, for Christ’s sake!” Forgetting who I was talking to, the words just came out. I honestly do not remember exactly what happened after that; I must have blacked it out. The next thing I recall was my mother’s comforting arms about my quivering shoulders and my father, who apparently had gotten his coffee and left the room—silent treatment beginning for the next three days. Was he still in the house? My eyelids fluttered. Hearing “tick, tick,” I looked around for the clock—the only sound in the quiet room. While the pattern was often repeated, we never knew just what or exactly when we’d experience my dad’s angry response. As a result of incidents like this, I find it difficult to set boundaries and to express myself when I’m irritated. Many years later, scenes like this play on repeat in my mind whenever I am confronted by someone I love’s angry outbursts. On the outside, I appear serene, smiling. Inside I shrink into a tight ball and swallow the white-hot rage until it feels like a rock in my stomach. Even in my relationship with my boyfriend, I find myself becoming small whenever he shows disapproval. The louder he speaks, the more insignificant I feel. And I’m that little girl at the table, choking on Cheerios, wishing my dad would just talk to me like he loved me, not like a nuisance. |
| Anger was a language only my father was fluent in, and I wasn’t allowed to practice. He was the one who, when he was mad, would yell, call anyone in sight any awful name in the book, slam doors and finally, when spent, go silent for days. The silence was worse than the storm, as I never knew what would start him all over again. The rest of the family would cower, tiptoe around the room and speak in whispers. No one laughed, because even mirth might send him into paroxysms. I watched this play often; once I used the last of the milk for my cereal. As I sat at the table, he came into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. Right then I felt the familiar queasiness in my stomach telling me that today was going to be one of those days I wanted to forget. He slammed the door shut; my initial thought was confirmed. His voice started softly which was a sign that it was going to be tsunami of emotion. “There’s no more milk?” I stopped chewing the Cheerios and immediately knew I’d made a mistake. “Uh, there was only a little left in the carton.” “You know, I worked all night,” he started to raise his voice slightly. “All I ask is that you ungrateful children leave me something to have with my coffee.” Gulping silently, I stared at him, appetite lost as he walked toward me. I lowered my gaze, hoping that my penitent posture would protect me. I was so wrong. A torrent of loud expletives echoed in the room, and it brought my mother out of her bedroom to see what was going on. She was often the target of my father’s aggression, and I learned the way to withdraw safely from watching her example. My mom was the true safety valve; allowing him to let off steam, while maintaining the calmness needed. Seeing my father’s combative stance, she knew this was going to be the start of a bad week. “What happened?” she asked quietly; I shookl my head imperceptibly, the silent language of people with a shared experience have between them. “There’s no more milk, Mommy.” Quickly taking charge of the situation, walking with purpose to the cupboard, took out a can of milk, and put it on the table. “Here you go, Tragedy averted.” He whirled around and his anger centered on her now. “I was talking to Helen. She selfishly finished the last of the milk, knowing that I would be home after working hard to take care of her. And I can’t even have a cup of coffee to settle my nerves!” “Geez, how was I to know you’d want coffee? Mommy found milk for your coffee! What’s the big deal? I was hungry, for Christ’s sake!” Forgetting who I was talking to, the words just came out. I honestly do not remember exactly what happened after that; I must have blacked it out. The next thing I recall was my mother’s comforting arms about my quivering shoulders and my father, who apparently had gotten his coffee and left the room—silent treatment beginning for the next three days. Was he still in the house? My eyelids fluttered. Hearing “tick, tick,” I looked around for the clock—the only sound in the quiet room. While the pattern was often repeated, we never knew just what or exactly when we’d experience my dad’s angry response. As a result of incidents like this, I find it difficult to set boundaries and to express myself when I’m irritated. Many years later, scenes like this play on repeat in my mind whenever I am confronted by someone I love’s angry outbursts. On the outside, I appear serene, smiling. Inside I shrink into a tight ball and swallow the white-hot rage until it feels like a rock in my stomach. And I’m that little girl at the table, choking on Cheerios, wishing my dad would just talk to me like he loved me, not like a nuisance. |
| Anger was a language only my father was fluent in, and I wasn’t allowed to practice. He was the one who, when he was mad, would yell, call anyone in sight any awful name in the book, slam doors and finally, when spent, go silent for days. The silence was worse than the storm, as I never knew what would start him all over again. The rest of the family would cower, tiptoe around the room and speak in whispers. No one laughed, because even mirth might send him into paroxysms. I watched this play often; once I used the last of the milk for my cereal. As I sat at the table, he came into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. Right then I felt the familiar queasiness in my stomach telling me that today was going to be one of those days I wanted to forget. He slammed the door shut; my initial thought was confirmed. His voice started softly which was a sign that it was going to be tsunami of emotion. “There’s no more milk?” I stopped chewing the Cheerios and immediately knew I’d made