"Purge the Evil" - a novel

by Bill Dunn

(Note: this is a work-in-progress attempt at writing a novel. Feedback, critiques, plot suggestions are more than welcomed.)
 

CHAPTER 8

Tuesday, October 26th, 10:50 a.m.

Fr. Dan Cavanaugh paused after reading the final scripture verse, then said, “The Gospel of the Lord.” Only about half of the 30 people scattered in the pews at St. Lawrence Church knew the reply, and weakly mumbled, “Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.”

Fr. Dan closed the Lectionary book, placed it on a shelf of the Ambo, more commonly known as the pulpit, and grabbed a sheet of yellow lined paper, which contained his homily notes. This was one of the worst parts of his job. Fr. Dan knew that he was expected to speak about the deceased, who was lying in the casket about fifteen feet away, as if he or she had been a good friend. Sometimes the dearly departed had indeed been a close friend of Fr. Dan. For those funeral Masses he did not need notes; he could speak eloquently and passionately from the heart. But most of the funerals he did, included today’s, were for people he either barely knew or had never met at all.

Technically, Fr. Dan only had to perform funeral Masses for parishioners. And technically “parishioner” was defined as someone active in the parish who attended Mass regularly. So technically, Fr. Dan should’ve been acquainted with every dearly departed about whom he had to speak. But Fr. Dan knew he did not live in a “technically” type world. If someone came to the church Rectory and tearfully told Fr. Dan that a loved one—father, mother, uncle, cousin, neighbor, grandmother, you name it—had passed away, he never turned them down. He knew how important the funeral ritual was for grieving family members. Whenever he noticed he was becoming a bit cold and jaded about funerals, he just thought back to the time his own father died suddenly when Dan was only 17 years old.

It was about this same time of year, late October. Dan Cavanaugh, a senior at Conard High School in West Hartford, was the starting quarterback on the school football team. One of his favorite targets was his younger brother, Mike, a sophomore. The Cav-to-Cav combination had already hooked up for 11 touchdown passes, with three games still left to go in the season. More importantly, Conard High, for the first time in decades, was undefeated and in position for its first-ever trip to the state playoffs.

Dan and Mike came home from football practice. It was a Wednesday and already dark. As they jumped out of Peter Reynolds’ car, who was one of the few guys on the team who owned a car and gave the brothers a ride home every night, they saw an ambulance parked in the driveway. Just as they approached the small two-bedroom cape, paramedics burst out of the front door wheeling a stretcher. One paramedic was performing CPR on the person lying on the stretcher. Despite the oxygen mask on the person’s face, the boys knew instantly it was their father.

The next few days were a blur. The family was devastated. Mike took the news especially hard, as did their mother. They loved Daniel Patrick Cavanaugh, Sr. Everyone did. He taught them how to play ball. He checked their homework. He chastised them when they needed it, which was often, but never let them forget how much he cared for them and how proud he was of them. He taught the boys to love God and to respect the Church, even if sometimes the people who run the Church acted more like Pharisees than good shepherds. In talking with some of the other guys at school over the years, it became clear that Dan and Mike were very fortunate. Many of their friends came from terrible homes, where drunkenness, physical abuse, and, maybe worst of all, emotional abuse, were quite common.

As the older brother, Dan felt responsible for helping his mother and brother cope with their sudden and crushing loss. But he was powerless. There was nothing he could do except grieve along with them. From the moment his dad died, Dan felt burdened to care for his family. That’s why he was especially glad when his request to be transferred to his boyhood parish was approved by the Archdiocese three years ago. He finally was back home, close to his elderly mom and younger brother, the recently divorced cop. Dan was able to help his distraught brother in ways not possible if he were still assigned to his old parish in Branford, over an hour away.

The only thing Dan remembered clearly from the days just after his dad’s death was the funeral Mass. At the last minute, their regular pastor was stricken with a stomach bug, and so a kindly old priest, Fr. William Blaney, pinch-hit on a moment’s notice to conduct the Mass. At first, it seemed like another cruel blow. First, their father suddenly was dead; then a priest who never even met him was going to do the funeral Mass. What did he possibly know about their dad? But to everyone’s surprise, Fr. Blaney’s homily was the most compassionate and comforting words they had ever heard. Using a few tidbits of personal information gleaned from the two teenagers just before Mass began, the kindly old priest wove together a stirring presentation, focusing on these themes: God loves everyone more than we can begin to comprehend, and our entire natural life here on earth is just the pre-season training camp of our eternal existence. Fr. Blaney logically and powerfully made the case that God had a very good reason for calling home Daniel Patrick Cavanaugh, Sr.—although no one can comprehend it at the moment—and everybody present in the church could be reunited with him someday if they just put their faith in the Lord.

