Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 9)
Chapter 2, Part V
Cindy Bradford
Though usually a second-level sport, this basketball season even the visitor bleachers were packed. Some of the overflow hometown backers were forced to sit across the gym, just to gain a seat. Students had to be posted to help reserve the front rows behind the clock keepers for the university recruiters. And the crowd was getting there earlier and earlier. Concession sales were up for the first time in four years because the Cherokee Indian basketball team had the town in a frenzy and Patrick was having his best season yet. If next year was anything like this, he knew he might have a shot at going to a powerhouse university.
Tonight was an especially important game against rival Ranger College who had gone to the Junior College Super Tournament last year in Wichita, Kansas. If the Indians could win tonight they would strip the opposing team of the title and be on their way to represent the conference.
But more than even winning the game, Patrick was excited because Father Andrew had flown in from Boston just to see him play. He had hoped his dad could come also, but he had said he needed to stay home. A couple of guys had quit at the station and they were shorthanded. Patrick knew it probably had more to do with the cost of a plane ticket.
Now, Father Andrew sat high in the bleachers next to Sue. As always, he looked relaxed, self-assured and boyishly handsome. Sharing a box of popcorn, he and Sue talked easily, sharing stories about Patrick as the team warmed up.
“Patrick said you have always been his role model. He thinks a great deal of you.”
A pink tinge came to the Priest’s face as he smiled. “He’s always been my favorite kid in the parish. He’s from a great family. All the boys are good boys, but Patrick is special. You know he’s the third born and according to Irish tradition, the third child is dedicated to God while he’s still in his mother’s womb. I always thought he would be a priest someday. He even mentioned it once or twice, but it doesn’t appear that way now,” he said, winking at Sue.
Stunned for a minute at his revelation, she tried to hide her reaction. “Why? I mean, what exactly does the tradition mean?”
“Over the years, the belief was that the third child would be the ticket into heaven for the rest of the family. Guess no one wants to take any chances today either.” He smiled almost mischievously, “after all there probably are more Irish priests than any other.”
A choking sensation tightened Sue’s throat. That had never crossed her mind. She knew he was a good Catholic, going to mass regularly, but Patrick a priest. That was a thought she had to dismiss quickly. Fortunately, the game had begun and she focused her attention on what was happening on the court. Patrick made the first two points of the game and the crowd came alive, throwing popcorn in the air and chanting, “Indians, Indians, Indians,” in a pulsating mechanical drone.
It took two overtimes and four substitutes to replace most of the first string that fouled out, but the Indians won the game 72-70. Patrick was overjoyed as he rushed to hug Sue and then Father Andrew.
“Well, that was worth the flight to Dallas and the bus ride here. What a performance!”
“Thanks,” let me get a quick shower and we’ll all go celebrate.”
“It’s already late, Patrick. I’m going to let you two spend some time together,” Sue offered, knowing that tonight would be the only chance they would have to visit.
“Are you sure?” Patrick questioned, looking a little surprised.
“Absolutely. I’ll have you all to myself when he is gone.” She turned and smiled warmly at the priest.
Patrick drew his arms around her and held her close. “Okay, if you really don’t mind.”
“I’m going home to sleep and you’ll wish you had in the morning.” She reached to take Father Andrew’s hand.
“It was a pleasure to meet you. I know how much it meant to Patrick to have you here. You two be careful.” Turning her gaze to Patrick, she warned gently, “See you in English class. Don’t be late!”
Patrick and Father Andrew found the quietest place they could in the little bar hidden in the back of the gas station three blocks from the campus. Although many of the townspeople knew it was there, not much was said about it because the proprietor gave substantially to the Baptist Church building fund. The fact that he owned three liquor stores was virtually overlooked as well.
Squeezing into a corner seat, Patrick handed over a beer to his friend and mentor. “I guess I’ll treat myself. I try not to drink too much during the season,” as he took a gulp of the sudsy draft.
“I think you deserve it.”
After twenty minutes of small talk and catching Patrick up on people back home, Father Andrew looked at him squarely. “Patrick, I need to know why when you are around Father Michael you change. You appear so distant. You act as if you don’t even like him. You know how much your family loves him, but you just don’t seem to share that feeling. I’ve noticed for a long time. I’m sure everyone else who knows you has.”
Patrick looked like he had been hit in the face with a baseball bat. He bit his lower lip, barely daring to breathe. “What has he said?” emphasizing the he, unable to conceal his disfavor.
“He hasn’t said anything, Patrick,” Father Andrew answered gently. “I can just tell and it bothers me, hurts me to watch the way you change when he just enters the room.”
Patrick’s chest was tight and he felt droplets of sweat forming on his forehead, although the air conditioner was blowing a steady stream of cold air just over his head. He hadn’t expected this question. If anyone else had asked him, he might have stormed out angrily, but he paused and tried to regain his composure. The silence was disarming, but the priest waited patiently. He was trained for this type of exchange and Patrick was beginning to feel like a trapped animal.
“I…,” he stammered. “I just don’t really like him. I question his sincerity sometimes, wondering if he’s really who he purports to be. That’s all.”
“That’s all?”
Patrick knew the priest was probing. He wondered if there were other signs with maybe other boys, but he couldn’t ask, in fear it would give him away.
“Yeah,” he shrugged, worrying that it was obvious he was lying.
“Patrick, there are good priests and those who are not as good. We’re all just men. I’ve always thought you would be a good one, someone who would bring great honor to the church. I think you’ve allowed these feelings to pull you away from your faith.”
“I go to mass,” Patrick said quickly in a defensive tone.
“And so you do. Your head or your heart?” he asked benignly, not waiting for an answer. “Be careful not to base your decisions, possibly your future on what you perceive to be a foible of humankind, some personal imperfection of an individual.”
“I understand,” Patrick said thoughtfully as he swallowed the last taste of his second beer. “Hey, I really appreciate you coming all this way just to watch me play,” grateful that he could change the subject.
“I’ll tell everybody back home you’re a star.”
As the two friends stood to leave, Patrick slapped Father Andrew on the back. “You do that, but better than that, tell your old buddies at Notre Dame. I could use some help.”
“I’ll do that too. I’ll tell them you not only can dunk a round ball, but you go to mass every day.”
Patrick smiled, but inside he felt like needles were pressing into his gut.
Back in his dorm room, he lay in semi-darkness, glad that his roommate was still out, hopefully for the night. Father Andrew’s words had stung him, leaving him in a less than celebratory mood. His thoughts went back to another night that seemed so long ago. It had been a long time, eight long years, almost nine now. In a split second, he was ten years old again. Why couldn’t he forget, just put it out of his consciousness? He started to call Sue, but looking at the clock he knew it was too late. She would be asleep, but would be sweet about being awakened. He reached for the phone and then stopped. He had to deal with this alone. Just like he had done all these years. And then on what should have been one of his happiest nights, he buried his head into the middle of his pillow and cried.