a mistake. “Uh, there was only a little left in the carton.” “You know, I worked all night,” he started to raise his voice slightly. “All I ask is that you ungrateful children leave me something to have with my coffee.” Gulping silently, I stared at him, appetite lost as he walked toward me. I lowered my gaze, hoping that my penitent posture would protect me. I was so wrong. A torrent of loud expletives echoed in the room, and it brought my mother out of her bedroom to see what was going on. She was often the target of my father’s aggression, and I learned the way to withdraw safely from watching her example. My mom was the true safety valve; allowing him to let off steam, while maintaining the calmness needed. Seeng my father’s combative stance, she knew this was going to be the start of a bad week. “What happened?” she asked quietly; I school my head imperceptibly, the silent language of people with a shared experience have between them. “There’s no more milk, Mommy.” Quickly taking charge of the situation, walking with purpose to the cupboard, took out a can of milk, and put it on the table. “Here you go, Tragedy averted.” He whirled around and his anger centered on her now. “I was talking to Helen. She selfishly finished the last of the milk, knowing that I would be home after working hard to take care of her. And I can’t even have a cup of coffee to settle my nerves!” “Geez, how was I to know you’d want coffee? Mommy found milk for your coffee! What’s the big deal? I was hungry, for Christ’s sake!” Forgetting who I was talking to, the words just came out. I honestly do not remember exactly what happened after that; I must have blacked it out. The next thing I recall was my mother’s comforting arms about my quivering shoulders and my father, who apparently had gotten his coffee and left the room—silent treatment beginning for the next three days. Was he still in the house? My eyelids fluttered. Hearing “tick, tick”, I looked around for the clock—the only sound in the quiet room. While the pattern was often repeated, we never knew just what or exactly when we’d experience my dad’s angry response. As a result of incidents like this, I find it difficult to set boundaries and to express myself when I’m irritated. Outwardly, I appear serene, smiling. Inside I shrink into a ball and swallow the white-hot rage until it feels like a rock in my stomach. And I’m that little girl at the table, choking on Cheerios, wishing my dad would just talk to me like he loved me, not like a nuisance. |
| Anger was a language only my father was fluent in, and I wasn’t allowed to practice. He was the one who, when he was mad, would yell, call anyone in sight any awful name in the book, slam doors and finally, when spent, go silent for days. The silence was worse than the storm, as I never knew what would start him all over again. The rest of the family would cower, tiptoe around the room and speak in whispers. No one laughed, because even mirth might send him into paroxysms. I watched this play often; once I used the last of the milk for my cereal. As I sat at the table, he came into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator. Right then I felt the familiar queasiness in my stomach telling me that today was going to be one of those days I wanted to forget. He slammed the door shut; my initial thought was confirmed. His voice started softly which was a sign that it was going to be tsunami of emotion. “There’s no more milk?” I stopped chewing the Cheerios and immediately knew I’d made a mistake. “Uh, there was only a little left in the carton.” “You know, I worked all night,” he started to raise his voice slightly. “All I ask is that you ungrateful children leave me something to have with my coffee.” Gulping silently, I stared at him, appetite lost as he walked toward me. I lowered my gaze, hoping that my penitent posture would protect me. I was so wrong. A torrent of loud expletives echoed in the room, and it brought my mother out of her bedroom to see what was going on. She was often the target of my father’s aggression, and I learned the way to withdraw safely from watching her example. My mom was the true safety valve; allowing him to let off steam, while maintaining the calmness needed. Seeng my father’s combative stance, she knew this was going to be the start of a bad week. “What happened?” she asked quietly; I school my head imperceptibly, the silent language of people with a shared experience have between them. “There’s no more milk, Mommy.” Quickly taking charge of the situation, walking with purpose to the cupboard, took out a can of milk, and put it on the table. “Here you go. Tragedy averted.” He whirled around and his anger centered on her now. “I was talking to Helen. She selfishly finished the last of the milk, knowing that I would be home after working hard to take care of her. And I can’t even have a cup of coffee to settle my nerves!” “Geez, how was I to know you’d want coffee? Mommy found milk for your coffee! What’s the big deal? I was hungry, for Christ’s sake!” Forgetting who I was talking to, the words just came out. I honestly do not remember exactly what happened after that; I must have blacked it out. The next thing I recall was my mother’s comforting arms about my quivering shoulders and my father, who apparently had gotten his coffee and left the room—silent treatment beginning for the next three days. While the pattern was often repeated, we never knew just what or exactly when we’d experience my dad’s angry response. As a result of incidents like this, I find it difficult to set boundaries and to express myself when I’m irritated. Outwardly, I appear serene, smiling. Inside I shrink into a ball and swallow the white-hot rage until it feels like a rock in my stomach. And I’m that little girl at the table, choking on Cheerios, wishing my dad would just talk to me like he loved me, not like a nuisance. |
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