Fr. Dan often thought about that terribly sad and terribly wonderful day. Although Fr. Blaney was destined to be called home himself less than four months later, his compassionate homily brought great comfort to the Cavanaugh clan. It also planted the first seed in Dan’s mind about maybe choosing the priesthood as his career vocation. Now, over 30 years later, Fr. Dan thought about the kindly old priest’s homily every time he had to preside over a funeral. Not surprisingly, whether he was acquainted with the person in the casket or not—such as on this day—Fr. Dan’s talk usually focused on two main themes: God loves us all more than we can comprehend, and our entire natural life here on earth is exceedingly brief compared to our eternal existence.

Fr. Dan looked down at the yellow lined page, where he had scribbled some basic facts and figures, names and places, about the deceased. In large letters at the top of the page was written: DAVID “DAVE” MORIARTY. He made a habit of writing the name of the deceased in large letters on all of the notes and readings he would use during a funeral. One time, many years earlier, he had referred to a man named Tim as “Tom” throughout the funeral, and caught loads of grief afterward from the angry family. Fr. Dan would never make that mistake again.

As he spoke, Fr. Dan looked mostly at the next of kin in the front pews. About halfway through his homily, he looked out at the handful of other people scattered in the church. In a pew near the rear of the church, on the right hand side from Fr. Dan’s point of view, he spied an angelic face staring at him and hanging on every word he said. It was Anna Rivera. Anna was one of the most dedicated parishioners at St. Lawrence church. She was a bit on an anomaly for the old and dying parish: she was only 38 years old. And she was a bit of an anomaly for any group of average citizens: she was drop-dead gorgeous.

Many times Fr. Dan would be distributing communion at one of the Sunday Masses, and as a person received the host from Fr. Dan and then stepped aside, the priest suddenly would find himself face-to-face with a living fashion magazine cover. During the summer, if Anna wore a low-cut, form-fitting dress, Fr. Dan’s face would blush. Wherever she went, Anna Rivera turned heads. And not a few husbands felt a sharp jolt to their ribs, as their wives’ elbows gave a silent and painful message: “Put your eyes back in your head, you old fool!”

The odd thing about Anna Rivera was that she did not realize just how attractive she was. At age 38, she looked no more than 28. She worked for the State of Connecticut as an accounting clerk in one of the many office buildings surrounding the Capitol in Hartford. She had been a devoted wife until her husband died of cancer five years earlier. Now she was a devoted mother, who prayed constantly for her two teenage children, one boy and one girl. She didn’t go on dates, as far as anyone knew. And she had no idea how many men would jump at the chance to be with her. The fact that she was so good looking, but didn’t quite realize how much, and that she never flirted or flaunted her beauty, only made her even more alluring to men. Unfortunately, because of her looks, much vicious and untrue gossip was spread about her.

When Fr. Dan saw that Anna was in the church, he smiled briefly and continued his homily without missing a beat. He was not surprised to see her, as she often used vacation days from her job to attend weekday funeral Masses, just to pray and offer comfort to the grieving family, whether she knew them personally or not. Fr. Dan was glad she was in attendance. He was always glad when she was in his presence—sometimes too glad. If he could jokingly think that he needed to go to confession because of what he thought about the parish’s chronic complainer, Mrs. Mullen, then when he was near Anna Rivera, it was no joke that he often thought to himself, Now I gotta go to Confession—for what I’m thinking about her.

Fr. Dan had become puzzled in recent years. When he was a newly ordained priest in his mid-twenties, and throughout his thirties, he rarely struggled with his vow of celibacy. Lustful thoughts were rare. As he moved through his forties, and especially after being transferred to St. Lawrence and meeting Anna Rivera, he found himself more and more preoccupied with the idea of being intimately involved with a woman. On the verge of turning 50, he thought those temptations would be a thing of the past. Maybe the problem was for the first time since becoming a priest he experienced prolonged periods of extreme loneliness. Or maybe the problem was that the widow Rivera was simply a knockout.

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©2009